At Huntoon's exclamation, Giles Brent dashed forward still faster, and then he too stopped short and stood at gaze, for there in the centre of the blazed path lay the body of a dead priest, his cloak and cassock showing black against the whiteness around, his arms outstretched as if on a cross.
The snow lay upon his breast in delicate, ruffling drifts; above him circled a hawk with ominous, flapping wings; around, far as eye could reach, stretched the interminable forest. Utter solitude! Complete isolation from humankind! Yet from that solitary figure stretched threads of destiny which should be found twisted close about the heartstrings of many fellow-beings.
With a shock Brent recognized in the prostrate form the Jesuit priest whom he had left at St. Gabriel's but two days since, the same man against whose too constant visits he had found it necessary to caution his sister; and now to meet himthus!
He rushed toward the body and knelt beside it. Tearing away cloak and cassock and hair-shirt under all, he leaned his ear above the heart. For a full minute he listened.
"He is dead," he said at last, "and must have been dead for hours."
"You know him?"
"Ay, he is one of the Fathers at St. Inigo's. He was staying with my sister Mary at St. Gabriel's, and probably had started on the journey back to the Hill when this overtook him;" and Brent began rapidly to repeat a prayer for the dead.
Huntoon stood by in silence with bowed head. When Brent had finished Huntoon said,—
"Did he—was death natural?"
Brent shook his head gloomily. "Look," he said; and as Huntoon stooped, he drew aside the shirt and showed a wound on the left side above the fifth rib. The clothing below it was dark and stiff with blood. No words were needed to tell the tale.
"It must have been done by a native," said Huntoon.
"Ay, 'twas a deed of revenge or pure malice,—either of a native or, perhaps, of some of the Protestants. To say truth, Father Mohl had many enemies among them. He has been a great stirrer up of dissension 'twixt Catholic andProtestant, and 'tis partly on account of him and his brethren that Leonard Calvert is gone home to consult with Lord Baltimore. Father Mohl had ever a sneering way with him, and to look at him one would say he had taken it with him to the next world."
"Ay, 'tis a ghastly smile! Think you could we draw the lips more together and close the eyelids above that horrible stare?"
"You can try. Nay—'tis vain."
"Hulloa! Hulloa! Hulla-ho!"
The distant call brought back the two men for the first time to the thought of their comrades. Huntoon looking round saw that the donkey had entangled his reins in the low branches of a tree near by. As he moved toward it Brent called out,—
"Nay, leave him there! We shall have need of him. Take my horse and go back to the women, and prepare them for what they must see. Mount Mistress Neville on Anne's donkey, then stay you with them and my horse, and send Neale and Cornwaleys back to help me here."
The younger man bowed and turned back as he was bidden. At the joining of the road he saw the four grouped where he had left them, Neale and Cornwaleys talking in low tones, and Peggy feeding nuts to a wild squirrel half tamed by the magic of her voice.
"Come, bunny! bunny! bunny! Here's fresh nuts gathered in the woods this fall. Be not afraid! I'm as harmless as thou. I have no gun and could not fire it if I had. Nay, do not cock thy head and turn thy black eye toward Captain Cornwaleys! He reserves his fire for larger game. Why, he will not even shoot a glance at me, for all I have on my best bib and tucker."
The Captain, who for some time had been chafing under the too pressing demands on his power of listening made by Neale, broke away now and drew near Peggy.
"I am honored that Mistress Neville is willing to share her attention between me and a squirrel, or perhaps, as I seem to have the minor share, I might better say between a squirrel and me."
"That should be set down to my modesty. I felt more equal to the task of amusing a squirrel than Sir Thomas Cornwaleys of Cross Manor."
"And to the same cause, perchance, I am to set down the gracious pleasure wherewith you have received the devotion of that young gallant from Virginia who has walked by your bridle-rein since ever we left St. Mary's."
"'Twas the Governor's orders."
"Ay, and no doubt vastly displeasing to your ladyship."
"Oh, I enjoy talking to any one; the one thingI cannot abide is solitude. Is not that a sign of a vacant mind?"
"Rather, I should say, of a mind filled with some one person—"
"Do I look like a love-sick maid?"
"No, but that condition doth oft lie hid under quips and smiles. A girl will pick up her skirts and go lilting over hill and dale light-hearted, the looker-on would think, as a milk-maid, and all the while some love-sorrow eating into her heart like a canker-worm. Now, a man is not so. He goes about biting his thumb and scowling at every son of Adam that speaks to his sweetheart, and, for the matter of that, often enough scowling at his sweetheart herself, as that callow boy has been doing all day."
"Faith, I gave him cause."
"The more fool he to let you see that your teasing had met with such success. However, I care little how he feels, so long as you are heart-whole; but in the name of all the gallants of Maryland I do protest against seeing Mistress Margaret Neville, on all hands allowed to be the most charming damsel in St. Mary's, carried off by an interloping Virginian. Troth, if the boys don't oust him I'll enter the lists myself."
"Truly?"
"Try me and see!"
Peggy burst out into a merry ringing laugh,suddenly interrupted by the sight of Romney Huntoon coming toward them with white, drawn face and set teeth.
The talk and laughter died on the lips of the two who saw him.
"Oh, what is it?" said Peggy, running to meet him. "Sure, something dreadful hath befallen! Governor Brent—is he killed?"
"No, he is well—he sent me hither; but—there has been an accident—"
"Are you hurt, that you look so white?"
"No, no; no one you know is injured—but a stranger, a priest, has been struck with a knife and killed."
It was Peggy's turn to grow pale now. Here she had been laughing and lightly jesting while this tragedy was brushing her so closely with its sable wings.
"Master Neale," Huntoon said, turning to the Councillor, "you and Captain Cornwaleys are to follow this path till you find Governor Brent, and help him to lift the body of the priest to the donkey's back; Mistress Neville, you are to ride before Anne on her donkey here."
"Could I not be of use if I went too to the Governor?"
"Hast thou ever looked on death?"
"Never, to remember it. My mother died when I was a little child and my father at sea."
"Then do not look upon that corpse yonder. I have seen a dead baby and it looked like a waxen lily, and I have seen a man shot by an Indian's arrow and he looked grand and stern like a marble statue, but this priest was ghastly, horrible. No, I am sure the Governor would not wish you to see it. Mount, and we will ride on and prepare the household at St. Gabriel's."
When Romney had left him Giles Brent stooped over the body of the dead priest. "My God!" he murmured, "were not things in this unhappy colony tangled enough without this new trouble? There is a deviltry here that must be sifted to the bottom. We must mark this tree by which the corpse lies. The distance must be two miles from St. Gabriel's and within ten paces of the cross trail from the main path. If there is any clue we must follow it. There should be footsteps; but the fresh snow has covered them whichever way they turned. Death must have been mercifully swift from such a wound."
As if to put an end to these disconnected thoughts, he stooped and turned the body on its side. As he did so, something fell from the folds of the cloak. Giles Brent looked at it, studied it more closely with a gaze of fixed amazement, and then as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps slipped it into his pocket.But his face was ashen as he spoke to Neale, who was in advance.
"Come, Neale, do you lift on that side and I on this, while Cornwaleys may bind him to the saddle with the rope he will find in my saddle-bag. So—gently there—now steady him! Cornwaleys, take the bridle and lead on gently. Thank Heaven, the distance is short!"
"Hast thou—is there any clue?" asked Neale.
"Nay, who shall say what is a clue? Heaven forbid I should even in thought accuse an innocent man, but as God is my judge, if the guilt be proven the murderer shall be punished, ay, though he were mine own brother."
Slowly the men set forward,—Neale and Cornwaleys supporting their terrible burden between them, Brent walking behind with his horse's bridle-rein over his arm, and his head bowed as if with a burden too heavy to be borne.
"Who could have thought it?" he murmured. "Who could have believed it ofhimof all men?"
Raising his eyes, he caught sight of the little party in advance, Peggy in her scarlet cloak and Romney by her side. The sight seemed to give rise to new and still more painful reflections.
"Poor child," he thought, "would it were possible to punish the guilty without bringing down shame and sorrow on the innocent as well!"
On and on the caravan moved till the last bend in the road was reached, and there, beyond the clearing, lay the manor house of St. Gabriel's.
The sun was setting behind the hills and touching the white tips of the snow-covered trees with flame. The smoke curled from the kitchen chimney and the fire on the hearth of the hall shone out merrily to greet the travellers.
Giles Brent was expected, and he rarely came alone. His sister Mary, who had all day been regretting that he could not be present at the investiture of Elinor's tenant, was resolved that a noble supper should console him for the loss. Venison pasty flanked by game graced the head and foot of the table, and hot bowls of soup simmered before the kitchen fire.
Cecil was stationed at the window to keep watch and bring early report of the approach of the cloaked rider on his black Flemish horse.
Already they had been seen, for Cecil and Knut were tearing across the snowy fields, and Mary Brent and Elinor were at the door with two men by their side. Brent's heart rose in his throat and choked him as he recognized Christopher Neville waving his hand in joyous welcome.
Oh, treachery! And who was that beside him—Ralph Ingle? Well, he might be of use. 'Twas as well that he had come. Ah, now Peggyhad reached the door. She was telling the story. Brent's eye never moved from Christopher's face while it went on, and he noted with grim satisfaction that at least the man had the grace to shudder and turn pale. But what was this?—instead of hiding himself as he should from the gaze of honest men, he was coming forward toward him, towardit!
"This is a sad business, Brent!"
"Sadis not the word; 'tis ashamefulbusiness."
"Ay, full of shame for the doer, and sadness for the rest of us. Can I help in lifting the body?"
"Nay, that is for those to do who, if they loved him not, yet bore him no malice."
Neville started. How could Brent have heard of the quarrel when he was absent?
"Not only am I one of those, but I sought this priest last night to beg his pardon."
"Hush!" said Brent, hoarsely, "incriminate thyself no further!"
"Incriminate!"—That one word cast a lurid light upon the situation. In an instant Neville saw the pitfalls around his path, and the habit of facing danger had taught him the habit of self-control.
"This," he said, looking Brent full in the face, "is neither the time nor the place for the discussion of your words and all that they doimply. I shall hold myself ready to meet you when and where you will, to answer any and all charges, whether they come from friend or foe."
As Neville turned on his heel he was aware for the first time that Ralph Ingle had been standing close beside him, and of necessity overhearing all that was said. He in turn could not fail to catch Ingle's words addressed to Brent:
"Surely, this judgment is over hasty. I have known Sir Christopher but one day, yet am I loath—"
"Thou loath! and pray what dost think of me? Why, I had torn my heart out rather than believe such a thing of my friend; but justice is justice."
"Yet mercy is mercy."
"Ay, but mercy to one is injustice to another. And this deed is so dastardly it puts the doer beyond the pale of clemency."
"And who is the doer of the deed?" It was Mistress Calvert's voice that spoke, and both men started.
Elinor Calvert stood there before them in her dress of white and gold. She who had come lightly walking across the snow-covered fields, holding her head high and bidding her heart not to beat too joyously, seemed now like some animal decked for the sacrifice, that has beenallowed to make merry on the journey to the altar, but now must bare its breast to the sacrificial knife.
"Who is the doer of the deed?" Even as she put the question she knew the answer, yet she stood her ground and gazed steadfastly at the men, whose eyes fell before hers.
Ralph Ingle looked at the earth and began to stir with his foot a brown branch of ground-pine which had pushed its way through the snow.
Brent stroked the donkey's ears for an instant, swallowed hard, hesitated, then spoke impulsively, "Elinor, there is no use in attempting to hide it. The man who did that foul murder isChristopher Neville."
"Never!"
"Ay, so I would have sworn two hours since; but tell me one thing—did he and the priest quarrel here at St. Gabriel's last night?"
"Ay—but—"
"Nay, no buts—plain facts tell their own story with no 'buts.' Did he or did he not start out into the night after the quarrel with Father Mohl?"
Elinor quivered as though the knife had entered her own heart.
"Oh, I will not answer! How can I when I know every word will be twisted to one fell purpose?"
"Elinor, what is it to thee what befalls a man whom thou didst meet but yesterday?"
"That is false. I knew him years ago in England. Years ago he loved me and I loved him, and we would have wedded but for—"
"But for what, Elinor?"
"For his faith."
"Ah, thou hast said the word. Now we have the thread to guide us through this dark maze. Neville loves thee still. He follows thee to this country, he begs me to intercede with thee to accept him as thy tenant, and all without a word of having known thee before; not a word, you see, Ingle, even to me, this woman's natural guardian. Doth it not smack of deceit and treachery?"
"I cannot deny it hath that appearance, yet beware how you do wholly commit yourself to appearances!"
"Ay, if appearances were all, but listen how the story all fits together. Faith, I can tell it as though I had seen all. This man comes to St. Gabriel's, and finding Mistress Calvert alone he tells her of his love. She, like the good Catholic she is, tells him in turn that his faith still stands between them. He swears at the fanatical priests who stand between her and him. Is not this all true so far, Cousin?"
No response; but the silence answers him.
"Next comes a quarrel 'twixt Neville and FatherMohl, how bred I cannot say, though doubtless this lady could tell us if she would; but, by my guess, at her behest her lover follows the priest to ask pardon; then—then—the rest is known to God only, but the result we see lying before us in mute and ghastly protest at the wrong done to humanity."
"Shame, Cousin Giles, that you are so ready to think evil of your friend! What is all this tale of thine when sifted? A tissue of what was, and what might have been. You have shown a possible motive, but 'tis a far cry from that to proving the deed."
And what say you, then, to this? As he spoke, Brent drew from his pocket a poniard, with a handle curiously inlaid with silver and ivory, and cut upon it the initial "N" sunk in a deep circle.
Elinor's only answer was a deep groan. Drawing her cloak close round her, she turned and fled toward the house, her head bowed like some wild creature that had got its death-wound.