Andrew thanked God for one thing! He was near the wall, near the spot outside which the horse stood. Down through an opening a little way ahead of him he could see the three trees--the shadow which they cast being directly under them now as the moon rose higher--a hundred feet to the left, and there was the wall and the branches of the tree by which he had descended! But--could he reach them?
The dogs were nearer now--their eyes scintillating less as they approached more closely, but their grunting and soughing as they sniffed the earth more distinct. They would be upon him soon--in another moment or so--and then!
Still, he ran as hard as the thick growth of the trees and the underbrush would allow him; once he stumbled and nearly fell, recovered himself, and, as he did so, saw them--saw their dark forms close behind him! Yet, now, he was near the spot where safety lay. Only--he was too late!
As they rushed at him he sprang behind a tree--it would save him for an instant!--and one of the brutes tore past it ahead of its companion, and went on some paces ere it could stop the impetus it had upon it. The other came full at him.
"Now," he murmured, "now, God give me courage!" and as the beast came he thrust full with his sword at its breast, and just as it reared to drag him down. Then he felt his weapon torn from his grasp, wrenched from out that great brawny hand as no human foe had ever yet had power to wrench it--but it was by the falling body of the hound, pierced through and through. The good sword had entered the animal's breast and come out close by its spine; as the dog fell, with a hideous roar, the weight of its body carried the sword within that body to the earth. Yet, he knew there was no time to waste; in spite of the dying creature's snappings and plungings at him--its ferocity as great in death, if not greater, as in life--he must regain his sword. Otherwise he would have to use the pistol on the second dog, and thereby give a signal to the men, whom the beasts had far outstripped, as to his whereabouts.
By the grace of heaven the dying creature had fallen on its back, the hilt of his sword protruded from its chest; in a moment he had seized it and drawn it forth--never before had Andrew been forced to so exert his strength to release his weapon from the body of a prostrate foe! It seemed as though it were wedged in wood! But, now, he was ready for the other! And, leaping back, he stood on his guard against those monstrous claws and the hideous white fangs that gleamed in what light there was; the body of the convulsive creature between him and the other hound.
Yet there happened that which he could not have hoped for--could never have dreamt of nor anticipated. His wildest expectations, even had he had time to think in those exciting moments, could never have pictured this.
The animal--it was the female--paused in its onward rush astonished--almost, it would appear, dismayed--at the sight of its fallen companion; then walked round it--crawled round it, indeed--sniffing, and lifting its head next, and emitting a loud and long howl. It seemed as if its agony was so great that all else was forgotten--even Andrew, its quarry.
Slowly, therefore, he backed away from it, keeping ever his eye upon the moaning, grief-stricken creature--taking care, too, that his reeking sword was ready for thrusting out at any sudden attack made, and also taking care to have ever some tree in front of him as he retreated, which might ward off for the moment any rapid rush. Yet, moving swiftly backwards all the time, for now he heard other sounds coming near--the sounds of men talking hurriedly to each other and calling the names of the hounds; above all others, the harsh rasping voice of Beaujos, if it were he, being the most distinct.
At last his back was to the wall that bounded the domain. Propelling himself sideways along it, and facing always towards the quarter whence the attack must come if renewed by the stricken beast, he felt the leather of his jacket scraping against the tendrils of the ivy with which the wall was overgrown; a few more seconds and he was by the tree that had helped him to descend. And his horse whinnied as he sent a whispered word over the wall to it--whinnied and moved; he could hear its hoofs striking the earth as though the creature rejoiced at his return.
Another moment and he would be safe. His hands were on the lower branches; he was drawing himself up level with the top of the wall, when there came an awful roar and the crash of the dog's great body tearing through the brush after him, while an instant later it had reached the spot--was close by the escaping man. And the horse, affrighted by these sounds, neighed piteously in its terror.
But Andrew was safe. As the huge jaws clashed together at the same time that the hound sprang at him, and, missing his mark, hurled itself heavily against the wall in its onrush--while, at the same time, it uttered a grunt of pain--he was on the ledge. Another instant, and he was in the saddle. Another, and the bridle chains were clanking and his saddle creaking merrily as he went down the road and left behind him the noise of the yelling and shouting of the five men--caused, doubtless, by the discovery of the dead hound.
He wiped the sweat from off his face and hands as he rode along, while inwardly he sent up a devout prayer of thanksgiving for his preservation.
"Heaven defend me from such another encounter," he muttered. "It is too much! Henceforward, send me only men, not brutes." Yet, because he loved all animals--especially those of the noblest orders--his heart was sore within him, both at the slaying of the first hound and at the pitiable grief of its mate. "I have killed a nobler creature than the master it owned; at least, it faced me, rushed boldly to its fate--but where is that shrinking, unworthy master? May fortune grant that, when next I see him, my sword makes as clean a passage through his breast as through that of his dog."
Where was his foe? He had pondered upon that more than once since the time he had brought his eye to the large and worn keyhole, and had seen through it only that foe's menials. Where? Surely if he had been in his house he must have been aroused by the baying of the dogs and the excitement and noise of his servants--must have joined in the search made by them. Yet, of all the voices, Andrew had not heard his.
"He must be away--for some reason he has not remained here long--what does it mean? Did he fly his post by Turenne's side for other purposes than his fear of me, and of what he imagined I had learnt--does he even dread now to remain in his own fortress--for such it almost is! It must be so. Had he been there to-night the turmoil would surely have roused him--brought him forth--and----" at which thought Andrew smiled. "He could not have suspected I was there, however. Even his men can but have supposed the intruder was some midnight thief, or poacher, creeping about the house."
He passed through Remiremont as it lay sleeping quietly under the moon's rays, and with no light glimmering from any windows except that of the inn--from which, even now, at midnight, came forth the eternal chant of "Lorraine, Lorraine, ma douce patrie," and he would have given something considerable for a drink of wine, or even of water, to quench the thirst which his late adventure had created. But he knew he must forego it until he reached Plombières--the road he was upon came only from Bois-le-Vaux; to halt here would be to give a clue as to what kind of man had been within its precincts that night, should inquiry be made the next day.
Instead, therefore, he went quietly by the auberge, riding slowly so as to make no more clatter than necessary, and looking carefully as he passed to see if any face came to the window or any form to the door. But none did; the provincial song drowned the sound of the horse's hoofs, and he went through the village unheeded.
And then, once on the little pass that led from Remiremont to Plombières, he put his animal to the trot again, and so reached the latter place as the church clock tolled one, finding some of De Vaudemont's men still drinking and singing, and some lying about on the settles and benches, their carousals over for that occasion.
In the morning he told Jean--who had spent the night in Plombières at another inn with some acquaintances who were also back from the war for the winter--all that had happened to him, and the latter appeared much struck by the encounter with the hounds. Yet, he shook his head, too, on hearing of the conclusion of the adventure, and muttered a few words as to the effect of its being "a pity."
"What is a pity?" asked Andrew, looking up from his plate. They were alone now, for most of the De Vaudemont men had already set out for the outlying villages to which they belonged, others were not yet risen, and others, still, were wandering about Plombières chatting with friends and acquaintances, and beginning another day of wassailing. Therefore, they had the living-room of the inn to themselves.
"What is a pity?"
"That also you did not slay the second dog, I know the breed, though I knew not that thescélérat, De Bois-Vallée, possessed any. They are mountain dogs--old Cantecroix--whose daughter was affianced, if not married, to the Duke--some do say that she was his lawful wife--bred them, up at Gerardmer. One scarce knows, though, what this strain is--the old man would never tell--but they are terribly fierce, as monsieur has learned. Also, their scent is remarkable; they never forget those they have once smelt, and----"
But here he broke off and put a question.
"Monsieur intends to visit Bois-le-Vaux again?"
"Without doubt I do. Only, next time in a different way."
"You should have slain the other. She will remember you."
"Peste, man! how could I slay her? I was on the branch--on the wall--as she reached me; my sword is not a mile long, and it would have been folly to shoot. The men were near; the report would have brought them to us--and I was saved. That was enough."
"All the same, 'tis a pity. The dog should be dead ere monsieur goes again. Of a surety she will smell him out if he is in or about the house. And, when she scents him, she will go nigh mad in her desire to reach him; will make noise enough to wake the dead."
"Humph!" said Andrew. "Perhaps 'tis a pity, too, since such is the case. Yet, 'tis too late now. There is nothing to be done."
"Ho, la, la!" exclaimed the other, "'tis not yet too late. She can be made away with. There are more ways than one of killing a dog."
For a minute or so Andrew reflected on the man's words. Reflected, because it was repugnant to him that the creature should be put out of the way--a creature who, although a brute, was a noble one. Yet, must her life stand in the way of what he had to accomplish--must he spare the hound and, thereby, fail in what he had to do, namely, to find his way to Marion Wyatt, to avenge his brother? No! If the animal stood between him and his task, better she perished a hundred times--better a hundred noble animals perished than that he should fail.
"She is certain to remember me--to discover my presence there when I return--you think?" he asked, still touched with regret at the necessity for her fate.
"I do not think. I am sure."
"How to do it, then?"
"Leave that to me, I will do it. To-day, I will go to my cousin--we had best know what they conclude from the affray last night--and then I shall find my chance. To-morrow, or the day after, the dog will have gone to join its mate. When next you visit Bois-le-Vaux you will not have her to contend with for one."
Andrew would not ask him in what way the creature was to be destroyed, though he imagined it was by the simple method of poison; he preferred that he should simply learn later that it was removed from his path. He had seen enough of the alertness of both it and its mate to thoroughly understand how keen their senses were--they had discovered his presence outside on theplacewhen not one of the human sleepers had been disturbed; also, he had had solid proofs of their fierceness. And, if now, to that fierceness and that keenness, was to be added also the certainty that the dog would be doubly alert through its previous knowledge of him, it must be removed. The lives of countless noble hounds must not stand in his way, he thought again.
"So," he said, therefore, "it must be. Let me know ere I go there once more that it is done. Also, bid Laurent meet me here as soon as may be. I have work for him--need his assistance."
"To enter Bois-le-Vaux--the house this time, perhaps?"
"Ay, the house this time."
"You do not count nor dread the risk?"
"I dread nothing. As for counting, it is done. I count my life against the undertaking. One or the other will rise uppermost. Either the undertaking succeeds, or I fail. If I fail, the price of failure will be, must be, death."
"Monsieur is very brave," said Jean, looking at him with eyes full of admiration.
"He is very determined," Andrew answered. "That is all."
"And," the man asked, after a moment's pause, "the instructions are the same? If you come not back soon--in a day or so--we are to be sure you are dead? Then, to take our own way."
"Remembering always the woman's safety."
"That always."
After which Andrew told him there was one other thing he desired to know ere paying his next visit to the house, namely, where De Bois-Vallée was! If that could be discovered it would be useful intelligence to him. Did he think he could find out?
He could try, at least, Jean said. And, though gone, he might be able to find out where the Vicomte was. He could, he thought, discover whether he was at home or not.
"Do that," said Andrew, "and it will suffice."
"The moon," said Andrew, "is past her full, therefore she will not rise until close upon eleven. Now is the time."
He was seated in the general room, or parlour, of La Tête d'Or, and opposite to him was Laurent--it being the third day after his visit to Bois-le-Vaux.
He had the inn to himself now, as far as regarded visitors, since all of De Vaudemont's service, as well as several other Lorrainers who had returned with their masters from the campaign, had by this time gone to their respective homes. Yet, to some of them a hint had been given--a whisper sent round--that one of those who were most hated amongst the seigneurie might ere long be brought to his account, and that, if they desired to participate in the knowledge of what was happening, they should let Jean know their whereabouts.
"For," said he, over many an ale-house table in various villages around, "there may be some brave doings ere long--doings in which some of you may like to share. There are many of us who have had our noses to the grindstone a long while--many who have eaten hard bread so that those who have dominated us should feed well--some, too, whose hearths have been made desolate. Well! it may so happen now--God, He only knows!--that there will be one more hearth desolated soon. That--well!--that the oppressor shall have no hearth to warm himself at."
He had given many other hints, too--accompanied by divers winks and nods and shrugs, common to peasants of his class--hints that there might be a house to be burnt down and so forth; a fearful retaliation to be made on one whom they, in that part of Lorraine, had come to regard as a pest and curse; a man who was a traitor to all their traditions; one who--this being in the eyes of many the worst crime possible--had given in his allegiance to France.
And in the telling of all this he had so inflamed the imagination of his hearers--rude soldiers, mostly, who had been born and nurtured in the one idea that, above all other things, France was never to be permitted to enfold in her grasp their fair province of Lorraine--that, at any moment, they would be willing to rise and wreak their vengeance on the man at whom Jean hinted. And, their curiosity being also much aroused, as was natural enough, they tried hard to extract from him the name of the identical seigneur against whom such retaliation would probably be practised. This, however, he would not divulge--having been warned by Andrew and Laurent on no account to do so--and, thereby, inflamed their imagination the more! So that, when he left them, he did so knowing that they were fully primed to join at any moment in any attack to which they might be summoned, should the necessity arise; both he and Laurent believing in their own minds that that opportunity would not be long in coming.
For, though both these men considered that it was most probable Andrew would obtain the entrance to the mansion of Bois-le-Vaux which he desired, neither of them thought he would ever return or escape from that mansion alive. And, with him destroyed, there would be no further necessity for delaying the project on which they and others had long meditated--the project of destroying and razing to the ground the ancient home of the De Bois-Vallées. Therefore, the warning to those others had gone forth; they were bidden to be ready.
"So," said Laurent now, in answer to Andrew's remark, "it is to be to-night?"
"It is to-night. If all goes well I shall be in the house by ten o'clock, and out of it again an hour later with, I trust and pray, the lady safely rescued."
"I pray so," Laurent answered. But again he whispered to himself, as he had done before, that the English stranger would never return alive. He would be caught, discovered by some of the servitors--men thoroughly in their master's interests, since he at any moment could send them to the gallows-tree for past offences--and would be set upon and slain. Yet, when he told Andrew this, the other turned a deaf ear to him--refused to believe in such peril.
"There are five," he replied, "since their master is away--what devil's work is he on now, I wonder? What are five? How many times think you, my friend, have I been opposed to five men in the campaigns I have made? Why! 'twas but at Entzheim the other day that I was alone and unsupported amongst a dozen of the Duke of Holstein-Pleon's soldiers; yet, as you see, I am here, and without a scratch."
"Ay, I see," muttered Laurent, "but 'twas on an open field, your friends and comrades near you, ready at any moment to come to your assistance as, doubtless, they did. Oh! I know, I have been a soldier myself! But now, see, it is different. You will be alone in a strange house--in the dark--egress impossible during an attack on you.Mon Dieu!you will be run through and through or shot ere you can get back to the slope--with no possibility of help from friends and comrades there. Heavens!" he concluded, "the risk is fearful."
"Bah!" answered Andrew, his nerves not touched one whit by Laurent's forebodings. "Bah! 'Twould want forty men to place me at such disadvantage as you speak of. For, observe! I shall be at the top of the house, since I enter that way, and she is also there--do not you--one who has been a soldier--see the advantage I have? Five cannot mount the stairs abreast, 'tis unlike they will be broad in that part of the house. As they come singly, or in twos, I shall have my chance."
"They will use firearms."
"And so shall I. Fear not, my friend, I shall return alive."
And again Laurent said, "I pray so," while, again, he thought to himself, "It is impossible."
Then Andrew asked him if it was certain, as Jean had reported, that the dog was dead?
"He says," replied the other, "that almost for sure it must be. He and his cousin have laid the poison carefully; the cousin, indeed, getting at the meat with which it is fed. It cannot be still alive."
"Therefore," said Andrew, "I am safe from its discovery. Yet, poor beast, I would it had not been necessary."
"Pray God it is dead," replied Laurent. "Pray God it is. For if it still lives when you are in that house, nothing can save your presence from being known."
"Bah! croaker! Even if it still lives it must have a strong scent to discover me in the topmost part of the building when they are all below. I will not believe it."
After which he set about making all necessary arrangements for reaching the mansion into which he had resolved to penetrate that night.
They were soon concluded, as he himself had pondered much over them during the time that had elapsed since his escape from the jaws of the hounds on that, his first and only, visit--it but remained for him to go over them carefully with Laurent. Therefore, he asked now, "Is the coil of rope safely bestowed?"
"Ay, it is," Laurent replied. "Thirty good metres of the newest and best. Placed in our hut far down the slope, where the wood is kept after the felled trees are cut into billets. It is there. To-night we shall find it."
"'Tis very well. Now listen. To-night I set forth from this inn and shall reach Gaspard's cabin about the hour of nine. You will be there. Then we shall descend without loss of time and, ere ten minutes have elapsed, I shall be across. It will not take long, once the rope is fixed to that chestnut which grows close down to the summit of the wall."
"It will not take long, in truth," Laurent replied. "That will not, Monsieur," and the man's face testified true anxiety. "It is the returning I fear."
"Dispel your fear--I shall return."
"And with the lady?"
"And with the lady!"
"Suppose," said Laurent, "you find her guarded by the woman. It may be she sleeps with her, or close by her side. What then?"
"I must find means to silence without hurting her." While, impetuously, he said, "My friend, all is thought of--as far as may be, all foreseen. I know well the risks and dangers I have to encounter. See. Let me tell them over to you," and swiftly he proceeded to do so.
"First--there is the risk that the rope may break--then----"
"For that never fear! I guarantee that!"
"So be it. Then, first--since that counts not--I may be seen ere I reach the roof by someone on the look out--'tis not very like, yet it may be so. Whereon I shall be shot like a sparrow, and die hanging 'twixt earth and heaven. Or, let me reach the roof, and be hacked to death, or hurled to the paved court below. Is not all possible?"
For answer Laurent shuddered. "Mon Dieu!" he muttered, "your nerve is iron."
"On the other hand, allow I gain the roof and find all barred--trapdoor or ladder--or discover no entrance that way I must then come back and try elsewhere, another time. But, presuming I can gain the entrance--what then? I have to reach the lady, silence her fear at sight of me--poor soul! doubtless she will think at first I am her doomsman--persuade her to come away with me, force her to pass across the chasm. 'Twill terrify her, yet--it is the only way. We can never escape below--specially if the hound happens by any chance to be still alive!--I must fasten her to the rope, let her swing across, while you from the other side will draw her up. Then the rope can be thrown back to me; why should we fail? Fail, bah we will, we must succeed. Say, have I not thought of all?"
"In truth you have," Laurent exclaimed, and, catching some of Andrew's spirit, he answered, "We will succeed."
* * * * * *
The night came--dark as pitch, with, above, dense clouds rolling so low that they swept the tops of the fir trees on the summit; covered, indeed, that summit so that Gaspard's cabin was enveloped in the dank, reeking mist. And, through that mist, Andrew and Laurent were descending to where was the ledge of the stone-facing to the slope that backed up the mansion of Bois-le-Vaux.
As far as was possible, every arrangement had been made for removing the woman, known to Andrew as Marion Wyatt, to a place of safety directly she was out of the house, it being deemed by him not necessary that, at first, she should be taken farther than Remiremont itself, or, at most, Plombières. For, once beyond Bois-le-Vaux and with him to protect her, Andrew shrewdly suspected that the Vicomte would make no further attempt upon her liberty, since to do so he would once more find himself opposed to his sword, of which--maître d'escrimeas he almost was--De Bois-Vallée must now have learnt to have a wholesome respect. And, as for summoning any authority there might be in the neighbourhood to his assistance--that was not to be imagined. Even though he should be able to show some kind of right to retain the lady, none in that place would be likely to lend assistance to one so cordially detested as he was, both because of his family and of the manner in which he had broken with all the traditions of the province in espousing the cause of France instead of--as most others had done--contenting himself with remaining lukewarm, if not inclined to join the Duke.
No! there was no danger once outside the house. It all lay inside!
They reached the hut where the wood was stored by the peasants when cut into billets, ere being sent down to the mansions and towns that lay around the western side of the Vosges, and, furnishing themselves with the thirty metres of good new rope which Laurent had purchased by Andrew's orders--rope two inches in circumference and strong enough to bear the strain of four men of even his bulk--they set forth again on the descent. Also, Andrew took with him a small lantern and a tinder-box, since he knew not what impenetrable darkness might bar his way towards the room of the woman he sought, when inside the house.
But this was not all. He recognized that, once he quitted the comparative safety of the walled slope, his life would not be worth a moment's purchase if he were observed; he was resolved to part with that life as dearly as possible. To his sword, therefore, were now added the pistols in his belt, well charged and primed; likewise he had in his breast a dagger-knife, good either for stabbing or cutting.
"For all," he said to Laurent, "may be needed. The sword in close encounter with a number--they will be clever if they get beyond its point!--the pistols for use at a distance. To wit, when I am swinging over the chasm! For, there, a bullet would reach a man ere, perhaps, one from him can reach me. And for the knife--well, 'twill cut a lock away from an old door, or hack a rope in half with one lusty cut. Is't not so, my friend?"
"It is so," Laurent assented. Then he muttered, "You appal me! I never thought the man lived who knew not fear. Yet now I have found him."
But Andrew only laughed and bade him push on his way by the path that, even in the sodden, rimy darkness, the Lorrainer was well able to find.
At last they were on the brink of the chasm; they stood upon the coping of the wall of rock erected, doubtless, centuries ago by some De Bois-Vallée to prevent the flattened face of the slope from falling away and filling up the gap left between it and the house itself. The gap of twenty feet across which Andrew was now to pass.
Below, in front, nothing was visible; the mist rolling up from the plains obscured all. It was so profound that none who had not been there before could have imagined that, some yards away, though lower down, there stood the roof of a vast mansion; that, between the roof and their feet there was a gulf--a space--through which a step more, if taken by one who did not know every inch of the mountains, would hurl him to annihilation below.
"It is the safest moat--the most devilish!" Andrew whispered, "ever devised or thought of. How many have stumbled over this to death and destruction, I wonder, in the years that are gone and on such a night as this?"
"They are devils all, these De Bois-Vallées; devils all! Perhaps theLoup de Lorraine, the first of their race, foresaw the many stumbles that would happen here in the days that were to come."
"Maybe," said Andrew. "Well! by God's blessing I will not stumble nor fail in my passage. Now for the rope."
They wound it round the chestnut tree half a dozen times, knotting and making it fast at this end, so that by no chance could it slip and become uncoiled; they tugged singly and together at it until they were assured that it was as secure and fast as human hand could make it. Then they measured the length of what remained and judged that it was as nearly as possible what was desired.
"I shall be," said Andrew, "a little lower than the roof when I am at its full length below, therefore 'tis very well. For, when I am about to plunge across, it will require more length to gain that roof. Now, I will make a trial. And, one last word. Remember, I shall come back ere long. I feel it--know it. As man to man, I charge you not to desert me; not to quit this spot until all human hope of my return has vanished from your mind. On you my life, and the life of her I go to rescue, depends."
"There is my hand," Laurent said, finding that of the other in the darkness. "Alive I will not quit the place. Even though you come not back for forty-eight hours I shall be here."
"Enough! If I come not back in that time I shall be dead. Then--do as you will."
He looped the end of the coil about his body under his armpits, and, taking as well one turn of the rope beneath his shoulder, so that it should by no possibility be able to slip up over his head, he also wound it round his left arm. That done, he knew that nothing but the fraying of the strands upon the coping of the wall, or a sudden hack at it from a knife, could plunge him on to the stones below. It would never leave his body now until he removed it, or until, if dead, some other performed that office.
"Let it slip gradually round the trunk of the tree," he said, "till it is all payed out. About a foot from the ground; thereby it will escape the rough stones of the edge. Farewell! Remember!"
And now he knelt down upon the extreme lip of the coping-stone, found that one place in particular was very smooth, and decided that it was over this that the rope must run. Thereby, the friction would be scarcely anything.
"Lower me down," he whispered, as his legs hung dangling in the unfathomable space, and the toes of his boots scraped against the surface of the wall. "Lower me now."
And as he spoke he perceived himself slowly gliding down the face of the dank, wet wall, and felt the ferns and mosses that grew upon it brushing against his jacket.
Once--the man above letting the rope slip a little too quickly around the body of the tree--he felt the speed at which he was descending increased, and, a moment later, that descent stopped by a sudden jerk. And he thought the rope had broken; that, in another second, he would be dashed to pieces on the stones below! No wonder, therefore, if from all the pores of his body the sweat oozed out, that his heart seemed to have stopped beating. Yet, another second, and the rope was running slowly again, and he understood what had happened and thanked God fervently. One of the turns had been made too loosely round the trunk of the tree. That was all! Yet, for the time being, bad enough!
A few more moments and again it stopped with another jerk, though from a different cause. It had come to its end.
And now he had to prepare for the plunge across to the unseen roof that he knew was there; would have, when he arrived on the other side, to feel with feet and hands--since his eyes were useless in this black darkness!--for something, either coping of roof, chimney, or gable to which to clutch, and, thereby, find foothold. "Oh!" he thought, "if I could but see, could but know how to direct my body." Yet, even as he so thought, he remembered that the darkness served him as equally as it rendered his task more difficult. If he could not see, neither could he be seen. No one could fire at him, as he had suggested might happen, or, firing, could hope to hit him.
He had not recognized before, though he did so now, how fair a boon the darkness and the reeking clouds of autumn fog were to him, by hiding from his vision the dreadful depth below. For, though he knew 'twas there, and that, between him and a swift flight down to death and destruction, there was naught to save him but the goodness of the rope's strength and quality--he did not see it! Therefore, he felt it less, could keep his head cool and his nerves calm in a manner that he doubted if he could have done on a bright sunny day, or even moonlight night.
Turning his face towards where the roof was, he prepared to take the plunge, his feet drawn up behind him and pressed against the wall, so as to get the full force of his propulsion, as a swimmer drives himself forward into a stream from the river's bank. Also--again like a swimmer--he threw his long arms in front of him so that he might either grasp aught which his hands should encounter or, with them, defend his face and head from being struck by wall or parapet. Then--for the moment had come!--he pushed with all the force of his feet against the rope and shot himself swiftly across the chasm. A minute later and he knew that he had failed!
His outstretched hands had struck something--he thought it was a horizontal water-pipe beneath the edge of the roof--but the strong fingers missed their grasp, the weight of his body in the rebound tore them away from whatever the object was which they had touched; a moment later and his form was swung back to the spot whence he had come, while the impetus given to the rope by the concussion of the rebound caused him to spin round and round like a teetotum till he was sick and giddy. Yet, with his hands against the damp, slimy wall, he managed to arrest the spinning at last; a moment or so later and he was hanging as before.
His breath was coming laboriously from his breast now, the swift return to the wall having nearly knocked him senseless--also the rope had tightened so about his body that it seemed as though it must cut through him. He lifted his hands above his head, therefore, and, seizing the rope, while he placed his right heel on a little unevenness it had encountered in the wall, eased himself somewhat by relieving the strain.
"Next time I must not fail," he thought. "If I do, I must desist and be drawn up." But as he set his teeth firmly, he muttered through them: "I will not fail. Now for it!"
With even more force than before he repeated what he had previously done, drew his feet a little higher behind him so that, as he thought--for quaint ideas come to our minds, even in the moment of most deadly danger!--he must present the appearance of some huge gargoyle, had there been any eye to see him, and then launched himself again across the chasm.
This time he did not fail.
He had shot himself beyond the edge of the roof, his hands struck against some hard substance which he clutched with all his might--breaking his nails as he did so--his feet scraped something beneath them; then he let them fall with all the weight he was capable of--and a moment, a second later, he was standing firm.
"I have arrived!" He said. "Arrived! Thank God!" Whereon he sat down exactly where his feet were just before, and felt all around him with his hands to discover how much more solid space there was beneath and about him. For, with all his wariness and coolness returned to him, he knew that he might be on the immediate edge of the roof, from which one false move would hurl him to as instant destruction as must have been his lot had the rope broken during his aerial flight.
As far as his hands--and feet--could reach there was a roof under him covered by some metal--which he guessed to be sheets of tin placed there to keep out the rain and damp from the woodwork beneath--covered also by soft masses of innumerable leaves blown across the chasm from the trees on the slope. Leaves that, maybe, had deadened any sound of his falling feet as he alighted; would have almost, he thought, have deadened the sound to any who might be immediately below. So far all was well.
Still, he was not satisfied of his whereabouts, nor of how much solidity there was around him; he drew, therefore, his long sword and, bending over in each direction, felt about with its point, discovering that there was no open space near. He had landed well upon the roof, he knew, consequently; until he should move from this spot there was no danger.
The object against which his hands had struck and his nails been broken and torn was, he found out directly afterwards, a great chimney--it was quite warm, and showed thereby that fires were burning somewhere below; also, as he reclined a moment with his back against it, the warmth was grateful. It served likewise for attaching the rope to, which he now removed from his arm and body, though as he did so he did not forget that, should aught arise to prevent his return with Marion Wyatt ere the day dawned, it must be allowed to fall back to the other side, and be drawn up by Laurent. To be seen from below when the dawn came--as undoubtedly it would be seen ere the day was an hour or so old--would tell too plain a tale.
He had reflected long ere this present moment that, once inside the house, it was more than possible he might have to remain within it until another night had come; even, perhaps, longer. For the prisoner's fears might prevent her from being able to summon up courage to cross that awful gap at a moment's notice; she might be ill--twenty things, he knew, might bar the way to an immediate flight. Wherefore, the tell-tale rope must not be there. Must be returned, and later on, when wanted, cast across again by Laurent. That could be effected easily; a stone attached to it would make its passage sure, as well as cause the end to remain when once it had landed on the roof.
From Laurent there came no noise nor signal--on the other side all was as still as death! That this should be so they had agreed, yet now Andrew could not resist sending a little whistle across the chasm, a whistle that, to the man watching over there, would be understood, while, if heard by others, it would doubtless be thought to be the cry of some bird in the night. That it was heard and understood he had no reason to doubt.
A second or so afterwards a similar sound was returned. Therefore, Andrew knew that Laurent kept his watch well; knew also that nothing untoward had arisen on that side.
He was refreshed now with his slight rest; the time had come for him to continue his task, to commence, as he recognized, the harder portion of it. To penetrate into the house of the man whom he had forced to be his enemy, to endeavour to rescue by the same perilous means which had so far gained him admission to the outer part of that house, a woman. Truly, if his arrival at this spot had been dangerous and terrible, how much more so would the quitting it be for her?
Yet he meant to do it--or die in the attempt.
Upon his hands and knees now, one after the other of the former carefully put out before him to feel for any break in the roof which might plunge him to the depths beneath, as well as to seek for, and haply find, any trapdoor or entrance to what was below, he crept carefully forward, directing his course to where he supposed the centre of the roof was. Yet, at first, he encountered nothing beneath the mass of leaves swept on to the roof by the autumn winds, or nothing else beyond another stack of chimneys. Chimneys that were warm like the others.
"They keep good fires," he thought. "'Tis fortunate! Pray heaven the whole house is warmed, if I can find a way into it. Otherwise I am likely to perish of the cold."
While he so reflected his hand struck a projection, something that rose perpendicularly from the roof for some three feet or so, as he felt by running that hand upon it. What was it?
He knew in an instant. The side-rail of a ladder rising above the roof--a side-rail which anyone, on emerging from below, would grasp as they stepped forth. Here was the entrance!
Yet, flat and level with the tin covering, or leads, there was still the closed trap, it being fastened from within by some bolt or pin, but--as further search proved--with its great hinge outside, so that it could be pushed upwards from the inside.
Shortly, however, he had forced the trap open--the dagger-knife with which he had provided himself having cut away the tin and woodwork from around that hinge, so that he could lift it some few inches, and, drawing it towards him, he drew also the bolt inside from out the staple. The road was free to him now!
Without a moment's hesitation he descended, one hand grasping the side-rail, the other the hilt of his sword; carefully counting the steps as he went. Fifteen in all he numbered, so that he thought the floor below must be close at hand--when, suddenly, the steps ceased. Yet--there was nothing below! No floor that he could feel, though he lowered himself as far as he might, grasping the bottom rung and the rail for support, and plunging his long leg down into the space. Nor even when, bending down as low as possible in another position, he tried to touch something solid with his sword!
Nothing!
He was not cold now; instead, all over him he felt the perspiration ooze out at the idea that here was aguet-apens, into which he had almost stumbled.
"Doubtless an oubliette," he thought, "a death-trap for any coming hastily down. Heavens! thoseloups de Lorraineforgot no precaution. Have any others ever passed the way that I have come, found an entrance from across the chasm to the roof, only to perish here?" Yet, even as he spoke, he was standing firmly on the lower step and feeling for his tinder box and lanthorn. A few moments and the latter was ignited, and, even with the dim rays it cast around, he was able to see and appreciate his position.
Below that last step there yawned a circular opening some ten or twelve feet in circumference, and large enough, therefore, for any human body to pass through it; the opening of a great shaft that, doubtless, passed all down the centre of the mansion, to end, perhaps, in some stone-floored dungeon or, maybe, some bottomless well fed by the mountain streams. Led to--no matter in what form--certain death below!
But, glancing round the rough, wooden-walled garret, orsous-toit, in which he was, and observing all that was possible by the flickering of the lamp, he saw, too, that, for those who were acquainted with the place, the ascent or descent of the ladder offered no difficulty. To the left of it, outside the rim of the shaft and not a foot away, was a species of wooden mounting block by which one could step on to, or off, it--the danger threatened only those who did not know of the trap, or should come hurriedly down the ladder in the dark as he had done! Also, he perceived almost immediately opposite to where he stood, a small door let in to the wall or side of the garret, or rather a doorway or arch.
"My way lies there," he said to himself, and stepping on to the block he proceeded to follow it.
The lamp in one hand, it being shielded by his other palm, he passed beneath that arch and so encountered another flight of steps, or, in this case, stairs, having balustrades on either side, and thus descended to what was, in actual fact, the topmost floor, since that which he had just quitted was no more than the support of, and space beneath, the roof.
He was now in the house proper; now was the time when danger was close at hand, when one false step, a stumble, the slightest creak of a board beneath his foot, one glimmer from his lanthorn, would bring destruction on his head.
For, up to this floor the great staircase rose unbroken, and up the well of the house which that staircase made there came the warmth from the hall below, the odour of the burning logs, the noise made by snoring men. And Andrew, the lamp out now, peered over the topmost rail of the stair's balustrade and gazed down.
As before, the watchers slept, Beaujos in his great chair, the tankard on the table by his side; upon that table also his sword. Only, now, the weapon was flanked by two others--by two great pistols. He saw, too, that in the belts of each of the serving-men were pistols added to their wooden-sheathed knives. All were doubly armed!
"Thank God!" he muttered; "the dog at least is not there. It must have met its end: perhaps 'tis from that end and my previous visit, added to the death of its companion, that they take this double caution. Yet, had they taken five hundred times as much, I must go on. I have embarked; I must see the voyage through."
He knew--had known all along--none could have failed to know!--the risk he was running, the door of Death at which he stood. One slip now, a cough alone, and he would be face to face with those doubly-armed men. Yet the knowledge of his danger did but one thing--it made him all the more determined, while resolving at the same time to exert his utmost caution.
Removing his eyes from the men below, he let them roam swiftly round the floor on which he was, though, up here, all was in so much darkness that he could distinguish nothing. Yet he knew that there was at least one room upon it used and inhabited; a room which faced, as he calculated, to the front, and looked out over the great courtyard.
A room from under the door of which, as he peered through the darkness, there stole now a gleam of light.