THE
ANGEL
The next came on, and again the blade pierced him and withdrew with dainty un concern. And Jack Lister, for all his grim face as he kept the bridge, was blithe at heart. He had been laid by when he needed action in the Stuart's service, and now the recompense had come. No memory stirred him of the rose-garden where he had wooed and lost, but a sharp remembrance came— keen, like the lilt of bagpipes—of a woman's voice that had bidden him, in the darkness of the Angel Tavern, carry forward des patches for the Prince. And he was here, with loyal Lancashire in the pocket of his riding-coat, and behind him the bridge, that admitted no stealthy onslaught from the rear. As it chanced, an enemy unguessed stood close beside him. The three troopers left, bewildered by the simplicity of the sword's answer to the pike, drew back and talked together, and were not eager to come on. And in that moment weakness—a sick, heavy weariness of the flesh that cumbered him—came to Jack Lister. So long as the speed and fury of the attack were meeting him, it was of slight account that he had lately risen from a sick-bed, had been long without food, had ridden beyond his strength. But now, in the pause that seemed endless, his brain yielded to the tiredness that had been kept at bay till now. It was as if a runner, going headlong for his goal by grace of second wind, were stopped just as he neared the winning post and asked to re construct his speed. And at last one of the three troopers ran forward to attack, and Jack Lister parried —usefully enough, but with clumsiness—and accounted for his man. But there was a mist about his eyes, and he knew that he could not last for long. Ronald Townhope, meanwhile—he who had come late to the tryst at the Angel Tavern, and had met with scant courtesy from the cloaked lady—rode hard and fast in pursuit of the horseman who had snatched his errand from him. He was sober now, though his pace did not suggest as much. Clear as a bell, over the wintry moors, down in the wet hollows, a voice pursued him as he rode—a girl's voice, low and sad with disillusion. " I could have forgiven you so much—could have kept my place beside you, Ronald—but this was a point of honour." And she was right. There was the rub, now that the wine had left him and he was free to see himself as he was—he had failed when loyal comrades had trusted to his honour.
TAVERN.
199
He spurred his horse forward, pressing headlong over the greasy, ill-found track, striving to outride the accusing voice that would not let him rest. His one aim was to overtake the messenger before he reached the Prince, to fight with him on the open road for the privilege of carrying the despatches forward. His credit with the girl whom, in some muddled way, he loved —his peace of heart—all depended on this chance he had to redeem his honour. He rode so hard, and so luckily despite his break-neck pace, that he came in sight of his man when he reached the steep fall of the road that led to the inn in the hollow. He heard hoarse shouting down below, and went more warily ; and, as he drew nearer, he saw one swordsman standing in the moon light, a bridge behind him, and in front a press of men who carried pikes. He saw the swordsman fight till two of the enemy were down, and the remaining three drew sullenly apart. And his manhood took fire on the sudden, watching one hold his own against the many ; and, if he halted, it was only because he would not rob this unknown gentleman of a victory that seemed well within his reach. Townhope's thoughts ran swiftly as he. waited, half down the hill, for the issue of this bridge fight. He had no doubt that it was his supplanter who stood below, defend ing the despatches he should himself be carrying ; but jealousy, his personal shame, were lost in frank acknowledgment of courage against odds. There was grit in Ronald Townhope when wine would let his better self alone. He watched the third man come on and fall, and the fourth advance to the attack. And then, to his astonishment, he saw the bridge keeper reel and waver, for no reason that he could guess—saw him parry the other's weapon, and all but fall as he delivered a weak thrust that only piercec? the trooper's arm, making him drop his pike with a muttered growl of pain. It was' then that Townhope slipped from his horse and drew his sword, and ran lightly down across the bridge. It was plain that he was needed, loath as he was to rob this gentleman-errant of a victory gained by the lone hand. He reached Jack Lister in time to slip past him as he leaned, deadsick and dizzy, against the parapet, in time to take his place at the bridge-end while the slow-witted troopers were realising their advantage. He had not Jack Lister's knowledge of