The Story of Francis Cludde

by Stanley John Weyman

"And he flew up and hit you in the face?" Baldwin said, with huge contempt in his tone.

Martin accepted the suggestion placidly. "Ay, 'twas so. A great big swallow, and he flew in my face," he repeated.

Sir Anthony looked at him compassionately. "Poor fellow!" he said; "Baldwin, see to him. He has had one of his fits and hurt himself."

"I never knew him hurt himself," Baldwin muttered darkly.

"Let somebody see to him," the knight said, disregarding the interruption. "And now come, Petronilla. Why--where has the girl gone?"

Not far. Only round to the other side of him, that she might be a little nearer to Martin. The curiosity in the other women's faces was a small thing in comparison with the startled, earnest look in hers. She gazed at the man with eyes not of affright, but of eager, avid questioning, while through her parted lips her breath came in gasps. Her cheek was red and white by turns, and, for her heart--well, it had seemed to stand still a moment, and now was beating like the heart of some poor captured bird held in the hand. She did not seem to hear her father speak to her, and he had to touch her sleeve. Then she started as though she were awakening from a dream, and followed him sadly into the house.

Sadly, and yet there was a light in her eyes which had not been there five minutes before. A swallow? A great big swallow? And this was December, when the swallows were at the bottom of the horse-ponds. She only knew of one swallow whose return was possible in winter. But then that one swallow--ay, though the snow should lie inches deep in the chase, and the water should freeze in her room--would make a summer for her. Could it be that one? Could it be? Petronilla's heart was beating so loudly as she went upstairs after her father, that she wondered he did not hear it.

The group left round Martin gradually melted away. Baldwin was the only man who could deal with him in his mad fits, and the other servants, with a shudder and a backward glance, gladly left him to the steward. Mistress Anne had gone in some time. Only Ferdinand Cludde remained, and he stood a little apart, and seemed more deeply engaged in listening for any sound which might betoken the sheriff's approach than in hearkening to their conversation. Listen as he might he would have gained little from the latter, for it was made up entirely of scolding on one side and stupid reiteration on the other. Yet Ferdinand, ever suspicious and on his guard, must have felt some interest in it, for he presently called the steward to him. "Is he more fool or knave?" he muttered, pointing under hand at Martin, who stood in the gloom a few paces away.

Baldwin shrugged his shoulders, but remained silent. "What happened? What is the meaning of it all?" Ferdinand persisted, his keen eyes on the steward's face. "Did he do it himself? Or who did it?"

Baldwin turned slowly and nodded toward the moat. "I expect you will find him who did it there," he said grimly. "I never knew a man save Sir Anthony or Master Francis hit Martin yet, but he paid for it. And when his temper is up, he is mad, or as good as mad; and better than two sane men!"