Beltane, the Smith | Page 4

long blades whirled and flashed and rang upon the stillness; and ever, as they fought, the stranger smiled his wry smile, mocking and gibing at him, whereat Beltane's mouth grew the grimmer and his blows the heavier, yet wherever he struck, there already was the stranger's blade to meet him, whereat the stranger laughed fierce and loud, taunting him on this wise:
"How now, thou dauber of colours, betake thee to thy little brush, belike it shall serve thee better! Aye me, betake thee to thy little brush, 'twere better fitted to thee than a noble sword, thou daubing boy!"
Now did my Beltane wax wroth indeed and smote amain until his breath grew short and thick, but ever steel rang on steel, and ever the stranger laughed and gibed until Beltane's strokes grew slower:--then, with a sudden fierce shout, did the stranger beset my Beltane with strokes so swift and strong, now to right of him, now to left, that the very air seemed full of flaming, whirling steel, and, in that moment, as Beltane gave back, the stranger smote thrice in as many moments with the flat of his blade, once upon the crown, once upon the shoulder, and once upon the thigh. Fierce eyed and scant of breath, Beltane redoubled his blows, striving to beat his mocker to the earth, whereat he but laughed again, saying:
"Look to thy long legs, dullard!" and forthwith smote Beltane upon the leg. "Now thine arm, slothful boy--thy left arm!" and he smote Beltane upon the arm. "Now thy sconce, boy, thy mazzard, thy sleepy, golden head!" and straightway he smote him on the head, and, thereafter, with sudden, cunning stroke, beat the great sword from Beltane's grip, and so, laughing yet, paused and stood leaning upon his own long weapon.
But Beltane stood with bent head, hurt in his pride, angry and beyond all thought amazed; yet, being humbled most of all he kept his gaze bent earthwards and spake no word.
Now hereupon the stranger grew solemn likewise and looked at Beltane with kindly, approving eyes.
"Nay, indeed," quoth he, "be not abashed, good youth; take it not amiss that I have worsted thee. 'Tis true, had I been so minded I might have cut thee into gobbets no larger than thy little brush, but then, body o' me! I have lived by stroke of sword from my youth up and have fought in divers wars and countries, so take it not to heart, good youth!" With the word he nodded and, stooping, took up the sword, and, thereafter, cast his cloak about him, whereat Beltane lifted his head and spake:
"Art going, sir? Wilt not try me once again? Methinks I might do a little better this time, an so God wills."
"Aye, so thou shalt, sweet youth," cried the stranger, clapping him upon the shoulder, "yet not now, for I must begone, yet shall I return."
"Then I pray you leave with me the sword till you be come again."
"The sword--ha! doth thy soul cleave unto it so soon, my good, sweet boy? Leave the sword, quotha? Aye, truly--some day. But for the nonce-- no, no, thy hand is not fitted to bear it yet, nor worthy such a blade, but some day, belike--who knows? Fare thee well, sweet youth, I come again to-morrow."
And so the tall, grim stranger turned him about, smiling his wry smile, and strode away through the green. Then Beltane went back, minded to finish his painting, but the colours had lost their charm for him, moreover, the light was failing. Wherefore he put brushes and colours aside, and, stripping, plunged into the cool, sweet waters of a certain quiet pool, and so, much heartened and refreshed thereby, went betimes to bed. But now he thought no more of women and the ways of women, but rather of this stranger man, of his wry smile and of his wondrous sword-play; and bethinking him of the great sword, he yearned after it, as only youth may yearn, and so, sighing, fell asleep. And in his dreams all night was the rushing thunder of many fierce feet and the roaring din of bitter fight and conflict.
* * * * *
Up to an elbow sprang Beltane to find the sun new risen, filling his humble chamber with its golden glory, and, in this radiance, upon the open threshold, the tall, grim figure of the stranger.
"Messire," quoth Beltane, rubbing sleepy eyes, "you wake betimes, meseemeth."
"Aye, sluggard boy; there is work to do betwixt us." "How so, sir?"
"My time in the greenwood groweth short; within the week I must away, for there are wars and rumours of wars upon the borders."
Quoth Beltane, wondering:
"War and conflict have been within my dreams all night!"
"Dreams, boy! I tell thee the time groweth ripe for action--and, mark me this! wherein, perchance,