Cupid of Campion

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Ezra. His voice was raucous.

“My friend,” said Clarence. “I’m not at all pleased with that laugh of yours.”

“What?” sputtered Ezra.

“It notes the vacant mind,” continued Clarence, with apparent calm. “Also I desire to state that while I don’t mind your spilling me, I do object to your spilling this girl.”

“What?” roared Ezra, doubling his fists and advancing to within a few feet of the youthful knight.

“I’m not deaf, either. The thing for you to do now is to apologize to Dora.”

“What?” roared Ezra, louder than ever.

“Oh, you’re deaf, are you?”

Here Clarence put his two hands like a speaking-trumpet before his mouth and shrilled at the top of his voice.

“Apologize to Dora!”

For answer Ezra’s right hand shot out, aimed direct for Clarence’s jaw. The youngster, expecting such demonstration, jumped back, but not so quickly as to avoid entirely the force of the blow; and as he returned with a facer that caught Ezra between the eyes, the gypsies, man, woman and child, came hurrying to the spot in such short order that, when Ben threw himself between the two, a circle was already formed about the belligerents.

Ezra addressed Ben in gypsy patter. His words were few. Ben nodded.

“Go ahead,” he said, and drew back into the circle; and before Clarence had caught the full significance of these words, a blow planted full below his jaw sent him to the earth. He was up at once, and, on careful guard, warded off several more vicious attacks and waited for an opening. It came presently and left Ezra’s left eye in a state which promised to develop presently into deep mourning.

At this the gypsy lad lost control of himself and proceeded to strike out furiously and wildly. It was easy for Clarence, a trained boxer and agile as a cat, to ward off these blows; easy for him, now and then, to reach his adversary with what are known in sporting circles as love-taps. In a few minutes, Ezra was breathing heavily. Suddenly the gypsy changed his tactics; he tried to catch Clarence in his arms and bear him to the ground. Clarence, not without difficulty, succeeded in breaking away, and, once free, changed his tactics, too. Springing forward, he literally rained blows upon the winded foe. Nose, eyes, mouth, jaw, all received vigorous attention, till Ezra, unable to stand the punishment, jumped back and averted his head.

“Did you say nuff?” asked Clarence, pausing, and standing still in the center of the ring.

For answer, Ezra made a flying leap at his foe, determined by sheer weight and momentum to bring Clarence to defeat. The young knight was quick to adjust himself. Ezra’s head, intended to ram the lad’s chest, found itself noosed within Clarence’s strong right arm. The catch nearly brought the young knight to the earth; but surefootedness won out, and Ezra was in chancery.

“Say ’nuff,” commanded Clarence, with a hug and a punch that were practically simultaneous.

Pete spoke sharply to Ezra.

“’Nuff,” said the gypsy boy.

“All right,” said Clarence, and releasing his hold left Ezra free and evidently much the worse for the short encounter.

The gypsies had been silent throughout the brisk combat. It was impossible to tell from their faces on which side their sympathies lay.

“Boy,” said Ben, slipping into the ring, “I’d advise you to shake hands with Ezra.”

“Happy thought,” gasped Clarence. “Say, Ezra, if you’ll tell Dora you’re sorry for taking liberties with her, I’ll be glad to shake hands with you.”

For answer, Ezra broke into half audible maledictions.

“What did he do?” asked Ben.

Clarence explained.

“You apologize,” said Ben sternly, on hearing the story, “or I’ll give you another licking myself.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ezra, with the worst possible grace.

Then Clarence caught Ezra’s hand and pumped it up and down with an assurance which was amazing.

The night was now well advanced, and dark clouds, black and heavy, had within the last half hour shut out the friendly eyes of the stars. A peal of distant thunder was heard.

“We’d better get ready for bed,” said Ben.

At his word, all seated themselves about the dying fire, save Pete and his wife who at once made for the larger tent. One of the children came running to Ben with a guitar; whereupon Dora rose and with clasped hands stood beside the young gypsy.

Ben, striking a few chords, nodded to Dora, who, at the nod, opened her lips and broke forth in as sweet a voice as ever awoke the woodlands of Wisconsin into – Gounod’s Ave Maria.

Clarence was spellbound. He was exalted, carried out of himself. It was not the voice alone, though the voice was thrillingly sweet; not the music, though the air was one that holds music-lovers rapt the world over; not the accompaniment, though it was supremely exquisite in the sacred silence of the night. There was more than all this; faith, and love, and purity, and innocence – all springing from the heart of a child – supplied undertones beyond the reach of art that music could supply.

As the song proceeded, the rain began to fall, but the rain was heeded by none – not even by the little children. Towards the end, the down-pour grew heavy; but spellbound, no one moved. As the last note died into silence, there ensued a few breathless seconds; then came a burst of thunder and a forked prong of lightning which seemed to strike into their very midst. All jumped up and made for cover.

“Come with me,” said Ben, catching Clarence’s hand. “Your quarters will be in the wagon. She sings,” he added, “that song every night, and,” continued the musician, as he helped Clarence into his new sleeping quarters, “she sings it like an angel.”

“So she does.”

“And,” added Ben, in a whisper, “she is an angel.”

Ten minutes later Clarence was lying upon a bed of straw, and meditating upon the events of the most adventurous day in his life. Around him lay four gypsy men – Ezra, Pete’s two older sons, and Ben. But he was, to all intents and purposes, alone. And then in bitterness and sorrow the young adventurer wept salt tears and checked with difficulty the sighs of utter misery. He was captive; his parents were, he supposed, frantic with grief. Perhaps they thought him dead. And so Clarence, frightened and unnerved, wept freely.

Suddenly the quiet was broken. The same sweet voice, low and clear, trilled out from the little tent:

“Mother dear, O pray for me,
While far from heaven and thee
I wander in a fragile bark
O’er life’s tempestuous sea.”

Clarence, at the first notes, stopped crying.

“By George!” he said to himself at the end of the first stanza, “Here’s the difference between that girl and me. I address myself to the bright-eyed goddess of adventure – and see where I am! And she calls on her dear Mother, who is also the Mother of God, and just look what Dora is!”

Before the second stanza was quite finished, the exhausted youth fell into a disturbed sleep. He tossed uneasily for a time, then murmuring as he turned, “Mother dear, O pray for me,” he was wrapped in a slumber which no noise could disturb.

CHAPTER VII

In which the strange tale of Dora, another victim of the Bright-eyed Goddess, is told to Clarence

When Clarence awoke the next morning, it dawned upon him very slowly that he was in the firm grasp of a stronger hand, and, without any effort on his part, walking up and down the greensward at a pace not unworthy of a professional walker. A further survey brought to his notice the gypsies grouped together and eyeing him with interest. At her tent door, Dora, fresh as a dew-washed rose, stood laughing at him heartily. It was Ben, he also realized, who, holding him by arm and collar, was causing him to walk with such tremendous strides.

“I say, Ben, drop it. Let me go. What’s the matter?”