Oxenford's Daughter

: The Doomsman

Constans had now spent nearly a fortnight in the valley of the

Swiftwater, and, while he had been hospitably received and entertained,

he made but small progress in his mission; it seemed as though this

second propaganda were also doomed to failure. There was neither

unanimity nor enthusiasm among these rustic seigneurs; they were content

to leave well enough alone, and the rest of the world could shift for

itself, as n the past.



"Doom will not trouble us, and why should we concern ourselves about the

flaying of a few fat burghers. Mayhap a little blood-letting now and

then is efficacious in warding off the falling sickness, and in the end

the churls get it back out of us. Your own worthy uncle, Messer Hugolin,

has squeezed me more than once. As for your ideal republic, stuff of

dreams, lad! Take an old man's word for it."



Piers Major, of the River Barony, spoke decidedly, yet withal not

unkindly, for he had been blood-brother to Constans's father, and he

liked the boy for his own sake. Constans had gone; to him last of all;

unconsciously he had been counting upon his support, whatever else

failed, and to be repulsed in this quarter was bitter indeed. The old

man looked into the clouded face before him and continued, earnestly:



"A dream, I tell you. Let the morning wind scatter these vapors; you are

young, and the world is before you. Harkee, lad, for I speak for your

own good--nothing less. There is the Greenwood Keep, and it still

remains 'no man's land.' True, the house was badly gutted by the fire,

but there is plenty of good timber in the forest, and every man among us

will be glad to lend a hand to the reconstruction of your fortunes.

Finally, there is your tall cousin Alexa, 'Red' Oxenford's daughter.

Methinks she looks upon you not unkindly, and she bade me be sure to

bring you to her coming of age to-day. The whole country-side will be

present, and you may bag all your birds with one fairly shot bolt. What

say you?"



Constans was silent; for the moment he was conscious of being allured by

an offer so well and kindly meant. To restore the old home, to find

himself again among his kinsmen and friends, contentedly sharing their

simple, wholesome life, to plough his own acres and see the smoke

curling upward from his own hearthstone--were not these things, after

all, the actualities of life?--was he to be always turning his back upon

them to grasp at clouds mirrored in running water, shadows that ever

eluded his grasp? His cousin Alexa--undoubtedly she was a pretty girl,

with her rose-leaf complexion and bright, gray eyes. He had met her on

two or three occasions, and he was not wholly unaware of her shy

pleasure in his companionship, impersonal as it had hitherto been. He

might, indeed, stop and consider.



Yet the temptation passed as quickly as it had presented itself. There

was that other work in the world to-day, and who was to take it up if he

drew back? Others might be of gifts more competent, but at least he had

come to know himself through hard experience, and knowledge so bought

was not to be lightly flung away.



"It cannot be," he said, shortly. "Believe me, that I am not ungrateful,

but my own way is plain, and I must take it." He hesitated. "You are of

my father's covenant," he continued, slowly.



"The blood-bond is between us," assented the other, heartily enough, and

yet knitting his brows as he spoke.



"Then if I choose to exact the full obligation of brotherhood, even to

sword-service----"



"It must be paid, and it shall be," said Piers Major, quickly, and still

his countenance was troubled.



Constans deliberated. "I shall not require so severe a test of your good

faith," he said at length. "Yet I may ask you to hold the question open,

to give me a chance to prove that my plans are feasible and that action

is necessary for the future peace of all."



"That I can agree to with all my heart. But, mind you, the argument must

have a keen edge and weight behind it. We Stockaders are a stubborn

generation."



"So, too, are facts," returned Constans, "and possibly you may have to

deal with them rather than with my theories. It is a long time since the

men in gray have needed to go afield in this direction, but the country

around Croye is a dry sponge, and I happen to know that there were more

empty saddles than full hands in the expedition that has just returned

to Doom from the Southland. I stood on Harbor Hill last night, and there

were lights in the Narrows."



"It may be so," said the old man, sombrely, "but the graybacks should

not have forgotten already the lesson we taught them at the Golden Cove

the year of the red comet. But, Constans, lad, we should be on our way

if we would not have the pretty Alexa furrowing her forehead over our

empty seats at her birthday board. Hola! Willem; the horses!"



The way to Deepdene, Red Oxenford's stronghold, led through the forest,

and the green drive was a pleasant place on this brightest of May

mornings, there being the languor of coming summer in the fitful breeze.

The two horsemen rode slowly, yet their speech was brief, each being

absorbed in his own thoughts and questionings.



A couple of miles farther on and they came to the crossing of the Ochre

brook. As they rode their horses into the ford, a wild dog that had been

lapping at the brink started up with a snarl under the very feet of

Piers Major's steed. Now such is the cowardly nature of the wood-dog

that he will run from the presence of man if chance of escape be

offered; yet if cornered he will show all the ferocity of a wounded

boar. In this instance the dog could not retreat to advantage, and so he

sprang at the horse, gripping the tender muzzle in his strong, sharp

teeth, and hanging there like a rat on a terrier. The horse, maddened

with pain, plunged and reared. His master drew his hunting-knife and

made an ineffectual pass at the ugly beast.



"Hold!" shouted Constans. "Back in your saddle and leave him to me."



The pistol in his hand spoke once, and the dog, shot through the lungs,

fell back into the water. A bubble of crimson foam floated for a moment

on the current, and he was gone.



"That was well done," said Piers Major, gravely. He had finally

succeeded in quieting his horse, and they were again on their way.



"It is one of the ancient secrets," said Constans, and explained as best

he could the mechanism of the revolver and the composition of its

explosive cartridge. The old man examined the strange weapon with

respectful attention; he had had proof of its powers.



"Have you ever killed a man?" he demanded.



Constans was obliged to answer in the negative, and the other seemed a

little doubtful. "Look," said Constans, and, drawing rein, he took aim

at a beech-tree a few yards distant. The bullet ploughed into the wood,

leaving a small, round hole in the smooth bark. "See how deeply it has

penetrated," he continued. "Think you that a man could endure to have

this lump of lead drilled through heart or brain? Ay, and against it no

cuirass of quilted cloth will avail, however well it may turn an

arrow-point."



Piers Major smiled grimly. "If I questioned your assertion," he said,

"you would doubtless invite me to stand up and put the matter to the

proof. I am content."



"In a secret place, some three miles from here," went on Constans, "I

have in store a dozen similar weapons, together with as many of a larger

pattern--rifles as they were anciently called. Also abundance of

ammunition. Put them in the hands of brave men, and would not the odds

be in our favor, even if the Doomsmen out-numbered us?"



"Yet may not our enemies provide themselves with the same means of

offence?"



"No," said Constans, decidedly. "It took me a month's hard work to get

what I have into serviceable condition. Besides, the weapons are useless

without the cartridges of gunpowder and lead. Of these only a small

quantity remained fit for use, and I have secured it all."



The old man's eye brightened. "Good," he said, laconically, and relapsed

into his abstracted mood.



* * * * *



It was a joyous and inspiring spectacle that presented itself when they

finally drew rein before the doors of Deepdene. On the smooth lawn

within the stockade full a hundred horses were picketed, while their

masters strolled about in the bright sunshine. For the most part they

were well-built young fellows, clad in all the bravery of a rustic

holiday. Constans and his companion paused only long enough to receive

the salutation of those nearest, and then passed into the house to pay

their respects to the host. They had been among the last of the guests

to arrive, and now the signal was given for the festivities of the day

to begin in earnest.



The sports were of the sort characteristic of such a

gathering--wrestling and foot-races, target-shooting and bouts at

cudgel-play and night-stick. Towards the middle of the afternoon, when

the athletic prowess of the young men had been fully exploited, came the

great spectacle, the bull-fight, and of this it will be necessary to

speak somewhat particularly.



The pen, or corral, as it might more properly be called, was a circular

enclosure of fifty yards in diameter, the ring being formed of stout

post-and-rail fence. The victim, a wild bull, was first turned

blindfolded into the enclosure and baited by the dogs until excited to

frenzy. Then half a dozen of the bolder youths would vault into the ring

armed only with their throwing-knives, and the real sport would begin.

The master of the ring, having provided himself with a long pole to

which a sharp knife-blade had been bound, would watch his opportunity to

cut the thong that secured the blind-cloth about the animal's eyes. Woe

now to him who was dull of eye or laggard of foot!



The object of the game was, of course, to strike the fatal blow; but,

skilled as were the young Stockaders in the art of throwing the knife,

it often happened that a bull would be bleeding from a hundred wounds

and still keep his feet. Commonly, too, he would manage to score upon

one or more of his adversaries before succumbing, for while it was

permissible for a contestant to leave the ring, he could only do so

after he had thrown his knife and as a last resort against the bull's

charge. When the animal's attention had been diverted by an attack from

another quarter, the disarmed contestant would vault again into the ring

and recover his weapon. Here, indeed, was a game that might well stir

the coldest blood, since life itself was the stake for which it was

played.



The company had gathered about the bull-pen, pressing closely against

the barrier, that they might lose no part of the show. It should be a

spectacle worth more than ordinary attention, for the bull was an animal

of exceptional size and of a temper to correspond; the knowing ones

opined that the contest would be a protracted one, and expatiated

gravely upon the animal's strong points to their less-informed brethren.

Wagers were being booked; there were endless arguments, asseverations,

questionings; the smoke from innumerable pipes hung like a blue haze

above the heads of the throng, and here and there a fretful child lifted

up complaining voice. Already the sun hung in the zenith, and it was

time to begin if the sport were not to encroach upon the dinner hour.



At the north end of the enclosure a wooden gallery had been reared for

the accommodation of the principal guests, and Constans, to his

surprise, found himself included in this privileged number. Possibly the

pretty Alexa could have explained the mystery of his invitation; certain

it is that she favored him with a radiant smile when he made his

appearance on the platform, a mark of encouragement which might have

justified him in appropriating the vacant seat at the maiden's right

hand. But Constans, being of a retiring disposition, and even a little

indifferent to his opportunities, let the chance slip, and another who

had been waiting anxiously upon the lady's nod was finally made happy.



A murmur of applause had greeted the entrance of the bull, and truly he

was a magnificent creature, deep chested and of the true checkered

marking in black and white. The customary baiting had been omitted, for

the ugliness of his temper needed no external stimulus, and the young

men were already in the ring when he appeared.



The preliminary encounter was a mortifying experience for the sextet of

overconfident youth. One by one they launched their weapons and either

missed outright or else scored but lightly; successively they had been

forced to retreat beyond the barrier by the animal, whose agility in

getting around the ring was marvellous. Unfortunately for the

contestants, all the knives had fallen on virtually the same spot, and

the bull proceeded to mount guard over them as though aware that their

possession was the guarantee of his own immunity. The game was now

indefinitely blocked, since it was certain death for a player to attempt

the recovery of his throwing-knife, and the rules did not permit the

substitution of fresh weapons. The crowd laughed ironically as the

situation dawned upon them, and the discomfited players were compelled

to submit to many a gibe. The bull remained master of the field, and the

spectators, grown tired of waiting, began to express their disapproval

audibly.



Piers Major pushed his way to Constans's side. "A chance for you and

your fire-stick," he whispered. "I have been talking to Red Oxenford and

the others about it, and they are curious to see for themselves. Think

you that you can drop that fellow where he stands?" and he nodded at the

bull, who still kept watch over his spoils.



"Yes," answered Constans, confidently. Here was the supreme moment at

last arrived; the very thought of failure was impossible; he must and

would succeed in the task imposed. Obeying the beckoning finger of his

host, Constans advanced to the edge of the platform overhanging the

enclosure.



An excited murmur rose from the crowd below, and even the dignitaries

upon the gallery jostled one another to obtain a favorable

vantage-point. Alexa stood immediately behind Constans, her eyes bright

with excitement, and her slim hand hidden in her father's huge fist.

Without attempting to take aim, Constans raised the revolver and fired.



The bullet struck the ground in front of the bull and threw up a

spiteful puff of dust, at which the animal pawed disdainfully. But if

the shot had missed its mark, the report of the explosion did full

execution among the spectators. The women shrieked, and the men nearest

the enclosure pushed back hastily among the crowd. For a moment a panic

was imminent, but Constans quieted it with a word.



"It is only the bark of the dog," he said, smilingly, and his hearers

somewhat shamefacedly resumed their places, but this time leaving a dear

space in which he might stand and handle his weapon.



Constans took steady aim, and, to his surprise, missed again, the bullet

flying wide. The failure nettled him. He made his preparations for the

third essay with care, raising and lowering the pistol several times,

until he was sure that he could not miss the mark. A third failure--the

bullet clipping a splinter from a fence-post on the opposite side of the

ring. A mist rose before Constans's eyes; what did it mean? Could he

have deceived himself in thinking that he had mastered this secret of

the ancients? Was it to fail him now, when all depended upon success?

His hand trembled so that he could hardly draw the trigger. The hammer

fell for the fourth time, but no explosion followed, the cartridge

having missed fire. He had now but one shot left, and the whispers of

disapproval and disappointment among the crowd were plainly audible.



Without stopping to reflect, Constans leaped over the rail of the

gallery to the arena below. As he jumped, the girl, Alexa, started, and

a cry escaped her parted lips; it was a sigh rather than an exclamation,

the voice of a crushed flower suspiring its last vital breath. And

Constans did not hear.



For perhaps half a dozen seconds man and beast stood motionless, waiting

upon each other. The bull tossed his head savagely, his tail twitching,

and a cloud of dust and gravel rising under his impatient hoof.

Constans, with finger on trigger, moved a step to the right so as to

face him fairly. Suddenly the great horns came down with a vindictive

sweep, the shoulders heaved in the first impulse of the coming charge.

Like the snap of a whip the report rang out clean and sharp, and the

bullet went home at just the one vulnerable point in the thick

skull--that at which the butcher aims his pole-axe. The bull pulled up

short, the glaring eyes softened as though in wonder at this strange

performance that had been enacted before him; then, as the people still

held their breath, the brute sank quietly to his knees and rolled over

dead.



A woman started in to laugh hysterically, but her voice was drowned in a

mighty shout; like a wave the crowd passed over the barrier, and

Constans grasped helplessly at half a hundred out-stretched hands. A

babel of voices arose; the arena, filled to overflowing with excited men

and women, was comparable only to some gigantic ant-hill.



Fifty yards outside of the main palisade stood an oak-tree. Under the

Stockader law no standing timber should have been permitted at a less

distance than one hundred paces, but the oak was such a fine specimen

that Red Oxenford had allowed it to remain--a fatal error.



A bowstring twanged; the arrow sped to its mark--the fair young breast

of Oxenford's daughter--and in her father's arms the maiden gasped and

died; all this in the space of time in which a cloud of the bigness of a

man's hand might pass across the sun. Down from the lower branches of

that accursed oak dropped the lithe figure of a man garbed all in gray.

"Stop him!" called a weak, uncertain voice, but no one moved. The man in

gray waved his hand derisively and disappeared into the bush. An

inarticulate sound arose from the closely packed throng in the

enclosure, the exhalation of a universal sigh.



Red Oxenford had made neither sound nor sign. He stood motionless, his

daughter's head cradled in the hollow of his arm; he stared stupidly at

the girl's face, so pitifully white and small it seemed, with its

virginal coronal of flaxen hair--then he fell in a heap, like to a

collapsing wall.



Piers Major gently withdrew the bolt from the wound and held it up to

view. Its message was plain to all, for none save the Doomsmen feathered

their arrows with the plume of the gray goose. Only now the quills were

stained to a darker hue.



"It is her blood," he said, and the shaft of polished hickory snapped

like a straw between his fingers. "Her blood! and of Doom shall we

require it." And at that all the people shouted and then stood with

uncovered heads, while the young men bore away the body of Oxenford's

daughter on their locked shields and gave it to her mother.






That night Constans rode out from Deepdene at the head of twenty picked

men, leading them to the secret place where he had stored the guns and

ammunition which he had brought from Doom. Two days of practice with the

unfamiliar weapons, and on the morning of the third the little squad,

reinforced by a company of two hundred men-at-arms, set out upon the

northern road.



Towards noon they passed through Croye. It had been their intention to

stop here for the mid-day meal, but none cared to propose a halt after

entering this strange city of silence. Ordinarily the central square

would have been filled with a voluble, chaffering crowd, it being a

market-day; now there was not a living thing to be seen, not even a hog

wallowing in the kennel nor a buzzard about the butcher-stalls. Yet

there were no traces of fire and sword, the houses had suffered no

violence, and stood there barred and shuttered as though it were still

the middle watch of the night.



"What think you?" said Piers Major to Constans. "Is it the plague?"



"No, or there would be fires burning in the streets and yellow crosses

chalked upon the door-lintels. Those who keep so close behind their

bolts and bars are living people, hale and strong as ourselves. But,

assuredly, some great fear has been put upon them. Perhaps we shall know

more as we go on."



The answer to the riddle was given as they turned the corner by Messer

Hugolin's house. The strong-room on the ground-floor stood empty and

despoiled of its treasures, yet the gold and silver had not been carried

away, but lay scattered about in the filth of the street, as though

utterly contemned by the marauders.



And there, hanging from a cross-bar of the broken window, was the body

of Messer Hugolin, Councillor Primus of Croye, dressed in his scarlet

robes of office, and with a great gold chain about his neck. His head

was bowed upon his breast, so that the face was not visible, and for

this indulgence Constans gave inward thanks.



"Ride on," commanded Piers Major, shortly, and the cavalcade clattered

forward. It is not worth while to linger where once Dom Gillian's

tax-gatherers have passed.