"Is she still alive?" asked Herrick, swinging himself from the saddle.
"Yes, sir: but dying."
"Or shamming, think you?"
"Really dying, sir; there was a rattle in her throat in the night."
The old hag was lying in much the same spot that Herrick himself had occupied. A fire was upon thehearth, and the smell of the peat was pungent. The old woman's face looked like a skull over which yellow skin had been lightly drawn. The closed eyes, sunken, and like empty sockets, increased the likeness. The noise of Herrick's entrance disturbed her, and she looked up at him as he stood over her.
"You know me," he said sternly.
"You're a liar, curse you." And although the words were feebly spoken there was venom in them.
"A wounded manIn a forest lay,Who the fates decreeShall be Duke one day."
"A wounded manIn a forest lay,Who the fates decreeShall be Duke one day."
recited Herrick.
The sound of the doggerel brought a look of interest into the old hag's face.
"Now do you know me?" asked Herrick. "You were wrong. I was not the wounded man. I am the one you had bound to a tree, to be left to the will of fate. Fate has been kind. I am the Duke."
The hag tried to raise a skinny arm, as though to protect herself from his vengeance.
"Tell me, where was the wounded man taken? Where is he now?"
"Shall be Duke one day," mumbled the old woman.
"Where is he?"
"Ah!" she said, not sharply, but in a long drawn out sound almost like the hiss of a snake.
"Quick, or we will find means to make you speak."
"You can't, curse you."
"We'll tie her to a tree," said Herrick. "I know the method of it, and there is no need for care that the rope is loose at her throat."
Two of the men moved forward as though to seize her and carry her out.
"Curse you, let me be," she tried to scream, but the words were only a whistle. "If I tell, what then?"
"We make no bargain."
"You—you—curse you!"
"Out with her to the tree," said Herrick, and one of the men bent down, and touched her.
"I'll tell—I'll tell."
"Quickly then."
"Simon sold him to the enemy," the old woman said—"the enemy that's now on the way to make carrion of such as you. He's dead, or if he isn't he's safe in a tower by the frontier close to Larne, and you'll never get him, curse you."
"I know the place, sir," whispered one of the men. "She may be speaking the truth."
The hag had closed her eyes again, but after a few seconds she opened them, and in that short interval she seemed to have forgotten all that had gone before. She started, as though for the first time she realized that men were looking down at her, and she began to curse them in a long string of foul oaths which were truly appalling. Herrick thought she must be shamming sickness, for she suddenly raised herself almost into a sitting posture, and pointing at him with her long, skeleton hand, let loose all the vials of her vituperation upon him, promising him a hell here and damnation of the most horrible and fantastic kind hereafter.
"Duke!—Liar!" she screamed, and her voice was strong for an instant. "Duke!—curse you—wounded man—fates—some day—curse!"
The words were in a descending scale, the last a mere whisper, and then her body heaved as if she would springto her feet. The next moment she fell backward with a thud—dead!
Herrick turned away with a shudder. Such a death was horrible.
"The world's well rid of her," said Briant.
"Bury her presently," said Herrick to the charcoal-burners. "God knows her history, and shall judge her. Bury her out of the beaten track, and deeply, and then if you will, follow us toward Larne. Montvilliers has need of every stalwart son she has given birth to."
They were soon riding through the forest again, Pierre Briant and his men with them. Herrick rode alone a little in advance, and the old hag's doggerel was singing in his ears. Her last disjointed words were evidently an attempt to repeat the rhyme. It was well that the soldiers knew nothing of the circumstances under which it had first been spoken, or they might have been superstitious enough to look upon him as a leader foredoomed to failure.
Toward evening they came to the rendezvous, and the sight put new spirit into Herrick. The nobles had responded to his appeal in a manner far beyond his greatest hopes. Many of them had come themselves to the meeting-place bringing all the men they could, and others had sent men. Herrick found his army greatly increased.
There came forward to meet him the old noble who had spoken in the great hall that night, and Herrick dismounted to receive him.
"Sir, there was only one way of answering your appeal," said the old man. "It was worthy of a Duke. My arm is not so strong as it was, but there is still too much energy in it to stay at home when every good man is of service."
"I thank you," Herrick answered. "You shall find me as ready to fulfil my part of the bargain when we return in peace."
"Sir, I know you for a true man, and if I return you shall find me amongst your friends."
Not all met him in this generous fashion, but they were all willing to follow him in the defence of their country.
"With such loyalty, who can dream of failure?" said Herrick. "In Vayenne yonder, they have whispered that the nobles of Montvilliers were in league with the enemy. It was a false report. Surely there can be few in the land."
"And they may be in the city," said one.
Herrick would not believe such a thing.
"Their quarrel was with me," he said, "that is a different matter to treachery toward their country. We march at dawn. See to it, Lemasle. Not yet is Montvilliers to fall a prey to her enemies."
A great shout welcomed his words, but Herrick's heart was heavy that night in spite of all. Were there traitors in Vayenne, subtle and powerful enough to make terms with the enemy? Who were they? Felix? De Bornais? Christine? Did she hate him so much, that to punish him she would sacrifice her country? And all night he lay awake, thinking not of the task before him, but of the woman he loved.
THE DWARF'S APPEAL
Jean's face and manner were more sadly at variance with his gaudy attire than ever. He barely had a jest for anyone, and earned the opinion that he was a dull fool after all. He spent many lonely hours on the battlements of the West Tower, and for days he did not go outside the castle. In the body he was in Vayenne, in spirit he was with the Duke and his sturdy fighters on the frontier, and sometimes with his bauble for sword he would make savage passes at an imaginary enemy.
It was not long before rumors, conflicting and uncertain, began to find their way to Vayenne. It was whispered that many of the nobles had gone to fight side by side with the Duke, but this was not generally believed. Father Bertrand had denied it, and was it not well known that the first and best information always came to the house in the Rue St. Romain? Then came rumors of battles, of victory, and defeat. The Duke had driven the enemy back, said one report; he had been defeated with great loss, and was in full retreat, said another. Jean wondered where the truth lay, and noted that Vayenne was preparing for the worst. The gates were shut, few were permitted to pass in and out of the city, military discipline was everywhere. De Bornais was ready to resist a siege. Then for a while no news came. It was a time of anxious waiting in the city, and many there were who started at any unusual commotion in the streets or inthe castle, their real hopes and fears known only to their own hearts. Suddenly came news of fierce conflict in the vicinity of Larne. The Duke had suddenly attacked a stronghold there, on the other side of the frontier; and that the men of Montvilliers had shown splendid courage, had proved themselves worthy of their forefathers, seemed certain, but the issue was not known. Some said the Duke had fallen as he led the attack, and something of regret was in the hearts of those most ready to plot against him. At any rate he was a man.
"Is it true that the Duke is dead?" asked Lucille, coming hastily into Christine's room.
"Who says so?" Christine asked, rising suddenly from her chair, the color going from her cheeks.
"They are saying so in the court-yard, mademoiselle."
"Go, Lucille, quickly, find de Bornais, and send him to me."
De Bornais came presently.
"Is it true?" she asked.
"I know nothing certainly," was the answer, "beyond the fact that there has been heavy fighting. There is no doubt of that, and Roger Herrick is not the man to stay in a place of safety."
"No. He would be in the front of it all. I am sure of that."
"Mademoiselle, may I urge that you should no longer delay the scheme we have decided upon? The people are always fickle; it is well to please them while they are in the humor."
"A few hours can make no difference, de Bornais; I will decide everything in a few hours."
"Time is of value, mademoiselle. If Roger Herrick is not dead, if he has been successful, in the flush ofvictory the people will be shouting his name in Vayenne. Our opportunity will have gone. Why delay any longer, mademoiselle?"
"Would not any victim delay the sacrifice if it could?" she asked. "See me again in a few hours, to-night; I will decide then."
And, left alone again, Christine was in spirit with the leader of those fighting men on the frontier, even as Jean was, sitting alone on the battlements. Christine had no thought for the dwarf, but she came into all his visions. He did not go to her; he would not go unless she sent for him. He feared that he might be tempted to break his word to friend Roger, that he might speak of things which he had been told to keep secret.
Buried in his own thoughts, concerned for the safety of Roger Herrick and the happiness of Christine de Liancourt, he had little spirit to jest, and took small notice of what was going on about him. The city had been left to the care of de Bornais, and it was quite evident that he was watchful. Vayenne was prepared, and there had been no rioting. In the castle there was no slackness. If the Duke were driven back upon his capital, all was ready to stand a siege. Montvilliers could not be considered conquered while Vayenne held out, nor was Roger Herrick beaten while he held Vayenne. Jean found consolation in the thought, for he had prepared himself for the worst. He sat for hours upon the battlements watching for the first stragglers of the retreat.
Late one afternoon he came down from the tower, and was crossing the court-yard when he caught sight of a man hastening toward the postern by the great gate. Jean rubbed his eyes, thinking they must be playing him a trick. The man was Count Felix, andthe Count was not allowed within the castle! How had he got in, and why had he come? The dwarf had taken a few hasty steps with the intention of going to inform de Bornais at once, when he stopped, and turned suddenly into the nearest doorway. Danger set his wits working, and it was well to hide until he had decided what to believe and how to act. Was it possible that de Bornais was a traitor? This was the sudden thought which had stopped the dwarf. Count Felix had just left the castle; he had made no pretence of concealing his presence there; others must have seen him, yet none had attempted to stop him. If de Bornais were a traitor, then Vayenne was not prepared as a stronghold for the Duke, but was closed against him.
"What can I do?" Jean whispered. "They know I am faithful; that will be enough to hang me if de Bornais is false. There is too much for me to do to run the risk of being hanged at present. I must get to Mademoiselle. If she proclaims herself for the Duke, the curs will get afraid and fawn upon her. I must see her now, before they stop me."
Few knew the castle as Jean did, and by many a passage in which he would be least likely to meet anyone, he made his way in the direction of Christine's rooms. The last part of his journey must be along one of the main corridors, and he waited until the way was clear, and then went forward hurriedly.
A soldier came from a recess, and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Where do you go, Master Fool, in such haste?"
Jean's hand was upon the knife underneath his gay tunic, and for an instant he debated whether it would not be wise to use it.
"I came along a passage in which there were dark shadows," he answered, "and sometimes I'm afraid of shadows."
"Well, I'm no shadow," laughed the soldier; "and why go along such passages? You are being looked for. Mademoiselle has sent for you."
"Ah, then I am happy again," said Jean. "I am all eagerness. Announce me. There are not many Mademoiselle sends for. I warrant she does not send for you, for instance."
"Think of your wonderful attractions, Jean," laughed the soldier.
"True; it's unique men like myself that the women favor. But you're a good fellow, and I am sorry for you," said the dwarf as he strutted by the side of the soldier.
Christine was seated by the window, and Jean hurried across the room, and bent his knee to her.
"You sent for me, mademoiselle."
"Did I? Oh, yes, I remember; it was because I was dull and would be amused. And there was something else; I will speak of it presently."
"I am in no humor to jest," said the dwarf.
"Why not?"
"Mademoiselle, listen. I fear the castle is in the hands of traitors."
"Since when have you feared this?"
"Not an hour since I saw Count Felix in the court-yard."
"Well, Jean?"
"He is not allowed in the castle. It was the Duke's strict command."
"Foolish Jean, to be carried away by a man's boldness. At present there is no Duke of Montvilliers."
"Ah, mademoiselle, listen to me," pleaded the dwarf. "I was coming to you when the soldier found me in the corridor; I was coming secretly lest they should stop me, because they know I am faithful. I am not as other men, therefore you—everyone—treats me differently. I am told secrets which I keep, and I am of such small account that no one minds me if I do overhear their words. I do not forget the night I came to you in the Place Beauvoisin, nor the message you gave me to deliver."
"He has played with us all, Jean."
"No one has been so constantly near him as I have," the dwarf went on earnestly. "You have not understood him, I cannot tell you all, but you have misjudged him. You have never been out of his thoughts since the day he came to you in Passey, came to fight for you and serve you. He is beset with difficulties, but all his actions have been honest ones, and behind them all has been the thought of you."
"Did he bid you tell me so? Surely you have learned your lesson well."
"I should have run to do his bidding, but I had no command to speak to you. I have kept away, mademoiselle, lest I should say too much. All the people love you, I love you, crooked-limbed and mean as I am. Do you think I would lie to you when I speak of the Duke?"
"Call him Roger Herrick, Jean; it offends me less."
"We may call him what we will, mademoiselle, but yonder on the frontier he has shown himself a man and a leader of men. He has fought for Montvilliers, the land you love, in the forefront of the battle. There have been rumors of victory and of defeat, all vagueand uncertain, but there is no uncertainty about Roger Herrick. He is a brave man, even his enemies say so, and half regret that they are his enemies."
Christine had turned from him; memory held pictures for her. They passed slowly before her, and her eyes, looking through the window, were not conscious of the castle battlements sharply defined against the growing twilight of the sky.
"If de Bornais is a traitor, and since Count Felix was here, how can he be anything else? Vayenne will be shut against Roger Herrick. There is one way to make the curs afraid. Let it be known in the city that you are for Roger Herrick. If he is being driven back to the city you can save him and the country by such a proclamation. Do it now, now before it is too late, and I swear to you, mademoiselle, that in believing evil of the Duke you do him wrong."
Christine turned upon him suddenly. "Can you bear other secrets, Jean?"
"Command me, mademoiselle. I will not fail you," said the dwarf eagerly.
"I love Roger Herrick," said Christine, "but I hate the Duke. Love and hate are in the scales; I have weighed them, and am persuaded that my duty compels me to hatred rather than to love. There is no Duke of Montvilliers, and the country calls to me. I have answered that call. Count Felix came because I sent for him. I am to marry the Count at once."
"You! Then you are——"
"Yes, Jean, a traitor to the man you call Duke."
The dwarf shrank back with a little cry.
"I quarrel not with your faith," Christine went on. "You are honest, and I, a Princess in Montvilliers, aPrincess of that house which this Roger Herrick would depose, am honest too. Your faithfulness is a danger to us, so great a danger that some in the castle have suggested that the greatest safety lies in your death. That is why I sent for you. You are my prisoner, Jean, and shall be tenderly treated. When I am mistress of Montvilliers you shall have your freedom, and I will ask you for your loyalty."
"Ah, mademoiselle, that I, the poor fool, should have to call you traitor," said the dwarf as two soldiers came at Christine's summons.
"Soon I hope to hear you welcome me as Duchess, for such in my own right I shall be," she answered.
Jean stood between the two soldiers bewildered. They laid their hands gently on his shoulders. He was a prisoner.
"Let it be known that he is to be gently treated," said Christine. "The man who does not obey me implicitly in this matter shall surely suffer for it."
"I am to be petted like a spoiled child," said Jean sharply, looking up first into one soldier's face, then into the face of the other.
"Taken care of, Jean, as a foolish man," said Christine.
"I'd rather be a child. I am tired of it all, and long to be carried." And he sank to the floor, his legs doubled under him. It was so ludicrous that Christine laughed, but the next instant her laughter stopped short. Jean's movements were like lightning. With a sudden thrusting out of his foot, he had shot himself back as the soldiers stooped to lift him up, and had darted through the open door.
The corridor was empty, and the dwarf ran swiftlyalong it, and turned into a narrow passage. The soldiers followed him shouting, but in the gathering twilight the shadows came early, and the soldiers did not know the castle as Jean did. He dared not hide, the chase must not be prolonged, or every man in the castle would be in his way. Probably only a few knew that he was to be arrested. The fact would serve him if he acted quickly. Jean could hear that others had already joined in the chase; there were more than two men following him now. He must reach the open—the terrace by the South Tower. As he ran across the court-yard men ran to intercept him, but not knowing the goal he was making for, they ran wide, and Jean turned sharply, and dashed across one of the smaller yards. As he ran toward the south terrace he saw there were four or five men there.
"Stop him!" shouted those behind.
Jean ran on. The men in front were evidently surprised at the commotion, but they spread across the terrace to catch him. Could his wit save him now? He shook his bauble as he ran forward.
"I've made such a fool of the big soldier yonder that he thinks he ought to have my clothes," Jean cried. "I'll let him catch me presently, and show you some fun. I'll not run farther than the end of the terrace. See how the big fellow puffs already! Who would spoil such sport?"
Not these men. They knew nothing of the dwarf's arrest, and a comrade made a fool of was always a good jest, so they let Jean through.
"Stop him! He's a prisoner!"
At the shout the men turned to catch him, but the momentary respite was Jean's opportunity. He dashed to the low wall of the terrace, and threw himself uponit. Two bullets chipped the stonework where he had been the instant before, but he was gone.
"Killed!" the men cried as they ran forward and jumped upon the wall to see where he had fallen. They were in time to see Jean let go of the rope and drop on to the dilapidated roof of the house below.
THE GATES ARE SHUT
When Count Felix left the castle he returned to the Place Beauvoisin. Countess Elisabeth turned quickly toward him as he entered the room. She did not put her question into words, but he saw it in her eyes.
"It is the only way, Elisabeth," he answered.
She turned away from him without a word.
"Cannot you understand, dear, that I am a broken man and have no choice? Do you think I enjoy the sullen temper of de Bornais or the patronage of this priest?"
"But you love Christine."
"She must be my wife. The country demands it. She will hate me, you say; well, may there not presently lie a way of escape in that? Her power shall be nominal before we have reigned long together. A woman who hates is no wife for a Duke of Montvilliers. Do you not see the road of escape?"
She laughed.
"The nominal power will be yours, Felix."
"How little you know me," he answered.
"I know you for the tool of de Bornais and this Father Bertrand," she returned. "The other night in the Rue St. Romain it was plain that they only used you for a purpose. They tried to use this Roger Herrick for their own ends, but he has proved too strong for them. They are forced to plot with a weaker man—with you, Felix."
"For what purpose?"
"We are not in their councils," she answered, "nor, perhaps, is Christine, but their aim is not to quietly settle the crown upon you. This Herrick is a man, one who holds what he has, and will fight for it to the bitter end. This plotting you favor can only breed more dissension. It is civil war these men are bent upon."
"Herrick has made civil war already," said Felix.
"He fights upon the frontier," she answered. "The rumors are uncertain, but had he been defeated we should have heard certainly of that. Ill news ever comes quickly. He wins, Felix; that is the truth, depend upon it, and for such a leader men easily fight and die. You will wake one morning to find Roger Herrick at the gates of Vayenne, a victorious army at his back."
"Then we must fight," said the Count.
"Fight! Where are your men? The rabble of the city? Are you fool enough to trust to such reeds as de Bornais and this priest?"
"No. I trust in myself," Felix answered.
"To-day not a hundred men would raise a cheer for you in Vayenne, that is why you are to marry Christine. She has scruples in leaving you out altogether, but she will be Duchess, with all the power held at the pleasure of these two men."
"You exaggerate their abilities."
"Felix, answer me one question. How came it that the enemy were gathered on the frontier, ready, waiting? It was not the crowning of Roger Herrick which brought them. Perhaps de Bornais and Father Bertrand could tell us."
"You are fanciful, too, Elisabeth. Tell me, how would you have me act?"
"First fling this plot in the teeth of the makers of it, and then ride out, and offer your sword to the Duke."
"How absurdly the dearest of women can talk," said the count; "and afterward beg his Grace's sanction to marry the Countess Elisabeth, I suppose. Are you really serious? Would you have me bend the knee to this adventurer?"
"Better that than be the tool of de Bornais. As for marriage with me, all thought of that is over. I told you the other night that your participation in this plot separates us entirely, and for ever. The plot may fail, indeed I believe it will, but whatever happens I step out of your life."
"Elisabeth!"
"The choice has been yours. To-day you have seen Christine, you have passed your word. I have already written to Christine for permission to leave the city. See, here is the letter."
"No order is valid without the signature of both of us."
"Poor Felix, how dense you are! You are a tool. You will have to do as you are bid. The tool has no choice how it will work or what work it will do."
The Countess had taken up a definite position. Whatever the Count's faults were, he had succeeded in winning the love of this woman, a love that was ready to sacrifice itself in his interests. Elisabeth had never really considered the possibility of becoming Duchess of Montvilliers, and since it had seemed certain that Felix must be Duke, there had from the outset been a hopelessness in her love. With the coming of Roger Herrick, however, the whole aspect of affairs had changed. There may have been some unreasonableness in her love then, for she hoped that Felix wouldaccept the inevitable. Hope, in fact, had burst into flower. But not only did the Count refuse to accept defeat, he was indefinite besides. He strove to serve two ends which were totally opposed to each other. He must fight for his rights, he was obliged to marry Christine, yet he tried to believe that the future held happiness for him in the love of Elisabeth. His whole scheme was an impossibility, and the Countess knew it. With this new plot his last chance of definite decision had come; he had made his choice, and Elisabeth had accepted the inevitable.
They were still together, although silence had fallen between them, when Father Bertrand was announced. There was eagerness in his face, and his manner had nothing of its usual calm and strength.
"You were with Mademoiselle this afternoon, Count, but I understand that nothing absolutely definite was fixed between you."
"She has not said definitely when the marriage shall take place, if that is what you mean."
"She has spoken definitely now," the priest answered. "It will be the day after to-morrow. Already the news is being spread through the city."
"Here is proof of my statement that a tool has no choice," said the Countess.
"Why this sudden haste?" asked Felix haughtily. Elisabeth's words and the priest's bearing angered him.
"Mademoiselle had the fool Jean arrested, but he escaped by means of a hidden rope from the terrace of the South Tower. They are searching for him, but he may not be found."
"He should have been killed, as I counselled," said Felix.
"The fact remains that he is free, and faithful to Roger Herrick."
"Ay, Father Bertrand; and since he had wit enough to prepare so unexpected a way of escape you may rest assured that he has wit enough to find means of communicating with his master," said the Countess. "Your bubble scheme is pricked already."
"Madame, I——"
"And you will be called upon to pay the price, father," she went on. "Words do not deceive me, and upon honest men there is ever a mark that cannot be mistaken. Women may fail to reason adroitly, but instinct carries them to the heart of the matter."
"Being a priest, I know little of women and their methods," he answered. "The day after to-morrow, Count. You will be ready?"
"Yes," was the answer, given firmly after a moment's pause. Elisabeth came slowly across the room.
"Until then use my house as you will, Felix, but it is better that we should meet no more. Your road and mine are not the same. I wish you well upon your journey; I hope that in strewing it with so many and great difficulties I may prove a false prophetess. For my own journey I have much to prepare. Good-bye!"
She held out her hand and there was a smile upon her lips. After a moment's hesitation Felix took her hand, held it an instant, and let it go. He did not believe this was a final parting. She spoke no word of farewell to the priest, but taking up the letter she had written to Christine, passed out of the room.
"She must be watched. She is a dangerous woman," said Father Bertrand.
"With her you have naught to do," said the Count,turning to him quickly. "I shall be ready. You have delivered your message. I have answered it. You may go."
Whatever the priest's knowledge of women may have been, he understood men. He understood Count Felix. Why should he resent his tone? He would fill the part that had been allotted to him. Father Bertrand's mind was full of graver matters than paltry quarrelling. Jean's escape had brought matters to a crisis.
Vayenne was full of excitement. Some searched high and low for the dwarf, others made rapid preparation for the wedding. The rabble filled the cafés and the taverns again, and hung about the corners of the streets.
Jean was nowhere to be found. As he slid down the dilapidated roof the men who had sprung upon the wall recovered sufficiently from their consternation to fire at him. Half a dozen bullets spattered about him, and it seemed impossible that he could escape being hit; indeed, so suddenly did he drop through a hole in the roof that they believed he was wounded, if not killed. No man, however, was ready to trust himself to that swinging rope, and one of the soldiers cut it from its fastening. At least no one should enter the castle that way.
No long time elapsed before men were searching the house which clung like a limpet to the castle wall, but there was no sign of the dwarf. If he had crept into some hole to die, even as a wounded animal will, that hole was not to be found.
But Jean was not hit, and knowing how soon the hue and cry would be at his heels, he lost no time in getting as far away from the house as possible. The fast deepening twilight favored him; he knew every alley and byway in this corner of the city, and he ranlightly, dodging into doorways and waiting now and again to escape the observation of some passers-by. Not many could know of his arrest and escape yet, but he did not want anyone to see him in this part of the city. He had always come here secretly. He had no haunt in the neighborhood where men would naturally look for him. The house by the wall, which legend peopled with ghosts, had served as a secure retreat before now. Jean reached it unobserved, and waited for more than an hour.
It had grown dark then, and the dwarf climbed down the face of the wall, and was soon sending his boat with vigorous strokes to the secret landing-place on the other side of the river.
Farmer Jacques had not seen him in his motley before, and he laughed aloud as the strange figure came in at the door.
"Hist, this is no time for laughter," said Jean. "Lend me a cloak of some kind to cover myself, and a horse, farmer. I must borrow a horse to-night."
"The horses have done work enough for to-day."
"Then one of them has got to do more than enough for once," the dwarf answered.
"Art in trouble, Jean?"
"Ay; though it's not my own—it's the Duke's."
"Which Duke's?" asked Jacques. "We hear such stories of first one and then the other that Vayenne would seem to be full of them."
"The Duke's—the one fighting yonder," answered Jean. "I must ride to him to-night."
"Well, for all you're a fool, you're a friend of mine, and have done me a service before now. You shall have a cloak and a horse, and Jean, come to think of it, the beast that carries the saddle best has had a lazyday of it. You'll find plenty of pace in him. And, Jean, I heard a report this morning that the fighting was all over yonder, and that the Duke was coming back. Is that true?"
"My heart leaps at the possibility, friend Jacques," said the dwarf; "and mark, if any come asking about me, you have seen nothing of me for many a day. If the lie is distasteful, think of the good it will do your country, and find consolation."
So, while they searched for him high and low in the city, Jean galloped away into the night toward the frontier.
And that evening Mercier returned. He had no news for the men at the gate, no answers to the questions which assailed him in the streets; he went hurriedly to the Rue St. Romain. Father Bertrand rose from his chair as he entered the room.
"Well, Mercier?"
"I have been long upon the road. I have had to make my way warily to Vayenne for fear of falling into the hands of the Duke. He has many more friends in the country than we supposed. These papers will tell you, father."
"I had hoped for one word—victory," said the priest as Mercier placed the packet on the table before him.
"It is some days since I left the frontier, and I have come on foot. Even this news is old, for events are moving rapidly. Read the papers, father."
Mercier watched him as he broke the seals and read the communications hurriedly. By the priest's face it was impossible to tell whether the news were good or bad, but Mercier evidently knew something of what was written there.
"Is it bad news, father?" he asked.
"It might be better, my son."
Mercier bent down to him, and whispered:
"Father, why not leave Vayenne for a little while?"
The priest smiled.
"You must be faint, and need rest and refreshment after your trying journey, or you would never give such foolish counsel. Does a man turn aside out of the track when the race is just won? These men are not our masters." And he struck the papers sharply with sudden passion. "The commands must come from us, not from them. This Roger Herrick is a good man, and I am sorry for him, but he stands in our path, and must be swept aside even as though he were rubbish. I shall have others papers to be delivered presently. Go, rest, Mercier, and have no fear. Within the city there is safety. Vayenne is living with closed gates."
Father Bertrand still smiled as Mercier went out, but the moment he was alone he turned to the papers again, and studied them carefully. And as he did so his face became grave, and there was an anxious look in his eyes.
THE FORD BY LARNE
The moral effect of swift and determined action has won many a victory against strong and apparently overwhelming opposition. The sudden charge of a handful of desperate men has often demoralized a whole army, the reckless courage of even a single individual has constantly plucked success out of failure.
To possess the fertile lands of Montvilliers was a hereditary desire amongst the surrounding states. History recounted many a determined struggle in the past which had this end in view, but sometimes by diplomacy, sometimes by splendid and self-sacrificing courage, the attempt had always been frustrated. In later times mere force of arms was not sufficient to ensure success, the rivalry of the nations had to be taken into consideration; and so long as a strong man ruled in Montvilliers the conquest, or the partition, of the state was a difficult matter. This fact was so well understood that during the late Duke's lifetime there had been peace. If for a time his doubtful right to the throne had raised hopes that internal dissension would mean an appeal to the foreigner for help from one party or the other, the Duke had swiftly proved himself a man able to win the confidence of his people and to keep the throne which he had taken. The utter hopelessness of a successful invasion while such a man held the reins of government was apparent to all statesmen. Even such men as Father Bertrand, whose work was done in secret, could do no more thanmake preparation for the future, and foster that feeling of dissension which was certain to break out at the Duke's death. Pursuing the game which had been mapped out for him, Father Bertrand had played his cards cunningly. He had ingratiated himself with the old Duke, had openly espoused Felix's cause while in secret he had urged the right of Maurice, and had, at the same time, lent countenance to those who would make Christine de Liancourt Duchess. With the Duke's death, and with all these different interests dividing the state, the time to strike had surely come. Secretly the enemy was gradually gathered on the frontier, and their leaders were in constant communication with the Rue St. Romain. Many of these differences, however, seemed likely to adjust themselves at the critical moment, and then, to strengthen his hands, the priest had suddenly given his support to Roger Herrick, a stranger and a foreigner. Almost as soon as he had played this final card he recognized that he had made a mistake. True, there was plenty of opposition to the new Duke, but he was a strong man, equal to grappling with the difficulty, and moreover one who could keep his own counsel.
Rumor had it that some of the nobles who had refused to recognize him and had withdrawn from Vayenne had, nevertheless, joined the Duke's standard on the way to the frontier; but it was only rumor, and Father Bertrand laughed at it. The papers which Mercier had brought came as an unexpected blow. They confirmed the rumor, and told him much more besides. All the plans and schemes so carefully prepared during the last few years were in danger of ruin at the eleventh hour.
The enemy on the frontier, awaiting the final wordfrom the Rue St. Romain, had come to consider the task before them an easy one. A few desperate men might dispute the invasion, but the support of the country would not be behind them. They would be a mere handful, seduced by the glamor of the adventurer who led them, while the great mass of the people was only too anxious for foreign intervention. Such was the story told by Father Bertrand, and fully believed; and a small body of the invaders had already crossed the frontier when the Duke and his army arrived. Compared with the resources of the enemy, Herrick's followers might be considered a handful of men, but the force was far larger than had been anticipated, and the skirmish which quickly occurred proved that this adventurer was a leader of no mean skill. The enemy was repulsed with serious loss, and the first shouts of victory rang from the ranks of the men of Montvilliers.
A narrow stream, swift and deep, formed the frontier line here, and for a few days Herrick maintained his position, and prepared to attack in force. This aggressive policy was totally unexpected, and the enemy, who were weak at this particular spot, sent hastily for reinforcements. Certain of the nobles urged an engagement before these reinforcements could arrive, but Herrick did not move, and although his reasons for delay were not understood, there was no murmuring, for he had already succeeded in inspiring confidence.
One evening, just as darkness fell, the leaders were summoned to his tent, and Herrick explained his plans.
"Comrades, the odds are against us," he said. "With dissension in the country behind us we cannot hope to sustain a long campaign. A sudden and quick issue will serve us better. We have succeeded by theexhibition of great activity in drawing the enemy into force before us, but we do not fight here. There is another battle-ground awaiting us. You know the castle by Larne; to-night we march thither, and the wood behind us will screen our departure. We ought to be well upon our way before the enemy discover that we have gone. Now I want a few brave hearts to remain behind to keep the watchfires burning and to multiply themselves in the shadows so that our secret may be kept until morning. Those who remain must expect a hard reckoning with the daylight."
The certainty of the swift vengeance sure to follow gave fear to none. Every man present was ready to stay, indeed pleaded for the honor.
"I expected no less from such gallant friends," said Herrick, "but at Larne there will be desperate fighting too. Our real effort must be made there."
"Sir, I claim the right to stay," said the old noble who had been so swift to answer Herrick's message bidding all patriots to the meeting-place. "My age, if not my birth, gives me precedence of all here, and my age also tells me that in the midst of a fierce fight my blows may not be so effective as those of younger men. I pray therefore that you will grant me this place of trust. Give me a few stout fellows, and I warrant we will make fires enough, and shadows enough, for a whole army."
"The trust is yours, and I thank you," Herrick answered. "At dawn, as soon as the enemy understand the strategem, to horse at once, and follow us. You shall see our flag floating over Larne, or you shall be in time to help us place it there."
Within an hour men were withdrawing silently through the wood and hurrying toward Larne. Therewas no moon to betray them, and one of the charcoal-burners, who had joined the army, knew how to avoid the windings of the stream and shorten the journey. But the camp fires blazed all night, and the men who tended them moved rapidly from place to place so that no watchful sentry might have any suspicion of what had happened.
Herrick had hoped to find the garrison at Larne unprepared, but as they approached the castle soon after daylight he found that in this respect he had been too sanguine. The castle stood upon the other side of the stream, and consisted of a great donjon tower and one massive wing in good preservation; the remainder was falling into ruins, or lay in heaps of débris. For a mile or more to left and right the river broadened out, but close by the tower there was a ford, impassable in the winter-time, but comparatively easy to cross at this season of the year. This ford was well defended. Across it the enemy had intended to enter Montvilliers presently, and until the call for reinforcements had come, it was fully expected that whatever opposition was made would be made here. Although Herrick's strategem had had the effect of weakening the defence, it was soon evident that if victory were to come it would have to be dearly bought.
"The castle must be ours," said Herrick as he gave his commands; "the salvation of Montvilliers depends upon it."
"It shall be!" was the shout as Gaspard Lemasle led his men to the attack.
That fight for the ford by Larne will live long in history. With the first dash into the swiftly running stream the tower belched forth fire, and the clear waters were quickly stained with blood. Corpses wereswirled away savagely as though the waters themselves took part in the struggle, or slithered along by the banks with the other rubbish which the stream brought down. Some there were who, sorely wounded, managed to reach the bank, and others with a cry slowly sank, and were drowned. Lemasle and his men were presently sent reeling back, and the enemy attacking fiercely were driven back in their turn. Rush after rush was made, now from one side, now from the other, and each time a deadly struggle ensued for a few minutes in the midst of the waters, friend and foe so intermingled that the fire from the tower was forced to cease, and the struggle became a hand-to-hand one. Blades flashed above the seething mass as though lightning played there, and the air was full of panting endeavor, of rough, loud oaths, and shrieks and groans of pain. Ever the stream ran more deeply red and carried down its human rubbish. For two hours or more the equal fight went on, and to neither side was there any advantage. Herrick had ridden this way and that to find another crossing out of the range of the fire from the tower, but in vain; the stream was too deep and wide to cross except at the ford. Time became of increasing value. Long before this the enemy farther up the stream must have discovered the deception which had been practised upon them; in a little while they would be hastening back, and then all hope of success must vanish. The ford must be won, and that quickly.
"Charge once more, Lemasle, hold them for a few moments, and when I shout break to either side, and let us through. We must win now, or we shall be too late."
Again the waters were churned and blood-stained by a fiercely fighting crowd, and then, at a shout, theattacking party broke suddenly, many of the men plunging into the deep waters on either side and swimming back to the bank. At the head of a strong and chosen band Herrick dashed into the gap. The sudden and unexpected relaxation of the pressure had thrown the enemy forward in some confusion, and they were unprepared to stand against the swift and compact mass hurled against them. With irresistible force they were swept back across the ford, and Herrick and his followers stormed the opposite bank.
"It is now or never!" he cried, and the foremost ranks were carried forward by those who rushed across the stream behind them. Nothing was able to stop this supreme effort, and the stormers swept up the bank as a great wave rushes up a low beach of shingle.
Whether they lacked leaders, or whether the heart was out of them, the enemy quickly became a struggling crowd rather than a compact fighting force, and Herrick was prompt to seize the advantage gained. With sharp commands, rapidly repeated on all sides, he kept his men together, and almost before the enemy were fully conscious that they had lost the ford, they were being attacked and driven from the gates which gave entrance to the tower. It was soon evident that every available man had been used for the stream's defence, and, the ford lost, the winning of the castle was an easy matter. No determined voice or action arrested the sudden panic. Men threw down their arms, the guns were silent, and in a very little while Herrick was issuing quick commands for the castle's occupation.
"Turn the guns to face the enemy, who must soon be upon us," he said. "See to it, Briant. Post sentries, and then rest, comrades, while you may. Before nightfall we shall be in the thick of it again."
For Herrick there was no rest yet. He was busy looking to every point of defence and giving brief words of praise to every man. The victory was even more complete than he had hoped for, because the castle had been used as a base of operations, and a large quantity of stores had consequently fallen into his hand.
The cheers which greeted him as he passed from point to point were pleasant to his ears, as they always must be to the man who has set heavy odds at naught and triumphed. Only a little while since many of those who now shouted the loudest had left the great hall at Vayenne in silence—his enemies. It would have been strange, beyond all human nature, if for a time some sense of self-satisfaction had not dominated his thoughts. For a little he enjoyed the shouting, and then turned to Lemasle.
"That is a good sound, but the struggle is not yet over."
"Perhaps not, but we have the tower, sir." And the captain's face, grimy and blood-stained, broke into a wide smile of complacency.
"True, and that counts for much," Herrick answered, and as he hurried away all thought of self was forgotten. He went to one of the guard-rooms, where some of the prisoners had been gathered, and after looking at them he selected one man, and commanded him to follow him. Once in the passage outside he put his hand firmly on the man's shoulder.
"In which part of the castle is the prisoner confined?" he asked.
"The prisoner! What prisoner?" said the man, turning toward him to find himself looking into the barrel of a revolver.
"I could find him, but I have no time to waste insearching," Herrick returned, "therefore, my friend, choose quickly. If you prefer death, one of your companions yonder is likely to prefer life under the same persuasion."
The man hesitated for a moment, and then went forward, turning presently to mount a spiral stone stairway set in the tower. Before a small door on an upper landing he stopped.
"He is in there."
"Good. Now you shall show me where I can find the key of this prison."
"Indeed, sir, I was not his jailer."
"Still you may find the key. There is little secrecy about the jailer's office. You must go quickly, for this is not the sort of day on which a man has much patience to spare."
The key was found in the jailer's empty room, and when Herrick had taken the man back to the guard-room he mounted the spiral staircase alone. He paused for an instant before putting the key into the lock, and it was evident that his thoughts had suddenly wandered.
"At least one task I have set myself is accomplished," he murmured as he opened the heavy door.
There presently galloped across the ford the old noble and those who had remained to cover the secret night march of the army. They had not escaped unscathed, for in the early morning they had been fired at, and half a dozen men had fallen by the watchfires they had tended. No opposition met the little band at the water's edge, for the flag was already flying from the tower at Larne. Their coming, however, heralded the speedy return of the main body of the enemy, and before nightfall the guns were speaking again.
The struggle was not at an end. With the greaterpart of their stores lost, the foe were in a precarious position, and desperate attempts were made to recapture the castle. Time had become of consequence to them. Herrick recognized that the castle was not strong enough to stand a siege, and his first care was to prevent the besiegers taking up any strong position. Sorties were constantly made, and there were skirmishes which were almost of sufficient importance to be called battles. In these, ever fighting by his side, was the prisoner Herrick had released from the tower. When he was not fighting he kept himself in the background, and few knew, or cared, who he was. Each man's time was too fully occupied to indulge in idle speculation.
In these skirmishes Fortune's favors were distributed fairly equally. Often, Herrick did not accomplish all he meant to do, but he had one real advantage: the chief success of the struggle was his, and his enemies were disheartened. Dissensions, too, had grown up in their ranks, and many declared that they had been deceived by the information sent them from Vayenne. Instead of the easy task they had been led to expect, they had been vigorously attacked, and all the fighting had taken place on their side of the frontier. They began to talk of peace, and the first flag of truce had been raised before Mercier had left for Vayenne. The papers he brought to Father Bertrand declared that peace was imminent, and indeed terms had been agreed upon by the time the papers came into the priest's hands, and Herrick was leading the larger portion of his victorious army back to Vayenne.
The camp had been pitched for the night at the juncture of the Passey road with the high road from Lame. No messengers had been sent forward to thecity. Herrick intended to return without warning, and if treachery were within the gates he could easily crush it now. Some of the nobles had left him, returning to their own estates, but it was with a promise to come to Vayenne within a week. They understood the Duke much better than they had done, and Herrick's popularity was established beyond all question.
With early morning came another parting. A small body of men separated from the rest and went slowly along the Passey road. The man who had been released from the tower at Larne lingered beside Herrick for a few moments, talking earnestly, then he saluted, and rode after his companions.
"Forward, comrades!" Herrick said when he had gone. "They must be eagerly awaiting our news in Vayenne."
Some hours later a solitary and queer-looking horseman met them. The animal had been ridden hard, the man was bare-headed and unkempt, and green and scarlet showed from under his disordered and dusty cloak. There was a strange, low jingling of bells as he came.
"Where is the Duke?" he cried as he met the foremost ranks.
"Jean! What is it? What is the news?"
"Ay, Jean it is. Where is the Duke?"
"Yonder. What has happened?"
But the dwarf stayed to answer no questions. He pressed forward to Herrick.
"Jean! What is it?"
"Treachery and rebellion in the city. The gates are closed against you, and Mademoiselle is to be Duchess, and marries Count Felix."
"When?"
The sharp question had a note of agony in it.
"At once; but we may yet be in time. No one knows of the landing-place you and I used that night. I can tell you everything as we go."
"Lemasle! Lemasle!" cried Herrick, and he hastened to meet the captain as he came hurriedly at the call. For a few moments he poured a torrent of eager orders into his ears. "I will ride forward with a score of men, Lemasle. I know a way into the city that they do not dream of. You shall find the gates open to-morrow, or there will be need for another Duke of Montvilliers. Give Jean another horse. That poor brute is done, and will never do the journey in time. A score of men, Lemasle! Quickly! There are vipers in Vayenne, comrades, that must be crushed. We go to crush them. Come, Jean! Forward! Gallop! The next few hours hold more than life for me."
"Long live the Duke!" they cried as they galloped forward, and the same shout rang out lustily from the ranks of those they left behind them.
That night Jean's boat crossed the river several times, and Herrick and his men scaled the wall by the haunted house, and entered Vayenne.
THE CRYPT OF ST. ETIENNE
During many generations of men the spire of St. Etienne, like a silent witness day and night, had pointed upward to the great beyond, to the immeasurable depths of stars, away from this world of struggle, passion, and human desire. Men had fought, schemed, died, and been forgotten since the rising sun first turned its fane to golden fire; yet still it silently showed the small worth of earthly matters and the limitless possibilities of the future. Jean had understood the message ever since the first night he had crept into the great church to sleep.
And through the fleeting hours day and night the carillon had rung out its happy, irresponsible music, now a laughing cadence which echoed in the night air, now a low whisper like the inspiration of a child's prayer. There was a wail of sadness in its music sometimes, but ever was it suddenly turned into a little burst of gladness. There might be pain in the city, care, and toil, and breaking hearts; but only for a time, laughed the music night and day, and Time is a little thing, and passes as a dream. The sound had floated into many a sick-room, an angel's whisper to many a wearied soul. Jean had understood the message of the carillon ever since he had walked in this beautiful House of God.
The last evening prayer had been said long since, the great west doors were shut, the great church wassilent and empty. Darkness was in its vaulted roof, darkness about its forest of pillars, darkness along its aisles. There was no moon to-night to send a delicate finger of light through the painted windows, or to touch with mystery the great rose jewel high in the transept; only one dim mystic flame floated before an altar, as though a spirit hovered there keeping watch through the silent hours. Yet Jean might have seen visions to-night, thin shapes near the tombs of the Dukes of Montvilliers and by the stone effigies, might have heard voices out of the silence.
Listen! Nothing. Only a chair which slips being insecurely set against another, or perhaps a bird fluttering in the roof. All is silent, silent as the grave. Listen! That is not a chair, birds' fluttering wings give no such sound as that. That is the stealthy lifting of a heavy latch, a sharp and certain sound, for the silence after it seems so dead; and surely that is the rough grating of a slowly opened door somewhere in the north aisle, a small door, and one not often used, for the hinges are rusty. Then comes a long pause, one of fear it may be at finding the great church in darkness, or is it one of caution, of keen listening to make certain that no one is about?
"Empty!" The word is spoken in a whisper, but it sounds clearly in the silence. The rusty hinges grate again, and then there are footfalls on the stone flags, steps that endeavor to tread softly and only partially succeed.
"Quite empty!" comes the whisper again. "No need for a light. Touch me, so; keep close. I will lead the way."
The door closes again, and the heavy latch stealthily falls into its place. One, two, three, four—how manyfootsteps are there, clearly heard although they go on tiptoe? Then a sharp ringing sound that seems to strike upward through the darkness to the very roof. The end of a scabbard unwittingly let fall upon the stone floor! Silence for a moment, then again the careful opening of a door, but no rusty hinges this time.
"Twenty-four steps!" says a low voice, "and we may find a lantern below."
"They will be slow hours to morning," comes the answer.
"But we are in time. Here, close to the right, are the west doors. They will enter that way."
Then steps descending—one, two, three, four, and they grow confused; it is impossible to count them. Another pause, then again the closing of a door, so quietly that the sound might pass for fancy. Then comes the faint music of the carillon laughing in the night. Time passes, and the schemes of men succeed or come to naught, and new life stirs upon the earth, and Death touches all in turn. Time passeth into eternity, laughs the music.
The voice of the carillon floated at intervals into Christine's chamber, but for her there was little laughter in it. It brought sadness, and regret, and uncertainty to her sleepless hours. She had made her decision, and one side of her nature applauded her; but there was another side which shrank away from it, and whispered warnings. How many in the world before her had mistaken the false for the true, had found disaster where they had hoped to lay hold upon salvation? Christine knew Felix, but did she really understand Roger Herrick? Herrick passed in and out of her waking dreams, tormenting her. Shedreaded the coming day and what she was to do in it. Love at this eleventh hour took forcible possession of her. Was there anything in life worth setting in opposition to it? No, a thousand times no, came the answer, and then again a strong purpose urged: "Yes; your country." They are not the only martyrs who die for their convictions; some there are who live, having bartered all they hold most dear. So for Christine the hours crept all too quickly toward the new day. Out of the darkness the towers and battlements of the castle began to take gray shape in the early glimmer of the dawn. Even in the crypt of St. Etienne black nothingness began to take ghostly form, ay, and vibrate with movement too.
All night the waters of the river had lapped about the piers of the old stone bridge, and no light showed from the closed gateway of the city. Men slept secure within while the sentry paced above, and never a sound across the river alarmed him. Stars for a while were quiveringly reflected in the running water, but the sentry could distinguish no moving shadows on the opposite bank; and when the dawn came there was no sign of threatening danger. The city was shut up, few went in or out; the sentry did not expect to see any one come slowly over the bridge in these early hours; and beyond, the woods were empty and silent, growing slowly out of the night, just as he had seen them do many a time before. So he paced his round, waiting for the relief, and men began to stir in the guard-room below.
In a narrow street not far from the city gate was a low little tavern of somewhat evil repute. It dozed in the morning hours, stale and half conscious as a man who has drunk heavily overnight. A sleepy youthmight unbar its doors early enough, but they might as well have remained shut, for scarce a man passed in before noon, and few until night had fallen. It was after dark that it awoke to life and was filled with drinkers loud in quarrel and coarse oaths. Its frequenters had stumbled and cursed their way homeward last night, and the landlord, no better than his guests, had fallen quickly into his drunken sleep. The narrow street had become quiet, and had remained so for some hours. But a little before dawn there were creeping shadows in it, which stole into door-ways and alleys, and waited. About the time that relief came to the sentry over the gate the bars of the tavern door were unfastened, and immediately the sleepy youth was surrounded by men threatening his life if he uttered a sound. His worthless existence was valuable to him, and he remained silent. So was it with the landlord, who was too muddled rightly to understand what had happened to him.
"See that no one enters," said the leader. "This retreat will hide us for an hour or two until it is time to strike. There is a wedding to-day, at what hour does it take place?" he asked, turning to the youth.
"Early; before noon," was the answer.
The man nodded, and was satisfied, and gave instructions to one of his companions that when they left the tavern presently, he was to remain and shoot any one in the house who attempted to escape or utter a sound which might betray them.
Vayenne woke from its sleep early to-day. There would be crowds in the streets by the castle and St. Etienne, and those who came late would see little. Quite early little groups began to take their way to the upper part of the city. Few besides the sick and theinfirm remained in the neighborhood of the gate, and the narrow street in which the low tavern stood was soon deserted.
There were not many soldiers in the guard-rooms at the gate. All who could be spared had gone on duty near the castle and the great church; and most of them could be spared. There was no danger outside the city, and if danger should come, was not the gate strong enough to be easily defended until help could be obtained? The Captain of the Guard had no misgivings, and his men grumbled that it had fallen to their lot to stay there where there was nothing to do.
The captain was a young man, new to his dignity, and proud of it, or rather of himself. Perhaps never had quite so worthy a man worn the uniform so fittingly, he argued. He sat in the lower chamber of one of the towers, and seemed lost in admiration of the shapely leg he stretched out, tightly clothed and well booted and spurred. Through the open door was a glimpse of the cobbled space before the gate and the street which led down to it; and outside the door a sentry paced, passing it at regular intervals. The captain looked up as he passed; the presence of the sentry pleasingly emphasized the dignity of his own position, and he wondered what further reward he should attain to when this new Duke and Duchess were firmly seated on the throne. It would be strange indeed if he could not find means to force himself upon their notice, and his own advancement was their chief utility so far as he was concerned.
"A good man, if he has wisdom in him, must always rise like a cork to the top of the water," he mused.
Then he started hastily to his feet. There was the dull thud of a heavy blow, the beginning of a groanwhich was immediately smothered, and as the captain rushed to the door men met him on the threshold, and forced him back.
"A sound means death!" one man said hoarsely, "If you are wise you will keep what bravery you have for a better cause."
"Pierre Briant!" exclaimed the prisoner.
"The same—a captain in the forces of Duke Roger. The gate is ours, the city will be ours presently. Up, men, see that none escape or give the alarm, but treat them kindly if they will let you."
The self-satisfied young officer sank back into his chair with a groan.
"Hearten up, man," said Briant. "You have failed in a bad cause, you may live to succeed in a good one. You're over-young to be a captain."
The man was quiet for a moment, and then he sprang from his chair.
"Don't be a fool!" said Pierre Briant, and the young captain shrank back from the gleaming revolver barrel.
The capture was accomplished in silence and without bloodshed; even the sentry over the gate had been seized and gagged before he had time to utter a cry. He had heard men ascending the winding stairs, but had only thought of the relief coming earlier than he had expected.
The soldiers of the guard were gathered together in one room with their captain, and Briant explained the situation, after disarming them.