The trumpeter of Krakow : $b A tale of the fifteenth century — John Shaqi
The trumpeter of Krakow : $b A tale of the fifteenth centuryKelly, Eric P. (Eric Philbrook)
History
The trumpeter of Krakow : $b A tale of the fifteenth century
Kelly, Eric P. (Eric Philbrook)
Middle Ages -- Juvenile fiction; Poland -- History -- Casimir IV, 1447-1492 -- Juvenile fiction
CHAPTER III
THE ALCHEMIST
Something heavy but kindly fell upon Joseph’s shoulders and something
light touched his cheek.
Looking up quickly from a survey of his garments, now more ragged and
dusty than ever, he perceived that the weight was the hand of the man in
black and that the lightness had been a kiss upon his cheek from the
man’s companion,—her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright and her
lips were still close to him. He was somewhat dazed from the shock of
going to earth so quickly with the dog, but he thrilled with pleasure
and happiness from the kindly touch and the kiss.
He stepped back to brush himself, and then gazed squarely at the man and
girl.
His cheeks grew rosy with that first meeting of eyes. For in the man’s
there was an ocean of gratitude and a suggestion of a tear, and the
girl’s eyes blazed forth frank admiration.
“You were so quick,” she exclaimed. “Would that I could spring like
that. It was brave of you——”
His tongue found no words. Boys of fifteen, even if aged by experience,
have little to say when praise is bestowed so freely.
Moreover the man gave him no opportunity. “Remarkable,” he said,
“remarkable. As swift a leap as I ever saw,” and then blinking with his
eyes as if the light hurt them, added, “or hope to see.”
“It was nothing,” Joseph stammered. “Often in the Ukraine I have
dispersed dogs in a fight.” And then thinking that this perhaps sounded
like boasting, said further, “As do many boys of my age in that
country.”
“From the Ukraine?” The man in black looked at him with interest. “How
do you happen to be so far from home?”
“Tartars or Cossacks burned our house. We have been traveling this day
more than two weeks in a cart only to find ourselves homeless here.
Father had kinsfolk in this city, but the head of the house is dead and
the others are away.”
“Where are your people now?”
“In the market place.”
“H’m,” the man muttered to himself, “homeless and in the market place.
And what will they do?”
The boy shook his head. “I think that my father will find us some
shelter,” he said finally. “He was thinking——” He hesitated for he had
been taught never to speak of troubles before strangers, though the girl
peered straight into his eyes with great kindness and sweetness.
“There is something curious here,” thought the man. “The boy’s face has
a high degree of intelligence and his speech is the speech of one who
has listened to good words. A noble action this—I think in good faith
that the whelp might have had his teeth in the child’s throat.” Looking
down upon the boy he said, “You have rendered us a noteworthy service,
you have saved my niece from much painful injury; will you not accompany
us to our home that we may hear your whole story and perhaps in our
turn——”
The boy’s face reddened. “Nay,” he said, “I wish no reward. What I
did——”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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