Adventure Magazine Cover — page 64: what you’re looking at

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

04 room had he dared, but the spell of her masterful spirit held him. After that she spoke nothing. AGAIN there was a noise on the stairs and she moved a little, as if ) > mustering her failing strength for the ultimate business. But it was not Arnulf the goldsmith. It was Anton, and he shook like a man on his way to the gallows. : “Madam, dear madam,” he stammered, again on his knees. ‘“There is another mes- sage. One has come from the Bredestreet with word of your lady daughter. An hour ago she has borne a child. A ‘lusty son, madam.” The reply from the bed was laughter. It began low and hoarse like a fit of coughing and rose to the high cackling mirth of extreme age. At the sound both Anton and the monk took to praying. Presently it stopped, and her voice came full and Strong as it had been of old. { | “Mea culpa,” it said, “mea maxima culpa. I judged the Sire God overhastily. Adventure > He is merry and has wrought a jest on me. He has kept His celestial promise in His own fashion. He takes my brave Philip and gives me instead a suckling. So be it. The infant has my blood and the race of Forester John will not die. “Arnulf will have an easy task. He need but set the name of this new-born in Philip’s place. What manner of child is he, Anton? Lusty, you say, and well- formed?. I would my arms could have held him. But I must be about my busi- ness of dying. I will take the news to Philip.” Hope ‘had risen again in the Cluniac’s breast. It seemed that here was a penitent. He approached the bed with a raised cruci- fix and stumbled over the whimpering monkey. The woman’s eyes saw him and a last flicker woke i in them. ~ “Begone, man,” she cried. “T ines done with the world. Anton, rid me of both these apes. And fetch the priest of St. Martin’s, for I would confess and be shriven. Yon curate is no doubt a fool, but he serves my jesting God.” THE EYES OF YOUTH* The Fourth Tale in the series ‘“The Path of a Hing.” Each story entirely complete in itself. ON THE morning of Shrove Tuesday in the year of our Lord 1249 Sir Aimery of Beaumanoir, the envoy of the most Christian king, Louis of France, ar- rived in the port of Acre, having made the voyage from Cyprus with a fair wind in a day and aw night in a ship of Genoa flying the red and gold banner of the Temple. Weary of the palms and _ sun-baked streets of Limasol and the eternal wrang- ling of the crusading hosts, he looked with favor at the noble Palestine harbor and the gilt steeples and carven houses of the fair city, From the quay he rode to the palace of _ the Templars and was admitted straight- way to an audience with the grand master. For he had come in a business of some moment. : *@See note to preceding story. — The taste of Cyprus was still in his mouth; the sweet sticky air of the coast- lands; the smell of endless camps of packed humanity, set among mountains of: barrels and malodorous sprouting forage-stuffs; the narrow streets lighted at night by flares of © tarry staves; and over all that rotting yet acrid flavor which is the token of the East. The young damoiseau of Beaumanoir had grown very sick of it all since the royal dromonds first swung into Limasol Bay. ‘He had seen his friends die like: flies of strange maladies, while the host waited on Hugh of Burgundy. Egypt was but four days off across the southern waters, and on its sands Louis had ordained that the War of the Cross should begin. But the king seemed strangely supine. JOO AMUCE (E) <S (E(9)