She, the quest, the mission! With growing amazement he gazed at her, but she returned his look, as though enjoying his surprise.
"You do not seem overpleased with the prospect of my company?" she observed. "Or perhaps you fear I may encumber you?" With mock irony. "Confess, the service is more onerous than you expected?"
Beneath her flushed, yet smiling face lay a nervous earnestness he could divine, but not fathom.
"Different, certainly," he answered, brusquely.
Her eyes flashed. "How complimentary you are!"
"For your own sake—"
"My sake!" she exclaimed, passionately. Her little hand closed fiercely; proudly her eyes burned into his. "Think you I have taken this step idly? That it is but the caprice of a moment? Oh, no; no! It was necessary to flee from the court. But to whom could a woman turn? Not to any of the court—tools of the king. One person only was there; he whose life was as good as forfeited. Do you understand?"
"That my life belongs to you? Yes. But that you should leave the court—where you have influence, friends—"
"Influence! friends!"
He was startled by the bitterness of her voice.
"Tell me, Jacqueline—why do you wish to go?" he said, wonderingly.
"Because I wish to," she returned, briefly, and stroked the shining neck of her horse.
Indeed, how could she apprise him of events which were now the talk of the court? How Francis, evincing a sudden interest as strong as it was unexpected, had exchanged Triboulet for herself, and the princess, at the king's request, had taken the buffoon with her, and left the girl behind. The jestress' welcome to the household of the Queen of Navarre; a subsequent bewildering shower of gifts; the complacent, although respectful, attentions of the king. How she had endured these advances until no course remained save the one she had taken. No; she could not tell the duke's fool all this.
Betweenfolleand fugitive fell a mutual reserve. Did he divine some portion of the truth? Are there moments when the mind, tuned to a tension, may almost feel what another experiences? Why had the girl not gone with her mistress? He remembered she had evaded this question when he had asked it. Looking at her, for the first time it crossed his mind she would be held beautiful; an odd, strange beauty, imperious yet girlish, and the conviction crept over him there might be more than a shadow of excuse for her mad flight.
Beneath his scrutiny her face grew cold, disdainful. "Like all men," she said, sharply, as though to stay the trend of his thoughts, "you are prodigal in promises, but chary in fulfilment."
"Where is it your pleasure to go?" he asked quietly.
"That we shall speak of hereafter," she answered, haughtily.
"Forward then."
"I can ride on alone," she demurred, "if—"
"Nay; 'tis I who crave the quest," he returned, gravely.
Her face broke into smiles, "What a devoted cavalier!" she exclaimed. "Come, then. Let us ride out into the world. At least, it is bright and shining—to-day. Do you fear to follow me, sir? Or do you believe with the hunchback that I am an enchantress and cast over whom I will the spell ofdiablerie?"
"You may be an enchantress, mistress, but the spell you cast is notdiablerie," he answered in the same tone.
"Fine words!" she said, mockingly. "But it remains to be seen into what a world I am going to lead you!" And rode on.
The rush of air, the swift motion, the changing aspect of nature were apparently not without their effect on her spirits, for as they galloped along she appeared to forget their danger, the certainty of pursuit and the possibility of capture. Blithesome she continued; called his attention to a startled hare; pointed with her whip to a red-eyed boar that sullenly retreated at their approach; laughed when an overhanging branch swept her little cap from her head and merrily thanked him when he hastily dismounted and returned it to her.
"You see, fool, what a burden I am like to prove!" she said, readjusting the cap, and, ere he could answer, had passed on, as if challenging him to a test of speed.
"Have a care!" he cried warningly, as they came to a rough stretch of ancient highway, but she seemed not to hear him.
That she could ride in such madcap fashion, seemingly oblivious of the gravity of their desperate fortunes, was not ill-pleasing to the jester; no timorous companion, shrinking from phantoms, he surmised she would prove. Thus mile after mile they covered and the shadows had reached their minimum length, when, coming to a clear pool of water, they drew rein to refresh themselves from the provisions in the saddle-bags. Bread and wine—sumptuous fare for poor fugitives—they ate and drank with keen relish. Dreamily she watched the green insects skimming over the surface of the shimmering water. On the bank swayed the rushes, as though making obeisance to a single gorgeous lily, set like a queen in the center of this little shining kingdom.
"Was the repast to your liking?" she asked, suddenly looking from the pool to him.
"Entirely, fair Jacqueline. The wine was excellent. Hunger gave it bouquet, and appetite aged it. Never did bread taste so wholesome, and as for the service—"
"It was perfect—lacking grand master, grand chamberlain, grand marshals, grand everybody," she laughed.
In the reflected glow from pool and shining leaves, her eyes were so full of light he could but wonder if this were the same person who had so gravely stood by his bedside in the cell. That she should thus seem carelessly to dismiss all thought of danger appeared the more surprising, because he knew she was not one to lull herself with the assurance of a false security. To him her bright eyes said: "I am in your care. Be yours the task now." And thus interpreting, he broke in upon her thoughts.
"Having dined and wined so well, shall we go on, Jacqueline?"
To which she at once assented by rising, and soon they had left the principality of the lily far in the distance. Now the road so narrowed he fell behind. The character of the country had changed; some time ago they had passed out of the wild forest, and had begun to traverse a great, level plain, broken with stubble. As far as the eye could reach, no other human figures were visible; the land outstretched, apparently without end; no habitations dotted the landscape, and, the sole signs of life, wheeling birds of prey, languidly floated in the air. At length she glanced around. Was it to reassure herself the jester rode near; that she had not, unattended, entered that forbidding territory? Then she paused abruptly and the fool approached.
"By this time the turnkey should be relieved," she said.
"But not released," he answered, holding up the keys which he yet wore at his girdle. "They will have to come a long distance to find them," he continued, and threw the keys far away upon the sward.
"They may not think of following on this road at all," she returned. "It is the old castle thoroughfare, long since disused."
"And leads where?"
"Southward, to the main road."
"How came you to know it?" he asked, quickly.
"How—because I lived in the castle before the king built the palace and the new thoroughfare," she answered slowly.
"You lived in the castle, then, when it was the residence of the proud Constable of Dubrois? You must have been but a child," he added, reflectively.
"Yes; but children may have long memories."
"In your case, certainly. How well you knew all the passages and corridors of the castle!"
She responded carelessly and changed the conversation. The thoroughfare broadening, for the remainder of the day they pressed forward side by side. But a single human figure, during all those hours, they encountered, and that when the afternoon had fairly worn away. For some time they had pursued their journey silently, when at a turn in the road the horse of the jester shied and started back.
At the same time an unclean, offensive-looking monk in Franciscan attire arose suddenly out of the stubble by the wayside. In his hand he held a heavy staff, newly cut from the forest, a stock which in his brawny arms seemed better adapted for a weapon than as a prop for his sturdy frame. From the rope girdle about his waist depended a rosary whose great beads would have served the fingers of a Cyclops, and a most diminutive, leathern-bound prayer-book. At the appearance of the fool and his companion, he opened an enormous mouth, and in a voice proportionately large began to whine right vigorously:
"Charity, good people, for the Mother Church! Charity in the name of the Holy Mother! In the name of the saints, the apostles and the evangelists! St. John, St. Peter, St.—" Then broke off suddenly, staring stupidly at the jester.
"The duke's fool!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here? A plague upon it! You have as many lives as a monk."
"Call you yourself a monk, rascal?" asked the jester, contemptuously.
"At times. Charity, good fool!" the canting rogue again began to whine, edging nearer. "Charity, mistress! For the sake of the prophets and the disciples! The seven sacraments, the feast of the Pentecost and the Passover! In the name of the holy Fathers! St. Sebastian! St. Michael! St.—"
But the fugitives had already sped on, and the unregenerate knave turned his pious eloquence into an unhallowed channel of oaths, waving his staff menacingly after them.
"I fear me," said the jester, when they had put a goodly distance between themselves and the solitary figure, "yonder brother craves almsgiving with his voice, and enforces the bounty with his staff. Woe betide the good Samaritan who falls within reach of his pilgrim's prop."
"You knew him?" she asked.
"I had the doubtful pleasure," he answered. "He was hired to kill me."
"Why?" in surprise.
"Because the—duke wanted me out of the way."
She asked no further questions, although he could see by her brow she was thinking deeply. Was the duke then no better than a common assassin? She frowned, then gave an impatient exclamation.
"It is inexplicable," she said, and rode the faster.
The jester, too, was silent, but his mind dwelt upon the future and its hazards. He little liked their meeting with the false monk. Why was the Franciscan traveling in their direction? Had others of that band of pillagers, street-fools and knave-minstrels, formerly infesting the neighborhood of the palace, gone that way? He did not believe the monk would long pursue a solitary pilgrimage, for varlets of that kind have common haunts and byways. The encounter suggested hazard ahead as well as the danger of pursuit from the palace. But this apprehension of a new source of peril he kept from his companion; since go on they must, there was no need to disquiet her further.
The mystic silver light of the day had now become golden; the sky, brilliant, many-colored, overdomed the vast, sullen earth; between two roseate streamers a whitish crescent unobtrusively was set. Seemingly misplaced in a sanguinary sea, passionless it lay, but as the ocean of light grew dull the crescent kindled. Over a thick patch of pine trees in the distance myriads of dark birds hovered and screamed in chorus. Now they circled restlessly above that shaded spot; then darted off, a cloud against the sky, and returned with renewed cawing and discord. As the riders approached the din abruptly ceased, the creatures mysteriously and suddenly vanishing into the depths of the thicket below.
In the fading light, fool and jestress drew rein, and, moved by the same purpose, looked about them. On the one hand was the deserted, desolate plain over which lay a sullen, gathering mist; on the other, the sombrous obscurity of the wood. Everywhere, an ominous silence, and overhead the crescent growing in luster.
"Do you see any sign of house or inn?" said the girl, peering afar down the road, which soon lost itself in the general monotony of the landscape.
"None, mistress; the country seems alike barren of farmhouse or tavern."
"What shall we do? I am full weary," she confessed.
"The forest offers the best protection," he reluctantly suggested. Little as he favored delay, he realized the wisdom of sparing their horses. Moreover, her appeal was irresistible.
She gazed half-dubiously into that woody depth. "Why not rest by the wayside—in the moonlight?"
"I like not the open road," he answered. "But if you fear the darkness—"
For answer she guided her horse to the verge of the forest and lightly sprang to the ground. Upon a grassy knoll, but a little way within, he spread his cloak.
"There, Jacqueline, is your couch," he said.
"But you?" she asked. "To rob you thus of your cloak seems ill-comradeship."
"The cloak is yours," he returned. "As it is, you will find it but a hard bed."
"It will seem soft as down," she replied, and seated herself on the hillock. In the gloom he could just distinguish the outline of her figure, with her elbow on her knee, and her hair blacker than the shadows themselves. A long-drawn, moaning sound, coming without warning behind her, caused the girl to turn.
"What is that?" she said, quickly.
"The wind, Jacqueline. It is rising."
As he spoke, like a monster it entered the forest; about them branches waved and tossed: a friendly star seen through the boughs lost itself behind a cloud. Yet no rain fell and the air seemed hot and dry, despite the mists which clung to the ground. A crash of thunder or a flash of lightning would have relieved that sighing dolor which filled the little patch of timber with its melancholy sounds.
Suddenly, above the plaint and murmur of wind and forest, the low, clear voice of the girl arose; the melody was no ballad, arietta or pastoral, such as he had before heard from her lips, but a simple hymn, the setting by Calvin. The jester started. How came she to know that forbidden music? Not only to know, but to sing it as he had never heard it sung before. Sweetly it vibrated, her waywardness sunk in its swelling rhythm; its melody freighted with the treasure of her trust. As he listened he felt she was betraying to him the hidden well of her faith; the secret of her religion; that she, his companion, was proclaiming herself a heretic, and, therefore, doubly an outcast.
A stanza, and the melody died away on the wings of the tempest. His heart was beating violently; he looked expectantly toward her. Even more gently, like a lullaby to the turbulent night, the full-measured cadence of the majestic psalm was again heard. Then another voice, deeper, fuller, blended with that of the first singer. Unwavering, she continued the song, as though it had been the most natural matter he should join his voice with hers. Fainter fell the harmony; then ceased altogether—a hymn destined to become interwoven with terrible memories, the tragic massacre of the Huguenots on the ill-fated night of St. Bartholomew. Again prevailed the tristful dirge of the pines.
"You sing well, mistress," said the jester, softly. "Is it true you are one of a hated sect?"
"As true as that you did not deny the heretic volume found in your room," she replied.
A silence ensued between them. "It was Marot placed the horses there for us," she said, at length. "He, too, is a heretic, and would have saved you."
Thereafter the silence remained unbroken for some moments, and then—
"God keep you, mistress," he said.
"God keep you," she answered, softly.
Soon her deep breathing told him she was sleeping, and, as he listened, in fancy he could hear the faint echoes of her voice, accompanied by the sighing wind. How intrepid had she seemed; how helpless was she now; and, as he bent over her, divining yet not seeing, he asked himself whence had come this faith in him, that like a child she slumbered amid the unrest of nature? What had her life been, who her friends, that she should thus have chosen a jester as comrade? What had driven her forth from the court to nameless hazards? Had he surmised correctly? Was it—
"The king," she murmured, with sudden restlessness in her sleep.
"The king," she repeated, with aversion.
In the jester's breast upleaped a fierce anger. This was the art-loving monarch who burned the fathers and brothers of the new faith; this, the righteous ruler who condemned men to death for psalm-singing or for listening to grave discourse; this the Christian king, the brilliant patron of science and learning.
The storm had sighed itself to rest, the stars had come out, but leaning with his back against a tree, the fool still kept vigil.
Experiencing no further inconvenience than the ordinary vicissitudes of traveling without litter or cavalcade, several days of wandering slowly passed. Few people they met, and those, for the most part, various types of vagabonds and nomads; some wild and savage, roaming like beasts from place to place; others, harmless, mere bedraggled birds of passage. In this latter class were the vagrant-entertainers, with dancing rooster or singing dog, who stopped at every peasant's door. To the shrill piping of the flageolet, these merry stragglers added a step of their own, and won a crust for themselves, a bone for the dog or a handful of grain for the performing fowl.
In those days when court ladies rode in carved and gilded coaches, and their escorts on horses covered with silken, jeweled nets, the modest appearance of the jestress and her companion was not calculated to attract especial attention from the yokels and honest peasantry; although their steeds, notwithstanding their unpretentious housings, might still excite the cupidity of highway rogues. As it minimized their risk from this latter class, the young girl was content to wear the cap of the jestress, piquantly perched upon her dark curls, thereby suggesting an indefinable affinity with vagrancy and the itinerant fraternity.
Not only had she donned the symbol of her office, but she endeavored to act up to it, accepting the sweet with the sour, with ever a jest at discomfort and concealing weariness with a smile. Often the fool wondered at her endurance and her calm courage in the face of peril, for although they met with no misadventures, each day seemed fraught with jeopardy. Perhaps it was fortunate their attire, somewhat travel-stained, appeared better suited to the character of poor, migratory wearers of the cap and bells than to the more magnificent roles offou du roiorfolle de la reine. But although they had gone far, the jester knew they had not yet traveled beyond the reach of Francis' arm, and that, while the king might reconcile himself to the escape of theplaisant, he would not so easily tire in seeking the maid.
Once they slept in the fields; again, beside an old ruined shrine, in the shadow of an ancient cross; the third night, on the bank of a stream, when it rained, and she shivered until dawn with no word of complaint. Fortunately the sun arose, bright and warm, drying the garments that clung to her slender figure, At the peasants' houses they paused no longer than necessary to procure food and drink, and, not to awaken suspicion, she preferred paying them with a song of the people rather than from the well-filled purse she had brought with her.
And as the fool listened to a sprightly, contagious carol and noted its effect on clod and hind, he wondered if this could be the same voice he had heard, uplifted in one of Master Calvin's psalms in the solitude of the forest. She had the gift of music, and, sometimes on the journey, would break out with a catch or madrigal by Marot, Caillette, or herself. It appeared a brave effort to bear up under continued hardship—insufficient rest and sharp riding—and the jester reproached himself for thus taxing her strength; but often, when he suggested a pause, she would shake her head wilfully, assert she was not tired, and ride but the faster.
"No, no!" she would say; "if we would escape, we must keep on. We can rest afterward."
"Where do you wish to go?" he asked her once.
"There is time enough yet to speak of that," she returned, evasively.
"You have some plan, mistress?"
"Perhaps."
This answer forbade his further questioning; offended, possibly, his sense of that confidence which is due comrade to comrade, but she became immediately so propitiative and sweetly dependent—the antithesis to that self-reliance her response implied—he thought no more of it, but remained content with her reticence. Half-shyly, she looked at him beneath her dark lashes, as if to read how deeply he was annoyed, and, seeing his face clear, laughed lightly.
"What are you laughing at, mistress?" he said.
"If I knew I could tell," she replied.
Toward sundown on the fourth day they came to a lonely inn, set in a clearing on the verge of a forest. They had ridden late in the moonlight the night before, and all that morning and afternoon almost without resting, and the first sight of the solitary hostelry was not unwelcome to the weary fugitives. A second inspection of the place, however, awakened misgivings. The building seemed the better adapted for a fortress than a tavern, being heavily constructed with massive doors and blinds, and loopholes above. A brightly painted sign, The Rooks' Haunt, waved cheerily, it is true, above the door, as though to disarm suspicion, but the isolated situation of the inn, and the depressing sense of the surrounding wilderness, might well cause the wayfarer to hesitate whether to tarry there or continue his journey.
A glance at the pale face and unnaturally bright eyes of the girl brought the jester, however, to a quick decision. Springing from his horse, he held out his hand to assist her, but, overcome by weakness, or fatigue, she would have fallen had he not sustained her. Quickly she recovered, and with a faint flush mantling her white cheek, withdrew from his grasp, while at the same time the landlord of the tavern came forward to welcome his guests.
In appearance mine host was round and jovial; his bulk bespoke hearty living; his rosy face reflected good cheer; his stentorian voice, free-and-easy hospitality. His eyes constituted the only setback to this general impression of friendliness and fellow-feeling; they were small, twinkling, glassy.
"Good even to you, gentle folk," he said. "You tarry for the night, I take it?"
"If you have suitable accommodations," answered the jester, reassured by the man's aspect and manner.
"The Rooks' Haunt never yet turned away a weary traveler," answered the landlord. "You come from the palace?"
"Yes," briefly, as a lad led away their horses.
"And have done well? Reaped a harvest from the merry lords and ladies?"
"There were many others there for that purpose," returned the jester, following the proprietor to the door of the hostelry.
"True. Still I'll warrant your fair companion cozened the silver pieces from the pockets of the gentry." And, smiling knowingly, he ushered them into the principal living room of the tavern.
It was a smoke-begrimed apartment, with tables next to the wall, and rough chairs and benches for the guests. Heavy pine rafters spanned the ceiling; the floor was sprinkled with sand; from a chain hung a wrought-iron frame for candles. Upon a shelf a row of battered tankards, suggesting many a bout, shone dully, like a line of war-worn troopers, while a great pewter pitcher, the worse for wear, commanded the disreputable array.
In this room was gathered a nondescript company: mountebanks and buffoons; rogues unclassified, drinking and dicing; a robust vagrant, at whose feet slept a performing boar, with a ring—badge of servitude—through its nose; a black-bearded, shaggy-haired Spanish troubadour, with attire so ragged and worn as to have lost its erstwhile picturesque characteristics. This last far from prepossessing worthy half-started from his seat upon the appearance of fool and jestress; stared at them, and then resumed his place and the ballad he had been singing:
"Within the garden of BeaucaireHe met her by a secret stair,Said Aucassin, 'My love, my pet,These old confessors vex me so!They threaten all the pains of hellUnless I give you up,ma belle,'—Said Aucassin to Nicolette."
Watching the nimble fingers of the shabby minstrel with pitiably childish expression of amusement, a half-imbecile morio leaned upon the table. His huge form, for he was a giant among stalwart men, and his great moon-shaped head made him at once an object hideous and miserable to contemplate. But the poor creature seemed unaware of his own deformities, and smiled contentedly and patted the table caressingly to the sprightly rhythm.
Gazing upon this choice assemblage, theplaisantwas vaguely conscious that some of the curious and uncommon faces seemed familiar, and the picture of the Franciscan monk whom they had overtaken on the road recurred to him, together with the misgivings he had experienced upon parting from that canting knave. He half-expected to see Nanette; to hear her voice, and was relieved that the gipsy on this occasion did not make one of the unwonted gathering. The landlord, observing the fool's discriminating gaze, and reading something of what was passing in his mind, reassuringly motioned the new-comers to an unoccupied corner, and by his manner sought to allay such mistrust as the appearance of his guests was calculated to inspire.
"We have to take those that come," he said, deprecatorily. "The rascals have money. It is as good as any lord's. Besides, whate'er they do without, here must they behave. And—for their credit—they are docile as children; ruled by the cook's ladle. You will find that, though there be ill company, you will partake of good fare. If I say it myself, there's no better master of the flesh pots outside of Paris than at this hostelry. The rogues eat as well as the king's gentlemen. Feasting, then fasting, is their precept."
"At present we have a leaning for the former, good host," carelessly answered the fool. "Though the latter will, no doubt, come later."
"For which reason it behooves a man to eat, drink and be merry while he may," retorted the other. "What say you to a carp on the spit, with shallots, and a ham boiled with pistachios?"
"The ham, if it be ready. Our appetites are too sharp to wait for the fish."
"Then shall you have with it a cold teal from the marshes, and I'll warrant such a repast as you have not tasted this many a day. Because a man lives in a retired spot, it does not follow he may not be an epicure," he went on, "and in my town days I was considered a good fellow among gourmands." His eyes twinkled; he studied the new-comers a moment, and then vanished kitchenward.
His self-praise as a provider of creature comforts proved not ill deserved; the viands, well prepared, were soon set before them; a serving lad filled their glasses from a skin of young but sound wine he bore beneath his arm, and, under the influence of this cheer, the young girl's cheek soon lost its pallor. In the past she had become accustomed to rough as well as gentle company; so now it was disdain, not fear, she experienced in that uncouth gathering; the same sort of contempt she had once so openly expressed for Master Rabelais, whipper-in for all gluttons, wine-bibbers and free-livers.
As the darkness gathered without, the merriment increased within. Over the scene the dim light cast an uncertain luster. Indefatigably the dicers pursued their pastime, with now and then an audible oath, or muttered imprecation, which belied that docility mine host had boasted of. The troubadour played and the morio yet listened. Several of a group who had been singing now sat in sullen silence. Suddenly one of them muttered a broken sentence and his fellows immediately turned their eyes toward the corner where were fool and jestress. This ripple of interest did not escape the young girl's attention, who said uneasily:
"Why do those men look at us?"
"One of them spoke to the others," replied the jester. "He called attention to something."
"What do you suppose it was?" she asked curiously.
"Gladius gemmatus!" ["The jeweled sword."]
Whence came the voice? Near the couple, in a shadow, sat a woebegone looking man who had been holding a book so close to his eyes as to conceal his face. Now he permitted the volume to fall and the jester uttered an exclamation of surprise, as he looked upon those pinched, worn, but well-remembered features.
"The scamp-student!" he said.
Immediately the reader buried his head once more behind the book and spoke aloud in Latin as though quoting some passage which he followed with his finger; "Did you understand?"
"Yes," answered theplaisant, apparently speaking to the jestress, whose face wore a puzzled expression.
The scamp-student laid the volume on the table. "These men are outlaws and intend to kill you for your jeweled sword," he continued in the language of Horace.
"Why do you tell me this?" asked the fool in the same tongue, now addressing directly the scholar.
"Because you spared my life once; I would serve you now."
"What's all this monk's gibberish about?" cried an angry voice, as the master of the boar stepped toward them.
"A discussion between two scholars," readily answered the scamp-student.
"Why don't you talk in a language we understand?" grumbled the man.
"Latin is the tongue of learning," was the humble response.
"I like not the sound of it," retorted the other, as he retired. From a distance, however, he continued to cast suspicious glances in their direction. Bewildered, the girl looked from one of the alleged controverters to the other. Who was this starveling the jester seemed to know? Again were they conversing in the language of the monastery, and their colloquy led to a conclusion as unexpected as it was startling.
"What if we leave the inn now?" asked the jester.
"They would prevent you."
"Who is the leader?"
"The man with the boar," answered the scamp-student. "But it is the morio who usually kills their victims."
The jester glanced at the colossal monster, repugnant in deformity, and then at the girl, who was tapping impatiently on the table with her white fingers. The fool's color came and went; what human strength might stand against that frightful prodigy of nature?
"Is there no way to escape?" he asked.
"Alas! I can but warn; not advise," said the scholar. "Already the leader suspects me."
A half-shiver ran through him. In the presence of actual and seemingly assured death he had appeared calm, resigned, a Socrates in temperament; before the mere prospect of danger the apprehensive thief-and-fugitive elements of his nature uprose. He would meet, when need be, the grim-visaged monster of dissolution with the dignity of a stoic, but by habit disdained not to dodge the shadow with the practised agility of a filcher and scamp. So the lower part of his moral being began to cower; he glanced furtively at the company.
"Yes; I am sure I have put my own neck in it," he muttered. "I must devise a way to save it. I have it. We must seem to quarrel." And rising, he closed his book deliberately.
"Fool!" he said in a sharp voice. "Your argument is as scurvy as your Latin. Thou, a philosopher! A bookless, shallow dabbler! So I treat you and your reasonings!"
Whereupon, with a quick gesture, he threw the dregs of his glass in the face of the jester. So suddenly and unexpectedly was it done, the other sprang angrily from his seat and half drew his sword. A moment they stood thus, the fool with his hand menacingly upon the hilt; the scamp-scholar continuing to confront him with undiminished volubility.
He threw the dregs of his glass in the face of the jester.He threw the dregs of his glass in the face of the jester.
He threw the dregs of his glass in the face of the jester.He threw the dregs of his glass in the face of the jester.
"A smatterer! an ignoramus! a dunce!" he repeated in high-pitched tones to the amusement of the company.
"Make a ring for the two monks, my masters," cried the man with the boar. "Then let each state his case with bludgeon or dagger."
"With bludgeon or dagger!" echoed the excited voice of the morio, whose appearance had undergone a transformation. The indescribable vacancy with which he had listened to the minstrel was replaced by an expression of revolting malignity.
The jestress half-arose, her face once more white, her dark eyes fastened on the fool. But the latter, realizing the purpose of the affront, and the actual service the scamp-student had rendered him, unexpectedly thrust back his blade.
"I'll not fight a puny bookworm," he said, and resumed his seat, although his cheek was flushed.
"You bear a brave sword, fool, for one so loath to draw," sneered the master of the boar.
Disappointed at this tame outcome of an affair which had so spirited a beginning, the company, with derisive scoffing and muttered sarcasm, resumed their places; all save the morio, who stood glaring upon the jester.
"Stab! stab!" he muttered through his dry lips, and at that moment the troubadour played a few chords on his instrument. The passion faded from the creature's face; quietly he turned and sought the chair nearest to the minstrel.
"Sing, master," he said.
"Diable, thou art an insatiable monster!" grumbled the troubadour.
"Insatiable," smilingly repeated the strange being.
"If you went also,ma douce miette!The joys of heaven I'd foregoTo have you with me there below,'—Said Aucassin to Nicolette."
softly sang the troubadour.
Over the gathering a marked constraint appeared to fall. More soberly the men shook their dice; the scamp-student took up his book, but even Horace seemed not to absorb his undivided attention; a mountebank attempted several tricks, but failed to amuse his spectators. The candles, burning low, began to drip, and the servant silently replaced them. Beneath lowering brows the master of the boar moodily regarded the young girl, whose face seemed cold and disdainful in the flickering light. Theplaisantaddressed a remark to her, but she did not answer, and silently he watched the shadow on the floor, of the chandelier swinging to and fro, like a waving sword.
"Will you have something more, good fool?" said the insinuating and unexpected voice of the host at theplaisant'selbow.
"Nothing."
"You were right not to draw," continued the boniface with a sharp look. "What could a jester do with the blade? I'll warrant you do not know how to use it?"
"Nay," answered the fool; "I know how to use it not—and save my neck."
Mine host nodded approvingly. "Ha! a merry fellow," he said. "Come; drink again. 'Twill make you sleep."
"I have better medicine than that," retorted the jester, and yawned.
"Ah, weariness. I'll warrant you'll rest like a log," he added, as he moved away.
At that some one who had been listening laughed, but the fool did not look up. A great clock began to strike with harsh clangor and Jacqueline suddenly arose. At the same time the minstrel, stretching his arms, strolled to the door and out into the open air.
"Good-night, mistress," said the harsh voice of the master of the boar, as his glittering eyes dwelt upon her graceful figure.
The girl responded coldly, and, amid a hush from the company, made her way to the stairs, which she slowly mounted, preceded by the lad who had waited upon them, and followed by the jester.
"A craven fellow for so trim a maid," continued he of the boar, as they disappeared. "She has eyes like friar's lanterns. What a decoy she'd make for the lords in Paris!"
"Yes," assented the landlord, "a pitfall to pill 'em and poll 'em."
At the end of the passage the guide of jestress and fool paused before a door. "Your room, mistress," he said. "And yonder is yours, Master Jester." Then placing the candle on a stand and vouchsafing no further words, he shuffled off in the darkness, leaving the two standing there.
"Lock your door this night, Jacqueline," whispered the fool.
"You submit over-easily to an affront," was her scornful retort, turning upon the jester.
"Perhaps," he replied, phlegmatically. "Yet forget not the bolt."
"It were more protection than you are apt to prove," she answered, and, quickly entering the room closed hard the door.
A moment he stood in indecision; then rapped lightly.
"Jacqueline," he said, in a low voice.
There was no answer.
"Jacqueline!"
The bolt shot sharply into place, fastening the door. No other response would she make, and the jester, after waiting in vain for her to speak, turned and made his way to his own chamber, adjoining hers.
Weary as the young girl was, she did not retire at once, but going to the window, threw wide open the blinds. Bright shone the moon, and, leaning forth, she gazed upon clearing and forest sleeping beneath the soft glamour. A beautiful, yet desolate scene, with not a living object visible—yes, one, and she suddenly drew back, for there, motionless in the full light, and gazing steadfastly toward her room, stood a figure in whom she recognized the Spanish troubadour.
Surveying his room carefully in the dim light of a candle, the fool discovered he stood in a small apartment, with a single window, whose barren furnishings consisted of a narrow couch, a chair and a massive wardrobe. Unlike the chamber assigned to Jacqueline, the door was without key or bolt; a significant fact to the jester, in view of the warning he had received. Nor was it possible to move wardrobe or bed, the first being too heavy and the last being screwed to the floor, had the occupant desired to barricade himself from the anticipated danger without. A number of suspicious stains enhanced the gruesome character of the room, and as these appeared to lead to the wardrobe, the jester carried his investigation to a more careful survey of that imposing piece of furniture. Opening the door, although he could not find the secret of the mechanism, the fool concluded that the floor of this ponderous wooden receptacle was a trap through which the body of the victim could be secretly lowered.
This brief exploration of his surroundings occupied but a few moments, and then, after blowing out the candle and heaping the clothes together on the bed into some resemblance of a human figure lying there, the jester drew his sword and softly crept down the passage toward the stairs, at the head of which he paused and listened. He could hear the voices and see the shadows of the men below, and, with beating heart, descended a few steps that he might catch what they were saying. Crouching against the wall, with bated breath, he heard first the landlord's tones.
"Well, rogues, what say you to another sack of wine?" asked the host, cheerily.
"It will serve—while we wait," ominously answered the master of the boar.
"Haven't we waited long enough?" said an impatient voice.
"Tut! tut! young blood," growled another, reprovingly. "Would you disturb him at his prayers?"
"The landlord is right," spoke up the leader. "We have the night before us. Bring the wine."
In stentorian tones the host called the serving-man, and soon from the clinking of cups, the clearing of throats, and the exclamations of satisfaction, foully expressed, the listening jester knew that the skin had been circulated and the tankards filled. One man even began to sing again an equivocal song, but was stopped by a warning imprecation to which he ill-naturedly responded with a half-defiant curse.
"Knaves! knaves!" cried the reproachful voice of the landlord. "Can you not drink together like honest men?"
This mild expostulation of the host seemed not without its effect, for the impending quarrel passed harmlessly away.
"Where, think you, he got the sword?" asked one of the gathering, reverting to the enterprise in hand.
"Stole it, most likely," replied the leader. "It is booty from the palace."
"And therefore is doubly fair spoils," laughed another.
"Remember, rogues," interrupted the host, "one-third is my allotted portion. Else we fall out."
"Art so solicitous, thou corpulent scrimp!" grumbled he of the boar. "Have you not always had the hulking share? Pass the wine!"
"Foul names break no bones," laughed the host. "You were always a churlish, ungentle knave. There's the wine, an it's not better than your temper, beshrew me for the enemy of true hospitality. But to show I am none such, here's something to sup withal; prime head of calf. Bolt and swig, as ye will."
The rattle of dishes and the play of forks succeeded this good-natured suggestion. It was truly evident mine host commanded the good will and the services of the band by appealing to their appetites. An esculent roast or pungent stew was his cure for uprising or rebellion; a high-seasoned ragout or fricassee became a sovereign remedy against treachery or defection. He could do without them, for knaves were plentiful, but they could not so easily dispense with this fat master of the board who had a knack in turning his hand at marvelous and savory messes, for which he charged such full reckoning that his third of the spoils, augmented by subsequent additions, was like to become all.
A wave of anger against this unwieldy hypocrite and well-fed malefactor swept over the jester. The man's assumed heartiness, his manner of joviality and good-fellowship, were only the mask of moral turpitude and blackest purpose. But for the lawless scholar, the fool would probably have retired to his bed with full confidence in the probity and honesty of the greatest delinquent of them all.
"What shall we do with the girl?" asked one of the outlaws, interrupting this trend of thought in the listener's mind.
"Serve her the same as the fool," answered the landlord, carelessly.
"But she's a handsome wench," retorted the leader, thoughtfully. "Straight as a poplar; eyes like a sloe. With the boar and the jade, I should do well, when I become tired resting here."
"If she's as easily tamed as the boar?" suggested the host, significantly.
"Devil take me, if her nails are as long as his tusks," retorted the follow, with a coarse laugh.
"An I had a hostelry in town, she could bait the nobles thither," commented the host, thoughtfully.
"Give her to the scamp-student," remarked the fellow who had first spoken.
"Nay, since Nanette ran off with a street singer and left me spouseless, I have made a vow of celibacy," hastily answered the piping voice of the lank scholar.
A series of loud guffaws greeted the scamp-student's declaration, while the subsequent rough humor of the knaves made the listener's cheek burn with indignation. Yet forced to listen he was, knowing that the slightest movement on his part would quickly seal the fate of himself and the young girl. But every fiber of his being revoked against that ribald talk; he bit his lip hard, hearing her name bandied about by miscreants and wretches of the lowest type, and even welcomed a startling change in the discourse, occasioned by the leader.
"Enough, rogues. We must settle with the jester first. Afterward, it will be time enough to deal with the maid. Hast done feeding and tippling yet, morio?"
"Yes, master," said the suspiciously muffled voice of the imbecile.
"Here's the knife then. You shall have another tankard when you come back."
"Another tankard!" muttered the creature.
At these significant words, knowing that the crucial moment had come, the jester retreated rapidly, and, making his way down the passage, stood in a dark corner near his room. As of one accord the voices ceased below; a heavy creaking announced the approach of the morio; nearer and nearer, first on the stairs, then in the upper corridor. From where he remained concealed the fool dimly discerned the figure of the would-be assassin.
At the door of the jestress' room it paused. The fool lifted his blade; the form passed on. Before the chamber of theplaisantits movements became more stealthy; it bent and listened. Should the jester spring upon it now? A strange loathing made him hesitate, and, before he had time to carry his purpose into execution, the creature, throwing aside further pretense of caution, swung back the door and launched himself across the apartment. A heavy blow, swiftly followed by another; afterward, the stillness of death.
Every moment the jester expected an outcry; the announcement of the fruitlessness of the attack, but the morio made no sound. The silence became oppressive; theplaisantfelt almost irresistibly impelled toward that terrible chamber, when with heavy, lumbering step, the creature reappeared, traversed the hall like a huge automaton and mechanically descended the stairs. Recovering from his surprise, the fool again resumed his position commanding the scene below, and breathlessly awaited the sequel to the singular pantomime he had witnessed.
"Well, is it done?" asked the harsh voice of the master of the boar.
"Yes; done!" was the submissive answer.
"Good! Now to get the sword."
"Not so fast," broke in the landlord. "Do you kill, morio, without drawing blood? Look at his dagger."
The leader took the blade, examined it, and then began to call down curses on the head of the imbecile monster. "Clean, save for a thread of cotton," he cried angrily. "You never went near him."
"Yes, yes, master!" replied the creature, eagerly.
"Then, perhaps, you strangled him?" suggested the man.
"No; stab! stab!" reiterated the morio, in an almost imploring tone, shrinking from the glances cast upon him.
"Bah! You stabbed the bed, fool; not the man," roughly returned the other. "The rogue has guessed our purpose and left the room," he continued, addressing the others. "But he's skulking somewhere. Well, knaves, here's a little coursing for us all. Up with you, morio, and find him. Perhaps, though, he may prefer to come down." And the leader called out: "Give yourself up, rascal, or it will be the worse for you."
To this paradoxical threat no answer was returned. Standing in the shadow at the head of the stairs, the jester only gripped tighter the hilt of the coveted sword, while across his vision flashed the picture of the young girl, left helpless, alone! What mercy would they show? The coarse words of the master of the boar and the gibing, loose responses of the company recurred to him, and, setting his jaw firmer, the plaisant peered, with gleaming eyes, down into the semi-gloom.
"You won't answer?" cried the leader, after a short interval. "Smell him out then, rogues."
Knife in hand, the others at his heels, the morio slowly made his way up the stairs. Goaded by the taunts of the outlaws, his face was distorted with ferocity; through his lips came a fierce, sibilant breathing; in the dim light his colossal figure and enormous head seemed in no wise human, but rather a murderous phantasm. With head rolling from side to side, stabbing in the air with his knife, he continued to approach,—an object calculated to strike terror into any breast.
"Oh! oh!" murmured a voice behind the jester, and, turning, he saw Jacqueline. Disturbed by the tumult and the loud voices, the jestress had left her room to learn the cause of the unusual din, and now, with her dark hair a cloud around her, stood gazing fearfully over the fool's shoulder.
At the sound of the young girl's voice, so near, theplaisant'shand, which for the moment had been unsteady, became suddenly steel. Almost impatiently he awaited the coming of the morio; at last he drew near, but, as if instinctively realizing the presence of danger, paused, his arm ceasing to strike, but remaining stationary in the air.
"Go on!" impatiently shouted those behind him.
At the command the creature sprang forward furiously, when the sword of the jester shot out; once, twice! From the morio's grip fell the dagger; over his face the lust for killing was replaced by a look of surprise; with a single moan, he threw both arms on high, and, tottering like an oak, the monster fell backward with a crash, carrying with him the rogues behind. Imprecations, threats and cries of pain ensued; several knaves went limping away from the struggling group; one lay prostrate as the morio himself; the master of the boar rubbed his shoulder, anathematizing roundly the cause of the disaster.
"I think my arm's put out!" he said. "Is the creature dead?" he added, viciously.
"Dead as a herring," answered the landlord, bending over the motionless figure.
"Beshrew me, I thought the jester was a craven," growled he of the boar. "What does it mean?"
"That he saw the snare and spread another," replied the host.
"Go back to your room, mistress," whispered the plaisant to the young girl, "and lock yourself in."
"Nay; I'll not leave you," she replied. "Do you think they will return?" she added in a voice she strove to make firm.
"I am certain of it. Go, I beg you—to your window and call out. It is a slender hope, but the best we have. Fear not; I can hold the stairs yet a while."
A moment she hesitated, then glided away. At the same time he of the boar grasped a sword in his left hand, and, with his right hanging useless, rushed up the stairs.
"Oh, there you are, my nimble wit-cracker!" he cried, as the jester stepped boldly out. "'Twas a pretty piece of foolery you played on the monster and us, but quip for quirk, my merry wag!" And, so speaking, he directed a violent thrust which, had it taken effect, would, indeed, have made good the leader's threat.
But theplaisantstepped aside, the blow grazed his shoulder, while his own blade, by a rapid counter, passed through the throat of his antagonist. With a shriek, the blood gushing from the wound, the master of the boar fell lifeless on the stairs, his sword clattering downward. At that gruesome sight, his fellows paused irresolute, and, seeing their indecision, the jester rushed headlong upon them, striking fiercely, when their hesitation turned into panic and the knaves fairly fled. Below, the irate landlord stamped and fumed, cuffing and striking as he moved among them with threats and abuse.
"White-livered varlets! Pigeon-hearted rogues! Unmanned by a motley fool! A witling the lords beat with their slippers! Because of a chance blow against an imbecile, or a disabled man, you hesitate. A fig for them! What if they be dead? The spoil will be the greater for the rest."
Thus exhorted, the knaves once more took heart and gathered for the attack. Glaves were provided for those in front, and theplaisantwaited, grimly determined, yet liking little the aspect of those terrible weapons and feeling the end of the unequal contest was not far distant, when a light hand was laid on his arm.
"Follow me quickly," said Jacqueline. "We may yet escape. Don't question me, but come!" she went on hurriedly.
Impressed by her earnestness, the jester, after a moment's hesitation, obeyed. She led him to her room, closed and locked the door—but not before a scampering of feet and sound of voices told them the rogues had gained the upper passage—and drew him hastily to the window.
"See," she said eagerly. "A ladder!"
"And at the foot of the ladder, our horses!" he exclaimed, in surprise. "Who has done this?"
Her response was interrupted by a hand at their door and a clamor without, followed by heavy blows.
"Quick, Jacqueline!" he cried, and helped her to the long ladder, set, as it seemed, providentially against the wall.
"Can you do it?" he asked, yet holding her hand. Her eyes gave him answer, and he released her, watching her descend.
The door quivered beneath the general onslaught of the now exultant outlaws, and, as a glave shattered the panel the jester threw himself over the casement. A deafening hubbub ensued; the door suddenly gave way, and the band rushed into the room. At the same time theplaisantran down the ladder and sprang to the ground at the young girl's side. From above came exclamations of wonder and amazement, mingled with invective.
"They're gone!" cried one.
"Here they are!" exclaimed another, looking down from the window.
The jester at once seized the means of descent, but not before the man who had discovered them was on the upper rounds; a quick effort on the fool's part, and ladder and rogue toppled over together. The enterprising knave lay motionless where he fell.
"Vrai Dieu! He wanted to come down," said an approving voice.
Turning, the jester beheld the Spanish troubadour, who was composedly engaged in placing bundles of straw against the wall of the inn.
"I don't think he'll bother you any more," continued the minstrel in his deep tones. "If you'll ride down the road, I'll join you in a moment."
So saying, he knelt before the combustible accumulation he had been diligently heaping together and struck a spark which, seizing on the dry material, immediately kindled into a great flame.
"What are you doing, villain?" roared the landlord from the window, discovering the forks of fire, already leaping and crackling about the tavern.
"Only making a bonfire of a foul nest," lightly answered the minstrel, standing back as though to admire his handiwork. "Your vile hostelry burns well, my dissembling host."
"Hell-dog! varlet!" screamed the proprietor, overwhelmed with consternation.
"Is it thus you greet your guests?" replied the troubadour, throwing another bundle of straw upon the already formidable conflagration. "You were not wont to be so discourteous, my prince of bonifaces."
But recovering from his temporary stupor, the landlord, without reply, disappeared from the window.
"Now may we safely leave the flames to the wind," commented the minstrel, as he sprang upon a small nag which had been fastened to a shed near by. "As we have burned the roof over our heads," he continued, addressing the wondering jester and his companion, who had already mounted and were waiting, "let us seek another hostelry."
Swiftly the trio rode forth from the tavern yard, out into the moonlit road.
"Not so quickly, my friends," commented the troubadour. "As I fastened the doors and blinds without, we may proceed leisurely, for it will be some time before mine host and his friends can batter their way from the inn. Besides, it goes against the grain to run so precipitously from my fire. Such a beautifulauto da fé, as we say in Spain."
"Who are you, sir?" asked the fool.
The minstrel laughed, and answered in his natural voice.
"Don't you know me,mon ami?" he said, gaily. "What a jest this will be at court? How it will amuse the king—"
"Caillette!" exclaimed theplaisant, loudly. "Caillette!"