The Splendid Spur: Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Majesty King Charles I, in the Years 1642–3 by Arthur Quiller-Couch

Author:Arthur Quiller-Couch
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Great Britain -- History -- Charles I, 1625-1649 -- Fiction
Publisher: Standard Ebooks
Published: 2024-09-18T17:23:53+00:00

“Why, no,” said I, “I don’t think it”: and capp’d her verse with an­oth­er—

“Sil­ly man, the cost to find

Is to leave as good be­hind—”

“Jack, for pity’s sake, stop!” She put her fin­gers to her ears. “What a nasty, creak­ing voice thou hast, to be sure!”

“That’s as a man may hold,” said I, net­tled.

“No, in­deed: yours is a very poor voice, but mine is beau­ti­ful. So lis­ten.”

She went on to sing as she went, “Green as grass is my kir­tle,” “Tire me in tiffany,” “Come ye beard­ed men-at-arms,” and “The Bend­ing Rush.” All these she sang, as I must con­fess, most del­i­cate­ly well, and then fac’d me, with a hap­py smile—

“Now, have not I a sweet voice? Why, Jack—art still glum?”

“Delia,” an­swer’d I, “you have first to give me a re­ply to what, four days agone, I ask’d you. Dear girl—nay then, dear com­rade—”

I broke off, for she had come to a stop, wring­ing her hands and look­ing in my face most dole­ful­ly.

“Oh, dear—oh, dear! Jack, we have had such mer­ry times: and you are spoil­ing all the fun!”

We fol­low’d the road af­ter this very mood­i­ly; for Delia, whom I had made shar­er of the rebels’ se­cret, agreed that no time was to be lost in reach­ing Bod­min, that lay a good thir­ty miles to the south­west. Night fell and the young moon rose, with a brisk breeze at our backs that kept us still walk­ing with­out any feel­ing of weari­ness. Cap­tain Bil­ly had giv­en me at part­ing a small com­pass, of new in­ven­tion, that a man could car­ry eas­i­ly in his pock­et; and this from time to time I ex­am­in’d in the moon­light, guid­ing our way al­most due south, in hopes of strik­ing in­to the main road west­ward. I doubt not we lost a deal of time among the by­ways; but at length hap­pen’d on a good road bear­ing south, and fol­low’d it till day­break, when to our sat­is­fac­tion we spied a hill in front, topp’d with a stout cas­tle, and un­der it a town of im­por­tance, that we guess’d to be Launce­s­ton.

By this, my com­rade and I were on the best of terms again; and now drew up to con­sid­er if we should en­ter the town or avoid it to the west, trust­ing to find a break­fast in some tav­ern on the way. Be­cause we knew not with cer­tain­ty the tem­per of the coun­try, it seem’d best to choose this sec­ond course: so we fetch’d around by cer­tain bar­ren mead­ows, and thought our­selves lucky to hit on a road that, by the size, must be the one we sought, and a tav­ern with a wide yard be­fore it and a carter’s van stand­ing at the en­trance, not three gun­shots from the town walls.

“Now Prov­i­dence hath sure­ly led us to break­fast,” said Delia, and stepped be­fore me in­to the yard, to­ward the door.

I was fol­low­ing her when, in­side of a gate to the right of the house, I caught the gleam of steel, and turn’d aside to look.

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