Adventure Magazine Cover, August 18, 1921 — page 55: what you’re looking at

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

Murkwood Spears Gislac’s dreadful news now poured back into his veins, hot with wrath and a fierce urge for vengeance. He was no more the gentle child of his Saxon mother but the fighting son of his fighting sire, old Wil- liam de Monrepaire. Though he spoke no word, there leaped to his mind, so sharply that he seemed to hear it shouted aloud, the ancient Norman cry for justice: “Haro! Haro! On m’a fait tort!” But to whom in all England could he turn for justice? To none but himself! Whirling ‘about, Geoffrey strode blindly down the road, his brain hot, his long sword thumping against his thigh. “Where are you going, lad?” cried Gis- lac, running after. “To Umfraville,’ said Geoffrey in a strange, hard voice. ‘To kill him!” “You are mad!” the older man protested. “Flamford Keep is strong; he holds it with four score spears. What can you do alone?”’ “‘Challenge him to fight me man to man!” “He will laugh at you and send his men- at-arms to throw you into his dungeon.” “They will never take me—I will fight till I am slain!” Geoffrey declared. “TI have no wish to live long, God knows!” Gislac knew then that he had indeed done well to keep his black mews from the lad till he recovered from wounds and fever. Yet, after all, the blow had been fatal. The dreamer in Geoffrey’s soul had died when the warrior was born. “You go with me?” the boy asked. “Good! Here lies our way.” Climbing the hill that had lain before them, they descended into the valley be- yond. Through it a shallow brook tinkled at their feet, to flow into the Sollett, a bow- shot to the left. Geoffrey turned to the right and began to wade up-stream. ‘“‘Are you mad?” called the dumfounded Gislac. “This rises in the heart of the Murkwood, where your uncle’s foresters keep watch.” “T care not,” Geoffrey retorted. “It is the shortest way to Flamford Keep and Umfraville.” Stooping under the overhanging branches that cast flickering moon-shadows on the running stream, he pressed on, leaping from stone to stone, taking to the bank when it was clear, wading the pools, scaling the sn OSS). cliffs beside the falls. With a shrug 49 of his broad shoulders Gislac followed. As he grew warmer with the exertion of the rugged way, Gislac’s heart caught some spark of the fire that consumed his com- panion. After all, he thought, what matter whether they died tonight, riddled by the shafts of the Reiver’s foresters, or tomor- row, torn by the spears of Umfraville’s men-at-arms? At least they would die in the open, fac- ing the foe. Now that their fortunes were broken past mending, the boy’s madness was as good as his elder’s wisdom, which had brought them to this state. Mile after breathless mile they worked their way up-stream, advancing toward the northwest and mounting the long ridge that divided the valleys of the Flamwell and the Sollett. They were not far from the crest, and the brook had dwindled to a rill that a man might easily bestride, when a sudden, ominous crackling sounded from the undergrowth from every side. Out flashed their two swords, as dark forms sprang forth from the shadows. “WARE steel!” cried a rough voice. “Draw shafts and shoot!” Though the light was poor for ar- row-work, the range was point-blank. “Hold!” countermanded a second voice. “Tt is the good Sir Giles!” “Witta!’’ exclaimed Gislac, as the second speaker stepped into the moonlight. Five more men, rough-clad, shock-headed, came out of the shadows, unbending long- bows as they came. “What,” asked Gislac, “are you and these other tenants of mine—ah! of de Born, I should say—doing here?” “Vou have said it yourself, my lord,” the peasant replied. “Your men we were and are. We will never serve de Born!” Gislac’s voice was stern: “T gave over my castle to de Born. My tenants go with it. Umfraville swore that you would be fairly treated, and he is a man of his word.” Witta laughed. “So is not de Born! I heard Umfraville speak for us; I heard de Born’s evil answer. Thinking how our arrows had galled him in the siege, I grew cold with fear as I lis- tened in the dark. While they busied themselves holding off the Reiver and di- viding your men-at-arms among them, I crept back to my people. All of us whom COmiclbook C©