Oglethorpe lay in a low bed,one of several in a long garret of the inn.The rain soaked in places through the roof and fell in minute drops;there was but one small window;the beds were occupied by servants,the air of the garret was both close and chilly.Mr.Archer's heart sank at the threshold to see a man lying perhaps mortally hurt in so poor a sick-room,and as he drew near the low bed he took his hat off.The guard was a big,blowsy,innocent-looking soul with a thick lip and a broad nose,comically turned up;his cheeks were crimson,and when Mr.Archer laid a finger on his brow he found him burning with fever.
'I fear you suffer much,'he said,with a catch in his voice,as he sat down on the bedside.
'I suppose I do,sir,'returned Oglethorpe;'it is main sore.'
'I am used to wounds and wounded men,'returned the visitor.
'I have been in the wars and nursed brave fellows before now;and,if you will suffer me,I propose to stay beside you till the doctor comes.'
'It is very good of you,sir,I am sure,'said Oglethorpe.
'The trouble is they won't none of them let me drink.'
'If you will not tell the doctor,'said Mr.Archer,'I will give you some water.They say it is bad for a green wound,but in the Low Countries we all drank water when we found the chance,and I could never perceive we were the worse for it.'
'Been wounded yourself,sir,perhaps?'called Oglethorpe.
'Twice,'said Mr.Archer,'and was as proud of these hurts as any lady of her bracelets.'Tis a fine thing to smart for one's duty;even in the pangs of it there is contentment.'
'Ah,well!'replied the guard,'if you've been shot yourself,that explains.But as for contentment,why,sir,you see,it smarts,as you say.And then,I have a good wife,you see,and a bit of a brat -a little thing,so high.'
'Don't move,'said Mr.Archer.
'No,sir,I will not,and thank you kindly,'said Oglethorpe.
'At York they are.A very good lass is my wife -far too good for me.And the little rascal -well,I don't know how to say it,but he sort of comes round you.If I were to go,sir,it would be hard on my poor girl -main hard on her!'
'Ay,you must feel bitter hardly to the rogue that laid you here,'said Archer.
'Why,no,sir,more against Engleton and the passengers,'replied the guard.'He played his hand,if you come to look at it;and I wish he had shot worse,or me better.And yet I'll go to my grave but what I covered him,'he cried.'It looks like witchcraft.I'll go to my grave but what he was drove full of slugs like a pepper-box.'
'Quietly,'said Mr.Archer,'you must not excite yourself.
These deceptions are very usual in war;the eye,in the moment of alert,is hardly to be trusted,and when the smoke blows away you see the man you fired at,taking aim,it may be,at yourself.You should observe,too,that you were in the dark night,and somewhat dazzled by the lamps,and that the sudden stopping of the mail had jolted you.In such circumstances a man may miss,ay,even with a blunder-buss,and no blame attach to his marksmanship.'...
THE YOUNG CHEVALIER
PROLOGUE -THE WINE-SELLER'S WIFE
THERE was a wine-seller's shop,as you went down to the river in the city of the Anti-popes.There a man was served with good wine of the country and plain country fare;and the place being clean and quiet,with a prospect on the river,certain gentlemen who dwelt in that city in attendance on a great personage made it a practice (when they had any silver in their purses)to come and eat there and be private.
They called the wine-seller Paradou.He was built more like a bullock than a man,huge in bone and brawn,high in colour,and with a hand like a baby for size.Marie-Madeleine was the name of his wife;she was of Marseilles,a city of entrancing women,nor was any fairer than herself.She was tall,being almost of a height with Paradou;full-girdled,point-device in every form,with an exquisite delicacy in the face;her nose and nostrils a delight to look at from the fineness of the sculpture,her eyes inclined a hair's-breadth inward,her colour between dark and fair,and laid on even like a flower's.A faint rose dwelt in it,as though she had been found unawares bathing,and had blushed from head to foot.She was of a grave countenance,rarely smiling;yet it seemed to be written upon every part of her that she rejoiced in life.Her husband loved the heels of her feet and the knuckles of her fingers;he loved her like a glutton and a brute;his love hung about her like an atmosphere;one that came by chance into the wine-shop was aware of that passion;and it might be said that by the strength of it the woman had been drugged or spell-bound.She knew not if she loved or loathed him;he was always in her eyes like something monstrous -monstrous in his love,monstrous in his person,horrific but imposing in his violence;and her sentiment swung back and forward from desire to sickness.But the mean,where it dwelt chiefly,was an apathetic fascination,partly of horror;as of Europa in mid ocean with her bull.
On the 10th November 1749there sat two of the foreign gentlemen in the wine-seller's shop.They were both handsome men of a good presence,richly dressed.The first was swarthy and long and lean,with an alert,black look,and a mole upon his cheek.The other was more fair.He seemed very easy and sedate,and a little melancholy for so young a man,but his smile was charming.In his grey eyes there was much abstraction,as of one recalling fondly that which was past and lost.Yet there was strength and swiftness in his limbs;and his mouth set straight across his face,the under lip a thought upon side,like that of a man accustomed to resolve.These two talked together in a rude outlandish speech that no frequenter of that wine-shop understood.The swarthy man answered to the name of BALLANTRAE;he of the dreamy eyes was sometimes called BALMILE,and sometimes MYLORD,or MY LORD GLADSMUIR;but when the title was given him,he seemed to put it by as if in jesting,not without bitterness.
