Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 27: what you’re looking at

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

The Snow Driver could keep still by a stream for half a day to watch the deer that came down to drink; he could bring down a charging boar with a spear; he could follow the trace of a stag and read, when the snow was on the ground, the stories told by the tracks. Robert Thorne, after the way of parents, bade him follow the new pursuit of gentle- men, that of mariner adventurer. It irked the cosmographer that his son cared little for his maps and naught for his talk of ships and unknown seas, and bitter words passed between them. But when a kinsman of his mother, wounded in a northern feud, abode at the cottage until his hurt mended and taught Ralph how to use a sword, the boy went to court with his relative and became an armiger, a squire-at-arms. There he became devoted to sword- play, but remained what his early years had made him—a boy silent and grave be- yond his years, with few friends and his full share of quarrels, because of a passionate temper, the heritage of the northern Thornes. Having lacked parents and comrades and patrons, he liked best to be left to himself, but there was in him a burning loyalty to those who won his esteem. IZ rode from the stables of the Strat- fords in high spirits, though his eyes and lips were somber. He had been given a charge by his king. “To do what lies in me to aid Sir Hugh,” AND now, on a misty morning, he 9 he repeated under his breath, “to win to Cathay. For his majesty hath this venture much at heart.” That this was a large command did not trouble him; a youth of eighteen is nothing loath to tilt against windmills or seek, in his thoughts, the stronghold of legendary Prester John. And it often happens that good comes of high thoughts. At the gate opening upon the northern highway he trotted into a group of men-at- arms who carried halberds though they did not seem to be on duty. They were lean and dark skinned; they wore finely wrought and polished armor, with thigh pieces and crested morions, inlaid with silver and gold. Thorne knew them for Spaniards. One of them rose and took his rein as he would have passed. “Hold, young sir. Thy name?” Except for the light sword at his hip and the old-style leathern buckler strapped over his back, the squire was unarmed. On one wrist was a hawking gantlet; his favorite gerfalcon perched on it, and a velvet wallet bearing food for the bird was slung over the other shoulder. “Stand back, knave,” he made prompt answer in Spanish. ‘Loose my rein and curb your tongue to respect. Whose men are your” The one who had spoken did as he was bidden, though sullenly. Thorne wondered how Spaniards came to be posted as a guard. “Signior, I kiss your hands,” grinned the leader, “and would have of you your name. We are ordered to deliver a letter to a cer- tain caballero who will pass through here.” “IT am Ralph Thorne. Is your missive for me?” 7 , The halberdier looked at his mates and then at the pavilions. ‘Ride on, signior,” he responded. “Nay, go free, for all of us.”’ Thorne, without a backward glance, struck into the highway and left the last of the hedge taverns of Greenwich behind. The mist pressed about the fields on either hand, shrouding the oaks that lined the road, and to rid himself of the morning chill, he put his horse into a brisk trot. After a little he looked up from adjusting the hood tighter about the hawk, and listened. Then he reined to one side and half turned his beast so that he could see the road behind him, winding at the same time his cloak over his left arm. Another Ghook (©