The next morning about mid-day Valentin Debrasques was making his way slowly through all the numerous impediments that encumbered the ground between the spot where the dragoons of Listenai were encamped on one side of Gross-Saxen, and the town of Ladenburg where Turenne's headquarters were. It was difficult enough to progress quickly since, first, he would encounter a regiment or a battalion passing from one point to another, or next, be stopped upon his journey by a long string of baggage waggons, or the artillery with their heavy guns moving in the direction of where the Imperialists were under the command of the Duke de Bournonville--nor, indeed, was he particularly anxious to progress much more rapidly than at present he was doing.
He was engaged upon the most hateful journey which he had ever yet undertaken; was about to pay a visit to the cousin whom, not a year before, he had requested never to speak to him again. Yet, now, because he deemed it was for the honour of his house to do so, he was going to that cousin's quarters to seek an interview with him--to demand that he should receive his visit.
When Churchill had said overnight that, without doubt, the red-haired officer was the Vicomte de Bois-Vallée, the young marquis knew that further concealment was impossible, and that the gallant soldier whose name was Vause must ere long come into contact with him--and he dreaded that contact, not for his cousin's sake, but for Vause's. For he had learnt a year ago (not from Bois-Vallée himself, but from a joint friend of theirs who had been in England at the same time as the Vicomte) of what he had done there--he had learnt, also, that the man who had been so cruelly injured was called Vause. And he remembered the name well enough--better, perhaps, than he might have remembered it had it been an ordinary English one, from the simple fact that there were many of the same name in France. He thought, therefore, that, like so many of his countrymen, this Englishman inherited his name from some French ancestor who had originally passed over to England. But, be this how it might, he did remember it as being the name of him who had been so vilely injured, and, when the man sitting in his room in Paris had said he was so called, it had agitated him to such an extent that the broken glass and the spilt wine had been the result.
Yet, still, there was one thing he could not understand--Andrew Vause showed no sign of recognition when he saw the picture hanging in his hall, nor when he saw the man himself. Had they, therefore, never met? It might be so. He knew the Englishman was a soldier who, by his own showing, had roamed about Europe fighting in one campaign and another; the wrong might have been done when his back was turned--when he was away.
It seemed, indeed, that such must be the case from the first words Andrew spoke when, Churchill and the other officer having ridden slowly ahead, they, with the dragoons as well as the baggage train, which had been sent back for, followed.
"Therefore," Andrew said, "that is De Bois-Vallée. And your cousin. So, so! A pity."
"I hoped you would never have met," the marquis said; "that you would never have known that he was here in this campaign. Never, never! We have grown firm friends--sworn comrades--and, God! it is a shame! It is from our house that the offence has come."
"Never have met!" Andrew repeated. "Never have met!" Then, after a moment's pause, he said: "Debrasques, there must be no concealment between us, come what may. It is to meet him that I am here. I have one thing to do--you need no telling what that thing is."
"I can guess. To slay the man who stole your promised wife."
"My promised wife!" looking down at him. "My promised wife!"
"Why, yes! Was she not? I had a friend in England who knew something of his villainy."
"Had she been my promised wife and fled with him thus, she might have gone hang, and, for the matter of that, so might he. No woman who could do as that woman did would have been worth a pair of crossed swords. But, unhappily for him--for this cousin of yours--the treachery was committed by them both against one whom I loved better than myself--the gentlest soul on earth, and unable to avenge himself."
"Another Vause! Had I known that, my trepidation would not have been so great when you saw his picture--when he passed us two hours ago."
"Ay! Another Vause, my elder brother. But it makes no matter, except that, as I tell you, I shall avenge him far more than I should avenge myself. Debrasques," and he put his hand on the neck of the boy's horse as it trotted side by side with his own, "Debrasques, there is no need of concealment nor of lies and deception on my part. Listen! We stand on the threshold of a new friendship, yet, though that friendship will perforce wither and die through my future actions, I must perform them. My friend until to-morrow, at least--I am here in the Palatinate to slay your cousin."
"Yet--yet," the lad stammered, scarce knowing what to say, "that was not your intent when first we met. You said then you had returned to France to join the army."
"I returned to France to find him. But, ere I knew of the evil he had done my brother, I had procured from King Charles letters to Turenne commanding here, to Condé commanding in Flanders, one even to King Louis in command of his army in Franche-Comté, and another to Colonel Churchill now with us, for I had to be a soldier again. But, when I learnt from my brother's dying lips of what this Vicomte had done, I knew that, with those letters in my possession, I could make my way to wherever he might be. I had heard," and Andrew looked terribly grim as he uttered these last words, "that this man had the skill of amaître d'armes, therefore I supposed him a soldier. In Paris, on the night I met you, I learnt that he was one. Then my resolve was taken."
"Will nothing shake it?"
"Nothing--or only one thing. Let me find out that he was absolutely without knowledge that he was injuring my brother--let it be proved to me that he did not know the woman he took away with him was an affianced wife, and I cease my quest; his death may come to him how it will. I shall not seek it. Nay, if you, Debrasques, who appear to know much of what has happened, can assure me such was the case, I cease to seek for him from this moment."
"Alas!" murmured the other, "I have no such assurance to give."
"Did he know?" asked Andrew, pressing him, "had he ever heard of the name of Vause? But, why ask? You knew my name; therefore, he knew it too."
And his companion's silence and wistful look told him that he had suspected aright.
And now, on this the following morning, the young man was winding his way through all the bustle and confusion of a great army taking breathing time between one battle and another that was imminent. And, as he pursued that way, he whispered to himself:
"If I can work on his fears so much as to force him--even in the teeth of the enemy--to quit the field, to exchange either to the King's or Condé's army, disgrace and misery may be avoided. But, can I? Can I? Villain as he is, he is yet no coward."
It was still two hours ere the Marquis Debrasques stood face to face with his kinsman, he having been away with Turenne and several of his generals on the road to Mannheim; but, at last, the weary time passed, and the Marquis de Bois-Vallée entered the room in the farmhouse which was allotted to him for quarters, and stood before his cousin, saying as he did so:
"Eh bien!Monsieur le Marquis, this is an overwhelming honour and not to have been expected, in spite of my having recognized you last night. Well!" and he unbuckled hisporte-épéeand flung that and the weapon it bore into the corner of the room as he spoke, while also he removed his wig and showed thereby the auburn, red-tinged hair that was so noticeable, "to what am I to attribute that honour? Scarcely, I should imagine, to the desire to pay a visit of courtesy, since, when last we met, you forbade me ever to address you again."
Standing there before Debrasques, his lean figure (which was set off well enough by the handsome blue coat he wore, with its red facings and gold galloonings, and with, across his breast, beneath the silver gorget, the aiguilettes which showed that he was attached to the staff of the Marshal) and his light blue eyes, which he never took off his cousin, seemed to proclaim him a man of tenacious disposition. For the tall, wiry form looked as though it were capable of almost any endurance or exercise of strength, while the steely eyes spoke of an invincible determination within.
"No visit of courtesy would have brought me here to you," replied Debrasques, who retained the common wooden chair in which he had been seated for those two hours, and from which he had not risen on his cousin's entrance. "Instead, something of a totally different nature. For the reputation of the family of which I have the honour to be the head, and of which you are a member, I desire that you shall remove yourself from this camp."
For a moment those blue eyes shot out a rapid glance at the young man seated there; then their owner said, speaking in an extraordinarily calm manner:
"Have you,par hazard, Monsieur le Marquis, taken leave of your senses? Are you aware of what you have asked?"
"Perfectly. I have asked you, a soldier in the face of the enemy and of thegarde du corpsof the Marshal Turenne, to quit the camp. That is what I have demanded in my senses, and is what I am anxious you should do."
Still gazing at him steadily, the Vicomte drew up another common wooden chair in front of the other, and, sitting in it and facing him, said, always in the same self-contained voice:
"There is naturally some explanation of this--I will not honour it by saying 'insulting'--request. Be good enough to give it, and then, head of our family as you are, to take yourself back to your own lines. Quick; I am much occupied with my duties, and shall be until I relinquish them at your desire."
"The explanation is, to begin with, that Captain Vause has arrived in this camp with the full determination of calling you to account for your proceedings in England some three years ago, in connection with a certain lady of that country."
"Indeed!" and now the Vicomte de Bois-Vallée allowed a smile to appear faintly on his features. "Et après!When he has done so, what next?"
"When he has done so," repeated Debrasques, who was as calm as the other, if not, perhaps, as skilled in word-fence. "Well, I have no doubt that, having called you to account, he will kill you."
"Si?" and again the other smiled. "Doubtless, therefore, he is a fire-eater. But, permit me to say once more--what next?"
"Your death will bring a scandal on our family. This I desire to prevent. The Debrasques have had their faults, probably some of their kinsmen before you have even brought scandal on that family, but no such mean action as you committed----"
"Monsieur le Marquis," the other interrupted quickly, and with no smile on his face now, "I would suggest to you a more temperate tone. Otherwise this man Vause, of whom you speak, may lose his opportunity of, as you say, killing me. It may be necessary for me to offer you the first chance."
"Which would not be accepted. I should not cross swords with you. You will remember that your flight with the lady in question was brought to the ears of the King himself--in spite of the English King's indifference--by our ambassador to England, on the complaint of her father. Also, that his Majesty demanded an explanation from me for the outrage that you, an accredited member of the suite sent over by him, had committed, and that it was only on being able to state that you had married the lady that you were allowed to retain your position with the Marshal. But I have since found that that statement, made on your authority, was a lie. You have not married the lady."
"Mon Dieu!" the other exclaimed, roused now. "No, I have not--though there is a strange explanation of----"
"Stop. I will hear no explanation. You deceived me once, and you will doubtless deceive me again. But, as I have said, you must leave this camp."
"I will not leave it. Bah! It would be ruin, ignominy. What! leave the army with another engagement at hand, and--and--which is greater ignominy if possible, run away from this man who has sought me out. Sought me! Sought me the best master of fence in all Turenne's forces. It is impossible."
"Still, it must be done. Otherwise I shall inform the King of the falsehood told him. Then--if he chooses to pardon you--I cannot help it, and Andrew Vause may kill you."
"Andrew Vause!" the other exclaimed. "Andrew Vause! Of whom are you speaking? That is not the man to whom she was affianced. His name was Philip."
"And he is his brother."
"Ha! So! I hope he is not so much of a weakling as report would have that brother to be, otherwise he will scarce enjoy a quarter of an hour with me, nor----"
"I tell you he is no weakling, and he has come here with the determination of killing you----"
"Which would grieve you--my cousin, and his friend?"
"It would not grieve me in the least. But, as I say, it would lead to scandal, and might prevent my search for the unhappy lady whom you have vilely deceived. Also----"
"Your search for the unhappy lady, as you term her--your search! You intend that? Monsieur le Marquis, what do you mean by this intrusion in my affairs? Answer me!" And now he had risen from his chair and stood before his young cousin, his eyes fixed piercingly on the boy's face. "Quick. Answer."
"I mean that the instant this campaign is over, be it long or short--and if I live through it--I intend to find the woman you have betrayed, inveigled from her own country to ours, and to return her to her father, if he will take her back. And in my search for her I intend to procure, if possible, the services of Captain Vause."
"So. You intend to do that--if you live. Valentin Debrasques, you will not live. Therefore, be warned in time. If Montecuculi's or Caprara's soldiers do not put an end to your viperish young career--why, as you say--the campaign will be over, and then you will have to make your account with me. Now," he continued, and as he spoke he threw open the door and pointed to it, "go. And, remember, when the campaign is over, I shall demand an interview with you."
"I will remember," Debrasques said, also rising now from his chair. "Fear not. But, previously, there are other things which you had best not forget. First, that the King will be informed of the lie about your marriage with the lady, and, next----"
"Yes? Next?"
"That Montecuculi's or Caprara's soldiers may be as like to put an end to your career as to mine, and, even if they do not, why, then----"
"Yes?" De Bois-Vallée said again interrogatively. "Yes? And then?"
"Why, then--if you are not previously sent away in disgrace from Turenne's service--Andrew Vause will kill you himself."
"Go!" the Vicomte said once more, and pointing still with his finger to the door, while Debrasques, watching it, thought it shook somewhat now. "Go, before it is too late."
A day or two after the interview between Debrasques and his cousin, Andrew Vause sat in his tent, for the four English-speaking regiments--namely, those under Churchill and Colonel Littleton, who commanded the Duke of Monmouth's Foot, and those commanded respectively by Hamilton and Lord Douglas--were not cantoned in the villages which had escaped destruction by the flames, but were under canvas around Ladenburg and Gross-Saxen. Indeed, so furious were the members of the auxiliary forces, which Charles had sent to help his brother monarch, at the manner in which scores of their comrades had been treated by the people of the Palatinate in their mad revenge, that Turenne wisely billeted them where there was no more property to be destroyed. Already this wanton destruction had led to much outcry against the Marshal, and also to a challenge to him to fight a duel from Charles Louis, the Elector-Palatine; and, hampered and annoyed as he was by shortness of men and continued reproaches from Louvois, the Minister of War in Paris, he was desirous now that, outside actual warfare with the Imperialists, there should be no more horrors perpetrated than necessary.
Before Andrew, on a common wooden table at which he sat, there lay a sheet of paper on which he had written at the bottom, with as great legibility as possible, his name in large clear characters, and this paper he was now perusing for the second or third time ere folding it and affixing a seal thereto.
"Yes," he murmured to himself. "Yes; it should suffice. The disguise is flimsy, 'tis true, but the name tells all. If he is not a cur 'twill do very well," and again he read it over. It ran as follows:--
"To Monsieur le Vicomte de Bois-Vallée, of the bodyguard of the Vicomte de Turenne, Marshal-General of the King's Armies.
"Sir,--Your fame as a swordsman is so widespread that it has reached my ears and inspired me with a desire to have evidence thereof, being myself considered no mean wielder of the blade. As brother officers in the same army may I, therefore, humbly beg that you will give me proof of your cleverness. The weapon I usually carry is in length forty inches, but in Paris, ere joining my present regiment, I purchased two others, one being of the length in blade of thirty-six inches, and the other of thirty-eight. As I do not doubt that, in your courtesy, you will not refuse this favour to a brother swordsman, I will await you, sir, at either sunrise or sunset at any retired spot you may honour me by naming, and will attend either alone or with a second as you may direct. And I have the honour to subscribe myself, Monsieur le Vicomte,
"Your most humble servitor,
"Andrew Vause,
"Attached as volunteer to the Royal English Regiment, commanded by Colonel John Churchill."
Then, having sent the document off by what he knew was a sure hand, Andrew sat down and waited for the reply of De Bois-Vallée.
But several days passed, yet none came, and, at last, Andrew growing impatient (for now it was rumoured that there must be another battle ere long, and he knew that the chance of war might rob him of his vengeance by removing him or the Vicomte from each other's path), he set about inditing another epistle. This time it was more laconic.
"Sir," he now wrote, "owing doubtless to the attention demanded from you by your duty, I have received no answer to my request for a trial of our skill at swordplay. With much respect I still await that answer," and he concluded his letter with the usual ceremonial flourishes.
Yet still some days passed by and no answer came, so that Andrew thought he would once more be forced to take up his quill, while all the time his great hand was itching to grasp one of the weapons on which his eyes lovingly reposed as they stood in a bundle in a corner of the room. Then, one night, as he returned to his tent after going the rounds, and after also stopping to drink a glass or so of ratafia with some of his brother officers, many of whom were old comrades, he found lying on his table a letter--a letter with a great seal upon it, on which was a vicomte's coronet and a coat-of-arms, and which he tore open eagerly.
Yet it was unsatisfactory, as he saw in a moment, though such was not the description that the soldier applied to the writer of the document while he perused it, but rather such words as "Cur" and "Craven."
The communication was prefaced and concluded as Andrew's own challenges had been, with all necessary politeness and ceremony, yet it simply conveyed to him the fact that De Bois-Vallée refused to meet him.
"As you are aware," it said, "duelling is forbidden to officers on active service; even the Marshal himself was forced to refuse to meet the Elector-Palatine. Nor, since I cannot think, sir, that it is simply a trial of skill which you desire, can I consent to meet you at this present moment. Later on I hope I may be accorded that honour."
Then, hot with passion, Andrew, before seeking his bed from which his duties would necessitate his rising ere the dawn, sat down and scratched off one more letter.
"Sir," he wrote, "if you do not meet me within forty-eight hours, I will affront you so publicly before some of your own officers that you shall be forced to draw on the instant. And, if that suffice not, I will there and then bodily chastise you, while, for justification, I will publicly proclaim your conduct in England to my late brother, Philip Vause, and the lady to whom he was betrothed. To-morrow night I shall attend at seven o'clock in the glade a few minutes' walk west of the burnt church, and also on the following night. Each night for an hour. I counsel you to come."
"Wait," he said in the morning to the soldier-servant who attended on him, and who was about to proceed to Turenne's quarters with the letter half an hour after daybreak, "wait for an answer by word of mouth. Yes or No. Those who take the letter from your hand can bring you back the reply. Remember, by word of mouth."
Then he went forth to a hard day's duty with the regiment, which was under orders to be ready at any moment to strike its tents and march in all probability towards the defile of Rhinzabern, and did not return again until the evening.
By that time he knew that the opportunity for the Vicomte to avoid him no longer existed; the order had gone forth that day that the remainder of the army would possibly not move till the following week. De Bois-Vallée could not, therefore, escape thus, as Andrew had feared he would be able to do if the rout had been set for that night.
"He is mine. Mine," he said to himself as he strode to his tent. "Mine if only I have pricked him into consent. He cannot avoid me now. I will have him somehow, even though he should again refuse to meet me."
For that De Bois-Vallée could emerge triumphant from this "trial of skill" he never believed; nay, gave no thought to.Maître d'armesor not, as he might be, Andrew Vause felt sure that, once point to point with him, he would avenge his brother.
His man met him at the door, and, in answer to the hasty question, "Well, what reply?" said, "the reply, sir, is 'Yes. To-night,'" and, as a glow of satisfaction rose to his master's bosom, the servant continued, "Also, there is this for you, sir," and produced a letter with, again, the great seal on it.
"You force this upon me," it ran, "therefore the outcome is on your own head. I choose swords of the length of thirty-eight inches. I shall come alone, as I do not desire to be punished for your death."
Andrew had smiled but little since he saw Philip's coffin lowered into the grave by the side of his mother and father, nor had he made many of the jokes he loved since that day, yet he smiled now so pleasantly that his servant, who strongly suspected a duel to be lurking beneath all this fetching and carrying of letters and messages, began to think he was mistaken, and went to his night quarters quite cheerfully. Yet, ere he departed, he asked his master if he desired to be awakened as usual half an hour before daybreak--the question being put as much with a desire to see if it would be answered with any shadow of doubt attached to it, as to know his duty.
"Ay," said Andrew quietly, "or maybe a little earlier. And have all my necessaries ready for our departure. We shall most like strike tent to-morrow."
After which reply the man went away, thinking what a fool he had been to suppose that people would be killing each other when there was an enemy of twice their own force close at hand to do it for them.
Left alone, Andrew picked out the rapier--a deep cup-hilted one--whose size De Bois-Vallée had suggested, and tested it severely against the floor and wall, bending it against each until it must have broken had it not been of the finest-tempered steel; also he examined carefully its hilt and quillon to see that all was secure and firm.
"I must give my friend no chance," he thought; "a broken blade, a loosened hilt, and--poof!--good-night to Andrew Vause!"
So, satisfied that all was well with the weapon, he rubbed it carefully on his sleeve, and, returning it to its black leather scabbard, went forth with it behind his back.
The glade near the burnt church which some of Hamilton's men had fired a week ago--wherefore two were now hanging by Turenne's orders to a yew tree outside it--was very peaceful in the glow of the summer sunset, and here, at least, except for the view of the ruined church through the trees that bordered the grassy space, there were no signs of the devastation of the land. Above, the rooks were cawing as though no such thing as powder and ball had ever disturbed them, and now and again a rabbit or two, which had escaped the general pillage and search for food, ran away at the sound of Andrew's footsteps on the soft springy turf, whisking the underwhite of their tails before his eyes.
"A better spot for love-making than for killing," he thought to himself; "for an arm to fold itself around a maiden's waist, than to press down a scoundrel's guard--ah! here comes the scoundrel himself," and he took off his hat with great courtesy to the Vicomte de Bois-Vallée, who strode towards him.
The latter seemed, however, to have exhausted his politeness in the letters he had written, and, without deigning any reply to the other's salutation, instantly divested himself of his coat, while he unlooped the sheath from which he had already drawn his weapon, and threw it down on top of the garment. Yet, as he did so, he gave an astonished glance at the form of the man before him, and at his great sinewy limbs. Perhaps he had heard from the woman who had betrayed Philip how slight and delicate a man he was, and wondered that this other, who was of the same flesh and blood, should be so strong and powerful!
"I have but one question to ask," he said, as he stood now before Andrew, "a usual one in our country when one honours a stranger by crossing swords with him. You are, I presume, of gentle blood?"
"I am Philip Vause's brother. And he was of sufficiently gentle blood for you to steal his future wife from him like a thief."
"Enough," the Vicomte said, while his face became suffused. "Enough. I am at your service."
"And," continued Andrew, "had we been of the commonest clay our country owns, I should still carry out my determination of punishing such a thief."
Without another word their swords crossed, and as they did so Andrew was surprised at the reckless fury of the man before him. Was this themaître d'armes, the renownedescrimeur; this man who fought more like a hot-headed boy than a practical swordsman, cool and wary! Yet, Andrew reflected--as he parried thrust after thrust with his wrist of steel, and waited his turn, which would come soon if the Vicomte spent himself thus--doubtless the epithet of "thief" had roused him--precisely as he had meant that it should do.
Gradually, too, he edged his opponent round so that the rays of the setting sun, which had been in his own eyes when the conflict began, would, in another moment, be in those of his adversary; but this advantage he could not obtain altogether, since the Frenchman perceived his intention in an instant and endeavoured to drive Andrew back to his original position. As well might he, however, have endeavoured to drive back a rock from the earth it was set in! Andrew's feet were firm upon the turf, and, henceforth, they fought with the sun's rays athwart them, and not favouring one more than the other.
Watching De Bois-Vallée with an eye like a hawk's and parrying thrust after thrust, he saw upon the other's forehead the moisture coming and the drops gathering, and then, for the first time, he let his own weapon shoot out, after thrusting the Vicomte's last lunge away from him with another twist of his wrist. He missed his mark, it was true, since the sword's point tore but an inch out of the cambric of the other's shirt above his left shoulder, but the rip of the material under his ear told De Bois-Vallée the danger he was in. The cool Englishman before him was deadly, he recognized, otherwise how had the point reached to where it did? He had calculated the other could not come within half a foot of him.
"I will take it a little lower next time, monsieur," Andrew said quietly. "It is a charming pass when properly made!"
But at his words the furious thrusts of his opponent ceased. The Vicomte was a different man. Softly his blade now glided up and down the other's, and Andrew knew that he was going to experience a real taste of his antagonist's skill--he would learn a new pass in a moment.
And in a moment he did learn it. High up near his own hilt crept the other's sword, then he disengaged, feinted once, and--a second later--his rapier had slit the Englishman's waistcoat outside his left ribs, had passed within four inches of his heart. But, since it was four inches, it might as well have been a mile!
"Ha!" said Andrew as the other recovered himself, and, jumping back out of reach, glared at him, "a prettybotte. And worth knowing--as I know it now. But, monsieur, you should have been sure of it, or made no attempt. It will serve you no more." And with great suavity he said, "Monsieur is perhaps ready to recommence?"
"He is implacable," De Bois-Vallée thought to himself. "Curse him, he knows as much as I!" and he felt creeping over him a horrible dread. He began to fear he had fought his last duel--that in a few moments more he would be stretched gasping on the grass with his life ebbing away. Yet he nerved himself--such qualms and apprehensions as these, he knew, were fatal--and again their swords crossed.
There was no recklessness now in either combatant, no thrust made heedlessly or thrown away; instead a devilish, cruel determination in each man to strike firm and sure when next he struck at all, through heart or lung. Their weapons clashed no longer, but hissed and scraped softly against each other; once the Frenchman tried hisbotteagain, failing utterly this time, and once Andrew's blade darted forth like an adder's tongue, failing in its turn, but ripping an inch of flesh from his opponent's side.
He saw, though, that De Bois-Vallée's lips were flaky with slight streaks of foam now; he saw the smallest bead of that foam fall from his nether lip and drop upon his shirt, making a damp spot--a bead that, when there, looked darker than the white cambric--just above where his heart was.
"A target," he said to himself, "a mark. I will take him on that spot."
And, henceforth, his eye never left that mark, and his rapier's point sought it alone. Suddenly he thought he had found it! Nerved to desperation, De Bois-Vallée thrust in tierce, disengaged, and thrust again, and a moment afterwards, with a hoarse cry, staggered forward against Andrew, letting his weapon fall to the ground, and clutching at the grass with his hands as he dropped face downwards.
"Humph!" said Andrew, bending over him, after plucking a long wisp of grass from a tussock growing near, and wiping his rapier with it. "I have missed after all. It will have to be done over again." And as he rolled his late opponent on to his back, he muttered, "My eyes are failing me, or is't the evening light? I could have sworn I was through his heart, and I have but taken him in the shoulder. The hilt of my sword banging up against him has hurt him as much as the passage of the sword itself. Yet, 'twas a good blow, too! Clean through bone and muscle from point to haft."
"This will not kill him," he reflected, almost savagely for him, as he loosened his enemy's lace neckerchief, "though the night air may--if I leave him here. If--I leave him here!" And, as he so thought, he knew he could not do that--could not leave him there to bleed to death, or stiffen in the night dews.
"I must fetch someone," he reflected, "even some of these poor boors whom we have desolated, and send him back to quarters. I have a gold piece or two--they will serve."
And full of this resolve he turned to leave the glade and seek for assistance. Yet, ere he went, he threw the wounded man's rich laced coat over him, leaving his face free so that he might inhale the air, and bent over him to make sure that he was not in truth dead. Doing so, he saw that the eyes were open, staring up to the heavens, but with no glassiness about them, and that his lips moved. Moved and uttered something, too; something that seemed like the word "Marion."
"Ay, Marion," repeated Andrew. "Marion. After you, I have next to make my account with her. But how? How to do that? 'Twill be the harder task."
He went swiftly towards the end of the glade, bent on finding some assistance for his enemy ere night was full upon him--for now there was little daylight left. Yet, as he did so, he paused in the great strides he was taking--paused, and looked back.
In that glade, at the end furthest from where he had quitted it, he heard voices and a confused jumble of sounds--coarse voices speaking in the Rhenishpatois. And, thinking that here might be the aid he sought, he turned back once more to where he had left the Vicomte.
Yet, swiftly as he returned, he hurried his steps still further, bursting indeed into a run, and lugging forth his rapier once again as he did so, on observing what was now taking place in the opening. For, surrounding De Bois-Vallée were three or four rough-looking peasants, one of whom had already wrenched the coat of the prostrate man from off his body, while another was rapidly stripping him of his remaining clothes, and still another stood with the Vicomte's weapon in his hand, and with its point in murderous proximity to his throat.
Bursting in amongst them--for he recognized that, in the power of those maddened natives who had suffered so much at the hands of the invaders, his fallen foe's life was not worth a moment's purchase after they had despoiled him of his clothes and valuables--he proceeded at once to summarily prevent them from carrying out their intentions. The man holding the sword he dealt with first, by striking him such a buffet as sent him reeling backwards until, his foot catching in one of the tussocks, he fell heavily to the ground, after which Andrew administered some sound kicks to two of the others, while the fourth of the party ran roaring away. Nor, indeed, was it extremely surprising that he should do so, since the appearance of Andrew Vause, large, fierce, and terrible, and with a drawn weapon in his hand, was enough to scare any German boor. Yet he recognized that he had still a task before him, and that the rapier with which, but half an hour before, he had sought his enemy's life, would now have to stand him in good stead to protect both that life and his own. For, from the outskirts of the glade, he could hear the man who had run away, bawling in his Rhinelandpatoisto others who were undoubtedly in the neighbourhood, and yelling, "the English. The English are here.Zur Hülfe! Zur Hülfe! Zur Hülfe!" and presently the assistance he sought for came.
"Oh! that this vagabond, whose life I am doomed to save as well as take, could be of some assistance," thought Andrew, as he gazed down on De Bois-Vallée, who lay quite unconscious of what was passing above him. "But that is hopeless. So be it; I must trust to myself or to the patrol being out. Ha! here they come!"
This last exclamation referred unhappily, however, to the succour which the peasant had shrieked for, and not to the patrol, for at that moment there burst into the opening four or five more men, some of whom bore torches, and the others weapons--one of them being armed with what looked like a pole-axe.
And now Andrew knew that the task before him was a terrible one, and that he alone, and with only a duelling rapier to his hand, had to face nearly a dozen men, all of whom were almost insane with the wrongs and cruelties they had suffered. But at that moment he could not think of this; his own life was at stake; he must defend it. And, fiercely as some wounded tiger at bay, he set about doing so.
"You cravens," he called to them in German--for Andrew's roving life had taught him more than one tongue beside his own--"you cravens, come on! Here lies a dying man, also one living for you to attack. Come on, I say, come on!" and in a moment he was amongst them all, his rapier flashing like lightning in and out and under the guard of the rude weapons they carried.
But, unequal as the combat was in point of numbers, it was more than balanced by the skill of Andrew, who saw that he had but one opponent to really fear--the man with the pole-axe, which weapon he was already swinging ominously. Twice, indeed, that pole-axe had descended, yet each time it had missed its mark, burying itself in the ground once and once alighting on the shoulder of one of its owner's countrymen, who, at the moment it fell, had been thrust under it by Andrew. But he knew that such luck as this could not last; it would be swung on high again, and then--or the next time--it would not miss; his skull would be cracked like a walnut shell.
"Ha!" he exclaimed, as another peasant now seized his rapier with a view to holding him while the wielder of the axe despatched him. "Ha! so! Look to your fingers, my friend," and, as again that wielder prepared to swing his weapon on high, the long sharp blade was drawn swiftly from between those fingers, tearing them to ribbons in its passage. And then, while the wounded peasant fled shrieking in agony, with his mutilated hands held in horror before him, the rapier was rapidly raised to guard its owner's head from the downward crash of the huge hatchet. But it was a well-calculated blow that was now dealt by its owner, so well calculated, indeed, that, had Andrew not been able to free his sword at the moment he did, his brains would have been dashed out by the axe as certainly as had been the brains of countless slaughtered oxen previously. Yet, the sword was released in time from the other's clutching fingers; in time to meet the falling blow--though not in time to entirely prevent its effect. For, under that stroke, the rapier was shattered like crystal, the hilt and an inch or two of the blade alone remaining in Andrew's hand, while the force of the axe's descent, as the handle struck him heavily, bore him to the ground and on to one knee.
With a roar the owner of that fearful weapon raised and swung it again, this time to end his work effectively--yet that work was never accomplished!
Upward, with a rush like a wild cat springing at its prey, leaped Andrew, half paralyzed as his shoulder was with the concussion, the hilt and jagged broken blade in his uninjured hand, and full at the other's face he plunged, dashing into it with all his remaining force the broken weapon. And as he did so he knew he had won this fight. Down on to the grass with a thud fell the pole-axe--with a terrible cry its owner buried his wounded and disfigured face in his hands, and then, moaning feebly, staggered away after the others who had already fled as they saw their champion vanquished. And as he disappeared, Andrew, staggering too, let himself drop on to the earth near where De Bois-Vallée lay still unconscious, his features lit up by the light of a smouldering torch which one of the peasants had thrown down in his flight.
For some moments he could not think nor collect his thoughts; could, indeed, only sit on the grass, his head between his knees, his breath coming in labouring gasps from his lungs, his left side feeling numb and dead. But, as the cool night wind blew on his cheeks and forehead and revived him somewhat, he put his uninjured right hand to the earth, and, raising himself, tottered to his feet again.
"I have won two fights to-night," he muttered, "two fights, but--God!--this last one has been a terrible encounter. Yet--yet--they are won! Enough!"
Not without pain he moved towards the torch, picked it up and went over to where De Bois-Vallée lay, and looked at him, seeing that his wound had long ceased bleeding, and feeling that his pulse was beating strongly. Also, he seemed now to be asleep and free from pain, no moan coming from his lips.
"After all," he thought, looking down at his enemy, "this night--as it begins--must end our feud. Spent here, as you will spend it, wounded, and with the cold of the early hours of morning to strike to that wound, you will soon be dead--though, in the hands of the surgeon and in a warm bed, you would recover in a week. Yet, what to do? I can scarce drag myself back to my tent--and, all said, you are a villain. So be it, lie there and die--there is nought else for you. Still," he added, "I would save you an I could. An I could. I must have vengeance for Philip; must see you dead. Yet it should be at my hands, not thus like a maimed dog."
But, knowing there was no hope of removing De Bois-Vallée, he turned away, after once more covering him with his coat. To the last he was merciful to his prostrate foe!
The events of the night were not yet over, however, for even as Andrew turned his footsteps towards where "the Royal English Regiment" was cantoned he heard afar off the sound of three guns fired, and he understood well enough their import. They were the signal that all in Turenne's army were to be ready to march at a moment's notice, as six guns were to be the signal from Maulevrier at Philipsburg that the enemy had recrossed the river, and four the signal that they were known to be advancing. And, a moment later, he heard something else, as familiar to his ears as any sound in the world. The tramp of a vast number of hoofs on the road a hundred yards away, the jangle of bridles and chains, of sabres and accoutrements.
"They are marching," he cried, "marching! And I am here!" and as fast as his stiffness and bruises would permit he made his way through the brushwood to the road.
Then he knew at once what was taking place, that the Baron de Montclar's five hundred dragoons were on their way to Rhinzabern. Where, then, was the infantry to support them?--where was his own regiment?
"Has," he asked of a troop-sergeant who rode on the side of the road where he was, "'the Royal English Regiment' got the order to march? Tell me at once; I am attached to it."
The man, a swarthy Burgundian, looked down at him, and then answered, "To-morrow morning, Monsieur, at daybreak. But Monsieur seems unwell," he added, seeing some blood on Andrew's hand.
"Ay," he replied, "yet, 'tis nothing. I have been attacked again by the peasants." While, seeing the glittering of some more corselets coming on farther behind, he asked, "Who are these who come now? Your baggage guard?"
"Nay, sir. 'Tis the patrol--formed to-night from Listenai's."
"So! Who is the officer in charge? Do you know?"
"No, sir." Then, with an apology and a salute, and also a muttered word that he must not fall out from the ranks, the sergeant rode on with his regiment, while Andrew stood in the road to stop the patrol. "De Bois-Vallée is saved," he said to himself, "they will remove him to shelter."
"Who goes there?" a clear voice rang out a few moments later, and as he heard it Andrew's heart leapt within him. The voice that greeted his ears was Debrasques'; he it was who headed the patrol, and, a moment later, he rode up to the other.
"Andrew Vause," was the answer to him as he came forward, followed immediately by the words, "Send your men into yonder opening. De Bois-Vallée lies there."
"Dead?" asked the Marquis, bending down low over his horse's mane, as though to peer into Andrew's face. "Dead? Have you slain him?"
"Nay. Not yet! But--I have been attacked by the peasants--you will see--fetch him forth and convey him to his quarters."
"Stay here," said Debrasques, "I will go myself." And, calling to some of his men he plunged into the glade, while the remaining soldiers of the patrol sat their horses as still as statues, wondering whether they were to keep the great Englishman before them under their eyes or not.
Presently, those who had followed the Marquis came back--following him still--but now four of them were dismounted, and between them they bore the wounded man, while the others, who had gone also, led their horses for them.
"Return to quarters with this gentleman," Debrasques ordered them, "and carry him as gently as possible, while, if you can find a door, make use of it. Thus, 'twill be easier for him and you. And carry him to the Marshal's quarters--he is of thegarde du corps. He and this other officer have been attacked by peasants."
"A brave weapon this to be attacked with," said one of the dragoons, showing the pole-axe, which he had brought away by Debrasques' orders, to his comrades. "A fair weapon, is't not? Yet," and he lowered his voice and glanced at Andrew as he spoke, "it was not with this that the other was wounded--but a clear, clean thrust from a sword."
"Away!" exclaimed Debrasques, interrupting his whisperings, "and lose no time. March!"
Then he took Andrew by the arm, wondering why he winced as he did so, and led him some distance off from where the rest of the patrol were halted.
"I understand," he said; "understand very well. You overcame him ere you were attacked by the countrymen, then you stayed by to protect him. Is it not so?" And without waiting for an answer, he said, glancing up at his great friend, "I think you are very noble. Too noble for him to cross swords with. Captain Vause, he is my cousin, but, alas!--I must say it--he is unworthy to be your foe."
"Nay," said Andrew, "make no mistake. If I did not let him lie here to die of the night air, or be murdered by those unhappy men, 'twas from no feeling of mercy. Debrasques, he is mine, I have vowed it. Mine, unless the Imperialists rob me of him. And afterwards----"
"Yes, afterwards?" seeing that the other paused.
"Afterwards--the woman."
"The woman," exclaimed the lad, recoiling a little from him, as Andrew could see in the starlight. "The woman! Does your vengeance claim her, too?"
"Ay"
"But how? How? You cannot kill her."
"No. I cannot kill her. But----" and again he paused.
"Yes--but?" and there was a quiver in the young man's voice as he spoke.
"There are other things than death." After which enigmatical answer Andrew refused to say another word, but, changing the subject, asked Debrasques if he knew that he marched to-morrow to Rhinzabern.
"Yes," he said, "I know. And we remain with the main army!"
"No matter, we shall meet again. Meanwhile, grant me one request. On no account let your cousin know that I stayed by to--to protect him. I will not have him know that."
"You mean that it is war to the death, that----"
"Yes, I mean that."