Adventure Magazine Cover, August 18, 1921 — page 69: what you’re looking at

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

Murkwood Spears it. Clay! It was that which had whitened the boy’s face, his armor. The white horse—why, it was the gelding de Born was wont to ride! His fear gone, his danger no supernatural one, his cunning came back to him. He might still escape. Gisltac and the peasants waited to let Geoffrey take his own revenge. Back behind the strong walls of Monrepaire he might defy them all forever. But he must make haste. Geoffrey was fairly on him, crying: “Vield! You are my prisoner!” “Not yet!” Sir Richard cried, driving home the spurs. His fleet roan bounded away in a mag- nificent leap and settled down to a swinging stride. A brace of peasants barred the way, gripping their weapons. The earl’s sword flashed twice, and the path was clear. Soon the roan’s hoofs thundered on the paved road. He turned westward toward his own castle, less than a league away. Behind him drummed the steady beat of pursuit—a single horse, gaining, gaining. He plied the spurs pitilessly; still the beating hoofs behind gained volume. Well he knew the fleetness of de Born’s great geld- ing, but his own horse should outdistance any foaled in the South. Furious, he struck his beast with his open hand. His fingers came away sticky with blood. Again he felt. An arrow thrust its feathered end from the roan’s wet flesh. Long before he could reach the river, his nephew would be close enough to strike. He thought to turn and fight, but then he might lose time and Gislac ride up and overtake him. He knew himself no match for his enemy. Huis shoulder was still stiff with the wound Sir Giles had given him at High Tower. Yet, if he did not turn, he must be cut down from behind; if he fought, he might overcome and kill Geoffrey and escape to High Tower on the boy’s swift, unwounded steed. Ah, let de Gislac try to storm his walls! The handful of sturdy rascals he had left there could hold it while a messenger sped to Flamford for Umfraville’s help. Yes, he must make peace with Umfra- fraville. The Blue Boar, with Margaret for a hostage, could soon force Gislac to make terms. He would promise Umfraville High Tower, now that de Born was dead. Umfraville would be glad of that. Flam- ford Keep was so far from the tower that he could not hope to hold it without Mon- repaire’s good-will. Another ten strides and he had formed his plan and put it into exe- cution. First, he must escape. To do that, he must kill Geoffrey. The rest followed. Swerving to the right, the earl turned up a little-used by-path. Geoffrey was close but wasxalmost deceived in the dark. His gelding shot past the opening and he lost much ground before he could return and follow. But he knew the paths as well as the Reiver, and this way was familiar to him. It led to a deep tarn where uncle and nephew, in the old days, had often stopped to refresh their horses on the return from aday’s hawking. Within a mile of the cas- tle it was yet surrounded by dense thickets, which only this one path pierced. Goeffrey slackened speed, riding slowly and alertly. The traitor could not escape him now. EEMERGING into the clear glade &S about the tarn, he saw the Reiver ‘sitting his mare, facing him, across the almost circular pool. The moon was just rising, a silver disk, and the English night would not be truly dark till much later. Monrepaire and his steed seemed an equestrian statue, so motionless they were beside the star-mirroring tarn. “Do you come to kill me, .,ho have been a father to you?” Sir Richard’s voice was vibrant with a sad and solemn richness. There seemed no guile in it—nothing but reproach. “My neck still bears the scars of your hired daggers,” Geoffrey answered with a quiet calm that was more terrible than hate. ‘Ah, my nephew, never!” The earl spoke passionately, the words trembling with his seeming earnestness. “Some unknown ruffian struck you down, some skulking forest outlaw whose name no man knows.” “Odo!” cried a ringing voice from the path, a voice the Reiver knew for Gislac’s. He was come, then. The earl must fight two now and live if he could. “Odo!” the voice cried again, repeating the name of him who had attempted mur- der for his treacherous master. And wierdly, in tones that seemed to wail from the pool itself, something echoed: “Qdo! Odo!” CO 63 EloOOkKS CO