tell me,” said Denys, with some surprise, “when wast thou in Cologne?”
“Never but in the spirit. I prattle with the good monks by the way, and they tell me all the notable things both old and new.
“Ay, ay, have not I seen your nose under their very cowls? But when I speak of matters that are out of sight, my words they are small, and the thing it was big; now thy words be as big or bigger than the things; art a good limner with thy tongue; I have said it; and for a saint, as ready with hand, or steel, or bolster—as any poor sinner living; and so, shall I tell thee which of all these things thou hast described draws me to Cologne?”
“Ay, Denys.”
“Thou, and thou only; no dead saint, but my living friend and comrade true; 'tis thou alone draws Denys of Burgundy to Cologne?”
Gerard hung his head.
At this juncture one of the younger boatmen suddenly inquired what was amiss with “little turnip-face?”
His young nephew thus described had just come aft grave as a judge, and burst out crying in the midst without more ado. On this phenomenon, so sharply defined, he was subjected to many interrogatories, some coaxingly uttered, some not. Had he hurt himself? had he over-ate himself? was he frightened? was he cold? was he sick? was he an idiot?
To all and each he uttered the same reply, which English writers render thus, oh! oh! oh! and French writers thus, hi! hi! hi! So fixed are Fiction's phonetics.
“Who can tell what ails the peevish brat?” snarled the young boatman impatiently. “Rather look this way and tell me whom be these after!” The old man and his other son looked, and saw four men walking along the east bank of the river; at the sight they left rowing awhile, and gathered mysteriously in the stern, whispering and casting glances alternately at their passengers and the pedestrians.
The sequel may show they would have employed speculation better in trying to fathom the turnip-face mystery; I beg pardon of my age: I mean the deep mind of dauntless infancy.
“If 'tis as I doubt,” whispered one of the young men, “why not give them a squeak for their lives; let us make for the west bank.”
The old man objected stoutly. “What,” said he, “run our heads into trouble for strangers! are ye mad? Nay, let us rather cross to the east side; still side with the strong arm! that is my rede. What say you, Werter?”
“I say, please yourselves.”
What age and youth could not decide upon, a puff of wind settled most impartially. Came a squall, and the little vessel heeled over; the men jumped to windward to trim her; but to their horror they saw in the very boat from stem to stern a ditch of water rushing to leeward, and the next moment they saw nothing, but felt the Rhine, the cold and rushing Rhine.
“Turnip-face” had drawn the plug.
The officers unwound the cords from their waists.
Gerard could swim like a duck; but the best swimmer, canted out of a boat capsized, must sink ere he can swim. The dark water bubbled loudly over his head, and then he came up almost blind and deaf for a moment; the next, he saw the black boat bottom uppermost, and figures clinging to it; he shook his head like a water-dog, and made for it by a sort of unthinking imitation; but ere he reached it he heard a voice behind him cry not loud but with deep manly distress, “Adieu, comrade, adieu!”
He looked, and there was poor Denys sinking, sinking, weighed down by his wretched arbalest. His face was pale, and his eyes staring wide, and turned despairingly on his dear friend. Gerard uttered a wild cry of love and terror, and made for him, cleaving the water madly; but the next moment Denys was under water.
The next, Gerard was after him.
The officers knotted a rope and threw the end in.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Things good and evil balance themselves in a remarkable manner and almost universally. The steel bow attached to the arbalestrier's back, and carried above his head, had sunk him. That very steel bow, owing to that very position, could not escape Gerard's hands, one of which grasped it, and the other went between the bow and the cord, which was as good. The next moment, Denys, by means of his crossbow, was hoisted with so eager a jerk that half his body bobbed up out of water.
“Now, grip me not! grip me not!” cried Gerard, in mortal terror of that fatal mistake.
“Pas si bete,” gurgled Denys.
Seeing the sort of stuff he had to deal with, Gerard was hopeful and calm directly. “On thy back,” said he sharply, and seizing the arbalest, and taking a stroke forward, he aided the desired movement. “Hand on my shoulder! slap the water with the other hand! No—with a downward motion; so. Do nothing more than I bid thee.” Gerard had got hold of Denys's long hair, and twisting it hard, caught the end between his side teeth, and with the strong muscles of his youthful neck easily kept up the soldier's head, and struck out lustily across the current. A moment he had hesitated which side to make for, little knowing the awful importance of that simple decision; then seeing the west bank a trifle nearest, he made towards it, instead of swimming to jail like a good boy, and so furnishing one a novel incident. Owing to the force of the current they slanted considerably, and when they had covered near a hundred yards, Denys murmured uneasily, “How much more of it?”
“Courage,” mumbled Gerard. “Whatever a duck knows, a Dutchman knows; art safe as in bed.”
The next moment, to their surprise, they found themselves in shallow water, and so waded ashore. Once on terra firma, they looked at one another from head to foot as if eyes could devour, then by one impulse flung each an arm round the other's neck, and panted there with hearts too full to speak. And at this sacred moment life was sweet as heaven to both; sweetest perhaps to the poor exiled lover, who had just saved his friend. Oh, joy to whose height what poet has yet soared, or ever tried to soar? To save a human life; and that life a loved one. Such moments are worth living for, ay, three score years and ten. And then, calmer, they took hands, and so walked along the bank hand in hand like a pair of sweethearts, scarce knowing or caring whither they went.
The boat people were all safe on the late concave, now convex craft, Herr Turnip-face, the “Inverter of things,” being in the middle. All this fracas seemed not to have essentially deranged his habits. At least he was greeting when he shot our friends into the Rhine, and greeting when they got out again.
“Shall we wait till they right the boat?”
“No, Denys, our fare is paid; we owe them nought. Let us on, and briskly.”
Denys assented, observing that they could walk all the way to Cologne on this bank.
“I fare not to Cologne,” was the calm reply.
“Why, whither then?”
“To Burgundy.”
“To Burgundy? Ah, no! that is too good to be sooth.”
“Sooth 'tis, and sense into the bargain. What matters it to me how I go to Rome?”
“Nay,
