A Passage at Arms

He stood motionless, one hand grasping the limb of a tree, leaning far out so as to gaze up the river, totally unconscious of my approach. The fellow was tall, yet heavily built, wearing a great leather helmet with brass facings, his body encased in a slashed doublet, the strap fastenings of a steel breastplate showing at waist and shoulders, while high boots of yellow cordovan leather extended above his knees. I noticed also the upward curve of a huge gray moustache against the stern profile of his face, while a long straight sword dangled at his side. Evidently the stranger was a soldier, and one not to be despised in feats at arms, although in what service I might merely conjecture, as his dress was not distinctive. Yet it was small likelihood any other nation than Spain had armed men in those parts.

That he had discovered and was watching our camp, I entertained no doubt, yet for the moment the surprise of seeing him was so great I was unable to choose my safer course,--should I withdraw silently as I came, or make quick attack? If the first, he would certainly see me recross the river, and suspect my mission. Nor was the other alternative more promising. If I sprang upon him (and he looked a burly antagonist), such combat could not be noiseless, and surely the fellow was not alone in this wilderness. How close at hand lurked his companions was beyond guessing, yet, if the sound of struggle aroused that band of wolves, my life would not be worth the snapping of a finger. I felt cold chills creep up my spine as I stood hesitating, one foot uplifted, my eyes staring at that motionless figure.