Adventure Magazine Cover — page 153: what you’re looking at

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

THE WAY OF SINNERS lieutenant. In their leather jerkins, they stood simply about and stared like so many oxen, until Benedetto emerged from the tent and came over toward us. I noticed, as he came, that he turned his head from side to side, and I knew that he was looking for a likely branch among the trees that lined the hollow. I even saw the oak he was likely to choose; the which made me tremble in spite of myself. “Prisoner to the captain,” says he, yawning; ‘“‘and for the rest of you, boot and saddle. We leave in an hour.”’ “There’s no wood about here that will burn,” says one fellow who was the cook. “‘Thou’d better find some then, my lad,” says Benedetto, taking me by the elbow, ‘‘for the captain’s in no sweet temper today. Forward, Messer Duke’s Guardsman.”’ He gave me a rough push; conducted me to Pietro Uccello’s lair; and, standing out- side, announced my arrival. “Send him within,” says the voice I had heard three times before in such differing places, “‘and stay thou outside, Benedetto— within call.” “Aye, Captain.” I bent almost double to enter the tent’s low opening; and, standing crouched, gazed into the obscurity for Pietro Uccello; whom after a moment I perceived, paler and leaner than I remembered him, and with a face hardened as by much authority, lying on a sort of truckle-bed covered with skins. He was in his shirt, propped up on both elbows, and he was smiling at me. “Ah!” says he slowly, “and so ’tis thou, my friend. We have met before.” Without replying, I seated myself on the foot of his bed. “Stand up!” he roared; and on the in- stant, I heard the feet of Benedetto come squelching up to the tent’s opening. “With due respect,” says I, “to stand up in here is impossible; and J’ll not crouch for thee. If I have but an hour to live, as I do assume I have, it shall be spent man- fashion. So!’ He considered me; and when Benedetto called anxiously to know if all were well, told him testily to go to the devil. “T take this welcome of thine in the worse part,” says I, “since I am only in thy hands for refusing to murder thee.” He gave a violent start. “What? Thou tellest me that?” “Thou’rt not forced to believe it; I I5I scarce expect thou wilt; in any case, I re- fused not for thy sake, but for mine. The duke’s proposal was that I seek thee, take service with thee and poison thee; his own physician gave me the powder—”’ ‘Which thou hast with thee, doubtless?” says Uccello, suddenly smiling again. “Nay, unhappily. But—” “Benedetto!” shouted Uccello, now sit- ting up on his truckle and waving me to silence. S1, Capitano!”’ This time he came rushing into the tent, with his pistolet leveled. “Take this—signor,” says Uccello, biting his nails, ‘and search him to the skin. Look you, to the skin, and miss nothing; ’tis a very little packet of powder, or a little vial, perhaps; mistake not.” Now this I could not understand; sure meseemed it would have been to my ad- vantage, had I had the poison, to bring it forth and prove my story of my captor’s obligation unto me; yet evidently, Uccello thought I had it, and was determined to prove I lied. I told him this, unwilling to be stripped naked in that chill air; and he grinned, showing his teeth at me and mo- tioning Benedetto to be on with the business. The which he did; chilling me to the bone but, as was most natural, finding nothing. “Well, by !” says the captain, when this had been reported; and stared at me for some time. “Almost,” says he, “do I begin to be- lieve thee, thou young fool.” “Why should I conceal the proof of mine own story?” I demanded, shivering and trying to tie my points with numbed fingers. “I had a suspicion that, though thy story was true, thou’d told me because, at the point, thou wast afraid to carry out thy commission; and had I found that poi- son on thee, my friend, it would have been ill with thy poor mortal frame. Knowing our sweet Alessandro, I think that, rather than nailing thee to a tree, I’d have had thee swallow the confection. H’m.” ‘‘What makes thee think now, that my story was true at all; that—?” “Oh, as to that,”’ says Pietro, “ ’tis three days now that I have known of the duke’s most generous intent concerning me. Think not, I pray thee, that I am alto- gether a fool or altogether ill-served, COnnicloooks Cc (C@