Adventure Magazine Cover, August 18, 1921 — page 34: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

28 as captain the Saxon Witta; over the other, one of the Normans. “And now, keep back from the battle- ments and hold your flight,”’ he ordered. ‘Are we not to loose at them when they come within range?” Witta grumbled. “Their bows outnumber yours three to one,” the old soldier pointed out. ‘They would drive you from the walls. The Rot- ten Reiver thinks I have but a dozen arch- ers; I shall save you Saxons for a surprize. Fear not. You shall have your turn.” Now the oncoming horsemen halted, waiting for the rear guard to come up. They formed, when deployed in open order, a continuous ring about the castle, just out of bowshot—a ring of bristling points and massive, shining figures on horseback. “Three hundred at the least,’”’ Sir Giles muttered. “Those fellows with the bow- men will be Stephen’s Flemings.”’ Then, his great voice swelling like a trumpet, he bade his men look down. “There be King Stephen’s men!” he shouted. ‘Look well, my lads, for they are the might of England. So soon as the first weapon from these walls touches a hair of them, we be outlaws and rebels!” Far back against the surface of the plain a fresh procession appeared—a number of two-wheeled carts drawn by scrubby ponies, high-laden, accompanied by a dozen troop- ers and many plodding figures that did not gleam in the sunlight. They were the supply-wagons and the laborers of the besieging host. And now, as these approached, a single figure rode a few steps forward on a high- mettled horse that pranced and caracoled. The rider’s mail was bright and fine-woven; his kite-shaped shield flung back the light blindingly from its polished surface. He waved one hand, and a trumpet blew a parley. At Gislac’s command a second trumpet sounded from the walls, signaling that the parley was granted. The rider spurred well forward, till all on High Tower rec- ognized Richard de Monrepaire. A moment he stared haughtily at the stout walls before him. Then a second horseman joined him from the ranks be- hind. At Sir Richard’s command this man blew out his great chest and announced so that all could hear: “To the outlaw, murderer and traitor, Giles de Gislac: In the king’s name, I, Adventure Richard de Monrepaire, Knight and Baron, Earl of Ashton and Donnet, command you to lay down your arms, yield your castle and submit you to the earl’s mercy. In default thereof, I, Richard, declare you and yours false and forfeit to me, your over- lord, and to the king!”’ Sir Giles looked down from the battle- ments, a mocking smile on his face. “Farl, is it?” he gibed. ‘So Stephen has made an earl of you, Rotten Reiver? Sol am your vassal? Go to, Earl of Reiver’s Roost, go to! There is blood on your hands, the blood of your brother’s son. If you are not out of arrow-flight speedily, there will be blood on your face!”’ Sir Richard’s face was expressionless, fixed as a mask. “Is this the answer I must bring the king?” he asked. “It 1s the answer you must bring your conscience. I will answer the king for myself. Nowgo! Draw, Witta!’ The tall Saxon gave a cry of joy and fitted an arrow to the string. But before he could bend the bow, Sir Richard and his herald were in full flight. Young Raimond, he who had ridden out to spy on Sir Richard’s movements, came up beside his lord. “The black friar rode to some purpose,”’ he hazarded. “Here are the fruits of his errands: an earldom for a rascal and out- lawry for honest men. But for the sanctity of his priesthood I would have slit his throat. Would to God I had done so!” “No good comes of slaving priests,” Sir Giles retorted. ‘‘Leave that to men like the Reiver. See there! Their bowmen draw together. Now we shall have trouble enough!”’ The archers of Monrepaire were indeed drawing together. Marshaled in ranks three deep, they unslung their bows, nocked the strings and drew each man several arrows from his belt. Then, at the word of command thev advanced six paces to- ward the wall of High Tower, halted and drove a cloud of arrows straight at the battlements. The shafts all fell short, but the bowmen were again advancing. ‘Down, all!’ Sir Giles bellowed. ‘Down, Isay, Witta! Not a shaft in reply! Cover up!” The entire garrison sought cover, duck- ing behind the stone merlons and the great plank pavisses or sheltering their heads ? COmiclboook C©