The Black Tor: A Tale of the Reign of James the First by George Manville Fenn (classic romance novels .TXT) 📕

The perspiration broke out in great drops upon Mark Eden’s face; and for some minutes he hung there, expecting moment by moment that each was his last, for he knew that he could do nothing, and that he must not stir hand or foot.

And now he began to realise how mad his attempt had been. Better far that he had resigned himself to circumstances, and climbed back to the top. But even then he felt he could not have done this. It would have been like humbling himself to an enemy of his house, and a flush of pride came into his pallid cheeks as he felt that he had boldly played his part. Then a sense of misery and despair crept over him as he thought of home, of his father and sister, and their sorrow when they knew of his fate.

All that passed off, and a flush of anger and indignation made his temples throb, for he distinctly heard Nick Garth say,—

“Why not? Heave it down yourself, then, and put him out of his misery.”

What else was said he could not make out; voices were in hurried converse evidently a short distance back from the edge of the cliff, and then Mark recognised Ralph’s tones, as he said huskily,—

“Can you hold on?”

A bitter defiant taunt came to Mark’s lips, and he cried,—

“Your doing, coward! Are you satisfied with your work?”

There was no answer, but the hurried murmur came over the edge of the cliff again, followed by what sounded like angry commands, and then all was silent for a few moments.

“Don’t move,” cried Ralph then. “I’ve sent for help. They’ve gone for ropes. One will be here directly. I sent for it before. Can you hold on?”

Mark made no reply, for no words would come. Hope had sprung up at the possibility of escape, for life seemed then to be very sweet, but there was a bitterness to dull the bright thought, for the lad felt that it was the hated enemy of his house who was trying to help.

Then a dull feeling of apathy, as if he had been half stunned, came over him as he hung there in a terribly cramped position, with his face pressed against the wall.

And now, as if his hearing had become sharpened, the murmur of the rushing river came up quite loudly, and the wind seemed to be gathering force, while all this was, as it were, preparatory to his falling headlong down. Then he must have lost his senses for some little time, for the next thing he heard was a voice crying out, in tones full of despair,—

“Too short, too short, Ram!”

“Ay, so it be. Good ten foot.”

“Could I help him if you lowered me down?”

“Lower you down? Are you mad? I couldn’t hold you; and you’d break your neck.”

Mark heard every word now, for his senses had suddenly recovered their tone and something more.

Then what seemed to be another long space of time elapsed, and Ralph shouted to him,—

“This rope is too short, but there’ll be another here soon.”

Mark could make no reply, and he hung there, listening to the murmur of voices once more. Then the rush of the river sounded like the distant boom of thunder. There was a loud cizz, cizz, going on somewhere on the cliff face from a cricket, and the birds were singing more loudly than he ever remembered to have heard them before.

Once more his senses must have left him and come back, for he heard the voice above louder than ever, followed by Ralph shouting,—

“Can you tie the rope round you?”

Mark could not answer for some little time; then his lips parted, and he gasped out the one word,—

“No.”

A sharp rustling followed, as of a rope being rapidly drawn up. Then it was lowered again; and as Mark strained his eyes round into the left corners to get a glimpse, he saw a loop swinging to and fro, and it struck him again and again; but those who lowered it, in the hope of noosing the lad and drawing him up, soon found that the bush and the sufferer’s position precluded this.

“Can you push your arms through the loop, and hang on?” cried Ralph now.

“No,” was the discouraging reply, for Mark fully realised the fact that if he loosened his desperate hold for a moment he must fall.

“Haul up!” shouted Ralph. “Quick!”

The rope rattled and scraped again; and then, as Mark hung there, half-insensible, he heard what sounded like quarrelling.

“You shan’t go, Master Ralph. Who’s to meet Sir Morton if you get a fall trying to save a thing like that?”

Even in his half-insensible state Mark felt a quiver run through him; and then he lay listening again, as if to hear what was taking place about some one else.

“Silence!” came to his ear. “How dare you, sir! Now, all of you lower me down.”

There was a rustling and scraping directly after, which seemed to last a long time, before something brushed against the listener, and he quivered, for he felt that he was going. Then there was a panting noise, which came up, as it were, out of the darkness, and he was clutched tightly, hot breath came upon his cheek, and a hoarse voice yelled in his ear,—

“Got him! Haul up steadily!” and directly after, the voice became a whisper, which said,—

“Pray God the rope may not break.”

Mark was conscious now of being scraped against the rock, and brushed by twigs, for what seemed to be a very long time, before he was roughly seized by more hands, and dragged heavily over the cliff edge, to be dropped upon the short grass, as a voice he had heard before cried harshly,—

“You’ve done it now, Master Ralph, and got your wolf cub after all.”

“Yes,” panted Ralph hoarsely, as Mark felt as if a cloud had suddenly rolled away from his sight, and he saw clearly that half-a-dozen men were surrounding him, and Ralph Darley, his greatest enemy, was kneeling at his side, saying softly,—

“Yes, I’ve got the wolf cub after all;” and then the two lads’ eyes met, and gazed deeply into each other’s in a curious stare.

That stare had the same effect on both lads—that of making them feel uncomfortable.

Mark Eden, as he recovered from the shock of being so near a terrible ending to his young life, felt that, surrounded as he was by enemies, he ought to spring to his feet, draw his sword, and defend himself to the last; while Ralph Darley knew that, according to all old family traditions, he ought to order his men to seize a hand and foot each, give his young enemy two or three swings, and launch him headlong off the mighty cliff, and then stand and laugh at the capers he would cut in his fall.

For people had been very savage in their revenges out in that wild part of England, shut away from the civilisation of the time by moor and mountain. Ralph knew, too, that though they were better then than in the early days of the Wars of the Roses, they were still brutal enough, and that he would gain the applause and respect of his men by giving them the order. But Mark Eden had not drawn his sword to begin cutting and thrusting; and instead of leaving the lad to hang till he fell, he, Ralph Darley, had, in opposition to his father’s men, risked his own life to save that of his enemy—going down over a hundred feet, swinging at the end of a couple of ropes badly tied together.

“Seems very stupid,” the two lads thought.

“What does he mean by coming here, and getting into such a horrible position—an idiot!” said Ralph to himself.

“How dare he, an insolent Darley, come down by a rope and save my life!” said Mark to himself.

Then there was an awkward pause, with the two lads scowling, and avoiding each other’s gaze, and the men nudging one another, and winking knowingly. Nick Garth whispering behind his hand to Ram Jennings, that the young cocks would set up their hackles directly, whip out their spurs, and there would be a fight; and, in expectation of this, the men, six in number, now spread themselves into an arc, whose chord was the edge of the cliff, thus enclosing the pair so as to check any design on the part of the enemy to make a rush and escape.

Mark, who did not feel so breathless and numb now, sat up on the grass, and resumed his old role of ignoring his enemies, putting his hands behind him, to feel for the ravens hung from his sword-belt, taking them out from their awkward position, to find that they were limp and literally crushed. The reason for this was that when Ralph, as he swung, seized him, he had to do this from behind, clasping him round the chest, just under the arms, and then, as the rope was hauled, flinging his legs about him to help to hold, with the consequence that they formed a sort of sandwich, he and Mark being the slices of bread, and the young ravens the meat.

“Hah!” said Mark softly, as if to himself; “you two will never dig out any young lambs’ eyes. Feed the fishes instead;” and, rising to his feet, he untied his kerchief from about the dead birds’ legs, and gave each a swing, sending it on its first and last flight, out from the cliff edge, away into the gulf.

“Now’s your time, Master Ralph,” whispered Nick, “Whip out your sword, and show him how you can fight.”

Ralph turned upon the man with an angry glance, and Nick shrank back into his old position with a sheepish grin, which, in conjunction with his cross eyes, did not improve his personal appearance.

Without so much as glancing at his enemies, Mark now took off his cap and smiled, for the egg he had so carefully placed in the lining was intact.

“Well done!” he said aloud. “That’s for Master Rayburn at the cottage. Here, one of you fellows, take that to him, and say I sent it. I dare say he’ll give you a coin for your trouble.”

Ram Jennings made an awkward shoot forward, and seized the egg.

“Don’t break it, clumsy,” cried Mark; and then with a quick motion, he threw his cap on the grass, took a step or two back toward the edge of the cliff, and, quick as lightning, drew his sword.

“There,” he cried, with a scornful look at Ralph; “seven of you to one. Come on.”

A low growl from the men greeted this display, but Ralph did not stir, and Mark stood for a moment or two en garde. Then with a bitter laugh he continued: “I suppose I must surrender. You don’t draw. Take my sword. My arm’s wrenched, and I can’t use it.”

As he spoke he threw his sword at Ralph’s feet; his enemy picked it up by the slight blade, and the men closed in.

This movement sent a flash of anger from their young master’s eyes.

“Back,” he cried hoarsely. Then taking a step or two toward Mark, and still holding the sword by the blade, he presented the hilt to his enemy. “Take your sword, sir,” he said haughtily. “The Darleys are gentlemen, not cowards, to take advantage of one who is down. That is the nearest way back to Black Tor,” he continued, pointing.

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