Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 38: what you’re looking at

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

20 between his feet. The delay in bringing his horse out, the uneasiness of the beasts in the stalls, the alarm of the tavern keeper, afl this bred in Thorne an undefinable suspicion. He was at some pains to make certain by Hstening and watching the shadows in the stable that no retainers of the Spaniard were awaiting him here. He was alone in the stable, but not at ease in his mind. Instinct urged him to turn and run through the door, cr at least to look around. Instead, the armiger unbuckled the clasp that held his cloak at © the throat. Still grasping the loosened ends he stepped forward, over the lanthorn, and let the long riding cloak fall. So it covered the light, and the stable was in darkness that same second. ‘Thcrne stepped to one side, his soft leather boots making no sound on the trodden earth, and laughed aloud. From one of the windows behind the carriages a pistol had blazed and roared, filling the place with smoke and setting the horses frantic. ‘‘A popper is no weapon for the dark, my masters,” he cried. ‘Come in, with your cutters. ‘The door is open.” As he spoke he shifted position again, drawing his rapier and considering how to get himself out of this trap with a whole skin ‘With his injured arm extended to the full in front of him, and his sword drawn back ready for a thrust, he moved to- . ward the entrance, through utter blackness. At once his groping fingers touched some- thing that moved and started at his touch. His rapier went out, and was turned aside by an iron corselet. In the same second a pistol went off under his chin, the ball thudding into wood behind him. The ex- plosion sent a myriad sparks dancing across his sight, and the powder stung his cheek. Swinging ‘his blade over his shoulder he struck with the pommel, feeling it smash against a man’s head. A heavy morion clattered on the ground and his assailant staggered back. Cough- ing and gasping from the powder fumes, Thorne leaped through the door and ran across the inn yard. A cart shaft tripped him, and he stifled a groan as his injured shoulder struck a heap of manure. Before he could get to his knees he heard men run past him. Others , who had found the lanthorn, were searching the stable. Adventure He lay where he was until the first of his pursuers had gained the highroad. Then he crawled around the wagon and between evil-smellmg ordure to the hedge that he knew formed the fence around the field wherein he had fought Durforth an hour ago. Following this he reached a thicket and paused to brush himself off and listen. Horses were being taken from the stable and saddled, and riders were pounding away on the road. Men were shouting at the tavern—questions to which muffled answers were flung back. Some one cried out that thieves were at the horses, and a lieutenant of my lord Renard’s harquebusiers swore in two lan- guages that the thieves had pot away. “You are clever, you who serve the F ox,” Thorne mused. “But your master will give no thanks for this night’s bungling after he was at pains to draw away the other gentlemen and leave you a clear field.”’ Old acquaintance with the White Hart and the village served him well now, for, avoiding the highroad, he walked down a path that led to a spring and from thence to a homestead. Crossing the fields, he headed up Orford- nesse Hill, and so came presently to the cottage of his father. ene LIFTING the latch, he stepped mto = the utter darkness of a room. As he was swinging shut the door, a rush-bottomed chair creaked and a voice addressed him. ‘So, sirrah, your lust for blood is still insatiate? Have you come to add your father to the number of unfortunates that have fallen to your sword? Or do I now behold you in the réle of a simple thief? Nay, I know your step.” The armiger closed the door gently ‘and felt his way around the table to an empty chair. Master Thorne, he judged, sat alone within arm’s reach. Since the fire on the hearth was cold and the candles all unlighted he knew that the old cosmographer was grieving over the events of the last few hours. The familiar smell of the room, of leather and musty parchments, stirred in him the memory of other evenings when he had sat at ease by a roaring fire while Master Thorne talked of ships and strange lands and ever of the sea. GOMG OOO CO