Converse and Adventures by the Way.
Day was just beginning to break in the east when the prince raised his head from the bundle of leaves that had formed his pillow, and looked sleepily around him.
His companions lay still, sound asleep and sprawling, in all the abandon characteristic of the heroes of antiquity.
Some of these characteristics were wonderfully similar to those of modern heroes. For instance, the captain lay flat on his back with his mouth wide open, and a musical solo proceeding from his nose; while Maikar lay on his side with his knees doubled up, his arms extended at full length in front of him, and his hands tightly clasped as if, while pleading with some one for mercy, he was suddenly petrified and had fallen over on his side.
Rising softly, Bladud took up his bow and quiver, and, buckling on his sword, left the encampment without disturbing the sleepers. He had not proceeded more than a mile when he startled several wild turkeys or birds of that species from their rest. One of these he instantly brought down. Following them up he soon shot another, and returned to camp, where he found his comrades as he had left them—the musical nose being if anything more emphatic than before.
Although naturally a grave man, Bladud was by no means destitute of a sense of humour, or disinclined on occasion to perpetrate a practical joke. After contemplating the sleepers for a moment he retired a few paces and concealed himself in the long grass, from which position he pitched one of the huge birds into the air, so that it fell on the captain’s upturned visage. The snore changed at once into a yell of alarm, as the mariner sprang up and grasped his sword, which, of course, lay handy beside him.
Electrified by the yell, Maikar also leaped to his feet, sword in hand.
“What d’ye mean by that?” cried the captain, turning on him fiercely.
“What mean you by it?” replied Maikar with equal ferocity.
He had barely uttered the words, when the second turkey hit him full in the face and tumbled him over the ashes of the fortunately extinguished fire.
“Come, come!” interposed the prince, stepping forward with a deprecating smile; “there should be no quarrelling among friends, especially at the beginning of a long journey. See, I have fetched your breakfast for you. Instead of tumbling on the fire and putting it out, Maikar, I think it would be wiser to see if there is a spark left and blow it into a flame. Quick! I am hungry.”
It need hardly be said that these orders were received with a laugh and a prompt obedience on the part of the little man.
“Yes—there is fire,” he said, blowing with tremendous energy until flame was produced. “And, do you know, there is something within me that has a loud voice, but only utters one word—‘Food! food! food!’ There, now, you may get the birds ready, for the fire will be ready for them in two winks.”
There was no occasion, however, to give this advice to his friends, for already the birds had been plucked, split open at the breast, laid flat, and their interiors scraped out in a summary manner. The plucking was not, indeed, all that could be wished, but what fingers failed to do a singe in the flames accomplished to the perfect satisfaction of men who were in no way particular. Sharp-pointed sticks were then thrust through the expanded carcases, and they were stuck up in front of the blaze to roast.
Underdone meat is an abomination to some, a luxury to others—reminding one of that very ancient proverb, “Tastes differ.” We cannot say whether on this occasion the uniformity of action in our heroes was the result of taste or haste, but certain it is that before the fowls were only half-roasted on one side, they were turned over so as to let the fire get at the other, and breakfast was begun while the meat was yet frightfully underdone.
Thereafter the three men arose, like giants refreshed—if we may say so, for Maikar was indeed mentally, though not physically, a giant—buckled on their swords, slung bows and quivers on their backs, along with the turkey remains, and took up shields and javelins. Having laid their course by the stars the night before, they set out on their journey through the unknown wilderness.
The part of the country through which they passed at the beginning of the march was broken and diversified by hill and dale; in some places clothed with forests, in others covered with grass, on which many wild animals were seen browsing. These, however, were remarkably timid, and fled at the first sign of the approaching travellers, so that it was impossible to get within bow-shot of them.
“From this I judge that they are much hunted,” said Bladud, halting on a ridge to note the wild flight, of a herd of deer which had just caught eight of them.
“If so, we are likely to fall in with the hunters before long, I fear,” remarked the captain.
“Why do you fear?” asked Maikar.
“Because they may be numerous and savage, and may take a fancy to make slaves of us, and as we number only three we could not resist their fancy without losing our lives.”
“That would be a pity,” returned Maikar, “for we have only one life to lose.”
“No; we have three lives to lose amongst us,” objected the captain.
“Which makes one each, does it not?” retorted the seaman.
“True, Maikar, and we must lose them all, and more if we had them, rather than become slaves.”
“You are right, captain. We never, never shall be slaves,” said Bladud.
They say that history repeats itself. Perhaps sentiment does the same. At all events, the British prince gave utterance that day to a well-known sentiment, which has been embalmed in modern song and shouted by many a Briton with tremendous enthusiasm—though not absolute truth.
“Captain Arkal,” said the little seaman, as they jogged quietly down the sunny slope of a hill, at the bottom of which was a marsh full of rushes, “how do you manage to find your way through such a tangled country as this?”
“By observing the stars,” answered the captain.
“But I have observed the stars since I was a little boy,” objected Maikar, “and I see nothing but a wild confusion of shining points. How can these guide you? Besides, there are no stars in the daytime.”
“True, Maikar; but we have the sun during the day.”
Maikar shook his head perplexedly.
“Listen,” said the captain, “and I will try to enlighten your dark mind; but don’t object else you’ll never understand. All stars are not alike—d’ye understand that?”
“Any fool could understand that!”
“Well, then, of course you can understand it. Now, you have noticed, no doubt, that some stars are in groups, which groups may alter their position with regard to other groups, but which never change with regard to each other.”
“Each other,” repeated Maikar, checking off each statement with a nod and a wave of his javelin.
“Well,” continued the captain, “there’s one group of stars—about six—plainly to be seen on most fine nights, two stars of which are always pretty much in a line with a little star a short way in front of them—d’ye see?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that star shows exactly where the cold regions lie—over there (extending his arm and pointing), and of course if you know that the cold regions lie there, you know that the hot regions must lie at your back—there, and it follows that the Pillars of Hercules lie there (pointing west), and home lies somewhere about there (pointing eastward).”
“Stop!” cried Maikar in great perplexity—for although a seaman he was densely ignorant. “Hot regions, there, cold, there, home and the Pillars, there, and there, and there (thrusting his arms out in all directions). I’ve no more idea of where you’ve got me to now than—than—”
“Oh, never mind,” interrupted the captain, “it doesn’t matter, as you are not our guide. But, ho! look! look! down in the hollow there—among the rushes. What’s that?”
“A boar!” said Bladud, in a low whisper, as he unslung his bow. “Come, now, it will take all our united force to slay that brute, for, if I have not lost my power of judging such game, I’m pretty sure that he’s a very big old boar with formidable tusks.”
While the prince was speaking, his comrades had also prepared their weapons, and looked to their guide for directions.
These were hastily but clearly given. As the boar was evidently asleep in his lair, it was arranged that the three friends should stalk him, as the broken ground was specially favourable for such a mode of attack.
“We will advance together,” said Bladud, “with our bows ready. I will lead; you follow close. When we get within range you will do as you see me do, and be sure that you aim at the brute’s side—not at his head. Send your arrows with all the force you can. Then drop the bows and get your javelins ready.”
With eager looks the captain and little sailor nodded assent. They were much excited, having often heard tales of boar-hunting, though neither of them had ever taken part in that work.
A few minutes’ walk brought them to the edge of the rushes, where they had a fair view of the monstrous animal as it lay fully extended on its side, and not more than thirty yards distant.
“Take him just behind the fore-leg,” whispered Bladud, as he drew his bow. His companions followed his example. Two of the bows twanged simultaneously, but the third—that of Maikar—was pulled with such vigour that it broke with a crash that would have awakened the sleepiest of wild boars, had there been nothing else to arouse him. As it was, other things helped to quicken his sensibilities. Bladud’s unfailing arrow went indeed straight for the heart, but a strong rib caught and checked its progress. The captain’s shaft, probably by good luck, entered deep into the creature’s flank not far from the tail.
To say that the forest was instantly filled with ear-splitting shrieks is to express the result but feebly. We might put it as a sort of indefinite question in the rule of three, thus—if an ordinary civilised pig with injured feelings can yell as we all know how, what must have been the explosion of a wild-boar of the eighth century B.C., in circumstances such as we have described? Railway whistles of the nineteenth century, intermittently explosive, is the only possible answer to the question, and that is but an approximation to the truth.
For one instant the infuriated creature paused to look for its assailants. Catching sight of them as they were fitting arrows to their bows, it gave vent to a prolonged locomotive-express yell, and charged. Bladud’s arrow hit it fair between the eyes, but stuck in the impenetrable skull. The shaft of the captain missed, and the javelin of Maikar went wildly wide of the mark.
By order of Bladud the three had separated a few yards from each other. Even in its rage the monster was perplexed by this, for it evidently perceived the impossibility of attacking three foes at the same moment. Which to go for was the question. Like an experienced warrior it went for the “little one.”
Maikar had drawn his last weapon—the short sword of bronze—and, like a brave man as he was, “prepared to receive boarelry.” Another instant and the enemy was upon him. More than that, it was over him, for, trusting to his agility—for which he was famed—he tried to leap to one side, intending to make a vigorous thrust at the same moment. In doing so his foot slipped; he fell flat on his side, and the boar, tripping over him, just missed ripping him with its fearful tusks. It fell, with a bursting squeak, beyond.
To leap up and turn was the work of an instant for the boar, and would have been the same for the man if he had not been partially stunned by the fall. As it was, the captain, who was nearest, proved equal to the emergency, for, using his javelin as a spear, he plunged it into the boar’s side. But that side was tougher than he had expected. The spear was broken by a sharp twist as the animal turned on its new foe, who now stood disarmed and at its mercy. Bladud’s ponderous sword, however, flashed in the air at that moment, and fell on the creature’s neck with a force that would have made Hercules envious if he had been there. Deep into the brawn it cut, through muscle, fat, and spine, almost slicing the head from the trunk, and putting a sudden stop to the last yell when it reached the windpipe. The boar rolled head over heels like a shot hare, almost overturning Bladud as it wrenched the sword from his hand, and swept the captain off his legs, carrying him along with it in a confusion of blood and bristles.
It was truly a terrific encounter, and as the prince stood observing the effect of his blow, he would probably have burst into a fit of laughter, had he not been somewhat solemnised by Captain Arkal’s fearful appearance, as he arose ensanguined, but uninjured, from the ground.