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As he strove to force his horse nearer to this gesticulating,
screaming grey object that struggled up and down, there came a
clatter of hoofs, and the little man, in act of mounting, swordless,
balanced on his belly athwart the white horse, and clutching its mane,
whirled past. And again a clinging thread of grey gossamer swept
across the master's face. All about him, and over him, it seemed
this drifting, noiseless cobweb circled and drew nearer him. . . .
To the day of his death he never knew just how the event of that moment
happened. Did he, indeed, turn his horse, or did it really of its
own accord stampede after its fellow? Suffice it that in another
second he was galloping full tilt down the valley with his sword
whirling furiously overhead. And all about him on the quickening
breeze, the spiders' airships, their air bundles and air sheets,
seemed to him to hurry in a conscious pursuit.
Clatter, clatter, thud, thud--the man with the silver bridle rode,
heedless of his direction, with his fearful face looking up now right,
now left, and his sword arm ready to slash. And a few hundred yards
ahead of him, with a tail of torn cobweb trailing behind him, rode
the little man on the white horse, still but imperfectly in the saddle.
The reeds bent before them, the wind blew fresh and strong, over his
shoulder the master could see the webs hurrying to overtake. . . .
He was so intent to escape the spiders' webs that only as his horse
gathered together for a leap did he realise the ravine ahead. And then
he reaIised it only to misunderstand and interfere. He was leaning
forward on his horse's neck and sat up and back all too late.
But if in his excitement he had failed to leap, at any rate he had
not forgotten how to fall. He was horseman again in mid-air.
He came off clear with a mere bruise upon his shoulder, and his horse
rolled, kicking spasmodic legs, and lay still. But the master's sword
drove its point into the hard soil, and snapped clean across, as
though Chance refused him any longer as her Knight, and the splintered
end missed his face by an inch or so.
He was on his feet in a moment, breathlessly scanning the onrushing
spider-webs. For a moment he was minded to run, and then thought
of the ravine, and turned back. He ran aside once to dodge one drifting
terror, and then he was swiftly clambering down the precipitous sides,
and out of the touch of the gale.
There under the lee of the dry torrent's steeper banks he might
crouch, and watch these strange, grey masses pass and pass in safety
till the wind fell, and it became possible to escape. And there
for a long time he crouched, watching the strange, grey, ragged
masses trail their streamers across his narrowed sky.
Once a stray spider fell into the ravine close beside him--a full
foot it measured from leg to leg, and its body was half a man's hand--
and after he had watched its monstrous alacrity of search and escape
for a little while, and tempted it to bite his broken sword, he lifted
up his iron-heeled boot and smashed it into a pulp. He swore as he did
so, and for a time sought up and down for another.
Then presently, when he was surer these spider swarms could not
drop into the ravine, he found a place where he could sit down,
and sat and fell into deep thought and began after his manner
to gnaw his knuckles and bite his nails. And from this he was moved
by the coming of the man with the white horse.
He heard him long before he saw him, as a clattering of hoofs,
stumbling footsteps, and a reassuring voice. Then the little man
appeared, a rueful figure, still with a tail of white cobweb trailing
behind him. They approached each other without speaking, without
a salutation. The little man was fatigued and shamed to the pitch
of hopeless bitterness, and came to a stop at last, face to face with
his seated master. The latter winced a little under his dependant's
eye. "Well?" he said at last, with no pretence of authority.
"You left him?"
"My horse bolted."
"I know. So did mine."
He laughed at his master mirthlessly.
"I say my horse bolted," said the man who once had a silver-studded
bridle.
"Cowards both," said the little man.
The other gnawed his knuckle through some meditative moments,
with his eye on his inferior.
"Don't call me a coward," he said at length.
"You are a coward like myself."
"A coward possibly. There is a limit beyond which every man must fear.
That I have learnt at last. But not like yourself. That is where
the difference comes in."
"I never could have dreamt you would have left him. He saved
your life two minutes before. . . . Why are you our lord?"
The master gnawed his knuckles again, and his countenance was dark.
"No man calls me a coward," he said. "No. A broken sword is better
than none. . . . One spavined white horse cannot be expected to carry
two men a four days' journey. I hate white horses, but this time
it cannot be helped. You begin to understand me? . . . I perceive
that you are minded, on the strength of what you have seen and fancy,
to taint my reputation. It is men of your sort who unmake kings.
Besides which--I never liked you."
"My lord!" said the little man.
"No," said the master. "NO!"
He stood up sharply as the little man moved. For a minute perhaps
they faced one another. Overhead the spiders' balls went driving.
There was a quick movement among the pebbles; a running of feet,
a cry of despair, a gasp and a blow. . . .
Towards nightfall the wind fell. The sun set in a calm serenity,
and the man who had once possessed the silver bridle came at last
very cautiously and by an easy slope out of the ravine again; but now
he led the white horse that once belonged to the little man.
He would have gone back to his horse to get his silver-mounted
bridle again, but he feared night and a quickening breeze might
still find him in the valley, and besides he disliked greatly
to think he might discover his horse all swathed in cobwebs
and perhaps unpleasantly eaten.
And as he thought of those cobwebs and of all the dangers he
had been through, and the manner in which he had been preserved
that day, his hand sought a little reliquary that hung about his neck,
and he clasped it for a moment with heartfelt gratitude. As he did so
his eyes went across the valley.
"I was hot with passion," he said, "and now she has met her reward.
They also, no doubt--"
And behold! Far away out of the wooded slopes across the valley,
but in the clearness of the sunset distinct and unmistakable,
he saw a little spire of smoke.
At that his expression of serene resignation changed to an amazed
anger. Smoke? He turned the head of the white horse about, and
hesitated. And as he did so a little rustle of air went through the
grass about him. Far away upon some reeds swayed a tattered sheet of
grey. He looked at the cobwebs; he looked at the smoke.
"Perhaps, after all, it is not them," he said at last.
But he knew better.
After he had stared at the smoke for some time, he mounted the white
horse.
As he rode, he picked his way amidst stranded masses of web. For some
reason there were many dead spiders on the ground, and those that
lived feasted guiltily on their fellows. At the sound of his horse's
hoofs they fled.
Their time had passed. From the ground without either a wind to carry
them or a winding sheet ready, these things, for all their poison,
could do him little evil. He flicked with his belt at those
he fancied came too near. Once, where a number ran together over
a bare place, he was minded to dismount and trample them with his boots,
but this impulse he overcame. Ever and again he turned in his saddle,
and looked back at the smoke.
"Spiders," he muttered over and over again. "Spiders! Well, well. . . .
The next time I must spin a web."
screaming grey object that struggled up and down, there came a
clatter of hoofs, and the little man, in act of mounting, swordless,
balanced on his belly athwart the white horse, and clutching its mane,
whirled past. And again a clinging thread of grey gossamer swept
across the master's face. All about him, and over him, it seemed
this drifting, noiseless cobweb circled and drew nearer him. . . .
To the day of his death he never knew just how the event of that moment
happened. Did he, indeed, turn his horse, or did it really of its
own accord stampede after its fellow? Suffice it that in another
second he was galloping full tilt down the valley with his sword
whirling furiously overhead. And all about him on the quickening
breeze, the spiders' airships, their air bundles and air sheets,
seemed to him to hurry in a conscious pursuit.
Clatter, clatter, thud, thud--the man with the silver bridle rode,
heedless of his direction, with his fearful face looking up now right,
now left, and his sword arm ready to slash. And a few hundred yards
ahead of him, with a tail of torn cobweb trailing behind him, rode
the little man on the white horse, still but imperfectly in the saddle.
The reeds bent before them, the wind blew fresh and strong, over his
shoulder the master could see the webs hurrying to overtake. . . .
He was so intent to escape the spiders' webs that only as his horse
gathered together for a leap did he realise the ravine ahead. And then
he reaIised it only to misunderstand and interfere. He was leaning
forward on his horse's neck and sat up and back all too late.
But if in his excitement he had failed to leap, at any rate he had
not forgotten how to fall. He was horseman again in mid-air.
He came off clear with a mere bruise upon his shoulder, and his horse
rolled, kicking spasmodic legs, and lay still. But the master's sword
drove its point into the hard soil, and snapped clean across, as
though Chance refused him any longer as her Knight, and the splintered
end missed his face by an inch or so.
He was on his feet in a moment, breathlessly scanning the onrushing
spider-webs. For a moment he was minded to run, and then thought
of the ravine, and turned back. He ran aside once to dodge one drifting
terror, and then he was swiftly clambering down the precipitous sides,
and out of the touch of the gale.
There under the lee of the dry torrent's steeper banks he might
crouch, and watch these strange, grey masses pass and pass in safety
till the wind fell, and it became possible to escape. And there
for a long time he crouched, watching the strange, grey, ragged
masses trail their streamers across his narrowed sky.
Once a stray spider fell into the ravine close beside him--a full
foot it measured from leg to leg, and its body was half a man's hand--
and after he had watched its monstrous alacrity of search and escape
for a little while, and tempted it to bite his broken sword, he lifted
up his iron-heeled boot and smashed it into a pulp. He swore as he did
so, and for a time sought up and down for another.
Then presently, when he was surer these spider swarms could not
drop into the ravine, he found a place where he could sit down,
and sat and fell into deep thought and began after his manner
to gnaw his knuckles and bite his nails. And from this he was moved
by the coming of the man with the white horse.
He heard him long before he saw him, as a clattering of hoofs,
stumbling footsteps, and a reassuring voice. Then the little man
appeared, a rueful figure, still with a tail of white cobweb trailing
behind him. They approached each other without speaking, without
a salutation. The little man was fatigued and shamed to the pitch
of hopeless bitterness, and came to a stop at last, face to face with
his seated master. The latter winced a little under his dependant's
eye. "Well?" he said at last, with no pretence of authority.
"You left him?"
"My horse bolted."
"I know. So did mine."
He laughed at his master mirthlessly.
"I say my horse bolted," said the man who once had a silver-studded
bridle.
"Cowards both," said the little man.
The other gnawed his knuckle through some meditative moments,
with his eye on his inferior.
"Don't call me a coward," he said at length.
"You are a coward like myself."
"A coward possibly. There is a limit beyond which every man must fear.
That I have learnt at last. But not like yourself. That is where
the difference comes in."
"I never could have dreamt you would have left him. He saved
your life two minutes before. . . . Why are you our lord?"
The master gnawed his knuckles again, and his countenance was dark.
"No man calls me a coward," he said. "No. A broken sword is better
than none. . . . One spavined white horse cannot be expected to carry
two men a four days' journey. I hate white horses, but this time
it cannot be helped. You begin to understand me? . . . I perceive
that you are minded, on the strength of what you have seen and fancy,
to taint my reputation. It is men of your sort who unmake kings.
Besides which--I never liked you."
"My lord!" said the little man.
"No," said the master. "NO!"
He stood up sharply as the little man moved. For a minute perhaps
they faced one another. Overhead the spiders' balls went driving.
There was a quick movement among the pebbles; a running of feet,
a cry of despair, a gasp and a blow. . . .
Towards nightfall the wind fell. The sun set in a calm serenity,
and the man who had once possessed the silver bridle came at last
very cautiously and by an easy slope out of the ravine again; but now
he led the white horse that once belonged to the little man.
He would have gone back to his horse to get his silver-mounted
bridle again, but he feared night and a quickening breeze might
still find him in the valley, and besides he disliked greatly
to think he might discover his horse all swathed in cobwebs
and perhaps unpleasantly eaten.
And as he thought of those cobwebs and of all the dangers he
had been through, and the manner in which he had been preserved
that day, his hand sought a little reliquary that hung about his neck,
and he clasped it for a moment with heartfelt gratitude. As he did so
his eyes went across the valley.
"I was hot with passion," he said, "and now she has met her reward.
They also, no doubt--"
And behold! Far away out of the wooded slopes across the valley,
but in the clearness of the sunset distinct and unmistakable,
he saw a little spire of smoke.
At that his expression of serene resignation changed to an amazed
anger. Smoke? He turned the head of the white horse about, and
hesitated. And as he did so a little rustle of air went through the
grass about him. Far away upon some reeds swayed a tattered sheet of
grey. He looked at the cobwebs; he looked at the smoke.
"Perhaps, after all, it is not them," he said at last.
But he knew better.
After he had stared at the smoke for some time, he mounted the white
horse.
As he rode, he picked his way amidst stranded masses of web. For some
reason there were many dead spiders on the ground, and those that
lived feasted guiltily on their fellows. At the sound of his horse's
hoofs they fled.
Their time had passed. From the ground without either a wind to carry
them or a winding sheet ready, these things, for all their poison,
could do him little evil. He flicked with his belt at those
he fancied came too near. Once, where a number ran together over
a bare place, he was minded to dismount and trample them with his boots,
but this impulse he overcame. Ever and again he turned in his saddle,
and looked back at the smoke.
"Spiders," he muttered over and over again. "Spiders! Well, well. . . .
The next time I must spin a web."
