LITMIR.BIZ

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sighed the Goshawk, dandling his flower-pot; ‘the moon gives strokes as well’s the sun. I’ faith, moon-struck and maid-struck in one! He’ll be asking for his head soon. This dash of the monk and the minstrel is a sure sign. That ‘s their way of loving in this land: they all go mad, straight off. I never heard such talk.’

      Guy accompanied these remarks with a pitiful glance at his companion.

      ‘Come, Sir Lover! lend me a help to give back what we’ve borrowed to its rightful owner. ‘S blood! but I feel an appetite. This night-air takes me in the wind like a battering ram. I thought I had laid in a stout four-and-twenty hours’ stock of Westphalian Wurst at Master Groschen’s supper-table. Good stuff, washed down with superior Rhine wine; say your Liebfrauenmilch for my taste; though, when I first tried it, I grimaced like a Merry-Andrew, and remembered roast beef and Glo’ster ale in my prayers.’

      The Goshawk was in the act of replacing the pot of lilies, when a blow from a short truncheon, skilfully flung, struck him on the neck and brought him to the ground. With him fell the lilies. He glared to the right and left, and grasped the broken flower-pot for a return missile; but no enemy was in view to test his accuracy of aim.

      The deep-arched doorways showed their empty recesses the windows slept.

      ‘Has that youth played me false?’ thought the discomfited squire, as he leaned quietly on his arm. Farina was nowhere near.

      Guy was quickly reassured.

      ‘By my fay, now! that’s a fine thing! and a fine fellow! and a fleet foot! That lad ‘ll rise! He’ll be a squire some day. Look at him. Bowels of a’Becket! ’tis a sight! I’d rather see that, now, than old Groschen ‘s supper-table groaning with Wurst again, and running a river of Rudesheimer! Tussle on! I’ll lend a hand if there’s occasion; but you shall have the honour, boy, an you can win it.’

      This crying on of the hound was called forth by a chase up the street, in which the Goshawk beheld Farina pursue and capture a stalwart runaway, who refused with all his might to be brought back, striving every two and three of his tiptoe steps to turn against the impulse Farina had got on his neck and nether garments.

      ‘Who ‘d have thought the lad was so wiry and mettlesome, with his soft face, blue eyes, and lank locks? but a green mead has more in it than many a black mountain. Hail, and well done! if I could dub you knight, I would: trust me!’ and he shook Farina by the hand.

      Farina modestly stood aside, and allowed the Goshawk to confront his prisoner.

      ‘So, Sir Shy-i’the-dark! gallant Stick-i’the-back! Squire Truncheon, and Knight of the noble order of Quicksilver Legs! just take your stand at the distance you were off me when you discharged this instrument at my head. By ‘r lady! I smart a scratch to pay you in coin, and it’s lucky for you the coin is small, or you might reckon on it the same, trust me. Now, back!’

      The Goshawk lunged out with the truncheon, but the prisoner displayed no hesitation in complying, and fell back about a space of fifteen yards.

      ‘I suppose he guesses I’ve never done the stupid trick before,’ mused Guy, ‘or he would not be so sharp.’ Observing that Farina had also fallen back in a line as guard, Guy motioned him to edge off to the right more, bawling, ‘Never mind why!’

      ‘Now,’ thought Guy, ‘if I were sure of notching him, I’d do the speech part first; but as I’m not—throwing truncheons being no honourable profession anywhere—I’ll reserve that. The rascal don’t quail. We’ll see how long he stands firm.’

      The Goshawk cleared his wrist, fixed his eye, and swung the truncheon meditatively to and fro by one end. He then launched off the shoulder a mighty down-fling, calmly, watching it strike the prisoner to earth, like an ox under the hammer.

      ‘A hit!’ said he, and smoothed his wrist.

      Farina knelt by the body, and lifted the head on his breast. ‘Berthold! Berthold!’ he cried; ‘no further harm shall hap to you, man! Speak!’

      ‘You ken the scapegrace?’ said Guy, sauntering up.

      ‘’Tis Berthold Schmidt, son of old Schmidt, the great goldsmith of Cologne.’

      ‘St. Dunstan was not at his elbow this time!’

      ‘A rival of mine,’ whispered Farina.

      ‘Oho!’ and the Goshawk wound a low hiss at his tongue’s tip. ‘Well! as I should have spoken if his ears had been open: Justice struck the blow; and a gentle one. This comes of taking a flying shot, and not standing up fair. And that seems all that can be said. Where lives he?’

      Farina pointed to the house of the Lilies.

      ‘Beshrew me! the dog has some right on his side. Whew! yonder he lives? He took us for some night-prowlers. Why not come up fairly, and ask my business?

      Smelling a flower is not worth a broken neck, nor defending your premises quite deserving a hole in the pate. Now, my lad, you see what comes of dealing with cut and run blows; and let this be a warning to you.’

      They took the body by head and feet, and laid him at the door of his father’s house. Here the colour came to his cheek, and they wiped off the streaks of blood that stained him. Guy proved he could be tender with a fallen foe, and Farina with an ill-fated rival. It was who could suggest the soundest remedies, or easiest postures. One lent a kerchief and nursed him; another ran to the city fountain and fetched him water. Meantime the moon had dropped, and morning, grey and beamless, looked on the house-peaks and along the streets with steadier eye. They now both discerned a body of men, far down, fronting Gottlieb’s house, and drawn up in some degree of order. All their charity forsook them at once.

      ‘Possess thyself of the truncheon,’ said Guy: ‘You see it can damage. More work before breakfast, and a fine account I must give of myself to my hostess of the Three Holy Kings!’

      Farina recovered the destructive little instrument.

      ‘I am ready,’ said he. ‘But hark! there’s little work for us there, I fancy. Those be lads of Cologne, no grunters of the wild. ’Tis the White Rose Club. Always too late for service.’

      Voices singing a hunting glee, popular in that age, swelled up the clear morning air; and gradually the words became distinct.

      The Kaiser went a-hunting,

       A-hunting, tra-ra:

       With his bugle-horn at springing morn,

       The Kaiser trampled bud and thorn:

       Tra-ra!

       And the dew shakes green as the horsemen rear,

       And a thousand feathers they flutter with fear;

       And a pang drives quick to the heart of the deer;

       For the Kaiser’s out a-hunting,

       Tra-ra!

       Ta, ta, ta, ta,

       Tra-ra, tra-ra,

       Ta-ta, tra-ra, tra-ra!

      the owner of the truncheon awoke to these reviving tones, and uttered a faint responsive ‘Tra-ra!’

      ‘Hark again!’ said Farina, in reply to the commendation of the Goshawk, whose face was dimpled over with the harmony.

      The wild boar lay a-grunting,

       A-grunting, tra-ra!

       And, boom! comes the Kaiser to hunt up me?

       Or, queak! the small birdie that hops on the tree?

       Tra-ra!

       O birdie, and boar, and deer, lie tame!

       For a maiden in bloom, or a full-blown dame,

       Are the daintiest prey, and the windingest game,

       When Kaisers go a-hunting,

       Tra-ra!

      

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