American Agriculturist, March 29, 1924 
The Broad Highway — By 
327 
Jeffery Farnol 
{For synopsis see page 328) 
A ND, after we had stood thus awhile, 
each looking upon the other, I 
reached out to her, and my hands were 
torn and bloody. 
“Don’t go, Charmian,” I mumbled, 
“don’t go! Oh, Charmian—I’m hurt— 
I didn’t want you to know, but you 
mustn’t leave me. It is my head, I think. 
I met Black George, and he was too 
strong for me. I’m deaf, and half-blinded 
—I’m afraid, Charmian!” Her figure 
grew blurred and I sank down upon my 
knees; but in the dimness I reached out 
and found her hands, and bowed my 
aching head upon them. 
And presently, through the mist, her 
voice reached me. 
“Oh, Peter! I will not leave you— 
lean on me—there—there!” And, little 
by little, those strong, gentle hands drew 
me up once more to light and life. And 
so she got me to a chair, and brought cool 
water, and washed the blood and sweat 
from me, as she had once before, only now 
my hurts were deeper, for my head grew 
beyond my strength to support, and my 
brain throbbed with fire. 
“Are you in much pain, Peter?” 
“My head—only my head, Charmian— 
there is a bell ringing there, no—it is a 
hammer, beating.” And indeed I remem¬ 
bered little for a while, until I found she 
was kneeling beside me, feeding me with 
broth from a spoon. Wherefore I pres¬ 
ently took the basin from her and emptied 
it at a gulp, and, finding myself revived 
thereby, made some shift to eat of the 
supper she set before me. 
So she presently came and sat beside 
me and ate also, watching me. 
“Your poor hands!” said she, and, 
looking down at them, I saw that my 
knuckles were torn and broken. “And 
yet, said Charmian, “except for the cut 
in your head, you are quite unmarked.” 
“He fought mostly for the body,” 
I answered, “and I managed to keep my 
face out of the way; but he caught me 
twice—once upon the chin, lightly, and 
once up behind the ear, heavily; had 
his fist landed fairly I don’t think even 
you could have brought me back from 
those loathly depths, Charmian.” 
AND in a while, supper being done, she 
brought my pipe, and filled it, and 
held the light for me. But my head 
throbbed woefully and for once the to¬ 
bacco was flavorless. I laid the pipe by. 
“Why, Peter!” said Charmian, anx¬ 
iously, “can’t you smoke?” 
“Not just now, Charmian,” said I, 
and, leaning my head in my hands, fell 
into a sort of coma, till, feeling her touch 
upon my shoulder, I looked up. 
“You must go to bed, Peter.” 
“Very well, Charmian, yes—I will go 
to bed,” and I rose. 
"Do you feel better now, Peter?” 
“Thank you, yes—much better.” 
“Then why do you hold on to the 
chair? ” 
"I am still a little giddy—but it will 
pass. And—Charmian—you forgive—” 
“Yes —yes, don’t—don’t look at me 
like that, Peter—and—oh, good night!— 
foolish boy!” 
But as she turned away I saw that there 
Were tears in her eyes. 
Dressed as I was, I lay down upon my 
bed, and, burying my head in the pillow, 
groaned,'for my pain was very sore; in¬ 
deed I was to feel the effects of George’s 
hst for many a day to come, and it 
seems to me now that much of the morbid 
imaginings, the nightly horrors, and black 
despair, that I endured in the time which 
immediately followed, was chiefly owing 
*o that terrible blow upon the head. 
CHAPTER XXI 
OF THE OPENING OF THE DOOR AND HOW 
CHARMIAN BLEW OUT THE LIGHT 
DETER!—Peter!— wake! wake!” I 
sat up in bed, and, as I listened, 
® fit of trembling shook me violently, for 
in the whisper was an agony of fear and 
dread indescribable. 
“Quick, Peter!—come to me!” 
I strove to move, but still I could not. 
And now, in the darkness, hands were 
shaking me wdldly, and Charmian’s voice 
was speaking in my ear. 
“The door!” it whispered, “the door!” 
Then I arose, and was in the outer 
room, with Charmian close beside me, 
and my eyes were upon the door. And 
then I beheld a thin line of white light 
traversed the floor. Now, as I watched 
this narrow line, I saw that it was gradu¬ 
ally widening and widening; very slowly, 
and with infinite caution, the door was 
being opened from without. I heard 
Charmian s breath catch, and, in the 
dark, her hand came and crept into mine 
and her fingers were cold as death. 
And now a great anger came upon me, 
and I took a quick step forward, but 
Charmian restrained me. 
“No, Peter!” she breathed; “not yet— 
wait!” and wound her arms round mine. 
JN a corner near by stood my trusty 
staff and I reached, and took it up. bal¬ 
ancing it in my hand. And all the time 
I watched thatt line of light upon the floor 
growing even broader and more broad. 
The minutes dragged slowly by, while the 
line grew into a streak, and the streak 
into a lane, and upon the lane came a blot 
that slowly resolved itself into the shadow 
of a hand upon the latch. Slowly, slowly, 
to the hand came a wrist, and to the wrist 
an arm—another minute, and this mad¬ 
dening suspense would be over. Despite 
Charmian’s retraining clasp, I crept a long 
pace nearer the softly moving door. 
The sharp angle of the elbow was grow¬ 
ing obtuse as the shadowy arm straight¬ 
ened itself. Thirty seconds more! I be¬ 
gan to count, and, gripping my staff, 
braced myself for what might be, when— 
with a sudden cry, Charmian sprang for¬ 
ward, and, hurling herself against the 
door, shut it with a crash. 
“Quick, Peter!” she panted. I was 
beside her almost as she spoke, and had 
my hand upon the latch. 
“I must see who this was,” said I. 
“No, no—I say no!” 
“Whoever it was must not escape— 
open the door!” 
“Never! never—I tell you—death is 
outside—there’s murder in the very air; 
I feel it—and—the door has no bolt.” 
“They are gone now—whoever they 
were,” said I reassuringly; “the danger is 
over—if danger it could be called.” 
“Danger!” cried Charmian. “I tell 
you—it was death.” 
“Yet, after all, it may have been only 
some homeless wanderer.” 
“Then why that deadly, silent cau¬ 
tion?” 
“True!” said I, becoming thoughtful. 
“Bring the table, Peter, and set it 
across the door.” 
“Surely the table is too light to—” 
“But it will give sufficient warning — 
not that I shall sleep again to-night. Oh, 
Peter! had I not happened to wake, to 
look toward the door, it would have 
opened—wide, and then—bring the table, 
Peter.” 
Now, groping about, my hand encoun¬ 
tered one of the candles, and taking out 
my tinder-box, all unthinking, I light it. 
Charmian was leaning against the door, 
clad in a flowing white garment—all 
dainty frills and laces, with here and there 
a bow of blue riband, disposed, it would 
seem, by chance, and yet most wonder¬ 
fully. And up from this foam of laces her 
shoulders rose, white and soft, sweeping 
up.to the smooth round column of her 
throat. But as I stared she gave a sudden 
gasp, and stooped her head, and crossed 
her hands upon her bosom, while up over 
neck and cheek and brow ebbed that 
warm, crimson tide; and I could only 
gaze and gaze—till, with a movement 
swift and light, she crossed to that betray¬ 
ing candle and, stooping, blew out the 
light. 
Then I set the table across the door, 
having done which I stood looking 
toward where she yet stood. 
“Charmian,” said I. 
“Yes, Peter.” , 
“ To-morrow—” 
“Yes, Peter?” 
“I will make a bar to hold the door.” < 
“Yes, Peter.” $ 
“You would feel safe, then—safer than 
ever?” 
“Safer than ever, Peter.” 
CHAPTER XXn 
4 
IN WHICH THE ANCIENT DISCOURSES ON 
LOVE 
I AM forging a bar for my cottage door: 
a bar that shall defy all the night- 
prowlers that ever prowled; a stout, solid 
bar, broad as my wrist, and thick as my 
two fingers; that, looking upon it as it lies 
in its sockets across the door, Charmian 
henceforth may sleep and have no fear. 
The Ancient sat perched on his stool in 
the corner, but we spoke little, for I was 
very busy; also my mind was plunged in a 
profound reverie. 
“’T is bewitched you be, Peter!” said 
the old man suddenly, “bewitched as 
ever was,” and he chuckled. 
“Bewitched!” said I, starting. 
“Ah!—theer you stand wi’ your ’am- 
mer in your ’and—a-starin’ an’ a-starin’, 
an’ a-sighin’ an’ a-sighin’—” 
“Did I indeed sigh. Ancient?” 
“Ah—that ye did—like a cow, Peter, 
or a ’orse—’eavy an’ tired like. An’ slow 
you be, an’ dreamy—you as was so bright 
an' spry; theer’s some as might think as’t 
Last week’s puzzle concealed eleven rabbits. There are lots of tulips 
in this Blot-Out. Look for the answer next week. 
were the work o ghosts, or demons, 
a-castin’ their spells on ye, but I know 
different—you’m just bewitched, Peter!” 
and he chuckled again. 
"Who knows?—perhaps I am, but it will 
pass, whatever it is.” 
“Don’t ye be too sure o’ that—theer’s 
bewitchments an’ bewitchments, Peter.” 
ITEREUPON the smithy became full 
of the merry din of my hammer, 
and while I worked the Ancient smoked 
his pipe; moreover, each time that I hap¬ 
pened to glance up, it was to find him 
regarding me with a certain fixity of eye, 
which at another time would ha.ve struck 
me as portentous. 
“Ye be palish this marnin’, Peter!” 
said he, dabbing at me suddenly with his 
pipe-stem; “shouldn’t wonder if you was 
to tell me as your appetite was bad; come 
now—ye didn’t eat much of a breakfus’ 
this marnin’, did ye?” 
“I don’t think I did, Ancient.” 
“A course not!” said the old man, with 
a nod of profound approval. “Ye’ll 
make a tidy smith one o’ these days, 
Peter,” he said encouragingly, as I 
straightened my back and plunged the 
iron back into the fire. 
“Thank you. Ancient.” 
“Ay—you’ve larned to use a ’ammer 
purty well, though you be wastin’ your 
opportunities shameful, Peter. Moon 
can’t last much longer—she be on the 
Wane a’ready!” 
“Moon?” said I, staring. 
“Ah, moon!” nodded the old man; 
“theer’s nowt like a moon, Peter, an’ if 
she be at the full so much the better.” 
“But what have the moon and I to do 
with each other. Ancient?” 
“Love, Peter!” 
“Love!” said I, letting go the handle 
of the bellows. 
“An’ marriage, Peter.” 
“What in the world put such thoughts 
into your head?” 
“Ah!—some men is born lovers, Peter, 
an’ you be one.” 
“But, Ancient, I am not the kind of 
man women would be at racted by. I 
love books and solitude, and am called 
a—pedant! and, besides, I am not of 
a loving sort—” 
“Some men, Peter, falls in love as easy 
as they falls out; it comes to some soft an’ 
quiet—like the dawn of a summer’s day, 
Peter; but to others'it comes like a gert 
an’ tur’ble storm—oh, that it do! An’ 
some day you’ll find ’er, Peter, an’ she’ll 
find you—” 
“And,” said I, staring away into the 
distance, “do you think that, by any 
possible chance, she might love me, this 
woman?” 
“Ay, for sure,” said the Ancient, “for 
sure she will; why don’t ’ee up an ax ’er? 
Wi’ a fine, round moon over’ead, an’ 
a pretty maid at your elber, it’s easy 
enough to tell ’er you love ’er, aren’t it?” 
“Indeed, yes,” said I, beginning to rub 
my chin. 
“An’ when you looks into a pair o’ 
sweet eyes, an’ sees the shine o’ the moon 
in ’em—why, it aren’t so very fur to ’er 
lips, are it, Peter?” « 
'‘No,” said I, rubbing my chin harder 
than ever; “no—and there’s the danger 
of it.” 
“Wheer’s t’ danger, Peter?” 
“Everywhere!” I answered; “in her 
eyes, in her thick, soft hair, the touch of 
her hand, the contact of her garments— 
her very step!” 
“I knowed it!” cried the Ancient joy¬ 
fully. 
“Knew what?” 
“You be in love—good lad!” and he 
flourished his pipe. 
“In love!” I exclaimed; “in love—I?” 
“ Love is what makes a man so brave 
as a lion, Peter, an’ fall a-tremblin’ like 
a coward when She stands a-lookin’ up 
at ’im; love makes the green earth greener, 
an’ the long road short—ah! almost too 
short, sometimes, the love of a woman 
cobles betwixt a man an’ all eVils an’ 
{Continued on page 328) 
