The Splendid Spur<br />Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Maj by Arthur Quiller-Couch (libby ebook reader TXT) 📕

he had not heard me; and I drew a long breath, for I knew that without a lantern he would never spy, in the darkness, the telltale rope dangling from the tower.

In the room where I stood all was right. But the flooring was uneven to the foot, and scatter'd with small pieces of masonry. 'Twas one of the many chambers in the castle that had dropp'd into disrepair. Groping my way with both hands, and barking my shins on the loose stones, I found a low vaulted passage that led me into a second chamber, empty as the first. To my delight, the door of this was ajar, with a glimmer of light slanting through the crack. I made straight toward it, and pull'd the door softly. It open'd, and show'd a lantern dimly burning, and the staircase of the keep winding past me, up into darkness.

My chance was, of course, to descend: which I did on tiptoe, hearing no sound. The stairs twisted down and down, and ended by a stout door with another lamp shining above it. After listening a moment I decided to be bold, and lifted the latch. A faint cry saluted me.

I stood face to face with the jailer's daughter.

The room was a small one, well lit, and lin'd about the walls with cups and bottles. 'Twas, as I guess'd, a taproom for the soldiers: and the girl had been scouring one of the pewter mugs when my entrance startled her. She stood up, white as if painted, and gasp'd—

“Quick—quick! Down here behind the counter for your life!”

There was scarce time to drop on my knees before a couple of troopers loung'd in, demanding mull'd beer. The girl bustled about to serve them, while the pair lean'd their elbows on the counter, and in this easy attitude began to chat.

“A shrewd night!”

“Aye, a very freezing frost! Lucky that soldiering is not all sentry work, or I for one 'ud ensue my natural trade o' plumbing. But let's be cheerful: for the voice o' the turtle is heard i' the land.”

“Hey?”

The man took a pull at his hot beer before explaining.

“The turtle signifieth the Earl o' Stamford, that is to-night visiting Colonel Essex in secret: an' this is the import—war, bloody war. Mark me.”

“Stirring, striving times!”

“You may say so! 'A hath fifteen thousand men, the Earl, no farther off than Taunton—why, my dear, how pale you look, to be sure!”

“'Tis my head that aches,” answer'd the girl.

The men finish'd their drink, and saunter'd out. I crept from under the counter, and look'd at her.

“Father'll kill me for this!”

“Then you shall say—Is it forward or back I must go?”

“Neither.” She pull'd up a trap close beside her feet, and pointed out a ladder leading down to the darkness. “The courts are full of troopers,” she added.

“The cellar?”

She nodded.

“Quick! There's a door at the far end. It leads to the crypt of St. John's Chapel. You'll find the key beside it, and a lantern. Here is flint and steel.” She reach'd them down from a shelf beside her. “Crouch down, or they'll spy you through the window. From the crypt a passage takes you to the governor's house. How to escape then, God knows! 'Tis the best I can think on.”

I thank'd her, and began to step down the ladder. She stood for a moment to watch, leaving the trap open for better light. Between the avenue of casks and bins I stumbled toward the door and lantern that were just to be discern'd at the far end of the cellar. As I struck steel on flint, I heard the trap close: and since then have never set eyes on that kind-hearted girl.

The lantern lit, I took the key and fitted it to the lock. It turned noisily, and a cold whiff of air struck my face. Gazing round this new chamber, I saw two lines of squat pillars, supporting a low arch'd roof. 'Twas the crypt beneath the chapel, and smelt vilely. A green moisture trickled down the pillars, and dripp'd on the tombs beneath them.

At the end of this dreary place was a broken door, consisting only of a plank or two, that I easily pull'd away: and beyond, a narrow passage, over which I heard the tread of troopers plainly, as they pac'd to and fro; also the muffled note of the clock, sounding seven.

The passage went fairly straight, but was block'd here and there with fallen stones, over which I scrambled as best I could. And then, suddenly I was near pitching down a short flight of steps. I held the lantern aloft and look'd.

At the steps' foot widen'd out a low room, whereof the ceiling, like that of the crypt, rested on pillars. Between these, every inch of space was pil'd with barrels, chests, and great pyramids of round shot. In each corner lay a heap of rusty pikes. Of all this the signification was clear. I stood in the munition room of the Castle.

But what chiefly took my notice was a great door, studded with iron nails, that barr'd all exit from the place. Over the barrels I crept toward it, keeping the lantern high, in dread of firing any loose powder. 'Twas fast lock'd.

I think that, for a moment or two, I could have wept. But in a while the thought struck me that with the knife in my pocket 'twas possible to cut away the wood around the lock. “Courage!” said I: and pulling it forth, knelt down to work.

Luck in life has always used me better than my deserts. At an hour's end there I was, hacking away steadily, yet had made but little progress. And then, pressing the knife deep, I broke the blade off short. The door upon the far side was cas'd with iron.

Tramp—tramp!

'Twas the sound of man's footfall, and to the ear appear'd to be descending a flight of steps on the other side of the door. I bent my ear to the keyhole: then stepp'd to a cask of bullets that stood handy by. I took out a dozen, felt in my pocket for Delia's kerchief that she had given me, caught up a pike from the pile stack'd in the corner, and softly blowing out my light, stood back to be conceal'd by the door, when it open'd.

The footsteps still descended. I heard an aged voice muttering—

“Shrivel my bones—ugh!—ugh! Wintry work—wintry work! Here's an hour to send a grandfatherly man a-groping for a keg o' powder!”

A wheezy cough clos'd the sentence, as a key was with difficulty fitted in the lock.

“Ugh—ugh! Sure, the lock an' I be a pair, for stiff joints.”

The door creak'd back against me, and a shaft of light pierc'd the darkness.

Within