The fog was gone next morning when Andrew awoke from the bed of straw on which he had lain all night covered by his cloak, and with--for he was too wary a soldier to entirely trust his new-found acquaintances until he knew them better!--his unsheathed sword by his side under that cloak.
Gone, swept away by a soft breeze that came up from across the Meurthe and sighed amongst the great fir trees all round, and amidst also those at his feet on the slopes below--at the base of which lay Remiremont--while, above his head, were the blue skies and the bright October sun. And, talking to his new friends, he learnt that he was on what is known in that fair mountain region as theBallon d'Alsace, and that the river sparkling in the distance like a silver thread was the Moselle, while the blue mountains in the still further distance were the Jura.
Already some plans had been decided on between him and the two younger men while they sat at breakfast--a meagre meal of more rye bread, an egg or so which Gaspard had managed to produce, and a bottle of wine--and this is what they had resolved upon doing first.
Laurent was to lead Andrew by a path which he very well knew (though it was doubtful if any stranger to the neighbourhood could ever have found it) to a copse on the lower slopes, from which he could look down on the house itself; could, indeed, he said, approach so near above it that a man might throw a piece of twisted paper, or any light substance, on to the roof.
"For," said the man, as now they prepared to set out, "it was cleverly placed was the old house,voyez-vous, when the forerunners of this Vicomte--the men who were known asLes Loups de Lorraine--set it up. It stands back so near to the slope that, from the mountains, no attack can come--from men at least, though missiles might be thrown. Between the house and a vast stone wall, with which the side of the hill is faced, is a space of twenty feet--who can overpass that? Also the ledge of this wall-facing is some twenty feet higher than the flat roof; who will dare to jump down? A reckless man might attempt it, 'tis true, or two, or three, but where would they be? They could never reach the roof, even though they slung themselves over with a rope; should they by chance arrive they would be thrown down into the stone-flagged space 'twixt house and wall."
"Doubtless," replied Andrew, "there is no method of reaching the house that way. Yet, supposing there was a large number of men above this ledge of wall, and firing down on to the roof--would they not injure it, break it in; perhaps do as friend Gaspard says, fire it? It might be."
"Nay, you shall see," replied Laurent. "Meanwhile, come," and they set forth from the hut on foot, Andrew's horse being left there for the time, since the path they were about to descend offered no passage for any animal larger than a sheep or goat.
As to Jean he was already gone, he having another mission to fulfil in the service of their new employer.
He had said overnight as they lay talking on their straw pallets ere sleep came, that he had a cousin at Bois-le-Vaux, a man who was half gamekeeper and half gardener there, and who--as the house had been more or less shut up since the death of the Vicomtesse five years ago--did also many odd jobs, such as attending to the poultry, what horses there were in the stables, the dogs, and so forth. This man he had, therefore, set out to find, with the object of learning if possible if any strange lady was detained within the mansion unknown to all outside it.
"A thing," Laurent had remarked, "that might well enough happen. My wife--ah, my God! my wife--was there a month ere he took her to Paris, and none outside knew it--not even I nor old Gaspard here, though we searched the country for miles around, even suspected this man. None knew of it. Not one."
"Yet," replied Andrew thoughtfully, "'twould be strange if this lady can be here and her presence unknown. It is near two years--a full year and a half at least--since she must have come here, perhaps was brought here. Could all knowledge of her presence in this house have been concealed so long from the outside world?"
"Oh!comprenez!" exclaimed Jean, "that would not be so difficult. He has two custodians who let none enter that mansion, and who can be dumb and secret as death. Inside the house they would warrant none finding out her presence."
"Who are these custodians?"
"One--the worst!--a man, his steward, bound to him by many ties. A fellow he saved from the wheel for endeavouring to rob the abbey----"
"Is there an abbey here, then?"
"Mais oui, a noble abbey. And the abbesses mostly princesses.Mon Dieu!they live as such; 'tis a great abbey, as they are great ladies. Forty years past, Turenne, making his first campaign, endeavoured to besiege it, and these noble women drove him back so that he failed."
"Turenne beaten by women!" murmured Andrew, recalling the great soldier's career betwixt then and now. "Beaten by women! Think of it![1]But," turning to Jean, "about this man? He would have robbed the abbey, you say?"
"They say so. It is full of precious relics. Gold and jewels, the bodies of three saints--Amé, Romaric, and Adelphe--and he tried for some of the treasure; the bodies of the saints he wanted not! But the ladies caught him and would have broken him on the wheel--only there was no man to do it, nobourreau, and the townspeople would not without licence from the Duke. Then De Bois-Vallée begged for his life and saved it--his mother, the lady of the portrait you have, had been brought up there, might have beenchanoinesseif she would."
"Therefore his steward serves him well?"
"As his own brother might. If De Bois-Vallée is a devil, so is Armand Beaujos; if devil's work is to be done he loves to do it. Be sure if any woman is kept there by his master's orders he will keep her tight."
"And the other?"
"A woman. Also a villain, yet true to him. She was his foster-mother, and they say--but," breaking off, "it may be lies."
"What do they say?"
"That this woman loved his father--that,par consequent, she hated his mother. Has said she should have been the old man's wife, the young one's mother, had things gone well with her."
"Humph!" said Andrew, "an interesting family, a pleasant house to make the acquaintance of. Well, it shall be done, nevertheless. Now, Jean, speed on your way and find out, if you can, if there is any woman known to be there. Then come back to me."
"Ay," said Jean, "to-night. To Plombières."
"To Plombières. What is the auberge you say I may find accommodation at?"
"La Tête d'Or. I shall be there to-night. Yet, since you desire to attract no more attention than necessary, be ready for me in the street; thereby I am not forced to ask for you. There is a fountain of good water facing the inn. Look for me there, monsieur. Ere sunset."
"I will not fail. Neither do you do so. Remember--I have another purse."
It had been arranged, when all arose that morning, that it would be best Andrew should seek some place where he could remain as long as he desired to be in the neighbourhood; until, as he himself had said, "the work was done." The work which, as he reflected, meant so much more now than the slaying of De Bois-Vallée, namely, the finding of Marion Wyatt, and, if all was as Debrasques had said, the rescuing her. That was now the first and most important part of what he had to do, the other would follow in due course.
Also it was impossible, or almost so, that he should remain in Gaspard's hut. Soldier, adventurer, as he was, used on occasion to hard living, he could not stay there; he and his beast would be starved as the least of evils, while, in case prompt action became necessary--swift movement on his part one way or another, either in pursuing De Bois-Vallée should he again elude him, or in fleeing from him for a time and from any whom he might summon to his assistance, should Andrew be able to carry off Marion Wyatt from Bois-le-Vaux--the hut was no suitable place. Therefore he had decided, after taking counsel with the others, that Plombières must be his abiding place until the work was done. It was, they said, a quiet little village, well situated for leaving at any moment, since good roads led to all four quarters, and, as it was some five miles from Remiremont and two more from the house on which his attention was fixed, his presence there was not likely to be known to De Bois-Vallée until he himself proclaimed it.
"And meanwhile," he said, "I shall be near enough to him to move at any moment, near enough to present myself before him when the time comes. It will do very well."
And now he and Laurent set forth to descend to that spot whence he could overlook the house into which he meant ere long to obtain entrance, the house from which he meant to rescue Marion Wyatt if things were as he believed and as Debrasques had, by nods and glances from his sick bed, hinted; the house, or the surroundings of which, he meant to make the scene of De Bois-Vallée's death. For that it should be the scene of his own death, that he should fail in what he had set himself to do, he never permitted himself to imagine. If the idea arose it was banished as soon as it came. It was, he told himself, an impossible one. He would not fail!
Following his guide he passed swiftly down paths that seemed made only for rabbits, so narrow were they; through groves and copses of oak and fir trees, from which a sweet, delicious aroma was diffused through the morning air; and, pushing aside bushes in which the wild raspberry grew in profusion, though now the fruit was gone, they came at last to an open space below which was a fringe of more fir trees.
"We must skirt this," Laurent remarked, "otherwise we may be seen from the grounds down there. Observe beneath that line of trees," and he pointed to the fringe below, "the woods and pastures. All those are his property. If he, or any, are outside the house this morning, none could pass down this open spot without being seen."
"Come then," replied Andrew, "let us skirt this glade and so continue"; whereon, keeping beneath the wood that grew all along the side, they descended still further.
A few moments later and they were above the house--looking down on to the roof and back of it. From where they had thrown themselves flat after creeping to the very edge of the slope (they being, indeed, so near the wall which had been built up as a facing to that slope that they could touch its topmost stones with their hands) they might, as Laurent had said, have thrown a rolled-up piece of paper on to the roof. Yet there were full twenty feet between those topmost stones and the parapet of the house, which was itself some twenty feet lower than the summit of the wall and lip of the slope! A space wide and yawning, through which, if any should fall, instant annihilation would await them at the bottom on the hard stones. A space over which projectiles might be hurled from cannon or, in older days, from catapult and warlike engine, but across which neither man nor deer could leap and hope to reach the other side below.
"Safe enough from all attack this way," said Andrew, while he gazed down at the topmost windows of the ancient house, "safe enough. A regiment might demolish it by firing on it from here, but nought else would avail. And how many would be picked off by musket ball and caliver from masked windows and loopholes while doing so? 'Twould be a perilous attack!"
"Gaspard's thought is," whispered Laurent, as though fearing their voices might be carried across the chasm on the morning air, and so reach any within the gloomy house, "that burning brands cast down on it at night, when all slept, might easily cause destruction. Observe, all is of wood above, even the roof. The old man is right. It would burn well. Must burn well some day!"
"But not yet," Andrew answered, also in a half whisper. "Remember, the woman I have come to save is doubtless in this house, held fast. If it were afire there might be no escape for her."
"Not yet, perhaps," replied Laurent, "but some day,a coup sûr!"
After this, Andrew busied himself by observing the whole situation of the house and the approaches to it from various quarters.
That the lower part of it might well date back to the time of Duke Thierry was easy to believe; it being built of vast stones that looked as though Time itself could never destroy nor remove them, and Andrew, who could see only the back of the house, judged that the front would be exactly the same, with, he supposed, one huge, iron-studded doorway in it. Likewise, he pictured to himself small lancet windows, heavily barred also with iron; windows that swept the great openplacein front of them, and across which not so much as a dog could pass without being instantly observed! Above this stone basement, the wooden part began and formed another, or second floor, yet, though of wood and supported by enormous beams, it looked scarcely more modern than the lower part. For beams and supports, stanchions and cross-beams, were all black with age and with the stains of countless storms, and even the various devices--some with the Cross Florettée upon them as sign of Crusading ancestors--were almost obliterated now. Yet, old and weather-beaten as this ancient mansion looked, it presented to Andrew's gaze a firmness and solidity that appeared almost impregnable.
"A house hard to get into," he thought, "if well defended. A house equally hard to get out of when once in it. Yet, in some way, I will do both, and, when I attempt the latter, it should go hard if she whom I believe to be a prisoner here comes not away with me. At least the attempt shall be made. Ere a week is past I will be inside."
Then, after sweeping his eye round the woods which bordered this mansion, he told Laurent he had seen enough for his first view, and that there was no more to be done at present.
"But to-night," he added, "if Jean brings to Plombières the news I want, I may be back again. Only--next time I must see the front of the house. 'Tis from there the entrance must be obtained, by fair means or foul 'Tis that which I must reconnoitre to-night when the moon is up. She rises at eight, I think. Pray heaven there is no fog!"
"Beware what you do," said Laurent. "If caught and overwhelmed by numbers, it may go hard with you. He has many whom he can summon to do his bidding."
"Bah! I have encountered numbers before and fought my way through them."
"That may be so. But, once inside that house, you will have others than men to contend with. Strong bars and locks; ay, even chains. Beware."
"I shall run no risks," replied Andrew, "but if the woman I seek is there I will reach her. On that I am resolved. Nothing shall thwart me."
Lolling against the doorpost of the yard of "La Tête d'Or" stood Andrew that evening, watching the sunset, glancing his eye up at the crimson glow on the top of the mountains behind the village of Plombières, wishing "Good-night" to any passing peasant who spoke to him, and occasionally patting some child on the head as it stopped to gaze at the figure of the great stranger at the inn-yard gate.
His arrival had caused some little commotion an hour or so before, when he had ridden up to the door--though not, perhaps, as much as it would have done had the times been more peaceful. For in such a period a stranger looking like a soldier, though with no particularly distinctive marks of his calling about him, would indeed have caused a fluster in the little village, to which none from the outside world ever came, except some broken-down, gouty Lorrainer from Nancy or Epinal, to whom the boiling springs of Plombières were known as health-giving, since they drove out, or were supposed to drive out, all the evils produced by wine drinking and gluttony, and gave to those who partook of them a fresh lease of indulgence.
But now the village was full of soldiers, men of Lorraine who, since the Imperialists were going into winter quarters, were straggling back to their homes, or to where they were billeted, and who, as Andrew drew rein in front of the door, were engaged in drinking confusion to the French King, although he was at that present moment master of the province. For a strange state of things prevailed all through it just then. The reigning Duke, Charles IV., hated France, and fought against her under De Bournonville and Montecuculi, while, at the same time, Louis called himself King over Lorraine, and, although most of the nobility followed the Duke with their dependants and threw in their fortunes with his, there were some who, being discontented, espoused, and had done so for some time, the cause of France. Amongst these was De Bois-Vallée, who had been French from interest, if not from feeling, since 1670, when Louis's proclamation of his sovereignty over Lorraine had been made. Yet, had Turenne not prevented the Imperialists from advancing across the Vosges, the French claim to possess the department would have been even more hollow than it actually was at the moment, and the local champions of France would have been in a dangerous position. Indeed, they were in a dangerous one now, since, should the Austrian allies finally defeat the Marshal, Charles--who never forgave!--would probably ruin, if he did not destroy, every subject who had espoused the French cause.
"Is the gallant gentleman on his road home from the campaign?" asked a gigantic Lorrainer who stood at the entrance to the inn-yard as Andrew rode up, a man who wore the cognizance of De Vaudemont on breast and hat. "For sure he is a soldier."
"For sure he is," replied Andrew briefly. "Yet not on his way home at present," and he dismounted from his horse as he spoke.
"Ay! that I see, or rather hear by your accent. You," said the soldier, "are no Lorrainer."
"Friend," replied Andrew, facing him, "have I said I am?" while, with something very like a sneer, he added, "there are other forces engaged in this campaign, I understand, as well as the inhabitants of your province. Also Providence--doubtless in a moment of forgetfulness!--made other countries besides Lorraine. I myself belong to one almost as small--so small, indeed, that probably you never heard the name of it."
"I have been to school--what is the name of this little country?"
"England," and, as Andrew answered, he unceremoniously pushed by the man, who was bigger than himself, and jeopardized his great feet as he led his horse over them.
"Figure to yourselves," Andrew heard this fellow say to some comrades half an hour later, as he sat eating a meal the landlord had placed before him, after providing him with a room in the roof and a stall for his horse, "figure to yourselves, he is an Englishman, and a surly one at that." Whereon he narrated his little interview with Andrew--who calmly went on demolishing part of a pasty and drinking his wine without glancing at him--and concluded by saying he believed he had fought on the French side. To all of which the other vouchsafed no attention until he heard the Lorrainer growl--he being now well in his cups!--that he was afraid he would have to chastise the Englishman.
Then Andrew looked over to him across the room, put out his fork carelessly, and tapped the hilt of his sword with its double prong.
"Thirty-eight inches in length, friend," he said. "What length is yours?"
Whereon the group to whom the man was talking burst into a roar of laughter, and, clapping the giant on the shoulder, bade him not be a fool.
After that, however, they left him alone, perhaps because he looked dangerous, perhaps because they knew that an assault upon the stranger might go hard with them if the Syndic or the Prince de Vaudemont heard of it. Louis--the great King, the man who, although they served him not, had a terrible reputation amongst them--had been in the neighbourhood not long before, and had won the hearts of many by his graciousness. For, contrary to the ways of the Duke, he had told them that he perfectly well understood that their sympathies were not with him, and that he would not take it ill if they bestowed their swords where their consciences prompted them. Also he had bidden the Marquises de Maraucourt and de Beauvau join the Imperialists since they desired to do so, and had publicly praised the Prince de Vaudemont for the manner in which he had defended Besançon against him.
Therefore they knew that it would go badly with them if De Vaudemont heard they had outraged in his land--he being the Duke's son--any man serving the French King. And, later, they were all drinking together, and paying chopine for chopine as though they had been comrades fighting side by side, instead of serving against each other--though Andrew's first acquaintance seemed still a little sore at his raillery.
But, as the sun dipped towards Le Marne, Andrew, who had kept his head cool, and whose potations had been of the slightest, put on his sword-belt and strolled towards the inn door. It was the time when Jean should be near at hand.
He had not leaned long against the inn door, bidding, as has been said, good-night to passers-by who spoke civilly to him, when down the street he perceived the man approaching--on the other side where the water from the fountain ran. On which he advanced to it, and, as Jean came up, lifted the iron cup and drank a draught of the cool, fresh water.
"Well?" he asked, as he handed it afterwards to the other. "Well? What have you discovered?"
"A woman is there," Jean replied, holding the cup himself in a nonchalant manner under the spout, as anyone might do who desired to drink. "Has been there, my cousin says, for more than a year."
"Ha! Is she a prisoner?"
"He thinks so. He has never seen her, yet----"
"Yes!"
"Others have. Have seen her face at a window."
"At what part of the house?"
"The top. On the front. A woman pale as death and sad. They say she has made signs to those who have approached near, yet has never been able to communicate with any. Once she threw a paper down, but Armand Beaujos secured it. He could tell me no more."
"And De Bois-Vallée? Is he there?"
"He does not know. He was a week ago, and my cousin saw him. Since, he has not seen him."
"Does your cousin know what men there are in or about the house?"
"I know," Jean replied. Whereon, peasant-like, he began to count upon his fingers.
"First," he said, "the wolf himself, if he is there. Next, Beaujos, the steward. Then, one, two, three, four serving-men--ma foi!I cannot think of more. Outside, those who attend to the horses and dogs, away in theécurie."
"Where is thisécurie?"
"Near the house, to the right of it. There are no more."
"There is your cousin."
"Oh! for him, he counts not. He sleeps not there, but in Remiremont, to the other side. Also, I have spoken to him. Told him danger threatens the wolf. He is glad; he hates him, too."
"Is he safe?"
"Safe!Mon Dieu!He is of my blood. We all hate him. He will say no word."
After that Andrew bade the man good-night, making an appointment with him for the next evening at the same hour.
But before they parted, he said: "Remember this. If I am not here, if you can glean no news of me, I shall be dead. Otherwise, I shall return. And, if I come not back, then you must wreak your vengeance on him and his house as beseems you all best. Only--remember the woman. Save her if you can. It will be worth your while. She is of good blood in my land; if you can restore her to her father you will be made men for life. I guarantee it. Will you do this?"
"In truth I will. Does monsieur give that message to Laurent and to Gaspard too!"
"To all who hate him, De Bois-Valle."
"Ma foi!they are many," while, hearing sounds of revelry proceeding from the inn door and windows, he, glancing over towards the house, broke off, and said: "Who are inside? They are gay and joyous."
"Men of De Vaudemont's service. Carousing at going into winter quarters----"
"De Vaudemont's! service De Vaudemont's service!" He repeated, nodding his head. "So--so!" and again he nodded.
"What strikes you?" Andrew asked. "What is it?"
"He," whispered Jean, "he--the Vicomte--was under De Vaudemont once, then joined France, and, 'tis thought--we have always thought so here--gave information that helped the French generals to take many places round about.Corbleu!If some of De Vaudemont's men could catch him, they--they--well!" and he laughed and used a local expression, "they would not kiss him."
"Are they, these men belonging to the Prince, of this neighbourhood?" asked Andrew, struck by a sudden idea, "or only passing through to their homes. What think you?"
"How can I tell? I hear their voices all jangling together, but can distinguish none. They sing," he said, "a song of thepaysall the same--but then we all sing that." And he bent his right ear towards the Tête d'Or, whence was issuing, amidst the clinking of glasses and other sounds, the refrain of "Lorraine, Lorraine, ma douce patrie."
"Go in and see," said Andrew; "drink a cup with them, you may know some."
And as Jean, seemingly nothing loth, entered the inn, Andrew strolled up and down in the darkness that had now set in.
He could not judge from the sounds that arose as the song finished whether they were applause and excitement at the performance, or a welcome extended by the returned soldiers to an old friend, but after waiting a quarter of an hour or, perhaps, less, Jean returned--wiping his mouth on his sleeve--and instantly said:
"Four are of this neighbourhood. One of Plombières itself, another of Fougerolles, another of Aillevillers, a fourth from the Val d'Ajol."
"Who is the biggest of all--one bigger than I? With a great beard? Do you know him?"
"He--he is from Aillevillers, hard by. Pierre Lupin. Ho!figurez-vous, if he thought De Bois-Vallée was here he would spit him like a lark, or hug him to death in those great arms. Lupin was in his troop when the Vicomte rode captain under De Vaudemont, and was badly treated. If he only knew--nay, if all the four only knew."
"Yet," said Andrew, "let them not think so yet. I command you. Later--if I come not back--then enlist them in the service of vengeance. And, for this Lupin--tell him that the Englishman who offended him has been slain by De Bois-Vallée. He and I had a few words together, yet that passed--is drowned in a cup. And he seems a brave and honest soldier--he will forget our difference. Remember, however, tell them nothing as yet."
"I will remember," answered Jean, repeating his lesson; "if you come not back soon, the wolf's house will meet its fate. Also, we will remember there is a woman to be saved. Fear not!" Whereon they separated.
The moon hung rusty in the heavens half an hour later, proclaiming that there was mist between her and the earth, as Andrew rode slowly up the ascent of the pass which lay between Plombières and Remiremont. Yet it was a good night, too, for the errand he was on, one of inspection of the house of his enemy, into which he meant later to obtain entrance somehow; a night on which a figure keeping well in the shadow could be screened from observation. A night in which, he thought, he might draw near enough to the house to examine the front and the other two sides he had been unable to see from the summit of the wall beneath the slope, at the back of the mansion. To examine, also, if there was any way by which silent entry might be obtained, though, even as he reflected on this, his mind turned and turned again to that wall and slope.
"I could make entrance thus I am sure, and doubly sure," he pondered, "could attain at least that roof. A rope tied round my body and lowered from the top of the wall until level with the top of the house, then a lusty thrust with my feet, as a swimmer thrusts against a bank to propel himself--and I should be there. So! that would be easy enough. But how to return, and with the burden of a woman--one who may be small, but, again, may be big? How to do that? 'Tis a yawning chasm--I should scarce dare look down the height myself!--no woman, unless she had nerves of brass, would ever consent to pass it. Yet she may hate her imprisonment so much that even that would not appal her."
He was armed now to the fullest extent possible; his great sword of course by his side, his "back-and-breast" on, a pistol in his belt. He knew the undertaking he was upon was full of danger, and that, from the moment he entered the estate of Bois-le-Vaux, he would be in direst peril. For that De Bois-Vallée would cause him to be slain without giving him any opportunity of defence, and without meeting him in fair fight, he never doubted; nay, he felt very sure that, if the chance came in his enemy's way, he would slay him treacherously, wherever they might meet. How much more certain then his fate if he should be caught on the villain's own land, and with the villain's own creatures to do his bidding!
But such reflections as these troubled him not a jot, and when, on rising the summit of the Little Pass, he saw Remiremont lying under the clear rays of the moon, which had now freed herself from the mists below, he gave his horse rein and rode on swiftly to the town.
The town from which a road branched off that, a little further, would bring him beneath the mountains, and to the spot where the woman was whom he had vowed to rescue.
An hour later and Andrew Vause was slowly making his way through a deep wood of chestnuts that fringed the property of De Bois-Vallée, and which lay between the openplacein front of the mansion and the side road along which he had come from the southern entrance to Remiremont.
From the beginning, from the moment he knew he was outside Bois-le-Vaux, he had been forced to recognize that no chances were omitted for rendering the property what it was, and what it had in all probability been since first constructed in the time of Duke Thierry, namely, a strongly guarded and protected place. Inside the road, between the chestnut wood and the road itself, ran a high stone wall--the mountains above providing the stones for that as well as for the house itself--which was two feet above Andrew's tall head, and which at first presented the appearance of being insurmountable. Yet this was not the case, as very shortly the adventurous soldier proved.
Having tied his horse to a tree, he, from its back, soon clambered on to the summit of the wall, and then (since, inside, the copse of chestnuts grew close up to it) lowered himself by a branch to the ground. He stood, therefore, within the place which held his enemy and the woman whom that enemy kept prisoner, as he believed.
But, because he was a wary adventurer who knew that now his life hung by the veriest thread if discovered, he lost no opportunity of making himself safe, and no sooner was he within the place than he took steps to provide for his exit.
"It may come to a rush for escape," he thought, "to the necessity for reaching the horse's back the moment I am on the wall--let's see for a mark to guide me," whereon he paused and looked around for something that should give him a clue to the exact spot where he had left the steed. He was not long in finding one.
Through the copse, or fringe of chestnuts that ran parallel with the wall, he saw that there were one or two small paths which crossed each other at intervals, some following the line of the wall itself, and some running directly forward from it. Paths used doubtless by the woodmen and trappers of small game, such as hares and rabbits; and, walking carefully along one of those that ran from the wall, he finding it close to his feet, he emerged soon into an open grassy space. And here he discovered the mark that should direct him back safely to the spot outside of which the horse was tethered; namely, three small trees scarce better than saplings, yet standing out clear and distinct in the full flood of the moon's light, and casting a long shadow beneath them on to the grass.
"It will do very well," he thought. "I cannot miss these trees once I regain this glade," after which he drew his sword, carrying it henceforth naked in his hand, clasped half-way down, and, thus prepared, skirted the chestnut copse as he made his way towards where he knew the house stood.
As he progressed he noticed how intense the silence was on this still October night; so intense, indeed, that his own footsteps on the now fast falling leaves, which each breath of air brought down about him, seemed loud to his ears. Also the creeping of anything in the copse, such as a mouse, or the rustling of a disturbed bird in the branches above, could be distinctly heard. But beyond these sounds nothing else; no barking of dog nor neigh of horse. Nothing. All as still as death!
"But that I keep ever before my eyes the memory of Philip's broken life, the knowledge, which I now believe myself to possess, that this woman whom I go to rescue has been as treacherously betrayed as he, I would be on no such secret quest as this," he thought. "This midnight skulking is not to my taste. Were it not for her safety, I should be hammering at his door, calling to him to come forth and try conclusions man to man with me, smiting him before all his following. Yet, to save her, I must do it thus." And, again, stealthily and cautiously he pursued his way beneath the shadow of the trees.
And still all was as silent as before, except that now the wind rose a little more and rustled the leaves, and brought them down in bigger handfuls. A wind that blew towards the house to which he was slowly making his way.
He was near it soon, however, after having progressed for something like a quarter of an hour; already above him he could see its wooden upper portion rising higher than the trees, with, above that, the topmost slopes of the mountains. He was very near now! Then, suddenly, the woods finished, he was on the eastern side of the great openplace--paved, he plainly observed, with great cobble stones that were worn very smooth by time, and also, doubtless, with the passage of many feet, both of horse and man, during the centuries. For that the greatplacehad been the rendezvous of all the followers of the De Bois-Vallées, of those who had gone forth with them to countless wars, and those who had assembled there for merriment and rejoicing, was certain.
Now, it was empty, deserted; across its surface nothing passed but the shadow of some cloud that occasionally scurried beneath the moon; it seemed almost as if the house was deserted also.
Yet Andrew, keeping himself well within the darkness of the wood which ran close up to where the cobble-stoning of the place began, or ended, saw at once that such was not the case. In the topmost floor of wood--there being two--a light glimmered--and threw a dull glare out; a light shielded by some curtain, or hanging, which obscured the rays. "It may be hers," he thought, "nay, must. It is the position Jean spoke of. On the top, to the front. Yet the room from which it comes is unattainable from the outside at least." And again he said to himself as he had said before, "It will be from the back, from across the chasm I must reach that room--as I shall reach it. It is the only way."
For that he would reach it somehow he was resolved--that he should fail to do so he never considered. Not unless he was killed that night would he fail.
In truth, none could have attained the room in which the light burned, from the front. There was no foothold by which a cat could have climbed to it from the outside; naught but a bird could have gone straight to that small window. The lower part of the house stared out blank and unrelieved by any ornament or window-sill, or other projection by which one might mount; the huge arch, which formed the frame of the one great door, was unadorned by any moulding or decoration that would assist either foot or hand. All was bare wall, except for slits of windows no bigger, than eyelets, with sloping sills, and the door. Above, on the wooden floors, there were outstanding beams and stanchions by which an agile man might perhaps have raised himself, but those wooden floors were thirty feet from the ground and unreachable.
From the great door there came also two strips of light, one from beneath it, the other a bright ray that seemed to the man regarding it from afar as though proceeding from some huge keyhole.
"If," he thought, as still he watched and saw this flow of the light, "it can stream out thus, an eye placed to the orifice can see in. Mine shall be that eye. I will not return until I have observed what hall it is from which that ray proceeds," and, as he spoke, he drew from his belt a pistol, saw to its priming, and carefully shook fresh powder into the pan, then returned it to its place and made ready for his task. Yet he did not hesitate to acknowledge to himself that, if his footfall outside was heard by any who might be within--if that door should open while he was outside it--his life would possibly cease on the instant. The hall might be half full of armed men, and of them he could possibly kill two; the rest would undoubtedly kill him--bury a dozen swords or daggers in his breast.
But, even as he so reflected, he was on his way to see what was beyond that ray of light; was, under the shadow of the half-leafless trees, creeping up the copse until he stood level with the face of the house, and with its left angle to his side. Then, on tiptoe and keeping close to that bare face, he passed along it until he reached the huge door and stood on the half-moon of flagged stones before it, so that the light from underneath played on his feet, and the light from the great keyhole made a luminous star upon his breast.
He prayed his knees would not crack as he bent down to put his eye to the hole--even such a slight noise as that might suffice to betray his presence; he did not venture even to put his fingers to the door to aid his stooping position--without their support he brought his body down so that his eye was close to, and level with, the hole, and, thus, looked in.
At first his sight was blurred by gazing into the light, then, gradually, he became able to see and to distinguish clearly what was within.
In a well in the middle of a great hall, so vast that fifty men at least might have sat at table there, and fifty more have found room to walk about and wait on them, there burnt a log fire, the embers low and charred now, and lurid, as though they had not been put together for some time. Around this fire five men sat in deep wooden chairs, all of them asleep, or seeming so. One, he who had the largest and most comfortable seat, appeared by his dress to be superior to the rest, he having on a dark blue coat, passemented with galloon, a satin waistcoat, and knee breeches of the same. Also, there was a wig upon his head--thrust somewhat awry by the movement of his shoulders as he slumbered--a wig that had not been powdered nor combed for many a day, and was thus of a dirty brown and touzled. An elderly man this, with a red, blotched face, coarse thick lips, and--as he slept--of a frowning aspect; a man big and brawny, too, as Andrew could well see; one who, although no longer young, might be a difficult antagonist in an encounter.
"Doubtless the steward, Beaujos," Andrew thought; then scanned the others.
These were fellows clad half as serving and half as fighting men, it seemed, wearing leathern jerkins of a period somewhere earlier than the present; coarse, baggy breeches and rough hose, and with their own hair, matted and thick, hanging about their heads. They carried in their belts knives in wooden sheaths in contradistinction to the other, whose sword lay on the table by his hand. On that table, too, Andrew could see, was a great flagon, doubtless drained of its contents ere they slept, and some cups; also a lamp from which the light came that streamed forth into the night. And still there were two other sleepers in that great hall--though sleepers less sound than these five. They, instead of being round the fire in the well, by the side of which, indeed, no room had been left for them by the men, lay at the foot of the huge broad staircase that led up from the left of the hall, yet were still in Andrew's range of vision. And he, looking at them, knew that here was a greater danger to him than might come from the others.
They were two enormous hounds--half boarhounds, as it appeared to him gazing in through the keyhole, of the sort much used in Alsace and Lorraine, and all the region; yet, it seemed also, as though with something of the bloodhound, too, since their great heads rose conical, and their huge ears swept the ground.
"I must away," said Andrew to himself, "there is danger here. By heavens! my presence is known to them already." Yet, with that danger which now threatened him--as it had not threatened from the other sleepers--impending near, he felt himself fascinated by the monstrous creatures.
Impending very near, since he had divined the truth when he said to himself that they knew of his presence already. He saw one--the female, he thought, since she was longer and leaner than the other--slowly lift her head as a snake lifts its head ere it strikes--the snout raised sniffing towards the roof of the hall, the ears drooping to the paved floor. And the bloodshot eyes cast backwards, the shift of those eyes around the hall, proclaimed what would happen next. A roar of alarm, a warning to those who slumbered still.
"Away," Andrew muttered, "away!" and, as he spoke to himself, he slid swiftly along the wall and regained the copse.
Not a moment too soon! There came a deep, sharp yap from the dog; an instant after another from her mate, and then the roar from each throat. Almost it seemed to Andrew as he withdrew that he heard the patter of the great paws upon the flagged floor as the dogs rushed to the door; almost it seemed as though their great forms were hurled against it, they striving for egress.
And he heard other sounds ere he was gone from outside that door--those from the human throats within!
First the voice of the man he supposed to be Beaujos, shouting:
"Awake, you vagabonds, awake! Hark to the dogs! Unbar the door. Heaven and earth, there are some without! 'Tis sure! Unbar, I say."
Also, he heard cries from the men themselves, the clatter of their wooden-shod feet upon the flags--of this there was no doubt--a grating noise in the great lock, and a thumping sound as though some ponderous transverse wooden bar had been thrown back to admit of the door being opened.
And, from where he was, he could perceive now a vast body of light streaming out into, and mixing with, that of the moon, could hear the deep-mouthed bay of the hounds broken by short angry barks.
From where he was by this time, namely, passing swiftly down to the open spot where the three saplings grew, pushing branches large and small aside, trampling down the wet leaves and sodden grass, he prayed fervently that he might reach the spot outside where his horse stood ere they found him. For, brave man as he was, and ready to face a dozen, or a score, of human foes, his blood curdled in him at the thought of those ferocious fangs tearing him to pieces; the thought of the hot breath of the brutes in his face as they sprang at his throat and dragged him to the earth.
"Any number of men," he said, "and armed to the teeth I can face and laugh at, but five men and two hounds such as those---nay, I am no coward to avoid them."
Yet, even as those thoughts coursed through his brain, he shuddered and his flesh crept. The deep bays had ceased; so, too, the equally deep barks; but now he heard another and a more fearsome sound in their place. A sound of snorting, of heavy soughing, low down on the earth, mingled with the crushing and snapping of brush and underwood.
He knew what those sounds meant.
The hounds had found his trail, were on the scent.
There was no doubt of it, there could be no chance of doubt--a glance back over his shoulder showed him it was so. Close to the ground, not fifty paces off, were sparkling two pairs of beautifully green circles. Those circles were the eyes of the dogs that were tracking him, as they glistened in the darkness of the wood.