* * * * * *
The woman spoke no more, nor, as Andrew had thought would happen, did she spring at him. Instead, without one word, she turned on her heel and slowly made her way to the ladder, where, grasping the side-rail, she descended it. Yet, ere she did so, she turned her face once and glanced at him, the look she gave him piercing to his heart.
And, as he flung himself back on his rug, he muttered in the darkness by which he was once more surrounded:
"Heaven forgive me! Heaven forgive me! I had to do it--it may win her to our side; help Marion Wyatt and myself to our freedom. It had to be done. Yet, it has driven her mad--if she was not already so. Heaven forgive me!"
Lying on his couch--if the bare floor and the rug upon which he found himself could be called such--Andrew began to perceive that whatever hurt he might have taken in the affray of the hall was leaving him. He had long since, in the passage of one weary hour after another, discovered that the wound which had rendered him insensible was not serious, and that the blow had not proceeded from the pistol which had been fired in his face. On the contrary, it was certain that he had been struck down from behind, at the moment that weapon exploded, by either some bludgeon or sword wielded by one of the servitors, and that, beyond this, he had received little harm. As for the pain in his shoulder--that did, indeed, proceed from the pistol bullet which had grazed his collar-bone, but had done no further injury.
And, now, in spite of his hard bed and poor nourishment--for nothing beyond the jug of water and the platter of bread was ever given him--he still found himself returning to strength and health. His mind had cleared also, as he perceived when he was able to so work upon the feelings of the maddened woman who had visited him--he felt he was ready to resist his doom in whatever form it might approach him. Nay, more, that he was ready to combat and avoid that doom should any opportunity arise of doing so.
Yet, he asked himself again and again as he lay there, how was the resistance to be offered! How? He was chained, and at the top of the house. There was no exit that way. Doubtless, those who had carried him up to this garret while he was insensible remembered that; calculated also that, even though the chain had not been about his leg and securely rivetted to the floor, he had no chance of escape. The chasm was impassable and there was no other mode of egress, since, never again, would he be allowed to reach the lower part of the house unobserved.
The woman had come no more by the time that he supposed a day and a night must have passed since she visited him, or, if she had come, he had not known it. Yet he had found the water replenished again in the vase by his side, and the empty platter filled with bread.
Therefore he knew this must have been done when he slept, and, doubtless, done in the dark. Otherwise he would have been awakened by the glare of the light!
But now, having discovered that this had happened, he resolved that it should not do so again. It was contrary to all his military ideas to be thus surprised without knowing it; repugnant also to him to be thus visited by some enemy, or some creature of his particular enemy. It should not be repeated, he vowed.
To prevent any such further unknown visitation, he raised himself into a sitting posture and stretched out his hand for the stone pitcher which stood by his side, when, grasping it round the neck, he drew it towards him. He meant to sleep when next slumber came to him with his hand around it, and to place the platter beneath his arms. Thereby, unless they were left untouched and fresh supplies put in their place, it would be impossible for his food and drink to be replenished without his knowing it, as well as being awakened. And, should it be the woman who thus replenished them, it might happen that he could wile her into conversation, might, indeed, by working upon her feelings, induce her to say something that should give him a clue as to what fate was before him.
Thinking this, he drew the vessel towards him, when, to his amazement, he found that it struck against and moved something lying on the floor; something that, when he had previously raised the jug to his lips directly from the floor, he had not observed. Something long and thin that slid on the boards with a scraping sound.
To his further intense astonishment as he grasped the object, he found it was a sword in its scabbard. A moment later he knew it was his own sword.
There was no doubt about it. He could recognize his own long curled quillon amongst a thousand, knew the particular shape of the steel hook by which he fastened his leather-slashed "carriage," orporte épée, to his belt; knew also the feel and grip of the handle. It was his own sword, the one that, below, had dropped from his numbed hand as the bludgeon, or other weapon, had struck him down at the same time that the flash from the pistol had blinded him.
"What does it mean?" he whispered to himself, as, lovingly, he ran his finger along the keen, sharp blade. "What? That I am to have a chance for life even though against tremendous odds; even though outnumbered. Ha! well, no matter! Better that, with this true friend to my hand, than poison or a swift fall down that hellish shaft to regions unknown. Far better that, with you in my grasp," and he thrust the blade back into its scabbard. Yet, cheered as he was by discovering this good servant by his side once more, a moment's reflection told him how, even now, it was of little use to him. Rivetted to the floor was one end of the accursed chain that held him fast--with that about his ankle what could he do even though armed?
"Kill one or two, 'tis true," he mused, "even as they come at me. Kill them, run them through, as once I saw a Turk at Choczim kill four men, while he lay on the ground with both his legs torn off beneath the knee by one of Sobieski's cannonballs. Well! even so, 'tis best. Best to die fighting, causing as many as I can to travel the same dark road I go upon. Far best." And, hugging his sword to him, he lay back and pondered on who could have done him so fair a service as this.
"The woman, without doubt," he thought. "The poor mad, distracted thing. It may be that she deems I shall be the instrument of vengeance on the son of the man who threw her off, and so provided me the wherewithal."
Still thinking over all this, and musing, as he had mused more than once in the long lonely hours spent in the darkness, on what could have caused Laurent to either cut, or permit to be cut, the rope which would have saved him and Marion Wyatt--would have opened the door to their freedom--wondering, also, if he had been suddenly attacked from behind--perhaps slain--Andrew dropped off once more into a gentle slumber. Though now, with the sword to one hand, and with the other round the pitcher's neck, while the bread platter lay beneath his arm.
Dropped off into a slumber from which he was awakened by hearing a step upon the ladder, and by the room becoming suddenly lit up by the rays of an approaching lanthorn. The lanthorn carried by the woman whom he deemed distraught.
Because he thought that, after all, she might not be the one who, in her mercy, had placed his weapon by his side, he pushed it beneath his body so that, if such were the case, it might be possible she would not observe it; then he leant over towards where she was advancing to him and regarded her fixedly, looking straight into her full, wandering eyes.
"So, madame," he said, "you visit me again. Is't on some errand of pity that you come--or to tell me my fate?"
For a moment she answered nothing--standing motionless before, and gazing down fixedly upon, him, though he perceived that those strange eyes were searching the floor as though in quest of something. Doubtless the sword! Then she said--
"What fate do you expect--at his hands?"
"God only knows! Yet, if you should know also, tell me."
Again she paused--the eyes still sweeping the floor, so that now he felt sure 'twas she who had restored his weapon to him--when a moment later she said, speaking in a harsh, emotionless voice--
"You are to be taken from here to Nancy, where the Duke is for the winter period. There you will be tried on various charges--attempted murder, abduction--he will swear she is his wife! You will be condemned. Nothing can save you; he has given in his adherence to the Duke now; he will obtain his desire--to see you broken on the wheel."
"So! A brave scheme! When is it to be put in practice?"
"When you are recovered."
"I am recovered now. See!" and he sat up on the rug stretched over the floor. "Observe! I am not so weak but that I can stand if I desire to do so. Will you tell the Vicomte there is no hurt to prevent me setting out at once to see this Duke, to make acquaintance with the wheel."
"My God!" the woman muttered, stirred out of herself. "Can this be real? Are you, in truth, so careless of fate?"
"Bah!" He replied. "What you prophesy is child's play--child's talk! The fellow whom you serve," and at the word "serve" she started, "dares no more haul me before the Duke than he dare haul me before the Duke's own master, Louis; the Duke's better in war, Turenne. 'Tis to them the Duke has himself to account. Babe's prattle, I tell you, woman! If I am to perish, it will be here in this house, down that well, by poison in my food or drink, or dagger-thrust through my heart when I lie sleeping. The wheel is an open death for all to see, set up at cross-roads or in market places--such things are not for De Bois-Vallée. Go, give him my service, and say so!"
"You wish me to repeat that?"
"Ay, repeat it. Repeat also this. That, though I lie here with a chain round my leg like an ox at the shambles; though I am here in his topmost garret a prisoner, I shall ere long be free again. I know it--feel it. Tell him, also, that Andrew Vause was never born to die at his hands--but, instead, to slay him--as I will! And, if he dares to come to this garret--fail not to tell him this!--and stand before me within the reach of this chain at my ankle, I will throttle the life out of him as I would out of a savage dog. Will never lose my hold till his tongue is a foot out of his mouth. Begone, and fail not to repeat my words!"
The woman said no more--yet cast one long searching glance at him as though wondering what manner of man this was--then went to the head of the steps, or ladder, leading from below, and brought back still another fresh jug of water and a platter, both of which she had left there on entering.
"Here is food and drink for you," she said. Then added: "There is no poison in it!"
"'Tis well. But, remember what I say. If your master compasses my death 'twill come that way--or in some other equally subtle. Yet it will not pass unknown. His cousin, Debrasques, knows him for the unscrupulous villain he is; knows I have come here. If he recovers, as every chirurgeon who saw him believed he would do, he will denounce this man. Therefore, I care not what he does. Now go."
"Debrasques!" the woman repeated, turning sharply on him. "Valentin Debrasques! He knows you and you know him? You say that?" and he saw that her astonishment was great.
"Ay, he is my friend!"
"Debrasques," she whispered. "Debrasques. And your friend!" Then she muttered to herself, though not so low but that he heard her. "And his enemy; as his kinswoman, Fleurange, was mine. 'Twill come. 'Twill surely come."
She stooped down now to lift up the empty water-pitcher and the platter and to put in their place those which she had just brought, and, having done this, again prepared to depart from the garret, walking slowly towards the ladder head. But as, once before, she had turned to cast that evil glance at him over her shoulder, so she turned again. Only her face was different now from what it had been on the occasion of her first visit--there was no evil, demoniacal smile upon her features nor devil's light glancing from her piercing eyes. Instead, a softer look shone from them, a look such as one might cast upon another with whom they were at peace.
"All men's fate is in their own hands," she whispered, as though half to him, half to herself, then turned swiftly and was gone, leaving him alone again with the darkness and his thoughts.
"Fore gad!" he said to himself, feeling strangely exhilarated by this woman's visit--he knew not why!--though, perhaps, 'twas her last words had cheered him thus! "I do think the lady desires I should escape. Yet, if so, why in heaven's name not help me even more than she has done? My sword is useless while I am bound thus to this accursed floor; if my foot were free from that 'twould not be long ere once more the weapon was at his throat. Oh! De Bois-Vallée, the moment must arrive at last. It must! It must! It must!"
For something told him that this garret was not to be only one last step to his doom; he felt, he knew, as certainly as though an angel had spoken to him trumpet-tongued, that the wheel at Nancy would never be his fate. It was not thus that Philip's shade was to be mulcted of its revenge!
Once more he slept, thanking God each time that he awoke for His mercy in permitting him to so forget his captivity for long periods at a time, and then, when he again returned to wakefulness, he put out his hand for the sparse meal the woman had brought him.
"Though I would," he murmured, "that I might find such another boon as I found in my good sword. With my pistols, now, and they well charged, I could do much when they come for me--if they ever come--could slay one or two more ere the chain should be taken from my leg and I dragged forth--not to the Duke of whom she speaks--that is impossible!--but to some ignoble death."
He did not find his pistols; yet, even as he muttered those last words, his hand touched something that was not there before, something which caused him to utter so loud an exclamation that, a second after he had done so, he could have cursed himself for his folly in making a noise which might have been heard by anyone happening to be below the garret.
He had found that which was worth to him a thousand pistols fully charged and primed! He had found something which would do more than ever they could have done! Would give him his liberty from this garret; enable him to once more search the lower part of the mansion--to once more make a bold bid for escape.
His hand had touched a file!
"Heaven bless her!" he muttered. "Mad or sane, Heaven bless her! For this is no trap, noguet-apens, no lure to set me loose from where I am, only to plunge me into a state worse than my present; I shall be free and out of this house with Marion Wyatt ere many hours are passed. Free--since she, this heaven-sent friend, will doubtless aid me--will, it may be, set open the door which leads to that freedom. She must have placed this file here when she changed the food and water; therefore, again I say, Heaven bless her. Even though it may be but a portion of a deep-laid snare, 'tis a good portion. It gives me one more chance."
Wasting no further time in thought or meditation, he set to work to obtain his, now near, release. Set to work to--as silently as might be--file through the shackle-bolt that encircled his ankle. Worked hard at it, with the sweat dropping from his face as he bent over his foot in a terribly cramped position; yet never faltered, and only stopped to change sometimes his hands.
Worked hard in the dark, paying no heed to anything but that into which he had now thrown his whole heart and soul; worked until, at last, the chain was off his leg and he was free. Free to stand up, to hook on his sword once more to his belt, to make his way from out that prison. To find and save Marion Wyatt and himself, or perish in the attempt.
As he did thus stand up and feel his feet once more unbound, and moved towards where the ladder-head was--avoiding, for sure, the deadly shaft so near at hand--a woman who, unknown to him, had been crouching for the last two hours on that ladder in the darkness, rose and went swiftly away from it towards the room to which Marion Wyatt had been taken back after the fight below.
A woman who had sat crouched upon that ladder for so long, listening eagerly to the harsh grating of the file, and who, as she listened, had held her breath and stared with wild eyes into the darkness all around.
His first idea was to remove his boots, which had been on his feet when he recovered consciousness and had remained there since; but, after a moment's reflection, he decided to still keep them on. It was impossible, he thought, that he could quit the house without another encounter taking place; therefore, it was best to be booted. Also, if he did by good fortune so quit it, and could get well outside, they would be necessary, since otherwise he could scarcely reach Remiremont, not to consider Plombières.
Then, having decided this, he made his way at once to the room where he had previously found Marion Wyatt, and tapped lightly on the door.
It was opened--to his astonishment--not by her, but by the woman he deemed mad!
"So," she said, "you are free." Then laughed under her breath, and as low as she had spoken--laughed a weird, witchlike laugh. Adding a second later: "So far!"
"So far at present, thanks be to God and to you," and as he spoke he touched her hand with his--noticing, however, even as he did so, that she drew back shuddering from the touch. "Now, where is the lady?"
"Here!" whereon Marion Wyatt came through the hangings that fell before the square embrasure in front of the window.
If it were possible that she could have been whiter, more ghastly pale than when he had first seen her, she was so now; her face being absolutely devoid of colour. Yet it seemed almost as if some tinge came to it as, swiftly, she advanced across the room to him, while, grasping both hands, she whispered:
"You are free again. Free! Oh God in His mercy be thanked. Yet--yet--I know--she, Clemence, said it should be so," and she gazed at the fateful woman standing by. "It is heaven's grace that has turned her heart to us!"
That woman's eyes, deep, mysterious, unfathomable as ever--puzzling Andrew as they had done before; irritating him, almost, in his desire to know what lay behind them and what thoughts they concealed--blazed forth from their sombre depths; yet she answered nothing. Only, standing there before them, her bosom heaved, her mouth became drawn downwards with some spasm that seemed to express the deepest misery, and a gust of breath that was more than a sigh came from her lips.
"It is by heaven's grace," Andrew re-echoed. "Yet, much as we owe her, now is no fitting time to pay our thanks." Then, turning to her whom Marion had called Clemence, he said:
"Madame, being, so far free, enable us, I beseech you in your goodness, to finish our task. Put us in the way to quit this accursed house, without bloodshed if possible, yet--no matter how--to quit it."
She repeated the words, "this accursed house," twice, letting her left hand fall heavily to her side as she spoke; then a moment later she quivered, drew herself up, and said: "It shall be so, if possible. I will go down and unbar the door. Yet you say 'without bloodshed.' What"--and now she stood so tall and erect that, almost, her height equalled that of the great man before her--"What are you then in this accursed house for? Why hangs that once more upon your thigh?" and she pointed to the long scabbard of his sword. "Are you not come here from your own land to shed his, Camille De Bois-Vallée's, blood?"
"To shed it--yes!" Andrew replied, wondering why his words came hoarse and raucous from his throat; "yet not to-night, if it may be prevented. Nor in his own house; on his own hearth! But, afterwards, in fair open fight; to right a deep wrong to one unable to right himself."
"I go," she said, "to open the door, if may be. Follow me later--in five minutes hence. Yet--yet remember; I deem it a vow, a sacred pledge: you slay him when the time comes. Swear that, or I do no more."
And all amazed, almost appalled, Andrew muttered: "When the time comes. I have said it."
An instant later she was gone, had passed through the door into the darkness of the house, gliding out as some dark spectre might have glided from light to shadow, and those two were alone.
"In five minutes, she said," Andrew whispered in Marion's ear. "In five minutes. Yet, what means it? Is she in truth mad? I thought she loved him; had loved his father. Was his faithful slave and worshipped him. Yet, now, she inclines to us."
From the white lips of the woman by his side there came the answer, the words falling quick and rapid from those lips; she knowing how few were the moments in which to tell the meaning of Clemence's manner.
"It was so," she answered, "once. She loved him, worshipped him, until--until--her madness growing on her, she began to hate him. For he, in his turn, loved and worshipped the memory of his mother--it is the one pure thing remaining to him--his love for me was never pure, was engendered in desire; is turned now to hate and fear of my escape. And his love for that mother and that memory for her whom Clemence hates, even though she has long lain in her grave, explains all. Because she hates the woman who was his mother, also she now hates him. Hopes, prays, you will kill him. Said to me to-night that, when he lies dead below from your thrust, she will stamp upon the features that are so like what hers were."
As she told him thus rapidly the meaning of the woman's frenzy, and as she concluded her story, she saw Andrew's face change. Saw, too, a stare come into his eyes; his attitude denoting that of one who listened intently.
"You hear?" he asked.
"What?"
Yet, even as she spoke, she heard, too. Heard a distant hum--a something indefinite on the night air--a murmur that, all intangible as it was at present, resolved itself in another moment into something else that she understood. It was the hum of human voices--the voices of a great crowd somewhere in the vicinity--of a crowd that drew nearer and nearer every moment.
"You hear--you understand?" he asked, grasping her arm.
"God help me! No. What is it?"
"As I hope, as I think, a rescue. It may be that those in this neighbourhood have risen against him at last; that our path to safety is open. Come, Marion, if 'tis as I believe, our freedom is at hand, should we be able to reach them. Yet, be sure, he will bar our exit--and their entrance; we--I--shall have to fight our way out. Come." And swift as lightning his arm was round her waist, while he prepared to lift her to his shoulder, knowing that, ere long, all in the house would hear those sounds--if they had not done so already; would be aroused. Also, he knew--divined in a moment--that their way out would be barred. And, recognizing this, his sword leapt from its scabbard, drawn forth by his right hand.
"Come," he said again. "We must descend. Be brave and fear nothing. I shall be with you always. We escape together, or--or stay here together."
Then, bearing her on his shoulder, he went towards the door.
Yet, ere he reached it, it was flung wide open; once more Clemence stood before them.
"All hope is gone--for you--for all--for him," she said, her lips flecked with foam, her eyes staring with the madness of despair and frenzy, her grey-streaked black hair hanging down below her shoulders. "Undone! Undone! Undone!"
"What mean you?" Andrew asked. "The house is besieged, yet one may struggle out of it. May yet escape. Is the door open?"
"None can escape," she almost shrieked. "It is surrounded. The Lorrainers are here, outside. They swear to burn him in his den; I have heard them--seen the glint of their weapons--they swear to shoot down all who rush forth. The death of Laurent has maddened them."
"The death of Laurent! My God! Is he dead?"
"He is dead. He slew him--he--he--De Bois-Vallée: He found him there watching for you--he never returned home without visiting the chasm to see if all was safe--and ran him through, then hurled his body to the courtyard below. And they have learnt he did it--there was another one who knew the work you and Laurent were upon--they are here. God none can escape. There are more than a hundred of them. See!"
As she spoke, she rushed through the embrasure and flung open the diamond-paned window.
"See," she said again, drawing Andrew to the window. "They are there below. You can perceive their firelocks gleam in the moonlight from here."
Peering forth, glancing out into the night, he saw beneath the rays of the watery moon, as the light breeze blew the clouds from under it, that what the woman said was true. He could observe the beams glancing on musket barrels and other arms--almost, he thought, that sometimes they glistened on upturned eyes!--could perceive men lurking all round the fringe of the copse which bordered the enormous flagged court in front of the mansion.
Moreover, he knew soon enough that they, too, were seen by the midnight foe--also that that foe was ruthless. As the light of the lamp streamed out into the darkness, it being no more veiled by the heavy curtains of the embrasure within, it served to show the besiegers those two faces at the window. An instant later there was the crack of musketry and three balls hurtled against the stone frame, splintering it, and cutting each of their faces with those splinters.
"Come away," Andrew said, dragging her back and noticing that one of the fragments had struck her cheek, from which the blood began to trickle. "Come away. All in this house are deemed enemies. How should they know there is one here who hates its owner as much as they do."
"How should they know that there aretwo?" the woman muttered hoarsely in reply. Then she added: "Doubtless, they deem you dead. Since he slew Laurent they would not think he would spare you."
Her words caused Andrew to start. It was true; they must deem him dead! His own instructions had been that, if he came not back in three days, they were to consider him as fallen--murdered--and with Laurent slain they could suppose nothing else. All in that house were enemies, therefore, since few knew of Marion's existence; all to be exterminated as such.
"There must be a truce to our feud for a time at least," he muttered beneath his moustache, while he smiled grimly; "a truce for a time. No need for De Bois-Vallée and me to be fighting with one another, like rats in a pit, while the dogs are outside ready to tear us to pieces. No need for that! Come," he said, addressing the two women. "Come. We must descend. There is no way out here."
Then, all together, they left the room and, making their way to the head of the stairs, looked down over it into the hall below.
And in a moment he knew--as the women knew, too, that neither was there any exit there.
Below, in that hall, were mustered De Bois-Vallée and some men--Beaujos being absent. Upon the huge table which had stood for unnumbered years within it, were laid all the firearms which they could hastily gather together; muskets and musketoons, fuzils and fuzees, pistols and petronels. Also other arms, halberds, axes, swords--they meant to make a stand for it!
As for De Bois-Vallée himself--his look appalled the women, if not Andrew, as they gazed down on him. His face was white--was it with fear or rage!--as he bent over the table, and, selecting two carbines, loaded them carefully; upon it, as he turned towards the great porte, outside which the murmurs had now increased to a roar, accompanied by heavy knocks and thumps--there was the grin of a devil at bay. Then, suddenly, they saw him point to a spot away down one of the passages leading out of the hall, saw the man Brach disappear, and, a moment or two later, come back, bearing in his arms a long ladder which he placed against the door. While, casting his eyes up over that door, Andrew saw that, above it, was a little window unnoticed hitherto by him--a window a foot square, but covered inside with a close-fitting shutter. And, since a few moments later he saw there was no glass to it, he judged that it was used only to admit air.
As he watched thus the trapped man in his own house, he saw him slowly mount half-way up that ladder, so that, at last, the top of his head was almost level with the lower part of the shutter, and take the carbines from his servitor's hands--then saw him suddenly stop in his upward progress. Stop, clinging to the ladder posts, his face half-turned round to those in the hall, the grin upon that face horribly intensified. For, even as he had thus half-mounted it, the beatings on the door against which the ladder leant had been redoubled.
"Surely," whispered Andrew, "they are using some tree-trunk as battering ram"--and it seemed as if the next moment must see that door fall in from the tremendous blows administered from the outside.
Next, a babel of voices and a shouting arose.
"Is the wolf there?" one called, while even as he did so another answered: "Be very sure he is"; and others were heard shouting: "Bring him forth. Give him to us, and we spare the house. Otherwise all are doomed."
And again the beatings and the buffetings were renewed, while now a part of the door a few feet from the ground was burst in, and through it there protruded the jagged edge of a hastily-chopped-down tree.
Andrew had guessed aright! They were using roughly-improvised battering rams!
For a moment the hunted wretch--the man caught like a rat in a trap--glared round his hall; even in the dim light and gloom Andrew could see his tongue rolling over his lips as though to moisten their feverish burning, then, urged by God knows what desperation--the desperation perhaps of despair, perhaps of tigerish rage and ferocity!--he leapt up the last remaining rungs of the ladder, carrying the carbines in his hand.
Leapt up, as the wild cat leaps up the branches of forest trees, until he was level with the little shutter, flung it open with one hand, and, in an instant, had discharged both carbines into the midst of whatever crowd might be without.
And he shrieked:
"Hounds,bélîtres, scum, he is here!" then flung the shutter to again and descended the ladder swiftly.
'Twas well that he did so; 'twas well he wasted no time. Ere he had reached the hall's stone floor that shutter fell in splinters after him, shattered by a score of bullets from without; also at this moment the upper part of the door was beaten in amidst terrible roars and howls and curses from the attackers. Fortunately for those in that hall, there were still some seven feet of the lower part left standing to protect them from the besiegers' shot.
"Save yourselves," cried De Bois-Vallée to his men. "Save yourselves. They may spare you. Me they will never spare. I must find a way."
And, flinging the lamp upon the flames of the fire--so that, after one brief moment of explosive brightness, the hall became all dark but for the remaining flames which glistened amidst the gloom like fiery eyes--he and all below were instantly obscured from the sight of those above.
"How can he escape?" Andrew whispered in Marion's ear. "The house is surrounded. There is no other outlet but the great door. Or do you know of aught?"
Yet, as he asked the girl that question, he told himself it was impossible there could be any such outlet known to her. Had there been she would have apprized him of it on the night when they made their first attempt to fly; would never have let the risk be encountered of endeavouring to unbar the great door while all round the hall lay the sleeping servants, ready to spring out on them at the first alarm. The question was useless!
It was answered, however, by a sound that caused him to start and look round--a sound that was, indeed, a laugh; yet one of so strange and sinister a nature that he almost shuddered as he heard it.
It came from the woman, Clemence. Then she spoke, while as she did so her great eyes gleamed and sparkled in so wild a manner that he imagined she had now become entirely demented.
"There is a way out," she said, "but none know it except he. Not even I--though often enough I tried to learn it from his father; have even in later days tried to make him tell it to me. Yet neither ever would! The wolves of Lorraine have expected to-night's work for generations--they have kept the secret to themselves."
"'Sdeath!" exclaimed Andrew, though the oath he used was stronger than this, "but he shall share his secret with us to-night. Where he goes forth we three go also--or he goes not at all. Quick, let us get near and stay near him. Ha! see, he comes this way. Mounts the stairs. Observe--stand by. We must keep him in sight."
It was as he had said. De Bois-Vallée was creeping up the stairs now--they could see a dark form against the balustrades coming up and up and up--once the dying embers of the fire in the hall below flickered into a fresh blaze--they could see, too, that he had discarded his pistols and carried in his hand his bare sword. Even saw the steel scintillating now and again in the faint glow sent up while he mounted.
Watching him coming towards them and, for certain, never dreaming of whom he would encounter above, it seemed to those three as though some hunted wild beast was fleeing for its life. Crawling up with one hand on the balustrade, the other grasping his weapon, they observed his bright red hair--for he was wigless--as he mounted. Watched, and saw also the terror-stricken glances he flung over his shoulder as, reaching the first landing, he knew that he could be seen over the top of the shattered door by those who might be standing in, or near, the doorway.
And that he was seen they learnt at once; there came two spits of flame from firelocks discharged outside, and, through the rent space, the sharp crack of the weapons; then, next, the splinters flying from two of the balustrade posts. And they saw the savage grin of hate and fury on his face--saw his white teeth gleam like a hunted wolf's, as he, himself the Wolf of Lorraine, ran round the landing and began to mount the next flight. The flight that would bring him to where they were!
From outside, too, they could hear the shouts of the avengers; hear harsh calls and cries in both the French and German tongues, derisive laughter, voices that called out, "the wolf is trapped! He can never escape! Fire not at him, let him find death in his own house of evil!" while, above all, the soft, silvery voice of a boy sang the strain, "Lorraine, Lorraine, ma douce patrie."
He turned once more--his foot on the first stair, a look of horror in his eyes as that sweet voice arose, turned and glared back again to the ruined door whence the sound entered. It almost seemed to those so close above him as though they heard him groan.
"Kill him," Clemence hissed in Andrew's ear. "Dead!"
Then, even as she spoke, the man fleeing from below sprang up the stairs that led to where they were, and so came full upon them.
Upon Clemence, regarding him with sparkling eyes, and with, on her face, a hideous smile; upon Marion Wyatt a little behind her.
Upon Andrew Vause standing also regarding him, his arms folded, but in his right hand his sword!
He reeled back gasping, astonished, perhaps terrified at the sight of those three figures standing at the top of the stairs.
Staggered back, though as he did so he shifted the sword he carried, so that he no longer held it by the blade in his left hand, but grasped its handle with his right. Yet, even as he thus reeled, and with even, as they observed by the light of the moon now streaming in through an upper window, the look upon his face of a hunted creature at bay doubly intensified, so, too, they saw the bewilderment he experienced at finding them there together.
"You are free!" He hissed; "and you, too!" while, as he spoke, he lifted his left arm and pointed with his forefinger up the few steps that separated him from them. "Free! No need to ask how. By her--the traitress!"
As he spoke he leapt up the remaining stairs, and, in the eyes of all of them there flashed a bright ray as though of phosphorus--a ray that seemed to be met and entwined with another. Then, a hiss of steel grating against steel and a clang, and the sword he had held a moment before in his hand, and had thrust out with murderous intent against the mad woman, slid down the steps hilt first.
"Not yet," said Andrew, lowering now his own point. "This is no time for murder nor--for execution. That comes later. Pick up your blade, Monsieur De Bois-Vallée, and sheathe it. Otherwise I take it away from you. There is something else to be done, ere you use it again--against me."
"Curse you! What?" yet as he spoke he obeyed Andrew, in so far that he reclaimed his fallen weapon. Also, as he did so--as he picked up the sword--he mounted the stairs one step higher.
"This; listen. There is a secret exit known to you from this doomed house--nay, deny it not, I know full well 'tis so--by that exit you are about to escape. So be it. 'Tis no intention of mine to prevent you. Only----"
"Only?" repeated De Bois-Vallée in a whisper. "Only?"
"You take us with you. Then, when we are outside, free from these howling Lorrainers who justly seek your life, you shall use that sword--against me. At once you shall use it. But, now, be quick, waste no time. Hark, see, look over, they are almost in your hall. There is, I say, no time to waste."
It was true! There was no time to waste! He, De Bois-Vallée, could see that as well as Andrew; glancing down through the rude-carved mediæval balustrades, he recognized the swift impending doom of his house.
For the door was almost down now--the shouts of the Lorrainers would have told that if nothing else had done so. Also the beating of axes and sledges on it, the clatter of countless feet outside on the stones, the glare of lights from torches and flambeaux that sent gleams through the windows, and winked and trembled on the carved beams of the stairs, and the armour and arms with which the ancient hall was hung, and lit up all their faces above.
Also, still, above all the noise outside, above the yells and execrations and curses of the Lorrainers, above their shouts and cries, and the firing of their weapons over the broken-down door into dark upper corners, there rose the sweet, clear voice of the boy singing, "Lorraine, Lorraine, ma douce patrie."
"You hear, you see!" Andrew said. "The end of you and of your vile house is at hand. All escape below is long since past. Lead us to the secret exit you know of."
He stood there before them; before the woman he had deeply wronged, though, as yet, Andrew knew not how; before the mad woman whose love had turned to gall and hate and treachery; before that huge avenger in whom he saw, and, seeing, recognized his doom. Stood before them, a shadow almost, in the fitful light which illuminated the darkness, as they, too, stood shadows before him.
"Quick," Andrew exclaimed again. "Quick. Or we all die together in this house. Only--you first. If you tarry longer--another moment--while I count ten--I fling you over to those men below," and as he spoke he advanced towards De Bois-Vallée.
Unheeding his actions, in truth not valuing these actions sufficiently to oppose them, his attention too much occupied by the awful destruction going on below, Andrew had let the villain surmount the topmost stair--gradually, and step by step--there being but three of them--so that now he stood on a level with the others. And in his hand was his sword.
Then, in answer, he spoke, while still his form was indistinct to them and he loomed a blurred figure near them.
"There is," he said, "no exit to this house. All here are doomed, all must die----"
"You lie," Clemence hissed, "you lie. Your father knew of one, you know it too."
"Quick," again said Andrew, "trifle no longer." And now he advanced to him, his own sword raised level with the other's breast. "Lead us to it, or this through you."
"Come then," the other said. "Come. Yet," he continued, muttering to himself, as though he meant them not to hear the savage words which he could not repress in his hate, "yet, if I had my way as I hoped to have had it, you should all have perished. All. All."
In truth, neither Andrew nor Marion Wyatt did hear these words, while if Clemence caught them she gave no sign. But still those marvellous eyes shone and sparkled, and the full liquid orbs never ceased their endeavour to pierce the darkness. Why did she watch him so?
But, in spite of Andrew not having caught his mutterings, he knew full well that this acquiescence might be a ruse of his enemy to take him unawares, wherefore he bent his face nearer to him--for, now (so great were the roars and the thunderings below) ordinary tones were of no avail--and said:
"Go first and turn not. If you do, I will run you through without hesitation. Also, sheathe your sword. Do as I say. Obey me."
He was obeyed; through the darkness he saw the other act as he commanded. Then, without another word, he again gave De Bois-Vallée the signal to go forwards. And, touching both the women by his side, he indicated that they too should follow the owner of the soon-to-be-destroyed house.
His arms stretched out in front of him as though groping his way, as indeed he was, De Bois-Vallée moved on now, one hand sometimes upon the rail that protected the uppermost landing from the well of the house, the other against the wall of the rooms opening from that landing. And, so, they reached at last the arched doorway that led to the steps by which the ascent to the garret was made.
"How escape thus?" asked Andrew, "there is no outlet there. This leads alone to the roof and to the oubliette. Beware, man, what you do! Your life is in my hands. Play me false and you lose it on the instant."
"The way is here," the other muttered, though loud enough for Andrew to hear him very well. "I know my own house."
"The way for all--not you alone?" and Andrew's voice sounded sinister and threatening to the other.
"Ay, for all."
Even as he spoke there came an increased din from below, and, though none spoke to the other, all knew, or imagined, what had happened.
The door was down--the besiegers in the house!
Soon--who could doubt it?--what else was there for those men of vengeance to do?--it would be in flames! Nothing could save it!
Or only one thing. The yielding up of De Bois-Vallée to their ire.
"Stop," he said, addressing him, "stop. You know what will, what must, happen next. It can be but one thing, the destruction of your house. Retrace your steps if you choose, defend the house singly if you desire--since I do believe that they come partly to rescue me, expect from me no help--give yourself up to them. Thereby the flames may be avoided. And--and--I grant you that respite."
For answer, the other snarled at him--Andrew could plainly see that he did so in the added light which now streamed up from the hall, illuminating all the balconies and corridors.
Then he spoke.
"It may be that they come to save you. Yet there can be few to whom you are known. Therefore, being here, they deem you my friend--or will when they see you."
"Your friend!" the tone contemptuous and full of loathing as Andrew answered him.
"Ay. If you doubt it--and since you are so bold and brave a man--show yourself to them and see."
For a moment, stung by the taunt of even such as he, Andrew was disposed to take him at his word. To descend towards those rioters, to thrust his head over the balcony. To call to them and say who he was and what he did in the house.
Another moment's reflection, and he decided against that resolve.
"Nay," he said, "nay. They may not know me--there are but one or two who have ever seen my face--a dozen bullets in my body would reward me for my pains and foolhardiness. Also, vagabond, you would be alone with the women. Even though I returned in safety it would be to find them dead at your hands--and you gone! Lead on, show us the way. We go together."
And, touching him none too gently, he urged him forward.