Adventure Magazine Cover, August 18, 1921 — page 71: what you’re looking at

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

Murkwood Spears 65 roast the ox for her wedding feast. Open, good sir, and let us in.” His tones reassured the sentry, even more than did the squeal of his harmless peasant’s cart. The woodman was Um- fraville’s tenant, well known. “Ply your goad, good Will,” the sentry laughed, leaning his pike against the ram- part. Stumbling down the winding stairs to the guard-room, he roused three of the snorers, whose ears the stout walls had protected from the squeal of the wain, and led the grumbling varlets out into the dark cavern of the archway. ‘Together they wound up the portcullis, let down the draw-bridge, unbolted and swung back the massive gates. The slow dawn was crisp with the cold of early September. Its first light showed the heavy wain approaching the moat. Heaped high with bundles of fagots, it was tugged across the bridge by two yokes of stunted oxen, whose sides Will o’ the Wood prodded vehemently, cursing in gut- teral Saxon. Beside the wizened little drover walked another peasant—a tall, big- shouldered youth in a long smock-frock, who carried an ox-goad in his hand. The men-at-arms looked long and suspiciously at him, for he was taller and better built than any peasant of Flamford Village. At the sentinel’s nod one stepped forward to bar the young man’s way with his pike. “Who art thou, lout?” he growled. ““Monrepaire!”’ As he shouted the word, the youth struck the Norman senseless with one blow of the heavy goad. — “Monrepaire! To me, lads!” The bundles of fagots heaved in the wain, rose and tumbled over its high side. Froni under the flying wood sprang a dozen men who had hidden there dirty, disheveled, fierce of face. In a trice they seized and pinioned the astounded men-at-arms. One plucky Norman managed to throw off the ratchet of the portcullis windlass even as strong hands laid hold of him. Down whirled the spiked iron grating, but the high, stout sides of the wagon caught and held it a man’s height above the ground. The wain’s rear wheels, thick disks of solid wood, still rested on the draw-bridge and prevented its being raised; while the pole, projecting across the threshold, for- bade the closing of the gates. Casting the peasant’s frock aside, Geof- 5 frey de Monrepaire stood in full mail under the dark archway. Severing the traces with his sword, he drove the oxen ahead of him into the courtyard, Witta and the handful of picked men from the wagon fol- lowing to seize the unprepared half-dozen soldiers in gateway and guard-room. Swift and handy as they were, swords were out and clashing before they finished. The clang of steel and clatter of tongues re-echoed from wall to wall; shouts and running feet answered. From the topmost tower came the brazen, swaying clamor of the great alarum-bell. A trumpet pealed. Out of the barrack doors poured streams of half-naked, half-awakened men, clapping on helmets and buckling sword-belts as they ran toward the castle gate. But Geoffrey’s peasants had now secured their captives. He cried an order. Straight- way the Saxons formed a double line across the inward end of the deep, narrow gate- way, six pikemen kneeling in the front rank, six archers standing behind them, -bows bent and twanging. Long shafts whistled across the court- yard, plumping pointblank into the bodies of the startled, unorganized garrison. Five fell on the bloody floor; the rest broke and streamed back for their shields and coats of mail. “One of Gislac’s,”’ Geoffrey muttered. “A pity, poor fellow!” A deep voice roared from the bowels of the castle. All at once the garrison swarmed out again, armed, armored, hot with wrath. Umfraville and his officers came from the keep, swiftly marshaling the men-at-arms into a compact wedge, backed by a long, heavy column. Geoffrey, his head now cov- ered by his peaked helmet with its disguis- ing nasal, ran his eyes up and down the for- midable array. He knew its brutal impact could sweep his little company headlong through the gate. As he watched them take order under the Blue Boar’s skilful handling, he saw many a soldierly figure whose bearing spoke of Gislac’s training, and his heart was heavy. “Hold your ground!” he exhorted his Saxons. ‘Quick, Witta! Up with the port- cullis! Our comrades come.” Across the drawbridge clattered nigh a hundred peasants, Godulf brandishing a heavy ax in the van. A rustling field of wheat beyond the river told where they COmiclboolks ©