For a moment I stood dazed. I rubbed my eyes to make sure that I was actually awake. The stillness of the inn reminded me of the emptiness of a tomb. A fear of the awfulness of it all sent the shivers down my legs and I looked around me for some sign of a living creature who might be able to explain.
Then the thought of what might happen if I lingered there the space of one second came to me. De Marsac’s command that I should hang in the morning knocked the dullness out of me. I took the dagger and wiped the blade against the guard’s coat. He did not stir but seemed like a block of solid wood.
I remembered the landlord’s warning that the front of the inn was guarded so I crept silently towards the back. I opened the door through which he had entered when he gave us the drink of water. It creaked a little and cast a scare over me. I passed through the kitchen where the pots and pans hung in order from pins, all of them bright and shining. I put my hand on the latch of the back door. To my surprise it opened almost at the touch. In the next moment I was outside in the open.
It was still dark but a haze covered the sky to the east. By that I knew it would soon be dawn. I ran across the open space between the inn and the woods. When I was hidden among the trees I gave a great sigh of relief.
But I did not stop. I ran on and on. I did not know where I was going but followed a kind of forest path that was like a thread rather than a road, for in no place was the grass worn entirely away. The light to the east grew brighter and brighter. Then the birds began to chatter and whistle in the branches over my head. A hare crossed in front of me and with the fear I was in it almost took my breath away.
There was little that I noticed. It was only weariness that slackened my pace. My running fell away to a shambling nervous walk. I was on the high ground overlooking a valley that lay off to my left. I knew that within an hour my enemies would be in full hue and cry after me so I decided to keep far away from the highway.
I came to a tiny brook that rippled out from between some broken rocks. I stooped and drank one deep draught after another. I was about to go on when I spied a man sitting on a boulder. It was the scrivener smiling as calmly as you please. He had a loaf of bread under his arm and was stuffing a lump into his mouth. On the grass next to him I noticed a fairly large lump of fresh cheese.
As though we were at peace with all the world he grinned as gleefully as a child.
“Good morning, Henri,” he said. “Have you had your breakfast?”
I sank down on the rock beside him.
“We’re in for it now,” I said.
He raised his brows.
“To my way of thinking, Henri,” he replied, “we’re just out of it.” He munched on his bread thoughtfully for a while. With a pleased expression on his face he turned to me. “Isn’t it a grand thing to be in trouble?” he asked.
“It’s all right if you have friends,” I returned. “Master scrivener,” I went on, “do you realize that you have killed a man?”
“—and that’s a great pity, isn’t it,” he remarked dryly. He looked at me carefully as though he was trying to read my thoughts. “Have you proof of that, Henri?” he said.
“Who else would have done it?” I demanded.
“Why, if you put two and two together, it was the landlord who took the dagger. You saw him with your own eyes. You know I fell fast asleep. I was bound hard and fast. You couldn’t take an oath on it, now, could you, Henri?”
“Well, no,” I replied. “But I’m sure of this, it was either you or the landlord.”
He patted me on the arm.
“Now,” he said, “you are talking sense. As far as you are concerned it was the landlord, for I wouldn’t like you to think you were traveling with a murderer.”
“Was it you, really?” I asked.
“As far as the landlord goes, it was,” he said. “It all depends which side of the fence you are on.”
He left me more puzzled than ever. I tried again but with the same result. The same dry smile and the same cunning expression from those knowing eyes greeted me at every turn.
“Well,” I said after we had finished our meal. “What are we to do now?”
“Play the fox,” he answered. “We must do the contrary to what they think we’ll do.”
“They will think that we’ll keep on ahead to get out of the way,” I replied. “Isn’t that natural?”
“It is,” he agreed. “You’re a gentleman of fine understanding.”
He lowered his head thoughtfully and gathered a few loose stones in his hand. These he threw into the air and caught again as they came down. He broke out into a soft whistle and stamped his foot to the tune. I got up from my seat and stood before him waiting for a move.
“Are you going to loiter here till we’re caught, master scrivener?” I asked.
“If we’re caught, there’s always a way out,” he remarked. “You have seen already it’s a little knack I have.”
With that he arose slowly and brushed the crumbs from his clothes. He took a last draught of water from the stream and gazed about.
“We’ll not go far,” he said at length. “We’ll keep in the neighborhood. The worst of it is that we’ve no arms but your dagger.”
He went on ahead and I followed. Whatever his thoughts were I cannot tell. But I know that mine were none of the lightest. I was beset with dread. In my imagination I heard the confusion when the body of the guard was found. I saw the consternation of the rest of them. I pictured to myself the fury they were in. That they would not let us off unpunished was all too clear. It was about two hours since I left the inn. By this, no doubt, they were on foot and even in pursuit of us.
I soon felt a jar run through me. We had wandered straight along the side of the hill in a line with the valley. Of a sudden we came to a point of rock that stood jutting higher than the ground roundabouts. There were no trees upon it, only the bare stone. When we reached the summit the whole country spread on either hand like a rolling field. A white line curled and circled in and around the wanderings of a little stream that flowed slowly towards the south. It was the great highway that leads down the valley of the Loire to the west of France. It was the road that I would have been traveling in peace and comfort, if it had not been for the interference of my enemies.
Of a sudden the sound of clattering hoofs came to my ears. Then there shot into view two horsemen with bows and arrows slung over their shoulders. From where I was I could even see the grim expression on their faces and the foam dripping from their horses’s mouths.
I glanced anxiously at the scrivener.
“There they go,” he remarked.
“—after us?” I inquired.
He nodded his head.
“Don’t you feel the thrill of it?” he asked beaming in my face. “And doesn’t it warm your blood to see them go flying past when we are standing here at our ease?”
I had to laugh in spite of myself, but for all that the seriousness of our situation tormented me. To live like a hunted animal was little to my liking. The long and short of it was that the scrivener was used to danger. I had my trials yet to come.
We had to keep on the move so we started back to wander under the protection of the trees. We crossed the forest path at a right angle and directed our steps towards the north. Here the woods grew thicker. The ground was more and more covered with brush and knotted weeds and there ran tiny streams down the hillside in and out among the rocks.
I came to a sudden stop and touched the scrivener on the arm.
“I hear a noise of some one walking,” I said. “A stone just clattered against a rock.”
The scrivener raised his finger to silence me.
“I saw them when we were watching the horsemen ride past,” he said. “It’s two fellows armed with bows and arrows. They are behind us.”
I asked no further questions. I knew that they were on our tracks. It was a sign that our enemies were combing the country round in their search and would leave no stone unturned till they found us.
The scrivener halted and pointed to a large tree.
“Hide there,” he explained. “That’s where they will pass. When they come abreast of you, keep your eye open. Wait for an opportunity.”
With not another word he was off through the woods. I stood for a moment in doubt. Then I walked quickly to the place he had pointed out and took my position in the shelter of the tree. My heart was thumping like a hammer. I laid my hand involuntarily on my dagger. I gave a pull at my jerkin. I was now on one foot, now on the other. A nervousness came over me that made me as uneasy as a young colt.
Presently the sound of voices came through the trees—deep rumbling voices of men. Then the brush swished and here and there the noise of a stone that one of them kicked with the toe of his heavy boot. I peered out as cautiously as I could. They came into view a flash at a time from among the thick trunks.
Then I summoned my will and took in a deep breath. The men were not ten feet away muttering and talking and growling that they had been aroused so untimely from their sleep. I saw their faces clearly and even the color of their eyes.
They Came Into View From Among the Thick TrunksThey Came Into View From Among the Thick Trunks
They Came Into View From Among the Thick Trunks
Suddenly they looked up and stopped as though they had been confronted by a ghost. I sprang to the other side of my tree and peered out again. To my amazement, the scrivener was standing directly before them. He was swinging his cap low so that it swept the ground and he laid his hand over his heart like a courtier. With a bow that might have shamed a prince he said in a soft voice:
“Gentlemen, I am the highwayman of Tours. Are you looking for me?”
I knew it was my time to act. While the two fellows stood thus uncertain trying to collect their wits, I leaped out. Before either of them could stir, I had gathered my fist into a ball. I swung as hard as ever I delivered a blow in my life. My bare knuckles struck the man nearest me so violently that I felt the jar of it clear to my elbow. I caught him behind the ear. He hung for a second as though he were suspended in the air. Then, like a bag that is suddenly dropped, he sank unconscious to the earth.
Before I could glance about the scrivener had straightened himself. With one of his springs he came hurtling through the air. The fellow had half turned when he saw his companion fall and was not entirely on his guard. The scrivener’s heels struck him like a weight in the chest. As though his legs were cut away from under him, he flew back and rolled over to the foot of the tree.
“Quick!” cried my companion.
I needed no urging. As fast as my anxious fingers could manage, I undid the fastenings that bound the quiver of arrows to my fellow’s shoulder. Then I snatched up the bow and turned to see what the next move would be.
The scrivener had done as I had done, only with more dispatch. He stepped back and laid an arrow in the bow.
“Up with you!” he cried. “Back to your master, De Marsac, and say that the highwayman of Tours sends him his compliments. Tell him that we shall meet him further down the road on the way to Angers. Tell him to keep a keen edge on his sword for when we meet again the one or the other of us shall die!”
I never saw a man fly before an enemy so quickly. Before I could wink he had turned and was soon hidden among the trees.
“That’s one of them,” muttered my companion. He pointed to the man whom I had felled. He was rolling over and trying to raise himself on his elbow. “He’s safe enough where he lies,” he continued. “By the time he has his wits again, we shall be out of reach.”
“Where are we going now, master scrivener?” I asked.
“I’m not sure, my lad,” he said. He pointed to the sun which stood over our heads. “First we’ll eat what is left of our breakfast. We’ll go ahead slowly for a while. When it gets dark I shall make a quiet visit to the inn.”
It was far into the night when the scrivener returned. The first quarter of the moon was all the light we had, but even at that how he made his way through the gloom of the trees was more than I could guess. He had left me in a spot that was far back from the highway where there was no path nor even a rock to guide him. But he was as unerring as one of his arrows.
“We have been outlawed,” he said with a laugh. “There’s a price on our heads.”
“Ah!” was all that I could say.
“It’s posted in the inn,” he explained, “and on some of the trees, for him who can to read. Fifty crowns for each of us, dead or alive.” He clapped me playfully on the shoulder. “It’s more than I ever counted myself to be worth.”
I knotted my brows. For all his gaiety I felt a chill climb slowly up my back. I was little more than an animal to be a target for all mankind.
“We’re done for, then,” I said and sighed.
“If they catch us,” he replied. “Even if they do, we have fifty arrows and two strong bows. If you can shoot, that will mean that fifty of them will drop before they lay hands on us. Don’t you think the odds are in our favor?”
I was not so sure.
“Fifty crowns is a large sum,” I said half to myself. “A man will go far for that.”
The scrivener made no answer but laid a bundle on the ground, which he spread out with the greatest care. In the light of the moon I saw him quietly smiling to himself.
“I’ve brought enough for a week,” he said, “cheese and bread and smoked meat. While they are running mad in search of us, we can live like kings.”
With all my fears, I was as hungry as a bear. The two of us sat down upon the hard ground with a flat stone for a table. We ate in silence, for each of us was busy with his own thoughts. Now and then I caught the scrivener glancing up at me through his brows with that quaint smile on his face, as though he was secretly amused.
“I can go with you until we come into the country of the Abbot of Chalonnes,” he said suddenly. “After that it will be for you to shift for yourself.”
“Scrivener,” said I, “who is this Abbot of Chalonnes?”
“He’s a strong man, Henri,” came the answer. “A man to be feared.”
“But what is his importance?” I demanded. “Has he an army? Does he rule a part of France? Or is he only a churchman?”
“No one knows—exactly,” replied the scrivener cautiously. “He’s as mysterious as a fox. He has power enough to move a mountain. He can break the most arrogant prince. He can tear his castle down about his ears. But his ways are dark and secret. He is seldom seen. He has no followers as far as I can learn, but somehow men are afraid to go against his will.”
“But his land? Where does he live?”
“That’s uncertain, too,” he explained. “——mostly in the valley of the Loire beyond the fortress of Angers.”
“Have you ever seen him?” I continued.
“Never! Never in my life!”
The answer came quick and sudden. The scrivener sprang from the ground and looked circumspectly about. He put his hand to his ear as though he was listening to a sound and stood in utter silence for several minutes. At length he dropped his arm to his side and walked away.
“I thought it was some one moving about in the woods,” he said. “It was only a deer or boar rustling the leaves.”
If I hadn’t been so tired I would have laughed in his face. I was enough at home in the woods to know that there had been no sound, not even of the tiniest bird. The truth of the matter was that I had put a question to him that he was loath to answer. He had been evasive before when I tried to pry him open and now he had made this pretext to avoid me once again. I let the matter drop, but the determination lingered that at the first opportunity I would corner him and drive my questioning further.
He wandered off to pick up some sticks and shreds of moss and dried grass. When he had his arm full, he returned and spread what he had gathered upon the ground. He took off his coat and laid it like a pillow under his head. Then, without a word or even a look at me, he lay down and curled himself into a knot. It was not long before he was breathing deeply and snoring like the croaking of a frog.
I was weary with the day’s excitement. Perhaps the example of the scrivener set me to yawning. However it was, I was soon stretched out beside him asleep under the waving branches of the trees and the stars.
It was bright day when I awoke. The scrivener was about whistling with the merriment of a lark. He had a fire going in a crevice between two craggy rocks and on it was the remains of the meat which he had brought from the inn the night before. I fell to with a good appetite. When I arose to brush the crumbs from my clothes, he took to walking about with his hands behind him, lost in study with his brow wrinkled, frowning and talking to himself, as though he was trying to solve a riddle. Then suddenly he halted before me.
“We’ve got to get away from here,” he said. “It’s a wasps’ nest. They’re searching the woods. If we stay, we’ll be shot down like dogs.”
I looked at him.
“Lead,” said I, “and I’ll follow.”
We went off among the thickest of the trees and over ground that was almost impassible for jutting rocks. We made no speed for at every dozen steps the scrivener stopped and peered around. The woods were as silent as a grave with only the faintest breeze blowing in our faces that ruffled the leaves and sighed gently over our heads.
Now and then he stooped to examine the ground for signs of footsteps or of human visitation, that is, in places where there was clay or soil. On and on we went, slowly. I for my part had a stifling fear in my heart that boded no good; the scrivener as quiet and preoccupied as I had as yet seen him.
By noon we had covered the length of the whole range of hills. We were come into a deep valley with a little stream winding through it. The place was dank with moisture and very dark, for the trees were well watered and the soil lost much of its rockiness. With cautious steps we went ahead. We stumbled over projecting roots and long spindling weeds. A hare started out of the underbrush and nearly frightened me to death. Not a sound did we make save the laboring of our breaths and an occasional rattle when the toe of a boot caught against a scattered stone.
We were on the edge of the forest. For a moment the scrivener hesitated and gazed thoughtfully around. He touched me on the arm and with his finger bade me look ahead. The direction in which he pointed was between an opening among the trees. I peered carefully but at first saw nothing. Then, as my eyes got more accustomed to the distance, I was able to make out a thin curl of white smoke rising in the air. When it reached a level with the tops of the trees it scattered and disappeared in the sky.
“We can go no further,” the scrivener said. “The whole side of the valley is filled with men.”
“—searching for us?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered with a nod of his head.
I knew that they were lying there to block us off. My thoughts turned this way and that. I looked at my companion for some sign or other but his face was set with the seriousness of a stone.
“Do you think it so fine now to be in danger?” I cast at him.
A hard smile caught at the corners of his mouth.
“Have I shown fear?” he demanded.
“They’re drawing a ring around us,” I said. “We’ll starve in the woods in a day or two. We’ll be as weak as cats. Then they’ll close in.”
The scrivener gave a twang to his bow-string. The old spirit of his flashed out for a second and he grinned.
“I wish they would close in now,” he replied. “They know the mettle of the highwayman of Tours. They know how I can strike when they least expect it. Pshaw!” He spat contemptuously on the ground. “They have all the same feeling—if they harm a hair of my head, they will die like dogs!”
“If you’re not afraid, master scrivener,” I went on, “why are you so serious?”
He spun around like a top.
“Serious!” he exclaimed. “Do you think a man ought not to plan? Why, lad, I’m scheming as hard as I can to pull you out of this difficulty.”
“—me!” I cried.
He shot a look at me.
“Do you think I care for myself?” he answered. “Why, lad, if I were alone, I would be on my way by this and as free as a bird in the air.”
I considered for a moment.
“Why have you stuck to me at all, master scrivener?” I asked slyly. “Is there a purpose to it?”
He examined me suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. He rolled his forehead upwards and set his mouth to whistle a tune. I realized that he was going to evade my question as he did before.
“Scrivener,” I began deliberately, “why don’t you lay aside the mask? You know you are leading me as you would a dog upon a string. Can’t you be frank enough to tell me why?”
At these words he leaped in the air. He let out one long breath of surprise and threw his arms towards the sky.
“Listen to him, will you!” he cried as though he were speaking with some one invisible. “Harken to his nonsense! Has there ever been——”
He stopped as suddenly as he began. His arms dropped to his side. He put his finger over his mouth to caution me to silence and gazed intently far over my shoulder. Then he backed away towards the trunk of the nearest tree.
“Pist!” he exclaimed under his breath. “Don’t move!”
I had no time to judge whether it was one of his pranks or not, whether it was an attempt to turn a conversation that was distasteful to him. A click at my feet threw a cloud of dust in my face and sprinkled me with a shower of small stones. I looked and there standing before me was an arrow a yard long with its point buried deep in the earth.
In spite of the warning I jumped up. At the same time another arrow sped past me so near and with such speed that I felt the breeze fan my cheeks. I made a leap to get within the protection of a tree when I glanced to the side and saw the scrivener lay an arrow in his bow. The string gave a twang. He followed the missile with his eyes. A slow pleased smile spread over his countenance and he turned to me.
“He has shot his last shot,” he said.
“Do you know who it was?” I asked.
“Stay where you are,” he cautioned, “If you are threatened, run for it as fast as you can.”
He disappeared among the trees. As for me, I had not seen the man who sent the arrow at all, nor was I even able to figure the exact place from which it had come. I took my bow in my hands to have it ready. I listened with all my ears for the slightest sound. I kept turning this way and that. Minute after minute passed in the utter silence of those woods. I expected the scrivener to return at almost any second. I took to pacing up and down. A nervousness stirred within me for I was growing conscious that I was next to helpless against the odds that surrounded me. Where had the scrivener gone and what was detaining him?
I waited. The time went by so slowly that it seemed an age. My heart beat off the seconds as though it were counting out the span of my life. My head was now in this direction, now in that, for the fear of a surprise was strong in my mind.
Then a thought struck me. Perhaps he was more in need of me than I was of him. Maybe the man who shot the arrow was only a decoy to lead him into a trap. Could it be possible that he had been captured and killed while I was loitering there in idleness?
My mind was running on with one thought chasing the other. My nerves were jumping like strings. I grasped the bow in my hand and began to run. I took the same course as the scrivener. With all my speed I leaped over roots of trees, rocks and what lay in my path. I covered twice the space that an arrow could fly. I went out of my course and made a wide circle through the woods. I wound in and about here and there so that finally I returned to the spot from which I had set out. Not a sound did I hear. Not a trace of a human being did I discover. It was as though I were standing in the emptiness of a desert.
I sat down on a rock to think the matter over. The more I pondered, the deeper the mystery became. To add to my concern the sun was sending slanting rays from the west. By that I was sure that in another half hour it would be dark and in that sea of enemies I would have to shift for myself.
I resolved that I would make one more search. I got to my feet with much misgiving and bent my steps once again through the woods. I had not gone ten paces when I came across a dark body huddled up against the root of a tree. It was in a spot where the shadows were thickest and I had to peer closely to observe it.
Then I received a shock that went through me like the stab of a dagger, for there face down in the grass lay the scrivener. In the middle of his back stuck an arrow. He must have been dragged from the place where he was killed, for his shoes were gone and his coat was ripped and torn under the arm-pits, and the old hat which he wore was crushed down over his head as though his murderer had flattened it.
With a gulp in my throat as big as an apple I stooped and shook him by the arm. He was stone dead for he moved with the heaviness of a log. Then I arose and took my hat in my hands to mutter a prayer. In the next second a hand as hard as iron and as strong as a vise was laid on my shoulder. I turned my head. In the growing darkness I looked into a face that was frowning as black as night. The fellow was of about the same size as myself. He had on a coat and trousers such as the soldiers wear only they were threadbare and very ragged. A rough cap was pulled down over his eyes and a loose scarf was wound about his throat and came up over his chin. As he grinned at me I remember that a pair of silver ear-rings shook menacingly from his ears.
The sight of him made me as limp as a rag. I realized instantly all that had happened. The bow fell from my grasp and I turned helplessly away.
“Forward!” a rough voice commanded. At the same time I was shoved roughly in the direction of the highway.
I stumbled along over the uneven ground with my captor at my back. By the time we reached the road it was pitch dark. The trees grew on either side of us like a great dark wall. There was no light save the glimmering of the new moon and an occasional star or two.
For the first half hour I was as docile as a lamb, for I was shaken by the unexplained loss of the scrivener and by the seriousness of my own plight. My captor never uttered a word. Indeed I would not have been aware of his presence had it not been for the crunching of the stones under his feet and a cautioning pinch on the arm when I lagged in my gait.
But I soon found a ray of hope in my situation and new and daring thoughts popped up in my mind. It was easily two miles to the inn. We were utterly alone. The thought of what would happen to me once I fell into De Marsac’s power strengthened my resolution. I was determined, if I could ferret out a means, that I would escape and take my chances again in the woods.
I tossed the question about in my brain. The night was warm for the season of the year. I had on a heavy jerkin of deer-hide that was beginning to be uncomfortable. If I took it off, I should certainly find relief. I drew one arm out slowly with a grunt to let my captor know that I was suffering from the heat. Then I had it entirely free. I rolled it up into folds as though I was going to tuck it under my arm. When I had it ready, I wheeled on my heel and with a swift swing hurled it with all my strength into his face!
I started to run. In that one moment of his confusion I had to make the best of my opportunity. In three strides I had gotten a start. My feet flew over the hard ground as they never flew before. A certain joy filled my heart that I was on my way to freedom. A few more strides and I was headed for the trees. It was my only salvation, for once I could lose myself in the darkness of the woods my captor would have his own trouble in finding me.
I jumped over the ditch that lined the road with the swiftness of a hare. I was making good headway up the side of the bank when my feet were suddenly entangled and I fell my whole length on the sod. It was the coat that I had thrown into my captor’s face. He was more alert than I had reckoned. He must have recovered instantly from his surprise and have started after me. With an aim that was as accurate as it was quick he was able to enmesh my feet as I ran.
He was upon me like a cat. With a jerk at my collar he landed me on my feet. Then with a shove so violent that his fist dug into my ribs he urged me on ahead.
“One trick more,” he growled, “and it will be the end of you.”
I took the affair evenly enough. It was a chance in which I failed. But, even at that, I was resolved that at the next opportunity, I would try again.
Throughout the length of that march I tormented him to the full. At times I walked as fast as my legs could carry me, thinking to wear him out. I expected him to catch me again by the collar and command me to go more slowly, but I met only with disappointment. Every time I turned he was at my heels breathing as smoothly as if he were sitting in a chair. Then I lagged. I drew my feet after me as though they were a weight. I zigzagged from one side of the road to the other. I stopped to pick up a stick that lay in my path and took to swishing the weeds along the edges of the highway. In a word I tried all manner of nonsense to worry and anger him with the notion that at the end he would call me to account. I had hopes that in case he fell into a quarrel with me, it would come to an open fight in which I was sure I would have as great advantage as he.
My pranks came suddenly to an end. I had forgotten the dagger which I still had concealed in my shirt. Surely I could make use of it, even if my captor had his bow and arrows, if I chose a moment when he was off his guard.
I steadied myself and walked along in the middle of the road. I glanced over my shoulder and at the same time felt for the weapon. The haft was near my hand. In a second I could draw it forth and take my enemy by surprise. Slowly and more slowly I advanced. I did not turn again but listened intently for the crunching of the stones under his feet. By the sound I could measure the distance between him and me. When he came near enough I could——
“Do you want to die?” His voice came like a sound from the tomb. So surprised was I that I wheeled about.
“—die?” I repeated. “What do you mean?”
“Get that thought out of your head!” he commanded.
My hopes fell. I knew now for the first time that I had a man of more than usual insight and cunning to deal with. If I were to try any further tricks, they must be managed with the utmost skill and daring.
We went on. The moon rose higher in the heavens. The trees waved their long branches over our heads. The road twisted and turned like a snake. One scheme after another came into my head, but I cast them all aside, for with his alertness and the quickness of his mind my captor had a hold on me as firm as chains.
Of a sudden the road bent. As we turned the corner the dull light from the windows of the inn shone before us. To make sure that I would not make a final break for freedom, the fellow behind me grasped me by the arm.
In a few steps we were at the inn door. It was standing open. The old dust-covered lanthorn was hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room, sputtering forth its uncertain yellow light. To my dismay I saw De Marsac sitting directly under it at the table. He seemed impatient for he was twisting his mustache with the thumb and forefinger of one hand and drumming nervously with the other.
My captor had just shoved me across the threshold. He opened his mouth to speak when two fellows in the garb of common soldiers brushed roughly past. Their faces were white from fear, and from the way they were breathing I judged that they had been running. They threw themselves at De Marsac’s feet.
“My lord!” they cried. “The highwayman of Tours is running wild in the forest! He has shot three of your men already. If you will——”
My captor broke him off. He advanced with his chest thrown out and his head high in the air.
“The highwayman of Tours is dead!” he growled in a voice deep in his throat. “I shot him with my own hand. His body lies under a tree about a league to the south on the left of the road. To prove it, here is the boy who accompanied him.” He stopped for a moment and gazed proudly at De Marsac. “My lord,” he went on, “the fifty crowns that you have offered as a reward is mine!”
De Marsac rose slowly from his seat. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and let his eye roam over me. He smacked his lips and smiled, as though I was a tender morsel he was about to devour.
“I was glad you weren’t hanged this morning,” he said with a sly leer. “If you had died, my scheme would have gone astray. I’m going to care for you now like a bird in a cage. I’m going to send you down the river to a safe, snug place where you will come to no harm.” He rubbed his hands together like a merchant who has just made a clever deal. “When your brother sees fit to surrender his estates, I shall give you back to him. Till then——” He raised his arm and snapped his fingers in the air.
He turned to the fellow who had taken me and clapped him on the back.
“You have earned every groat of your reward, my man,” he said, and drew from an inside pocket a leather purse. “I am proud of you.” Then he counted out upon the table the fifty crowns in glittering pieces of gold.
My captor was beside himself from joy and bashfulness—joy, that he had been the lucky one to effect my capture, bashful, that he was made so much of by so great a person as De Marsac. He wanted to mutter a word of thanks, but he choked in trying it, so that all he could do was to hang his head and turn his face aside.
But after he had put the money in his jerkin, he took me by the arm and led me to a place at the far end of the room. By merest chance it was the very seat I had occupied the night before.
“You have been the means of making me a rich man, lad,” he puffed as he sat down. “And I’m going to feast you to your heart’s content for it.”
The landlord came—the same wiry hatchet-faced fellow who had taken my dagger. Not a sign of recognition showed on his face. As though he had never laid eyes on me before, he bowed graciously to us, asked us what we would eat and was off.
While we sat waiting, I ran my eyes searchingly around the room. In the semidarkness of the old lanthorn, I noticed De Marsac sitting over his supper with the same smile upon his face. Soldiers came in and out, some of them to bring reports to their master, others to snatch a bite and to make off again.
I rested my gaze upon my captor. The cap was still drawn down half way over his eyes. The flaring red scarf hung about his neck, reaching well up under his chin. A scowl crossed my brow. I fastened a look on him that was filled with hate and chagrin. His two beady eyes twinkled their strange light into mine as though they were laughing at me. The corners of his lips curled slightly up in amusement. Then he winked slyly at me as though there was something I ought to understand.
I grew interested. As though he were a curiosity, I began to examine him more closely. The shine of those eyes and the slight arch of his nose seemed strangely familiar to me.
“You like to eat, don’t you?” he asked, but in a low tone and in a voice that was different from the heavy growl that he had used on our way to the inn.
I leaned towards him across the table. He shot an inquiring glance around the room. Then he put his forefinger straight over his lips. It was a signal that I must be on my guard. With the same motion he let the scarf fall from his chin.
I nearly tumbled from the chair. Of all the surprises of my life this was the greatest. For the man whose prisoner I was, who had sold me to De Marsac for a handful of gold, who had betrayed me as though I were the meanest dog, was the man whom I for the past days had considered my closest friend—the scrivener!
I opened my mouth and gasped.
“You!” was all I could say.
“Pist!” he cautioned.
“I thought you were dead!” I went on.
“Dead?” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Not much.”
“Why, I saw you lying there under the tree,” I argued. “I touched you and you didn’t stir.”
“No, you didn’t,” he contradicted, “not me.”
“Why, your clothes——” I began.
He waved his finger before my face.
“Ah,” he remarked. “There’s where you are jumping at conclusions. It’s a lesson you’ll have to learn, and you might as well begin now—you should never judge a man by his clothes.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Why did you do this?” I demanded finally.
“To save your life—and mine,” he answered blandly. “There were too many of them in the woods.”
“Don’t you realize that this will be the end of me?”
“No,” he replied, “it’s only the beginning.”
“Where will they take me?” I asked.
“Down the valley of the Loire. Keep your ears and eyes open,” he said with all seriousness.
“—and what about you?”
“I’m going back,” he replied. “The country’s too dangerous.”
“Will you tell my brother never to give up the estates—no matter what happens?” I asked, “—even if I’m a prisoner in De Marsac’s castle for life?”
“It won’t be necessary,” he said. “You’ll never see De Marsac’s castle.”
That was a long night. I fell asleep with my head in my arms over the table with the scrivener opposite me. De Marsac took no chances of my escape. He left four men in the room, two to stand guard in turn while the others snatched a wink of sleep. After he had cleared the plates and dishes away the landlord disappeared. Once in a while I awoke and looked around. But this time I was sure there would be no rescue, no helping hand.
The first streaks of dawn were struggling in at the little window when I got to my feet. My muscles were as sore as if I had been dragged a mile through a mire. I yawned and stretched myself and listened for a moment to the birds chirping and quarreling in the ivy that covered the outer walls of the inn.