he.
He did not know how soon his protestations would be put to the test.
One night – it was a week or two after Myles had come to Devlen – Blunt was called to attend the Earl at livery. The livery was the last meal of the day, and was served with great pomp and ceremony about nine o’clock at night to the head of the house as he lay in bed. Curfew had not yet rung, and the lads in the squires’ quarters were still wrestling and sparring and romping boisterously in and out around the long row of rude cots in the great dormitory as they made ready for the night. Six or eight flaring links in wrought-iron brackets that stood out from the wall threw a great ruddy glare through the barrack-like room – a light of all others to romp by. Myles and Gascoyne were engaged in defending the passage-way between their two cots against the attack of three other lads, and Myles held his sheepskin coverlet rolled up into a ball and balanced in his hand, ready for launching at the head of one of the others so soon as it should rise from behind the shelter of a cot. Just then Walter Blunt, dressed with more than usual care, passed by on his way to the Earl’s house. He stopped for a moment and said, “Mayhaps I will not be in until late to-night. Thou and Falworth, Gascoyne, may fetch water to-morrow.”
Then he was gone. Myles stood staring after his retreating figure with eyes open and mouth agape, still holding the ball of sheepskin balanced in his hand. Gascoyne burst into a helpless laugh at his blank, stupefied face, but the next moment he laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Myles,” he said, “thou wilt not make trouble, wilt thou?”
Myles made no answer. He flung down his sheepskin and sat him gloomily down upon the side of the cot.
“I said that I would sooner die than fetch water for them,” said he.
“Aye, aye,” said Gascoyne; “but that was spoken in haste.”
Myles said nothing, but shook his head.
But, after all, circumstances shape themselves. The next morning when he rose up through the dark waters of sleep it was to feel some one shaking him violently by the shoulder.
“Come!” cried Gascoyne, as Myles opened his eyes – “come, time passeth, and we are late.”
Myles, bewildered with his sudden awakening, and still fuddled with the fumes of sleep, huddled into his doublet and hose, hardly knowing what he was doing; tying a point here and a point there, and slipping his feet into his shoes. Then he hurried after Gascoyne, frowzy, half-dressed, and even yet only half-awake. It was not until he was fairly out into the fresh air and saw Gascoyne filling the three leathern buckets at the tank, that he fully awakened to the fact that he was actually doing that hateful service for the bachelors which he had protested he would sooner die than render.
The sun was just rising, gilding the crown of the donjon-keep with a flame of ruddy light. Below, among the lesser buildings, the day was still gray and misty. Only an occasional noise broke the silence of the early morning: a cough from one of the rooms; the rattle of a pot or a pan, stirred by some sleepy scullion; the clapping of a door or a shutter, and now and then the crowing of a cock back of the long row of stables – all sounding loud and startling in the fresh dewy stillness.
“Thou hast betrayed me,” said Myles, harshly, breaking the silence at last. “I knew not what I was doing, or else I would never have come hither. Ne’theless, even though I be come, I will not carry the water for them.”
“So be it,” said Gascoyne, tartly. “An thou canst not stomach it, let be, and I will e’en carry all three myself. It will make me two journeys, but, thank Heaven, I am not so proud as to wish to get me hard knocks for naught.” So saying, he picked up two of the buckets and started away across the court for the dormitory.
Then Myles, with a lowering face, snatched up the third, and, hurrying after, gave him his hand with the extra pail. So it was that he came to do service, after all.
“Why tarried ye so long?” said one of the older bachelors, roughly, as the two lads emptied the water into the wooden trough. He sat on the edge of the cot, blowzed and untrussed, with his long hair tumbled and disordered.
His dictatorial tone stung Myles to fury. “We tarried no longer than need be,” answered he, savagely. “Have we wings to fly withal at your bidding?”
He spoke so loudly that all in the room heard him; the younger squires who were dressing stared in blank amazement, and Blunt sat up suddenly in his cot.
“Why, how now?” he cried. “Answerest thou back thy betters so pertly, sirrah? By my soul, I have a mind to crack thy head with this clog for thy unruly talk.”
He glared at Myles as he spoke, and Myles glared back again with right good-will. Matters might have come to a crisis, only that Gascoyne and Wilkes dragged their friend away before he had opportunity to answer.
“An ill-conditioned knave as ever I did see,” growled Blunt, glaring after him.
“Myles, Myles,” said Gascoyne, almost despairingly, “why wilt thou breed such mischief for thyself? Seest thou not thou hast got thee the ill-will of every one of the bachelors, from Wat Blunt to Robin de Ramsey?”
“I care not,” said Myles, fiercely, recurring to his grievance. “Heard ye not how the dogs upbraided me before the whole room? That Blunt called me an ill-conditioned knave.”
“Marry!” said Gascoyne, laughing, “and so thou art.”
Thus it is that boldness may breed one enemies as well as gain one friends. My own notion is that one’s enemies are more quick to act than one’s friends.
CHAPTER 8
Every one knows the disagreeable, lurking discomfort that follows a quarrel – a discomfort that imbitters the very taste of life for the time being. Such was the dull distaste that Myles felt that morning after what had passed in the dormitory. Every one in the proximity of such an open quarrel feels a reflected constraint, and in Myles’s mind was a disagreeable doubt whether that constraint meant disapproval of him or of his late enemies.
It seemed to him that Gascoyne added the last bitter twang to his unpleasant feelings when, half an hour later, they marched with the others to chapel.
“Why dost thou breed such trouble for thyself, Myles?” said he, recurring to what he had already said. “Is it not foolish for thee to come hither to this place, and then not submit to the ways thereof, as the rest of us do?”
“Thou talkest not like a true friend to chide me thus,” said Myles, sullenly; and he withdrew his arm from his friend’s.
“Marry, come up!” said Gascoyne; “an I were not thy friend, I would let thee jog thine own way. It aches not my bones to have thine drubbed.”
Just then they entered the chapel, and words that might have led to a quarrel were brought to a close.
Myles was not slow to see that he had the ill will of the head of their company. That morning in the armory he had occasion to ask some question of Blunt; the head squire stared coldly at him for a moment, gave him a short, gruff answer, and then, turning his back abruptly, began talking with one of the other bachelors. Myles flushed hot at the other’s insulting manner, and looked quickly around to see if any of the others had observed what had passed. It was a comfort to him to see that all were too busy arming themselves to think of anything else; nevertheless, his face was very lowering as he turned away.
“Some day I will show him
