Adventure Magazine Cover, August 18, 1921 — page 61: what you’re looking at

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

Murkwocd Spears my lord. Bid him bring his tallies at once. Where do you keep yours?”’ Umfraville found them at last, after turn- ing the whole castle upside down. It was an evening long remembered at Flamford Keep. By comparing the notches on the twin halves of the little split sticks that were the ledgers and account-books of the age, by summoning a few witnesses and asking many shrewd questions, Margaret convincingly proved the stewart a petty tyrant, a waster and a thief. ‘He shall hang!’ swore Umfraville. And hanged he was the next morning from the outer battlements, dangling head down- ward by his ankles till he confessed his sins; after which he was plumped into the moat and towed through its rank green waters round the circuit of the wall. That he suffered no worse was due to Margaret’s intercession. When he was hauled out, he was set to work in the fields, while Margaret assumed his former duties herself. & dered in Flamford Keep and happier in Flamford Village. Umfraville went about rubbing his hands. Here was indeed the proper wife fcr a hard-fighting baron, one whose capable hand would as- sure him of finding his estate in good order and his banner still flying from the keep when he came home from harrying a neigh- bor’s land. He rode with her through all his farms, until he was asking her questions about them instead of answering questions from her. He hawked and hunted with her and found her the best of sportsmen. He danced attendance on her every move. But all this made his impatience no easier to bear. He had long coveted her beauty; now he felt a deep respect for her abilities. He was in a fair way to be deep in love with her. To have her living in his very castle, to eat, talk, ride with her all day and then part with her at the bower door at night was a severer strain than he had put his honesty to in all his life. He found it hard and harder to keep his promise to Bermond. Then the messenger who had been des- patched to London returned with good news. The king had been graciously pleased to forward his petition, with a fa- vorable endorsement, to the Archbishop of THEREAFTER life was better or- York. A few weeks longer and Ranulf de 59 Umfraville would be formally readmitted into the holy fellowship of the church. ‘When that trumpet sounds, it shall find me mailed and mounted!” cried the de- lighted baron. “Ho, Bermond, ride for a priest, and have him here for an early wed- ding day.” The priest came. The castle chapel was cleared of dust and rubbish and consecrated anew. The holy man took up his abode with them, till word should come that Um- fraville might receive the blessed sacrament. But no word came from the archbishop, though. week followed week, and Umfraville tore his nails. As for Margaret, strengthened and com- forted by confession and prayer and daring to hope that the two she loved might still be alive and free, she held herself calmly ready for the sacrifice. It was the enforced calm of heroism, but hero’s blood coursed in her veins. She had her work and the memory of her lost love. These things must be her comfort in the long, joyless years to come. Toward the end of August Umfraville began to drink heavily and to vow that the messenger from York must have been way- laid and slain on the road. Sending for the priest, he announced that the wedding must take place, excommunication or no. “My pardon will be granted sooner or later,” he declared. ‘It will be no sin to anticipate it a little.” But the priest stubbornly refused, and Umfraville fell into a moody anger that soon infected the spirits of the men-at-arms. Soldier-like, they had begun to form friend- . ships and were fast becoming a united com- pany. But now they drew apart into their former factions. Bermond stalked about with the flame of suspicion in his eyes, savoring treachery. Men wore their mail off duty and kept their knives by them. The air of Flamford Keep grew heavy with threats of mutiny and war. But on the second evening in September came a peacemaker—a gangling, red-haired youth on a gangling roan, ambling down the dusty road from Monrepaire. His only answer to the sentry’s challenge and the questions that followed was a vast grin and a gush of meaningless words in_broad- est Yorkshire—then a distinct dialect un- derstood by few in the south of England and by none, it chanced, in Flamford Keep. But all could read the archbishop’s crest C© MICLOOKS C©