Adventure Magazine Cover — page 165: what you’re looking at

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

The Way hammering on men’s heads and bellies like a blacksmith on an anvil, it had occurred to him (while drunk) that since God hath placed the ear higher than the chin, some half-inch of flesh must be left uncovered by the ordinary neckpiece; and by much practise snipping the wicks off lighted candles, he had attained the gracious state of being able to hit that half-inch and sever the great vein under it, nine fights out of ten, ahorse or afoot. I suppose he killed in this manner enough men to have repopu- lated a city, before some one preferred to live even at the cost of altering the tradi- tion-hallowed armor. Then, when the alteration was in com- mon use, when collaretit were as frequent and as essential as hose, lo humanity (as wit- ness the three dents on my gorget) still trying old Caradosso’s cut because it had once been good. The monk looked up over his spectacles and smiled at me—in sympathy. It ap- pears I had laughed. ‘Ah, brother,” says he, “dost thou begin to taste the holy joyr”’ “Mightily,” I told him. “Read on.” “T will take up ‘Thomas a Kempis,’”’ says he, hastily laying down his first tome and picking up a weightier still, “if the which were better known, joy would be the rule of this sad world. H’m—”’ While he read on, my thoughts flew for- ward to this Florentine business in which I had been interrupted by this accident; back to our great coup at Mantua; to that other at Siena; to others still, greater or smaller, in different towns, with different governments, from tyrants to republics— all victories enriching us, adding to our fame, giving us the things to be desired in life; and all founded on the stupidity of mankind. The Florentine affair would go as had the others; after that— So I thought on; the green flame of con- tempt for all mortals springing up fiercely in my breast, and seeming to replace the fire of life which had so nearly gone out, and which, even now, burned so feebly. ‘The numbness seemed to have gone from my side; doubt- less it had retreated whither it had been settled so long—in my soul. For an in- stant, some voice within seemed to whisper, ‘“‘But then, how camest thou here?’’; I si- lenced it by leaving thought for action, and getting out of bed. The religious, ceasing to mumble, re- of Sinners 163 garded me with vast eyes made vaster by his spectacles. “But—” says he in a gasp; and then, dropping his book and rising, he cried out: “‘A miracle! A miracle!’’ ‘Give me, I pray you, my clothes,”’ says I; and he tore open the door. But it was not with any thought of obeying me—nay, he merely stood there, waving his arms, calling all sorts of brethren with all sorts of names, and repeating his annunciation: ‘“‘A miracle! A miracle!” I was putting on my gorget, meantime; a thrill shot through me at the cool touch of its steel under my ears, and the dry click of its clasp seemed to me more eloquent than all the maunderings to which I had just listened; of greater authority than Origen, more to the point than Thomas. However, there was not an entire lack of sharp and decisive voices in the monas- tery, silent as it was by habit, however cracked and high-pitched might be the tones of Ambrosius, my late companion. From down the passage, of a sudden I heard Brother Martin, swishing down the narrow corridor so that his rosary clicked against the walls, and ordering silence and a re- treat to cells. The next moment, he was standing at the cell door, a taller man than I; nose in the air and blue eyes watching me from under shaggy brows. ‘“‘How now, brother?’ says he. Jape is this?” We regarded each other, breathing hard. ‘“‘No jape,”’ says I carelessly. ‘“‘It is just that, feeling myself better, thanks to your most excellent care and, doubtless to the intercession—’”’ “It is a poor return for our care, to mock at our belief,’’ says Martin sternly. “Tis but a week since you were preach- ing me sermons against mine,” I told him. “But no matter. Be it said in short that I am better; and that with many thanks, I would fain go about my business. As, meseems, I told you, important affairs await me in Florence; after I have attended to them, I shall trust to return hither with something more substantial to leave here, than a poor broken—’”’ ‘Say no more,” said Brother Martin. “Tt is enough.”’ He bent his head and began to bite his thumb-nail; likewise, settling his shoulder, he leaned against the doorpost; and, to “What COMICLOO© S CO