CHAPTER XIV
AT THE PLACE OF ARMS
Notwithstanding all that has been told, Hugh and Dick never slept more soundly than they did that night, nor was their rest broken by any dreams. At half past five in the morning—for they must be stirring early—David came to call them. He too, it seemed, had slept well. Also in the light of day the worst of his fear had left him.
“I am wondering, Sir Hugh,” he said, looking at him curiously, “whether I saw certain things last night down yonder at the Place of Arms and in the boat, or whether I thought I saw them.”
“Doubtless you thought you saw them, David,” answered Hugh, adding with meaning, “and it is not always well to talk of things we think that we have seen.”
The lad, who was sharp enough, nodded. But as he turned to hand Hugh some garment his eye fell upon the swan-crested helm that was still nailed by the long war-shaft with two black feathers and one white to the carved olivewood post of the bed.
“It must have been a mighty arm that shot this arrow, Sir Hugh,” he said reflectively, “which could pierce a casque of Milan steel from side to side and a hardwood post beyond. Well for the owner of the helm that his head was not inside of it.”
“Very well, and a very mighty arm, David. So mighty that I should say nothing about it for fear lest it should set another arrow upon another string and shoot again.”
“God’s truth, not I!” exclaimed David, “and for your comfort, sir, know that none saw us leave this house or reënter it last night.”
Then Hugh and Dick clothed themselves and saw to their weapons and mail, but this they did not don as yet, fearing lest the weight of it should weary them in that great heat. Although the day was so young, this heat was terrible, more oppressive indeed than any they had yet known in Venice.