John Buchan

The Path of the King John Buchan

The little hut among the oak trees was dim in the October twilight on the evening of St. Callixtus' Day. It had been used by swineherds, for the earthen floor was puddled by thefeet of generations of hogs, and in the corner lay piles of rotting acorns. Outside the misthad filled the forest, and the ways were muffled with fallen leaves, so that the four menwho approached the place came as stealthily as shades. They reconnoitred a moment at the entrance, for it was a country of war."Quarters for the night," said one, and put his shoulder to the door of oak-toppings hingedon strips of cowhide. But he had not taken a step inside before he hastily withdrew."There is something there," he cried-"something that breathes. A light, Gil."One of the four lit a lantern from his flint and poked it within. It revealed the foul floor andthe rotting acorns, and in the far corner, on a bed of withered boughs, something darkwhich might be a man. They stood still and listened. There was the sound of painfulbreathing, and then the gasp with which a sick man wakens. A figure disengaged itself fromthe shadows. Seeing it was but one man, the four pushed inside, and the last pulled thedoor to behind him."What have we here?" the leader cried. A man had dragged himself to his feet, a short, square fellow who held himself erect with a grip on a side-post. His eyes were vacant, dazzled by the light and also by pain. He seemed to have had hard usage that day, for hisshaggy locks were matted with blood from a sword-cut above his forehead, one arm hunglimp, and his tunic was torn and gashed. He had no weapons but a knife which he heldblade upwards in the hollow of his big han