P. C. Wren: Adventure Novels & Tales From the Foreign Legion. P. C. Wren
As the gentleman rose from his stool (he must have been over six feet in height) Lubin passed the cross-belt over his head and raised left arm so that it rested on his right shoulder, and the Sword hung from hip to heel.
To the boy it had always seemed such a huge, unwieldy thing. At this big man's side it looked—just right.
Lubin then went off at a trot to where long lines of bay horses pawed the ground, swished their tails, tossed their heads, and fidgeted generally….
From a neighbouring tent came the sounds of a creaking camp-bed, two feet striking the ground with violence, and a prodigious, prolonged yawn.
A voice then announced that all parades should be held in Hell, and that it was better to be dead than damned. Why should gentlemen drill on a fine evening while the world held wine and women?
After a brief space, occupied with another mighty yawn, it loudly and tunefully requested some person or persons unknown to superintend its owner's obsequies.
"Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth…."
"May it do so soon," observed the tall gentleman distinctly.
"What ho, without there! That you, Seymour, lad?" continued the voice. "Tarry a moment. Where's that cursed …" and sounds of hasty search among jingling accoutrements were followed by a snatch of song of which the boy instantly recognized the words. He had often heard Dearest sing them.
"Drink to me only with thine eyes
And I will pledge with mine:
Or leave a kiss within the cup
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine."
Lubin appeared, bearing a funny, fat, black bottle, a black cup (both appeared to be of leather), and a kind of leaden plate on which was a small funnily-shaped loaf of bread.
"'Tis well you want none," observed the tall gentleman, "I had asked you to help me crush a flask else," and on the word the singer emerged from the tent.
"Jest not on solemn subjects, Seymour," he said soberly, "Wine may carry me over one more pike-parade…. Good lad…. Here's to thee…. Why should gentlemen drill?… I came to fight for the King, not to … But, isn't this thy day for de Warrenne? Oh, ten million fiends! Plague and pest! And I cannot see thee stick him, Seymour …" and the speaker dashed the black drinking-vessel violently on the ground, having carefully emptied it.
The boy did not much like him.
His lace collar was enormous and his black velvet coat was embroidered all over with yellow silk designs, flowers, and patterns. It was like the silly mantel-borders and things that Mrs. Pont, the housekeeper, did in her leisure time. ("Cruel-work" she called it, and the boy quite agreed.)
This man's face was pink and fair, his hair golden.
"Warn him not of the hilt-thrust, Seymour, lad," he said suddenly. "Give it him first—for a sneering, bullying, taverning, chambering knave."
The tall gentleman glanced at his down-flung cup, raised his eyebrows, and drank from the bottle.
"Such would annoy you, Hal, of course," he murmured.
A man dressed in what appeared to be a striped football jersey under a leather waistcoat and steel breast-plate, high boots and a steel helmet led up a great horse.
The boy loved the horse. It was very like "Fire".
The gentleman (called Seymour) patted it fondly, stroked his nose, and gave it a piece of his bread.
"Well, Crony Long-Face?" he said fondly.
He then put his left foot in the great box-stirrup and swung himself into the saddle—a very different kind of saddle from those with which the boy was familiar.
It reminded him of Circuses and the Lord Mayor's Show. It was big enough for two and there was a lot of velvet and stuff about it and a fine gold C.R.—whatever that might mean—on a big pretty cloth under it (perhaps the gentleman's initials were C.R. just as his own were D. de W. and on some of his things).
The great fat handle of a great fat pistol stuck up on each side of the front of the saddle.
"Follow," said the gentleman to the iron-bound person, and moved off at a walk towards a road not far distant.
"Stap him! Spit him, Seymour," called the pink-faced man, "and warn him not of the hilt-thrust."
As he passed the corner of the camp, two men with great axe-headed spear things performed curious evolutions with their cumbersome weapons, finally laying the business ends of them on the ground as the gentleman rode by.
He touched his hat to them with his switch.
Continuing for a mile or so, at a walk, he entered a dense coppice and dismounted.
"Await me," he said to his follower, gave him the curb-rein, and walked on to an open glade a hundred yards away.
(It was a perfect spot for Red Indians, Smugglers, Robin Hood, Robinson Crusoe or any such game, the boy noted.)
Almost at the same time, three other men entered the clearing, two together, and one from a different quarter.
"For the hundredth time, Seymour, lad, mention not the hilt-thrust, as you love me and the King," said this last one quietly as he approached the gentleman; and then the two couples behaved in a ridiculous manner with their befeathered hats, waving them in great circles as they bowed to each other, and finally laying them on their hearts before replacing them.
"Mine honour is my guide, Will," answered the gentleman called Seymour, somewhat pompously the boy considered, though he did not know the word.
Sir Seymour then began to remove the slashed coat and other garments until he stood in his silk stockings, baggy knickerbockers, and jolly cambric shirt—nice and loose and free at the neck as the boy thought.
He rolled up his right sleeve, drew the sword, and made one or two passes—like Sergeant Havlan always did before he began fencing.
The other two men, meantime, had been behaving somewhat similarly—talking together earnestly and one of them undressing.
The one who did this was a very powerful-looking man and the arm he bared reminded the boy of that of a "Strong Man" he had seen recently at Monksmead Fair, in a tent, and strangely enough his face reminded him of that of his own Father.
He had a nasty face though, the boy considered, and looked like a bounder because he had pimples, a swelly nose, a loud voice, and a swanky manner. The boy disapproved of him wholly. It was like his cheek to resemble Father, as well as to have the same name.
His companion came over to the gentleman called Will, carrying the strong man's bared sword and, bowing ridiculously (with his hat, both hands, and his feet) said:—
"Shall we measure, Captain Ormonde Delorme?"
Captain Delorme then took the sword from Sir Seymour, bowed as the other had done, and handed him the sword with a mighty flourish, hilt first.
It proved to be half an inch shorter than the other, and Captain Delorme remarked that his Principal would waive that.
He and the strong man's companion then chose a spot where the grass was very short and smooth,