Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 72: what you’re looking at

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

34 For the first time Kyrger turned aside from the trail, leading his deer into a grove of spruce where they were sheltered from the wind. Then he took up the crossbow that he had placed in the sledge, and the two advanced through the timber in the direction of the smoke, the hunter circling to keep away from the stream. They heard voices, distinct in the thin air, and crawled warily to the summit of a ridge. Here they crouched, motionless. Be- low them within stone’s throw were three large dog sledges and a half dozen Ostiaks. Seated on a log beside the embers of a fire, Master Cornelius Durforth and Joan An- drews were talking. Squatting on a white horse skin near his two dog teams was the wizard they had pursued from the Ice Sea. JOAN had been freed of her bonds by Durforth, who sent the shaman away from the maiden, and prepared food for her, with hot, spiced wine. Re- freshed, she gazed curiously at the man who sat by her in his coat of black foxskin with an ermine collar. Joan knew the value of such things. She saw, too, that the powerful fingers of his left hand played with the links of a gold chain at his throat; that his strong teeth glimmered through the tangle of his jutting beard. His brown eyes, utterly without expression, moved restlessly as if instinct made him uneasy. A sudden fore- boding gripped Joan, who was as sensitive as a child, and fear burned in her veins more fiercely than when the shaman had thrown her into his sled. She had seen that gold chain before, and the face that reminded her of a wolf. Too few events had come into the life of the daughter of John Andrews that she should forget one of them. Two years before at Yuletide, when the candles were lighted in the windows of Cairness—a ship driving into the haven for refuge—a stranger sitting in the tavern, listening to the tales of John Andrews of gold to be found by one who could pass south of the Ice Sea. “Oh,” she cried, “‘you are the master of the black pinnace!”’ Cornelius Durforth did not take his eyes from the fire. “I have had many ships to my com- mand,” “The black pinnace with the dragon’s head, that was manned by Burgundians.” Adventure “Ah. Then-you—” he looked at her— “would be John Andrews’ daughter.” “Aye, so. And so was my father slain by your churls.” “A owe?” “Your pinnace entered the haven of Wardhouse—” Joan faltered, but passionate anger, long pent up, was rife in her—“‘and your knaves looted it over the body of John Andrews, who once gave you shelter.” “Did they so? By the Three Dead Men of Cologne, they were not my knaves. The boat once carried my flag and was made a prize by pirates out of Danemarke.”’ His lips drew back in a soundiess laugh. “They paid in good coin for their frolic; I saw the boat with their bodies hanging like ripe fruit, drifting down the coast.” His words carried conviction but the girl drew back from his face. “Who are you?” she barely whispered. “Cornelius Durforth, the Burgundian. What, wench, have you never heard of the merchant of Ghent?” Her mind flitted among questions. What was Durforth doing on the Ice Sea? How had he escaped alone from the stricken ships of the English? Why had the Ostiak brought her to him? He thrust out his hand to take her chin and study her face. ‘Nay, wench, you wear your heart upon your sleeve. You are fair asa golden eagilet, but, on my faith, only a hooded falcon may sit on perch at its master’s table. Weigh well your answer to this question: Do you trust me? Are you friend or unfriend?” .Whereat she sighed and dropped her gaze to the chain of gold about his neck. “Good my master, who am I to stand against your will? Take me with you out of this forest to Christian folk, and I will thank you on my knees. But let us set out at once!” In silence Durforth considered her, until a flush mantled her cheeks and his beard bristled in a wide smile. “So! I am no wizard like Shatong the shaman—” he nodded at the Ostiak who was tapping on a drum between his knees, upon a white horsehide—“yet can I read your mind. You fear me, you have no faith in me. A witless boy follows the track of your sled through the wilderness, and it is your thought that if he rushes in upon us here he will be slain, which, indeed is most true. COmicloo nn S (©