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

but this made the marrow in my bones turn hard as taller, for it went through me; and as I watched them, they all got up and joined hands, and began to walk slowly round the great pot over the fire, and the light shone on their horrible faces and long ragged gowns. I wanted to run away, but my legs was all of a tremble. I’d ha’ give anything to run, but they legs wouldn’t go, and there I stood, watching ’em as they danced round the fire a little faster, and a little faster, till they were racing about, singing and screeching. And then all at once they stopped and shouted ‘Wow?’ all together, and burst into the most horrid shrecking laughter you ever heered, and the light went out. That seemed to set my legs going, master, and I turned to get away as fast as ever I could go, when I heered some kind o’ wild bird whistle over the mountain-side, and another answered it close to me: and before I knew where I was, the great bird fluttered its wings over me, and I caught my foot in a tuft of heather, and fell.”

“Well, and what then?” asked Mark.

“Nothing, sir, only that I ran all the way home to my cottage yonder, and you ask my wife, and she’ll tell you I hadn’t a dry thread on me when I got in. Now, sir, what do you say?”

“All nonsense!” replied Mark bluntly, and he walked away.

Another few days passed. Mark had been very quiet and thoughtful at home, reading, or making believe to read, and spending a good deal of time in the mine with Dummy Rugg, who twice over proposed that they should go on exploring the grotto-like place he had discovered; but to his surprise, his young master put it off, and the quiet, silent fellow waited. He, though, had more tales to tell of the way in which things disappeared from cottages. Pigs, sheep, poultry went in the most unaccountable way, and the witches who met sometimes on the mountain slope had the credit of spiriting them away.

“Then why don’t the people who lose things follow the witches up, and see if they have taken them?”

“Follow ’em up, sir?” said Dummy, opening his eyes very widely. “They wouldn’t dare.”

Then came a day when, feeling dull and bitter and as if he were not enjoying himself at home, as he did the last time he was there, Mark mounted one of the stout cob ponies kept for his and his sister’s use, and went for a good long round, one which was prolonged so that it was getting toward evening, and the sun was peering over the shoulder of one of the western hills, when, throwing the rein on his cob’s neck, and leaving it to pick its own way among the stones of the moorland, he entered a narrow, waste-looking dale, about four miles from the Tor.

He felt more dull and low-spirited than when he started in the morning, probably from want of a good meal, for he had had nothing since breakfast, save a hunch of very cake-like bread and a bowl of milk at a cottage farm right up in the Peak, where he had rested his pony while it had a good feed of oats.

The dale looked desolation itself, in spite of the gilding of the setting sun. Stone lay everywhere: not the limestone of his own hills and cliffs, but grim, black-looking millstone-grit, which here and there formed craggy, forbidding outlines; and this did not increase his satisfaction with his ride, when he took up the rein and began to urge the cob on, to get through the gloomy place.

But the cob knew better than his master what was best, and refused to risk breaking its legs among the stones with which the moor was strewn.

“Ugh! you lazy fat brute,” cried Mark; “one might just as well walk, and— Who’s that?”

He shaded his eyes from the sun, and looked long and carefully at a figure a few hundred yards ahead till his heart began to beat fast, for he felt sure that it was Ralph Darley. Ten minutes after, he began to be convinced, and coming to a clearer place where there was a pretence of a bit of green sward, the cob broke into a canter of its own will, which brought its rider a good deal nearer to the figure trudging in the same direction. Then the cob dropped into a walk again, picking its way among great blocks of stone; and Mark was certain now that it was Ralph Darley, with creel on back, and rod over his shoulder, evidently returning from one of the higher streams after a day’s fishing.

Mark’s heart beat a little faster, and he nipped his cob’s sides; but the patient animal would not alter its steady walk, which was at about the same rate as the fisher’s, and consequently Mark had to sit and watch his enemy’s back, as, unconscious of his presence, Ralph trudged on homeward, with one arm across his back to ease up the creel, which was fairly heavy with the delicate burden of grayling it contained, the result of a very successful day.

“He has his sword on this time,” said Mark to himself, “and I’ve got mine.”

The lad touched the hilt, to make sure it had not been jerked out of the scabbard during his ride.

“Just a bit farther on yonder,” he muttered, gazing at the steep slope of a limestone hill to his right, and a mile distant, “there are some nice level bits of turf. I can overtake him then, and we can have a bit of a talk together.”

The cob walked steadily on, avoiding awkward places better than his master could have guided him, and suddenly stopped short at a rocky pool, where a little spring of water gushed from the foot of a steep slope, and lowered its head to drink.

“You don’t want water now,” said Mark angrily; and he tightened the rein, but his cob had a mouth like leather; and caring nothing for the bit, bore upon it heavily, stretched out his neck, and had a long deep drink.

“I wish I had spurs on,” muttered Mark; “I’d give you a couple of such digs, my fine fellow.”

Then he sat thinking.

“Good job I haven’t got any on. I should trip, for certain, when we were at it.”

Then the cob raised its dripping mouth, which it had kept with lips very close together, to act as a strainer to keep out tadpoles, water-beetles, leeches, or any other unpleasant creatures that might be in the water, took two or three steps back and aside, and then, noticing that there was a goodly patch of rich juicy herbage close by the spring, it lowered its head once more, uttered a snort as it blew the grass heavily, to drive off any flies that might be nestling among the strands, and began to crop, crop at the rich feed.

“Oh come, I’m not going to stand that,” cried Mark, dragging at the pony’s head. “You’re so full of oats now that you can hardly move, and he’ll be looking back directly, and thinking I’m afraid to come on.”

The cob’s head was up: so was its obstinate nature. It evidently considered it would be a sin to leave such a delicious salad, so tempting and juicy, and suitable after a peck or two of dry, husky oats; and, thoroughly determined not to pass the herbage by, it set its fore feet straight out a good distance apart, and strained at the reins till, as Mark pulled and pressed his feet against the stirrups, it seemed probable that there would be a break.

“Oh, you brute!” cried the lad angrily; “you ugly, coarse, obstinate brute! Pony! You’re not a pony, I feel sure; you’re only a miserable mule, and your father was some long-eared, thick-skinned, thin-tailed, muddle-headed, old jackass. Look here! I’ll take out my sword, and prick you with the point.”

The cob evidently did not believe it, and kept on the strain of the bit, till the lad took a rein in each hand, and began to saw the steel from side to side, making it rattle against the animal’s teeth.

This seemed to have a pleasant effect on the hard mouth, and produced the result of the cob nodding its head a little; and just then, to Mark’s great disgust, Ralph turned his head and looked back.

“There! I expected as much. Now go on, you beast, or I’ll kill you.”

The pony snorted with satisfaction, for in his excitement, the rider had slackened the reins a little. Down went the animal’s muzzle; there was another puff to blow away the insects, and it began to crop again, with that pleasant sound heard when grazing animals are amongst rich herbage.

Then followed a fresh struggle, and the pony won, taking not the slightest notice of the insulting remarks made by its rider about its descent, appearance, and habits.

But at last, perhaps because it had had its own way, more probably because it was not hungry, and just when the rider was thinking of getting down to walk, and sending Dummy Rugg to find the animal next day, it raised its head, ground up a little grass between its teeth and then began to follow Ralph once more, as he trudged on without turning his head again.

Still, try as he would, Mark could not get the animal to break into a canter; in fact, the way was impossible; and when the sun had sunk down below the western hill, which cast a great purple shadow, to begin rising slowly higher and higher against the mountain on his left, he and Ralph were still at about the same distance apart.

“I can’t halloa to him to stop,” muttered Mark angrily; “I don’t want to seem to know him, but to overtake him, and appear surprised, and then break into a quarrel hotly and at once. Oh! it’s enough to drive anyone mad. You brute! I’ll never try to ride you again.”

Rather hard, this, upon the patient beast which had carried him for many miles that day, and was carefully abstaining now from cantering recklessly amongst dangerous stones, and giving its master a heavy fall. But boys will be unreasonable sometimes, almost as unreasonable as some men.

Finding at last that drumming the cob’s sides was of no use, jerking the bit of not the slightest avail, and that whacks with the sheathed sword only produced whisks of the tail, Mark subsided into a sulky silence, and rode at a walk, watching the enemy’s back as he trudged steadily on.

The vale grew more gloomy on the right side, the steep limestone hill being all in shadow, and the rough blocks looked like grotesque creatures peering out from among the blackening bushes; and as he rode on, the lad could not help thinking that by night the place might easily scare ignorant, untutored, superstitious people, who saw, or fancied they saw, strange lights here and there.

“And in the sunshine it is as bright as the other hill,” thought Mark, as he glanced at the left side of the dale; “not very bright, though. It’s a desolate place at the best of times;” and once more he glanced up the steep slope on his right.

“Wonder why they call it Ergles,” he mused. “Let’s see; it’s up there where the cave with the hot spring is. Not a bit farther on.”

He was still a long distance from home, and knowing that before long Ralph Darley would turn off to the left, he again made an effort to urge on the cob, but in vain.

“And he’ll go home thinking I’m afraid,” muttered the lad; “but first time I meet him, and he isn’t a miserable, wretched, contemptible cripple, I’ll show him I’m not.”

“Then you shall show him now,” the cob seemed to say, for it broke into a smart canter,