Part 12 (2/2)

”It should somewhat surprise him to learn 'twas my uncle wounded him,”

quoth I modestly.

The porter: ”Surprise him! 'Twill make him run mad! I admire how you can venture into his chamber with such heady tidings.”

”Oh, in the cause of truth, Master Porter,” I returned stoutly, ”one should not halt upon the sacrificing of an uncle or so.”

”Why, that's religiously said,” quoth the porter, who, I could see, having relieved his conscience in warning me, was glad I would not be put off, and, indeed (old c.o.c.k-pit haunter that he was!), did love the prospect of battle with all his withered heart.

I asked him then what office about my lord's household Mr. Guido held, and he told me he was keeper of the armoury, and served out the pikes and new liveries; that, moreover, when my lord was absent he was advanced to a place of greater trust.

”The which I hope he justifies,” said I gravely, but the porter blew out his cheeks and said nothing.

”Will you lead me to his chamber?” I asked him presently, and he bade me follow him, first taking up his ring of keys.

We crossed the court together, going towards the west corner of it, where he opened a door that led on to a winding stair, which we ascended. When we had climbed almost to the roof as I thought, he stayed before another door that I had not observed (so dark and confined was the place), through which he preceded me into the gallery beyond it, a low but very lightsome place, with a row of dormer windows along the outer side of it, from one of which, when I paused to look forth, I beheld the river Thames directly beneath us, and a fleet of light craft thereon, wherries and barges and the like, and across the Southwark flats, far distant, London Bridge, with Nonsuch House in the midst of it, that cut in twain the morning light with a bar of grey.

While I stood thus gazing idly the great bell of the gate rang out with a sudden clangour.

”Pox o' the knave that founded thee a brazen a.s.s!” cried the porter.

”Ay, kick thy clapper-heels, ring on! Again! again! s.h.i.+eld us, master, what doomsday din is there! Well, get gone your ways, Master Nephew of Cleeve; that long, yellow man's chamber lieth beyond, upon the right hand, in a bastion of the wall.... List to the bell!” and with that he turned back in haste and clattered down the stair.

I followed his direction as well as I might, going forward down the gallery to Malpas' room, although, to speak truly, I had come into some distaste of that business already, and would have been glad enough to forego it altogether had not my pride forbidden me so to return upon my resolution. At the door I stooped down and listened for any sound of groaning, which, when I plainly heard, I could not but confess 'twas something less than merciful to trouble the poor man at such a time.

But having conjured up the figure of Idonia, my pity of her aggressor fell away again, so that without more ado I knocked smartly upon the door.

I was answered by a groan deeper than before.

”Have I leave to enter?” I demanded, but was told very petulantly I had not.

”We are not unacquainted,” said I, with my lips to the keyhole.

”The more reason you should stay without,” said he, and I could hear him beat his pillow flat, and turn over heavily upon his side.

”Hast thou forgot my sword so soon?” cried I in a great resentment that the victor should be pleading thus at the chamber door of the vanquished.

”Go, hack with thy tongue, Thersites!” came the voice again; but at that I waited no further, but burst in. I had got scarce two paces over the threshold when--

”Why, Master Jordan!” I cried out, for there on the bed lay my ancient fat friend, his heavy Warham-face peering above the quilt, a ta.s.selled nightcap bobbing over his nose, and all else of him (and of the furniture too) hid and o'erlaid by a very locust-swarm of folios.

At the first sight of me I thought he would have called upon the mountains to bury him, from mere shame of his discovery.

”Away!” he gasped, when he could get breath to say it; ”away, graceless child! I am no foiner; I know you not. I am a man of peace, a reverend doctor. My trade is in books. _Impallesco chartis_; I grow pallid with conning upon the written word. What be your armies and your invasions and your marchings to and fro? that lives should be lived, and brains spent and lost therein. I tell you, one verse of Catullus shall outweigh the clatter of a battalion, and Tully is the only sergeant I salute.” And so, having hurled his defiance, he sank back amongst the bed clothes and drew down his nightcap an inch lower upon his brow.

”You know me very well, good doctor,” quoth I, and advanced to his bedside, which was fortified with an huge _vallum_ of the Consolations.

”I am Denis Cleeve.”

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