Men of Iron

CHAPTER 6

A boy’s life is of a very flexible sort. It takes but a little while for it to shape itself to any new surroundings in which it may be thrown, to make itself new friends, to settle itself to new habits; and so it was that Myles fell directly into the ways of the lads of Devlen. On his first morning, as he washed his face and hands with the other squires and pages in a great tank of water in the armory court-yard, he presently found himself splashing and dashing with the others, laughing and shouting as loud as any, and calling some by their Christian names as though he had known them for years instead of overnight. During chapel he watched with sympathetic delight the covert pranks of the youngsters during the half-hour that Father Emmanuel droned his Latin, and with his dagger point he carved his own name among the many cut deep into the back of the bench before him. When, after breakfast, the squires poured like school-boys into the great armory to answer to the roll-call for daily exercise, he came storming in with the rest, beating the lad in front of him with his cap.

Boys are very keen to feel the influence of a forceful character. A lad with a strong will is quick to reach his proper level as a greater or lesser leader among the others, and Myles was of just the masterful nature to make his individuality felt among the Devlen squires. He was quick enough to yield obedience upon all occasions to proper authority, but would never bend an inch to the usurpation of tyranny. In the school at St. Mary’s Priory at Crosbey-Dale he would submit without a murmur or offer of resistance to chastisement by old Father Ambrose, the regular teacher; but once, when the fat old monk was sick, and a great long-legged strapping young friar, who had temporarily taken his place, undertook to administer punishment, Myles, with a wrestling trip, flung him sprawling backward over a bench into the midst of a shoal of small boys amid a hubbub of riotous confusion. He had been flogged soundly for it under the supervision of Prior Edward himself; but so soon as his punishment was over, he assured the prior very seriously that should like occasion again happen he would act in the same manner, flogging or no flogging.

It was this bold, outspoken spirit that gained him at once friends and enemies at Devlen, and though it first showed itself in what was but a little matter, nevertheless it set a mark upon him that singled him out from the rest, and, although he did not suspect it at the time, called to him the attention of Sir James Lee himself, who regarded him as a lad of free and frank spirit.

The first morning after the roll-call in the armory, as Walter Blunt, the head bachelor, rolled up the slip of parchment, and the temporary silence burst forth into redoubled noise and confusion, each lad arming himself from a row of racks that stood along the wall, he beckoned Myles to him.

“My Lord himself hath spoken to Sir James Lee concerning thee,” said he. “Sir James maintaineth that he will not enter thee into the body till thou hast first practised for a while at the pels, and shown what thou canst do at broadsword. Hast ever fought at the pel?”

“Aye,” answered Myles, “and that every day of my life sin I became esquire four years ago, saving only Sundays and holy days.”

“With shield and broadsword?”

“Sometimes,” said Myles, “and sometimes with the short sword.”

“Sir James would have thee come to the tilt-yard this morn; he himself will take thee in hand to try what thou canst do. Thou mayst take the arms upon yonder rack, and use them until otherwise bidden. Thou seest that the number painted above it on the wall is seventeen; that will be thy number for the nonce.”

So Myles armed himself from his rack as the others were doing from theirs. The armor was rude and heavy, used to accustom the body to the weight of the iron plates rather than for any defence. It consisted of a cuirass, or breastplate of iron, opening at the side with hinges, and catching with hooks and eyes; epauliers, or shoulder-plates; arm-plates and leg-pieces; and a bascinet, or open-faced helmet. A great triangular shield covered with leather and studded with bosses of iron, and a heavy broadsword, pointed and dulled at the edges, completed the equipment.

The practice at the pels which Myles was bidden to attend comprised the chief exercise of the day with the esquires of young cadet soldiers of that time, and in it they learned not only all the strokes, cuts, and thrusts of sword-play then in vogue, but also toughness, endurance, and elastic quickness. The pels themselves consisted of upright posts of ash or oak, about five feet six inches in height, and in girth somewhat thicker than a man’s thigh. They were firmly planted in the ground, and upon them the strokes of the broadsword were directed.

At Devlen the pels stood just back of the open and covered tilting courts and the archery ranges, and thither those lads not upon household duty were marched every morning excepting Fridays and Sundays, and were there exercised under the direction of Sir James Lee and two assistants. The whole company was divided into two, sometimes into three parties, each of which took its turn at the exercise, delivering at the word of command the various strokes, feints, attacks, and retreats as the instructors ordered.

After five minutes of this mock battle the perspiration began to pour down the faces, and the breath to come thick and short; but it was not until the lads could absolutely endure no more that the order was given to rest, and they were allowed to fling themselves panting upon the ground, while another company took its place at the triple row of posts.

As Myles struck and hacked at the pel assigned to him, Sir James Lee stood beside him watching him in grim silence. The lad did his best to show the knight all that he knew of upper cut, under cut, thrust, and back-hand stroke, but it did not seem to him that Sir James was very well satisfied with his skill.

“Thou fightest like a clodpole,” said the old man. “Ha, that stroke was but ill-recovered. Strike me it again, and get thou in guard more quickly.”

Myles repeated the stroke.

“Pest!” cried Sir James. “Thou art too slow by a week. Here, strike thou the blow at me.”

Myles hesitated. Sir James held a stout staff in his hand, but otherwise he was unarmed.

“Strike, I say!” said Sir James. “What stayest thou for? Art afeard?”

It was Myles’s answer that set the seal of individuality upon him. “Nay,” said he, boldly, “I am not afeard. I fear not thee nor any man!” So saying, he delivered the stroke at Sir James with might and main. It was met with a jarring blow that made his wrist and arm tingle, and the next instant he received a stroke upon the bascinet that caused his ears to ring and the sparks to dance and fly before his eyes.

“Pardee!” said Sir James, grimly. “An I had had a mace in my hand, I would have knocked thy cockerel brains out that time. Thou mayst take that blow for answering me so pertly. And now we are quits. Now strike me the stroke again an thou art not afeard.”

Myles’s eyes watered in spite of himself, and he shut the lids tight to wink the dimness away. Nevertheless he spoke up undauntedly as before. “Aye, marry, will I strike it again,” said he; and this time he was able to recover guard quickly enough to turn Sir James’s blow with his shield, instead of receiving it upon his head.

“So!” said Sir James. “Now mind thee of this, that when thou strikest that lower cut at the legs, recover thyself more quickly. Now, then, strike me it at the pel.”

Gascoyne and other of the lads who were just then lying stretched out upon the grass beneath, a tree at the edge of the open court where stood the pels, were interested spectators of the whole scene. Not one of them in their memory had heard Sir James so answered face to face as Myles had answered him, and, after all, perhaps the lad himself would not have done so had he been longer a resident in the squires’ quarters at Devlen.

“By ‘r Lady! thou art a cool blade, Myles,” said Gascoyne, as they marched back to the armory again. “Never heard I one bespeak Sir James as thou hast done this day.”

“And, after all,” said another of the young squires, “old Bruin was not so ill-pleased, methinks. That was a shrewd blow he fetched thee on the crown, Falworth. Marry, I would not have had it on my own skull for a silver penny.”

CHAPTER 7

So little does it take to make a body’s reputation

That night all the squires’ quarters buzzed with the story of how the new boy, Falworth, had answered Sir James Lee to his face without fear, and had exchanged blows with him hand to hand. Walter Blunt himself was moved to some show of interest.

“What said he to thee, Falworth?” asked he.

“He said naught,” said Myles, brusquely. “He only sought to show me how to recover from the under cut.”

“It is passing strange that he should take so much notice of thee as to exchange blows with thee with his own hand. Haply thou art either very quick or parlous slow at arms.”

“It is quick that he is,” said Gascoyne, speaking up in his friend’s behalf. “For the second time that Falworth delivered the stroke, Sir James could not reach him to return; so I saw with mine own eyes.”

But that very sterling independence that had brought Myles so creditably through this adventure was certain to embroil him with the rude, half-savage lads about him, some of whom, especially among the bachelors, were his superiors as well in age as in skill and training. As said before, the bachelors had enforced from the younger boys a fagging sort of attendance on their various personal needs, and it was upon this point that Myles first came to grief. As it chanced, several days passed before any demand was made upon him for service to the heads of the squirehood, but when that demand was made, the bachelors were very quick to see that the boy who was bold enough to speak up to Sir James Lee was not likely to be a willing fag for them.

“I tell thee, Francis,” he said, as Gascoyne and he talked over the matter one day – “I tell thee I will never serve them. Prithee, what shame can be fouler than to do such menial service, saving for one’s rightful Lord?”

“Marry!” quoth Gascoyne; “I reason not of shame at this or that. All I know is that others serve them who are haply as good and maybe better than I be, and that if I do not serve them I get knocked i’ th’ head therefore, which same goeth soothly against my stomach.”

“I judge not for thee,” said Myles. “Thou art used to these castle ways, but only I know that I will not serve them, though they be thirty against me instead of thirteen.”

“Then thou art a fool,” said Gascoyne, dryly.

Now in this matter of service there was one thing above all others that stirred Myles Falworth’s ill-liking. The winter before he had come to Devlen, Walter Blunt, who was somewhat of a Sybarite in his way, and who had a repugnance to bathing in the general tank in the open armory court in frosty weather, had had Dick Carpenter build a trough in the corner of the dormitory for the use of the bachelors, and every morning it was the duty of two of the younger squires to bring three pails of water to fill this private tank for the use of the head esquires. It was seeing two of his fellow-esquires fetching and carrying this water that Myles disliked so heartily, and every morning his bile was stirred anew at the sight.

“Sooner would I die than yield to such vile service,” said 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 that I am as good a man as he,” he muttered to himself. “An evil-hearted dog to put shame upon me!”

The storm was brewing and ready to break.

That day was exceptionally hot and close, and permission had been asked by and granted to those squires not on duty to go down to the river for a bath after exercise at the pels. But as Myles replaced his arms in the rack, a little page came with a bidding to come to Sir James in his office.

“Look now,” said Myles, “here is just my ill-fortune. Why might he not have waited an hour longer rather than cause me to miss going with ye?”

“Nay,” said Gascoyne, “let not that grieve thee, Myles. Wilkes and I will wait for thee in the dormitory – will we not, Edmund? Make thou haste and go to Sir James.”

Sir James was sitting at the table studying over a scroll of parchment, when Myles entered his office and stood before him at the table.

“Well, boy,” said he, laying aside the parchment and looking up at the lad, “I have tried thee fairly for these few days, and may say that I have found thee worthy to be entered upon the rolls as esquire of the body.”

“I give thee thanks, sir,” said Myles.

The knight nodded his head in acknowledgement, but did not at once give the word of dismissal that Myles had expected. “Dost mean to write thee a letter home soon?” said he, suddenly.

“Aye,” said Myles, gaping in great wonderment at the strangeness of the question.

“Then when thou dost so write,” said Sir James, “give thou my deep regards to thy father.” Then he continued, after a brief pause. “Him did I know well in times gone by, and we were right true friends in hearty love, and for his sake I would befriend thee – that is, in so much as is fitting.”

“Sir,” said Myles; but Sir James held up his hand, and he stopped short in his thanks.

“But, boy,” said he, “that which I sent for thee for to tell thee was of more import than these. Dost thou know that thy father is an attainted outlaw?”

“Nay,” cried Myles, his cheeks blazing up as red as fire; “who sayeth that of him lieth in his teeth.”

“Thou dost mistake me,” said Sir James, quietly. “It is sometimes no shame to be outlawed and banned. Had it been so, I would not have told thee thereof, nor have bidden thee send my true love to thy father, as I did but now. But, boy, certes he standest continually in great danger – greater than thou wottest of. Were it known where he lieth hid, it might be to his undoing and utter ruin. Methought that belike thou mightest not know that; and so I sent for thee for to tell thee that it behoovest thee to say not one single word concerning him to any of these new friends of thine, nor who he is, nor what he is.”

“But how came my father to be so banned?” said Myles, in a constrained and husky voice, and after a long time of silence.

“That I may not tell thee just now,” said the old knight, “only this – that I have been bidden to make it known to thee that thy father hath an enemy full as powerful as my Lord the Earl himself, and that through that enemy all his ill-fortune – his blindness and everything – hath come. Moreover, did this enemy know where thy father lieth, he would slay him right speedily.”

“Sir,” cried Myles, violently smiting his open palm upon the table, “tell me who this man is, and I will kill him!”

Sir James smiled grimly. “Thou talkest like a boy,” said he. “Wait until thou art grown to be a man. Mayhap then thou mayst repent thee of these bold words, for one time this enemy of thy father’s was reckoned the foremost knight in England, and he is now the King’s dear friend and a great lord.”

“But,” said Myles, after another long time of heavy silence, “will not my Lord then befriend me for the sake of my father, who was one time his dear comrade?”

Sir James shook his head. “It may not be,” said he. “Neither thou nor thy father must look for open favor from the Earl. An he befriended Falworth, and it came to be known that he had given him aid or succor, it might belike be to his own undoing. No, boy; thou must not even look to be taken into the household to serve with gentlemen as the other squires do serve, but must even live thine own life here and fight thine own way.”

Myles’s eyes blazed. “Then,” cried he, fiercely, “it is shame and attaint upon my Lord the Earl, and cowardice as well, and never will I ask favor of him who is so untrue a friend as to turn his back upon a comrade in trouble as he turneth his back upon my father.”

“Thou art a foolish boy,” said Sir James with a bitter smile, “and knowest naught of the world. An thou wouldst look for man to befriend man to his own danger, thou must look elsewhere than on this earth. Was I not one time Mackworth’s dear friend as well as thy father? It could cost him naught to honor me, and here am I fallen to be a teacher of boys. Go to! thou art a fool.”

Then, after a little pause of brooding silence, he went on to say that the Earl was no better or worse than the rest of the world. That men of his position had many jealous enemies, ever seeking their ruin, and that such must look first of all each to himself, or else be certainly ruined, and drag down others in that ruin. Myles was silenced, but the bitterness had entered his heart, and abided with him for many a day afterwards.

Perhaps Sir James read his feelings in his frank face, for he sat looking curiously at him, twirling his grizzled mustache the while. “Thou art like to have hard knocks of it, lad, ere thou hast gotten thee safe through the world,” said he, with more kindness in his harsh voice than was usual. “But get thee not into fights before thy time.” Then he charged the boy very seriously to live at peace with his fellow-squires, and for his father’s sake as well as his own to enter into none of the broils that were so frequent in their quarters.

It was with this special admonition against brawling that Myles was dismissed, to enter, before five minutes had passed, into the first really great fight of his life.

Besides Gascoyne and Wilkes, he found gathered in the dormitory six or eight of the company of squires who were to serve that day upon household duty; among others, Walter Blunt and three other bachelors, who were changing their coarse service clothes for others more fit for the household.

“Why didst thou tarry so long, Myles?” said Gascoyne, as he entered. “Methought thou wert never coming.”

“Where goest thou, Falworth?” called Blunt from the other end of the room, where he was lacing his doublet.

Just now Myles had no heart in the swimming or sport of any sort, but he answered, shortly, “I go to the river to swim.”

“Nay,” said Blunt, “thou goest not forth from the castle to-day. Hast thou forgot how thou didst answer me back about fetching the water this morning? This day thou must do penance, so go thou straight to the armory and scour thou up my breastplate.”

From the time he had arisen that morning everything had gone wrong with Myles. He had felt himself already outrated in rendering service to the bachelors, he had quarrelled with the head of the esquires, he had nearly quarrelled with Gascoyne, and then had come the bitterest and worst of all, the knowledge that his father was an outlaw, and that the Earl would not stretch out a hand to aid him or to give him any countenance. Blunt’s words brought the last bitter cut to his heart, and they stung him to fury. For a while he could not answer, but stood glaring with a face fairly convulsed with passion at the young man, who continued his toilet, unconscious of the wrath of the new recruit.

Gascoyne and Wilkes, accepting Myles’s punishment as a thing of course, were about to leave the dormitory when Myles checked them.

“Stop, Francis!” he cried, hoarsely. “Thinkest thou that I will stay behind to do yon dog’s dirty work? No; I go with ye.”

A moment or two of dumb, silent amazement followed his bold words; then Blunt cried, “Art thou mad?”

“Nay,” answered Myles in the same hoarse voice, “I am not mad. I tell thee a better man than thou shouldst not stay me from going an I list to go.

“I will break thy cockerel head for that speech,” said Blunt, furiously. He stooped as he spoke, and picked up a heavy clog that lay at his feet.

It was no insignificant weapon either. The shoes of those days were sometimes made of cloth, and had long pointed toes stuffed with tow or wool. In muddy weather thick heavy clogs or wooden soles were strapped, like a skate, to the bottom of the foot. That clog which Blunt had seized was perhaps eighteen or twenty inches long, two or two and a half inches thick at the heel, tapering to a point at the toe. As the older lad advanced, Gascoyne stepped between him and his victim.

“Do not harm him, Blunt,” he pleaded. “Bear thou in mind how new-come he is among us. He knoweth not our ways as yet.”

“Stand thou back, Gascoyne,” said Blunt, harshly, as he thrust him aside. “I will teach him our ways so that he will not soon forget them.”

Close to Myles’s feet was another clog like that one which Blunt held. He snatched it up, and set his back against the wall, with a white face and a heart beating heavily and tumultuously, but with courage steeled to meet the coming encounter. There was a hard, grim look in his blue eyes that, for a moment perhaps, quelled the elder lad. He hesitated. “Tom! Wat! Ned!” he called to the other bachelors, “come hither, and lend me a hand with this knave.”

“An ye come nigh me,” panted Myles, “I will brain the first within reach.”

Then Gascoyne dodged behind the others, and, without being seen, slipped out of the room for help.

The battle that followed was quick, sharp, and short. As Blunt strode forward, Myles struck, and struck with might and main, but he was too excited to deliver his blow with calculation. Blunt parried it with the clog he held, and the next instant, dropping his weapon, gripped Myles tight about the body, pinning his arms to his sides.

Myles also dropped the clog he held, and, wrenching out his right arm with a sudden heave, struck Blunt full in the face, and then with another blow sent him staggering back. It all passed in an instant; the next the three other bachelors were upon him, catching him by the body, the arms, the legs. For a moment or two they swayed and stumbled hither and thither, and then down they fell in a struggling heap.

Myles fought like a wild-cat, kicking, struggling, scratching; striking with elbows and fists. He caught one of the three by his collar, and tore his jacket open from the neck to the waist; he drove his foot into the pit of the stomach of another, and knocked him breathless. The other lads not in the fight stood upon the benches and the beds around, but such was the awe inspired by the prestige of the bachelors that not one of them dared to lend hand to help him, and so Myles fought his fierce battle alone.

But four to one were odds too great, and though Myles struggled as fiercely as ever, by-and-by it was with less and less resistance.

Blunt had picked up the clog he had dropped when he first attacked the lad, and now stood over the struggling heap, white with rage, the blood running from his lip, cut and puffed where Myles had struck him, and murder looking out from his face, if ever it looked out of the face of any mortal being.