The Broad Highway by Jeffery Farnol (hot novels to read .txt) 📕

loveliness upon the world, and, as I rolled up my sleeves, I glanced round about me with an eye that strove to take in the beauty of all things—of hedge and tree and winding road, the gloom of wood, the sheen of water, and the far, soft sweep of hill and dale. Over all these my glance lingered yearningly, for it seemed to me that this look might be my last. And now, as I stooped and gripped my weapon, I remembered how I had, that morning, kissed her fingers, and I was strangely comforted and glad.

The night air, which had been warm heretofore, struck chilly now, and, as I stood up fronting Black George, I shivered, seeing which he laughed, short and fierce, and, with the laugh, came at me, striking downwards at my head as he came, and tough wood met tough wood with a shock that jarred me from wrist to shoulder.

To hit him upon the arm, and disable him, was my one thought and object. I therefore watched for an opening, parrying his swift strokes and avoiding his rushes as well as I might. Time and again our weapons crashed together, now above my head, now to right, or left, sometimes rattling in quick succession, sometimes with pauses between strokes, pauses filled in with the sound of heavy breathing and the ceaseless thud of feet upon the sward. I was already bruised in half-a-dozen places, my right hand and arm felt numb, and with a shooting pain in the shoulder, that grew more acute with every movement; my breath also was beginning to labor. Yet still Black George pressed on, untiring, relentless, showering blow on blow, while my arm grew ever weaker and weaker, and the pain in my shoulder throbbed more intensely.

How long had we fought? five minutes—ten—half-an-hour—an hour? I could see the sweat gleaming upon his cheek, his eyes were wild, his mouth gaped open, and he drew his breath in great sobbing pants. But, as I looked, his cudgel broke through my tired guard, and, taking me full upon the brow, drove me reeling back; my weapon slipped from my grasp, and, blinded with blood, I staggered to and fro, like a drunken man, and presently slipped to the grass. And how sweet it was to lie thus, with my cheek upon kind mother earth, to stretch my aching body, and with my weary limbs at rest. But Black George stood above me, panting, and, as his eyes met mine, he laughed—a strange-sounding, broken laugh, and whirled up his cudgel—to beat out my brains—even as the Pedler had foretold—to-morrow the blackbird would sing upon my motionless breast, and, looking into Black George’s eyes—I smiled.

“Get up!” he panted, and lowered the cudgel. “Get up—or, by God—I’ll do—for ‘ee!”

Sighing, I rose, and took the cudgel he held out to me, wiping the blood from my eyes as I did so.

And now, as I faced him once more, all things vanished from my ken save the man before me—he filled the universe, and, even as he leaped upon me, I leaped upon him, and struck with all my strength; there was a jarring, splintering shock, and Black George was beaten down upon his knees, but as, dropping my weapon, I stepped forward, he rose, and stood panting, and staring at the broker cudgel in his hand.

“George!” said I.

“You ‘m a-bleedin’, Peter!”

“For that matter, so are you.”

“Blood-lettin’ be—good for a man—sometimes eases un.”

“It does,” I panted; “perhaps you are—willing to hear reason—now?”

“We be—even so fur—but fists be better nor—sticks any day—an’ I—be goin’—to try ye—wi’ fists!”

“Have we not bled each other sufficiently?”

“No,” cried George, between set teeth, “theer be more nor blood-lettin’ ‘twixt you an’ me—I said as ‘ow one on us would lie out ‘ere all night—an’ so ‘e shall—by God!—come on—fists be best arter all!”

This was the heyday of boxing, and, while at Oxford I had earned some small fame at the sport. But it was one thing to spar with a man my own weight in a padded ring, with limited rounds governed by a code of rules, and quite another to fight a man like Black George, in a lonely meadow, by light of moon. Moreover, he was well acquainted with the science, as I could see from the way he “shaped,” the only difference between us being that whereas he fought with feet planted square and wide apart, I balanced myself upon my toes, which is (I think) to be commended as being quicker, and more calculated to lessen the impact of a blow.

Brief though the respite had been, it had served me to recover my breath, and, though my head yet rung from the cudgel-stroke, and the blood still flowed freely, getting, every now and then, into my eyes, my brain was clear as we fronted each other for what we both knew must be the decisive bout.

The smith stood with his mighty shoulders stooped something forward, his left arm drawn back, his right flung across his chest, and, so long as we fought, I watched that great fist and knotted forearm, for, though he struck oftener with his left, it was in that passive right that I thought my danger really lay.

It is not my intention to chronicle this fight blow by blow; enough, and more than enough, has already been said in that regard; suffice it then, that as the fight progressed I found that I was far the quicker, as I had hoped, and that the majority of his blows I either blocked or avoided easily enough.

Time after time his fist shot over my shoulder, or over my head, and time after time I countered heavily—now on his body, now on his face; once he staggered, and once I caught a momentary glimpse of his features convulsed with pain; he was smeared with blood from the waist up, but still he came on.

I fought desperately now, savagely, taking advantage of every opening, for though I struck him four times to his once, yet his blows had four times the weight of mine; my forearms were bruised to either elbow, and my breath came in gasps; and always I watched that deadly “right.” And presently it came, with arm and shoulder and body behind it—quick as a flash, and resistless as a cannonball; but I was ready, and, as I leaped, I struck, and struck him clean and true upon the angle of the jaw; and, spinning round, Black George fell, and lay with his arms wide stretched, and face buried in the grass.

Slowly, slowly he got upon his knees, and thence to his feet, and so stood panting, hideous with blood and sweat, bruised and cut and disfigured, staring at me, as one in amaze.

Now, as I looked, my heart went out to him, and I reached forth my right hand.

“George!” I panted. “Oh, George!”

But Black George only looked at me, and shook his head, and groaned.

“Oh, Peter!” said he, “you be a man, Peter! I’ve fou’t—ah! many ‘s the time, an’ no man ever knocked me down afore. Oh, Peter! I—I could love ‘ee for it if I didn’t hate the very sight of ‘ee—come on, an’ let’s get it over an’ done wi’.”

So once again fists were clenched and jaws set—once again came the trampling of feet, the hiss of breath, and the thudding shock of blows given and taken.

A sudden, jarring impact—the taste of sulphur on my tongue—a gathering darkness before my eyes, and, knowing this was the end, I strove desperately to close with him; but I was dazed, blind —my arms fell paralyzed, and, in that moment, the Smith’s right fist drove forward. A jagged flame shot up to heaven—the earth seemed to rush up towards me—a roaring blackness engulfed me, and then—silence.

CHAPTER XX

HOW I CAME UP OUT OF THE DARK

Some one was calling to me, a long way off.

Some one was leaning down from a great height to call to me in the depths; and the voice was wonderfully sweet, but faint, faint, because the height was so very high, and the depths so very great.

And still the voice called and called, and I felt sorry that I could not answer, because, as I say, the voice was troubled, and wonderfully sweet.

And, little by little, it seemed that it grew nearer, this voice; was it descending to me in these depths of blackness, or was I being lifted up to the heights where, I knew, blackness could not be? Ay, indeed, I was being lifted, for I could feel a hand upon my brow—a smooth, cool hand that touched my cheek, and brushed the hair from my forehead; a strong, gentle hand it was, with soft fingers, and it was lifting me up and up from the loathly depths which seemed more black and more horrible the farther I drew from them.

And so I heard the voice nearer, and ever nearer, until I could distinguish words, and the voice had tears in it, and the words were very tender.

“Peter—speak!—speak to me, Peter!”

“Charmian?” said I, within myself; “why, truly, whose hand but hers could have lifted me out of that gulf of death, back to light and life?” Yet I did not speak aloud, for I had no mind to, yet a while.

“Ah! speak to me—speak to me, Peter! How can you lie there so still and pale?”

And now her arms were about me, strong and protecting, and my head was drawn down upon her bosom.

“Oh, Peter!—my Peter!”

Nay, but was this Charmian, the cold, proud Charmian? Truly I had never heard that thrill in her voice before—could this indeed be Charmian? And lying thus, with my head on this sweet pillow, I could hear her heart whispering to me, and it seemed that it was striving to tell me something—striving, striving to tell me something, could I but understand—ah! could I but understand!

“I waited for you so long—so long, Peter—and the supper is all spoiled—a rabbit, Peter—you liked rabbit, and—and oh, God! I want you—don’t you hear me, Peter—I want you—want you!” and now her cheek was pressed to mine, and her lips were upon my hair, and upon my brow—her lips! Was this indeed Charmian, and was I Peter Vibart? Ah, if I could but know what it was her heart was trying to tell me, so quickly and passionately!

And while I lay listening, listening, something hot splashed down upon my cheek, and then another, and another; her bosom heaved tumultuously, and instinctively, raising my arms, I clasped them about her.

“Don’t!” I said, and my voice was a whisper; “don’t, Charmian!”

For a moment her clasp tightened about me, she was all tenderness and clinging warmth; then I heard a sudden gasp, her arms loosened and fell away, and so I presently raised my head, and, supporting myself upon my hand, looked at her. And then I saw that her cheeks were burning.

“Peter.”

“Yes, Charmian?”

“Did you—” She paused, plucking nervously at the grass, and looking away from me.

“Well, Charmian?”

“Did you—hear—” Again she broke off, and still her head was averted.

“I heard your voice calling to me from a great way off, and so—I came, Charmian.”

“Were you conscious when—when I—found you?”

“No,” I answered; “I was lying in a very deep, black, pit.” Here she looked at me again.

“I—I thought you—were—dead, Peter.”

“My soul was out of my body—until you recalled it.”

“You were lying upon your