Chapter 5 - Page 2

he and
his friends stood outside and shot them as they passed. For my
part, I was more crafty, for I studied the habits of the bird,
and stealing out in the evening I was able to kill a number of
them as they roosted in the trees. Hardly a single shot was
wasted, but the keeper was attracted by the sound of the firing,
and he implored me in his rough English fashion to spare those
that were left. That night I was able to place twelve birds as a
surprise upon Lord Rufton's supper- table, and he laughed until
he cried, so overjoyed was he to see them. "Gad, Gerard, you'll
be the death of me yet!" he cried. Often he said the same thing,
for at every turn I amazed him by the way in which I entered into
the sports of the English.

There is a game called cricket which they play in the summer, and
this also I learned. Rudd, the head gardener, was a famous
player of cricket, and so was Lord Rufton himself. Before the
house was a lawn, and here it was that Rudd taught me the game.
It is a brave pastime, a game for soldiers, for each tries to
strike the other with the ball, and it is but a small stick with
which you may ward it off. Three sticks behind show the spot
beyond which you may not retreat. I can tell you that it is no
game for children, and I will confess that, in spite of my nine
campaigns, I felt myself turn pale when first the ball flashed
past me. So swift was it that I had not time to raise my stick
to ward it off, but by good fortune it missed me and knocked down
the wooden pins which marked the boundary. It was for Rudd then
to defend himself and for me to attack. When I was a boy in
Gascony I learned to throw both far and straight, so that I made
sure that I could hit this gallant Englishman.

With a shout I rushed forward and hurled the ball at him. It
flew as swift as a bullet toward his ribs, but without a word he
swung his staff and the ball rose a surprising distance in the
air. Lord Rufton clapped his hands and cheered. Again the ball
was brought to me, and again it was for me to throw. This time
it flew past his head, and it seemed to me that it was his turn
to look pale.

But he was a brave man, this gardener, and again he faced me.
Ah, my friends, the hour of my triumph had come! It was a red
waistcoat that he wore, and at this I hurled the ball. You would
have said that I was a gunner, not a hussar, for never was so
straight an aim. With a despairing cry--the cry of the brave man
who is beaten --he fell upon the wooden pegs behind him, and they
all rolled upon the ground together. He was cruel, this English
milord, and he laughed so that he could not come to the aid of
his servant. It was for me, the victor, to rush forward to
embrace this