VIGIL
DURING THE long ride back to Pongley, George Pipkin preserved a very unfavourable attitude toward his master.
“When new ideas clash with old,” he said, “when age falls back upon experience and youth advances, armed, as usual, with mistaken opinions, then comes the tug-of-war. But there is no place in knight-errantry for these ingenuous ideals, and to pit your mistaken standards of dragon warfare against my proven knowledge was the height of folly, as you will live to learn.”
Sir Jasper let him run on, but at length some word from George stung the hero into retort.
“Has this silver-shafted lance been blessed by three bishops and an archbishop, or has it not, Pipkin?” he asked, shaking his majestic spear.
“What of it?” replied the other.
“It has; and that being so, is it a weapon to thrust into anybody while he sleeps? I ask you?”
“The mistake you are making is to treat an atrocious reptile and enemy of man as though he were on the same footing as yourself,” replied Pipkin. “Your rules of conduct are all thrown upside down, just because this particular dragon, by some gift of necromancy, can talk and pretend to be a decent member of society. You know perfectly well that he is not. You have his disgusting record. He has devoured men, women and children. He has cast a cloud of horror and dismay upon this neighbourhood for years, and no doubt, before he came here, he carried on after the same fashion somewhere else. A dragon is a dragon. They are all the misbegotten spawn of hell, and we are told to bruise their heads and warned that they shall bruise our heels. By the will of God you had him at your mercy; he was given to you that you might destroy him; but you lost your senses and showed a lamentable confusion of thought, a mistaken code, both of honour and duty, whereof he took full advantage. Now one of two things must happen. Either he won’t come to Rainbarrow, or else he will. The betting is all Lombard Street to a crab apple that he doesn’t; but if he does, then you may be very sure he knows a great deal more about Rainbarrow than we do, and will not stand your onset unless he has secret advantages that the conflict must too soon reveal.”
“‘A good thumping,’” mused Sir Jasper. “That is un-knightly language, George.”
“Bluff,” replied the squire. “He spoke only to pour scorn upon your Order. And now you yourself may cheapen knighthood, which is already at a low rate of discount for various reasons. Fight to-morrow, if you get the chance, as you never fought before; and for the sake of mankind and your own name, let no false ruth or other nonsense stay your steel. A dragon is like a mad dog. We do not encounter such a beast with punctilio, or the courtesies of the tourney. Get him down and out by the swiftest and most sanguinary means within your power. And trust me to help you if half a chance offers.”
“You lack imagination,” answered the younger and more enlightened adventurer. “You do not apparently see, or feel, George, that we have met a being by many degrees removed from the conventional dragon of history and experience. This beast, had he been created on a more economical plan and less material devoted to his prodigious carcase, might have been amenable to human discipline and even culture. He has a kind face. He is very old. I would even go so far as to say that, of course under other conditions, he might have left the world better than he found it.”
“He has left the world lonelier at any rate,” replied Pipkin sourly, “but so long as he does leave the world, between six and seven to-morrow morning, I care not. You may set his virtues on his tombstone; but first look to it there shall be a funeral.”
George proceeded to expatiate on the technique of fray with dragons and gave Sir Jasper many a valuable hint; yet there was none the less a cloud between them when they drew rein and entered the village. For the knight resented the squire’s attitude to their common enemy; while George much feared that the morrow might bring either disgrace from a sceptical country-side, should the dragon play false, or some exhibition of ill-timed clemency, resulting in Sir Jasper’s own destruction if the monster did appear.
Nor could their supper serve to calm the agitated nerves of either; for the men and even more the women of Pongley showed a disinclination to believe the extraordinary story they brought back with them from the Red Rocks. A base fellow or two went so far as to sneer and hint that the Portreeve’s hospitality was being abused; but Jacob Pratt, with admirable courtesy, silenced the whisperers.
“It will be time to display our feelings to-morrow,” he said, “if Rainbarrow is drawn blank. To-night we are not justified in doubting Sir Jasper’s word, or the Lavender Dragon’s promise. Many strange things happen in the world, and I still hope to see the blood of our foe leap in a ruddy cataract down the steep of the hills after breakfast.”
When supper was ended, Sir Jasper got him to the little fane of St. Cormoran, a Yorkshire martyr of old time; and there, with his silver lance and helmet laid before the altar, he kept vigil before battle until the barn cocks crew. Then, at the first shiver of light, when a glimmer as of old ivory widened about the morning star, the spectrum of St. Cormoran himself appeared to Sir Jasper, and the knight beheld the vision of a dignified ancient, clad in grey robe and cowl, and having a snow white beard that descended beneath the rope of his girdle.
The watcher expected some word of cheer and hope, but received no more than practical advice.
“Get off to bed,” said the saint. “Snatch a couple of good hours’ slumber while there is time, and make a light breakfast. Remarkable experiences await you to-day, and to enter upon them short of sleep is not piety but fool-hardiness.”
With that the ghost vanished, and Sir Jasper, whose eyes indeed had long threatened to close, returned to the dwelling of the Portreeve, threw off his garments and was soon unconscious.
Anon George Pipkin aroused him, and whether he would or no, his master partook of a meagre meal as St. Cormoran directed, for there was not time to do otherwise. Already the entire population of Pongley-in-the-Marsh was streaming towards Rainbarrow, where that flat but elevated table of land rose dimly against the morning, and when Sir Jasper and his squire galloped onto the plateau, they were the last to arrive.
The Lavender Dragon, however, had not yet made his appearance, though it now wanted but five minutes of six o’clock.