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) 📕

But the pain of my hurt followed into my dreams. I woke with a start, and tried to sit up.

Within the kitchen all was quiet. The old savage was still stretch'd on the floor: the cat curled upon the hearth. The girl had not stirr'd: but looking toward the window hole, I saw night out side, and a frosty star sparkling far down in the west.

“Joan, what's the hour?”

“Sun's been down these four hours.” She turned her face to look at me.

“I've no business lying here.”

“Chose to come, lad: none axed thee, that I knows by.”

“Where's the mare? Must set me across her back, Joan, and let me ride on.”

“Mare's in stable, wi' fetlocks swelled like puddens. Chose to come, lad; an' choose or no, must bide.”

“'Tis for the General Hopton, at Bodmin, I am bound, Joan; and wound or no, must win there this night.”

“And that's seven mile away: wi' a bullet in thy skull, and a peat quag thy burial. For they went south, and thy road lieth more south than west.”

“The troopers?”

“Aye, Jack: an' work I had this day wi' those same bloody warriors: but take a sup at the keg, and bite this manchet of oat cake while I tell thee.”

And so, having fed me, and set my bed straight, she sat on the floor beside me (for the better hearing), and in her uncouth tongue, told how I had been saved. I cannot write her language; but the tale, in sum, was this:—

When I dropp'd forward into her arms, Joan for a moment was taken aback, thinking me dead. But (to quote her) “'no good,' said I, 'in cuddlin' a lad 'pon the hillside, for folks to see, tho' he have a-got curls like a wench: an' dead or 'live, no use to wait for others to make sure.'”

So she lifted and carried me to a spot hard by, that she called the “Jew's Kitchen;” and where that was, even with such bearings as I had, she defied me to discover. There was no time to tend me, whilst Molly stood near to show my whereabouts: so she let me lie, and went to lead the sorrel down to stable.

Her hand was on the bridle when she heard a Whoop! up the road; and there were half a dozen riders on the crest, and tearing down hill toward her. Joan had nothing left but to feign coolness, and went on leading the mare down the slope.

In a while, up comes the foremost trooper, draws rein, and pants out “Where's he to?”

“Who?” asks Joan, making out to be surprised.

“Why, the lad whose mare thou'rt leadin'?”

“Mile an' half away by now.”

“How's that?”

“Freshly horsed,” explains Joan.

The troopers—they were all around her by this—swore 'twas a lie; but luckily, being down in the hollow, could not see over the next ridge. They began a string of questions all together: but at last a little tun bellied sergeant call'd “Silence!” and asked the girl, “did she loan the fellow a horse?”

Here I will quote her again:—

“'Sir, to thee,' I answer'd, 'no loan at all, but fair swap for our Grey Robin.'

“'That's a lie,' he says; 'an' I won't believe thee.'

“'Might so well,' says I; 'but go to stable, an' see for thysel' (Never had grey horse to my name, Jack; but, thinks I, that's his'n lookout.)”

They went, did these simple troopers, to look at the stable, and sure enough, there was no Grey Robin. Nevertheless, some amongst them had logic enough to take this as something less than proof convincing, and spent three hours and more ransacking the house and barn, and searching the tor and the moors below it. I learn'd too, that Joan had come in for some rough talk—to which she put a stop, as she told me, by offering to fight any man Jack of them for the buttons on his buffcoat. And at length, about sundown, they gave up the hunt, and road away over the moors toward Warleggan, having (as the girl heard them say) to be at Braddock before night.

“Where is this Braddock?”

“Nigh to Lord Mohun's house at Boconnoc: seven mile away to the south, and seven mile or so from Bodmin, as a crow flies.”

“Then go I must,” cried I: and hereupon I broke out with all the trouble that was on my mind, and the instant need to save these gallant gentlemen of Cornwall, ere two armies should combine against them. I told of the King's letter in my breast, and how I found the Lord Stamford's men at Launceston; how that Ruthen, with the vanguard of the rebels, was now at Liskeard, with but a bare day's march between the two, and none but I to carry the warning. And “Oh, Joan!” I cried, “my comrade I left upon the road. Brighter courage and truer heart never man proved, and yet left by me in the rebels' hands. Alas! that I could neither save nor help, but must still ride on: and here is the issue—to lie struck down within ten mile of my goal—I, that have traveled two hundred. And if the Cornishmen be not warned to give fight before Lord Stamford come up, all's lost. Even now they be outnumber'd. So lift me, Joan, and set me astride Molly, and I'll win to Bodmin yet.”

“Reckon, Jack, thou'd best hand me thy letter.”

Now, I did not at once catch the intent of these words, so simply spoken; but stared at her like an owl.

“There's horse in stall, lad,” she went on, “tho' no Grey Robin. Tearaway's the name, and strawberry the color.”

“But, Joan, Joan, if you do this—feel inside my coat here, to the left—you will save an army, girl, maybe a throne! Here 'tis, Joan, see—no, not that—here! Say the seal is that of the Governor of Bristol, who stole it from me for a while: but the handwriting will be known for the King's: and no hand but yours must touch it till you stand before Sir Ralph Hopton. The King shall thank you, Joan; and God will bless you for't.”

“Hope so, I'm sure. But larn me what to say, lad: for I be main thick witted.”

So I told her the message over and over, till she had it by heart.

“Shan't forgit, now,” she said, at length; “an' so hearken to me for a