The Doomsman | Page 2

sky it had been
discarded.
In his belt was stuck a long, double-edged hunting-knife, having its
wooden handle neatly bound with black waxed thread. A five-foot bow
of second-growth hickory leaned against the log beside him, but it was
unstrung, and the quiver of arrows, suspended by a strap from his
shoulders, had been allowed to shift from its proper position so that it
hung down the middle of his back and was, consequently, out of easy
hand-reach. But the youth was in no apparent fear of being surprised by

the advent of an enemy; certainly he had made no provision against
such a contingency, and the carelessness of his attitude was entirely
unaffected. It may be remarked that the arrows aforesaid were
iron-tipped instead of being simply fire-hardened, and in the feathering
of each a single plume of the scarlet tanager had been carefully inserted.
Presumably, the vermilion feather was the owner's private sign of his
work as a marksman. So far the lad's dress and accoutrements were in
entire conformity to the primeval rusticity of his surroundings. Judge,
then, of the reasonable surprise which the observer might feel at
discovering that the object in the boy's hand was nothing less
incongruous than a pair of binocular glasses, an exquisitely finished
example of the highest art of the optician. One of the eye-piece lenses
had been lost or broken, for, as the youth raised the glasses to sweep
again the distant sealine, he covered the left-hand cylinder with a flat,
oblong object--a printed book. Its title, indeed, could be clearly read as,
a moment after, it lay partly open upon his knee--A Child's History of
the United States--and across the top of the page had been neatly
written in charcoal ink, "Constans, Son of Gavan at the Greenwood
Keep."
Mechanically, the boy began turning the leaves, stopping finally at a
page upon which was a picture of the lower part of New York City as
seen from the bay. Long and earnestly he studied it, looking up
occasionally as though he would find its visible presentment in that
dark blur on the horizon line. "It must be," he muttered, with a quick
intake of his breath. "The Forgotten City and Doom the Forbidden--one
and the same. Well, and what then?" and again he fell upon his
dreaming.
For the best part of an hour the boy had sat almost motionless, looking
out across the water. Then, suddenly, he turned his head; his ear had
caught a suspicious sound, perhaps the dip of an oar-blade. Thrusting
the field-glass and book into his bosom, he drew the bow towards him
and listened. All was still, except for the chatter of a blue-jay, and after
a moment or so his attention again relaxed. But his eyes, instead of
losing themselves in the distance as before, remained fixed upon the
sand at his feet. Fortunately so, or he must have failed to notice the

long shadow that hung poised for an instant above his right shoulder
and then darted downward, menacing, deadly.
An infinitesimal fraction of a second, yet within that brief space
Constans had contrived to fling himself, bodily, forward and sideways
from his seat. The spearshaft grazed his shoulder and the blade buried
itself in the sand. The treacherous assailant, overbalanced by the force
of his thrust, toppled over the log and fell heavily, ignominiously, at the
boy's side. In the indefinite background some one laughed melodiously.
Constans was up and out upon the forest track before his clumsy
opponent had begun to recover his breath. It was almost too easy, and
then he all but cannoned plump into a horseman who sat carelessly in
his saddle, half hidden by the bole of a thousand-year oak. The cavalier,
gathering up his reins, called upon the fugitive to stop, but Constans,
without once looking behind, ran on, actuated by the ultimate instinct
of a hunted animal, zigzagging as much as he dared, and glancing from
side to side for a way of escape.
But none offered. On the right ran the wall of the stockade,
impenetrable and unscalable, and it was a long two miles to the north
gate. On the left was the water and behind him the enemy. A few
hundred yards and he must inevitably be brought to a standstill,
breathless and defenceless. Yet he kept on; there was nothing else to
do.
The horseman followed, putting his big blood-bay into a leisurely
hand-gallop. A sword-thrust would settle the business quite as
effectually as a shot from his cross-bow, and he would not be obliged
to risk the loss of a bolt, a consideration of importance in this latter age
when good artisan work is scarce and correspondingly precious.
Constans could run, and he was sound of wind and limb. Yet,