The Black Box: A Tale of Monmouth's RebellionCooke, W. Bourne
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The Black Box: A Tale of Monmouth's Rebellion
Cooke, W. Bourne
Monmouth's Rebellion, 1685 -- Juvenile fiction; Monmouth, James Scott, Duke of, 1649-1685 -- Juvenile fiction
Then I moved on again, this time at a canter. The fog had lifted
hereabouts, while the first dim light of dawn was in the sky. And thus,
on coming round the bushes, I could just make out a man with naked sword
standing above another who lay prone upon the ground. On catching sight
of me he sheathed his sword and fled with wondrous speed. Passing the
stricken man, I followed; but he had a goodly start, and though I kept
him well in sight, he beat me at the far end of the wood. There I could
see no sign of him.
Puzzled, I looked around, and saw a light some fifty yards away upon the
left. For this I made, and soon found out its cause. Here was an old
stone hovel, used either for the ponies or the cattle which roam, half
wild, on Sedgemoor. Someone (perchance a guard) had been camping there
that very night, and a fire of faggots still glowed on the floor, thus
lighting up the place.
Dismounting, I went in and glanced about. Nothing was there except a
manger full of straw--so bulging full, in fact, that I was minded to
explore it. But barely had I gone a step when methought I heard a
rustling of the straw, and sure enough next moment something bright came
poking through. A pistol barrel! With a diving leap, I seized and
turned the threatening thing, forcing the muzzle upwards; and not a whit
too soon, for even as I did so it exploded, and the bullet crashed into
the rafters. Then as I clutched a bony wrist, and twisted it, a
smothered cry arose, the pistol fell, a close-cropped head shot forth,
and I was face to face with Tubal Ammon.
Letting go my hold I sprang back, whipped out my sword, and stared at
him as one would at a fearsome apparition, while he sat up and fixed me
with his cunning eyes.
"At last!" I hissed, as soon as I could find my voice.
"Aye, verily," grinned he, shaking the straw from off his shoulders;
"’twould seem that you and I, friend, were ordained to come across each
other; ’tis indeed as if our horoscope were cast in----"
"Enough of that," I broke in fiercely. "Come forth, you dog!"
He instantly obeyed. Leaping out, he stood there with folded arms, his
ugly head thrust forward, and his eyes fixed hungrily upon the doorway
towards which my back was turned.
"What now?" he asked at last, and though he grinned, I saw that fear
lurked on his face.
"Why, this," I answered, slowly. "I should do well to put a bullet
through so foul a cur, but that is scarcely to my liking. No, Tubal
Ammon, I will kill thee in a closer fashion. Therefore, draw sword and
fight for it."
Out flashed his blade, while by his look I knew that he was mightily
relieved to have so fine a chance, and thought to kill me.
"Art ready?"
"Yes."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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