"My men have orders to fire upon the first who cries out or tries to escape," he said. "They are all men fresh from fighting on the frontier, where they have learned to obey orders without question."
So Pierre Briant carried out the instructions whichHerrick had given him a few hours since in the house by the wall. The gate had been secured silently, and a messenger was sent across the bridge to the woods, where Lemasle lay with a strong force.
"Tell him the gate is ours and the wedding is before noon," said Briant.
Lemasle and many of his men had entered the city, and crowded into the guard-rooms at the gate, or stood close in side streets so as not to attract the attention of any one who might be loitering in the neighborhood, when a carriage came down the street and toward the gate. It was stopped by the sentries placed there by Lemasle.
The Countess Elisabeth, who was the only occupant, produced an order permitting her to leave Vayenne. It was signed by Christine de Liancourt and Count Felix.
"Madame, you cannot pass."
"But there is the order."
Lemasle came forward, and looked at the paper.
"Only the Duke's signature is of any value, madame."
"But Count Felix has——"
"I speak of Duke Roger, madame," said Lemasle, "and he has given orders that none shall pass out of the gates to-day."
"But Duke Roger——"
"Is in Vayenne," said the captain.
A sharp exclamation burst from her lips, and then the Countess was thoughtful for a moment. As she leaned forward to give a direction to the coachman, Lemasle interrupted her.
"Pardon, madame, but I must detain you. It is not yet generally known that the Duke has entered the city, and secrecy is still necessary. You shall be madeas comfortable as possible in one of the guard-rooms here until we know the Duke's will."
The carriage was drawn into a side street, the coachman and footman were warned and added to the prisoners in the lower guard-room, while the Countess was shut in a little room in the tower of the gateway. She was powerless to help Felix any more.
Long before noon the streets about the castle and St. Etienne were crowded. Even with the soldiers at the castle there were not very many in the city, and in some places the crowd grew disorderly. Ugly little rushes were made for more commanding positions, or out of pure wantonness; little control could be exercised, and the Count's carriage had threaded its way to the great west doors of St. Etienne with difficulty. A few cheers had greeted him as he passed, but the crowd seemed chiefly enthusiastic about its own pleasure.
The great church was full. Lights burned upon and before the high altar. Music, now tremulous, now deeply thundering, rolled along the aisles. Priests and choir waited in the chancel, and alone, a striking figure, stood Father Bertrand.
In the porch by the great doors stood Felix, waiting for the new Duchess, his bride. Ceremonial demanded that he should meet her there, that together they should pass to the altar. Near him stood de Bornais, and one or two others of importance in Vayenne. It was plain that both the Count and de Bornais were ill at ease. Christine was long in coming, and they fretted at the delay.
Behind them was a small, fast-shut door. Perhaps neither of them knew that it opened upon the steps leading down to the crypt.
Lucille sat opposite to Christine in the carriage,which slowly made its way through the crowd. The shouting now was loud enough, for the people of Vayenne, high and low, had always loved Christine de Liancourt. Very beautiful she looked, but very pale, and never a smile played about her lips as she bowed to this side and to that. It was no happy bride who slowly passed on to St. Etienne.
"She is coming," whispered Felix.
Father Bertrand moved slowly toward the altar, the music crashed out, and the cheers from without rose louder and louder, sounding even to the crypt below.
The carriage with its guard, chiefly de Bornais' men, halted, and as Christine descended Felix went forward to meet her, followed by those who had stood beside him. For a moment the porch was empty, and then the crypt door burst open. A strange figure in scarlet and green rushed out, a dozen men following close behind him.
"Long live the Duke!" he cried.
Felix turned sharply, and Christine looked up to meet the steady eyes of Roger Herrick. There was the sharp ring of steel. The men behind him stood with drawn swords in their hands.
"So we return to find treason," said Herrick. "Mademoiselle, you are my prisoner, and will return to the castle. Arrest Count Felix and de Bornais." And then raising his voice he cried: "Let him who dares dispute the will of the Duke!"
THE VENGEANCE OF THE MOB
By the carriage there was silence for a moment, but the more distant part of the crowd was still shouting, and the music had not ceased to roll along the aisles of the great church.
A laugh broke the silence.
"A dozen men!" exclaimed Felix, "and we stand like fools. Quick, de Bornais, shout a command! The delay need be only for a moment."
But no word came from de Bornais, and without it his men did not move.
"Are you afraid?" Felix cried. "Ho! men of Vayenne, to the rescue of your Duchess!"
He tried to spring forward to lead the attack, but two of Herrick's companions seized him, and held him fast.
But his words had their effect. Unarmed as it was, the crowd surged toward the carriage, sullen determination in its face, angry threatening in its throat.
"Curse you, de Bornais! Shout!" raged the Count, struggling to free himself.
Had de Bornais obeyed the command, it had gone hard with the little band of men that surrounded Herrick. As it was, the sword points barely kept the crowd in check. But no word came from de Bornais, yet it was difficult to believe that fear was behind that set face, that there was no daring in the man whose limbs showed no sign of trembling. As repentance maycome late to a man, so it seemed to come to de Bornais. Every thought that had driven him forward in this scheme, every word Father Bertrand had drummed into his ears, all were forgotten in his admiration of the man before him. Treachery against him was of no avail. Right and Justice seemed to keep watch and ward beside him. Better to stop here and now upon the path that conscience told him he ought never to have walked in.
Christine had not moved, the folds of her train still hung over the carriage step just as the page in his sudden bewilderment had dropped them. She had not taken her eyes from Herrick's face. She had spoken no word when he had said she was his prisoner. She was almost conscious of waiting for his next order, and knew that she would obey it. This hateful marriage was not to be. The power to choose had been suddenly wrested from her, and her heart beat out its gladness. She had forgotten the surging crowd behind her, but Felix's cry to de Bornais had a meaning for her. She waited for de Bornais' quick command, knowing that, if it came, some impulse which she would not be able to control would force her to Herrick's side. It did not come. De Bornais stood still and silent, his head bowed, his arms loose-hanging by his side. There was danger; Christine saw it in the grim-set faces of the men about Herrick. They showed that they were men holding their lives in their hands, ready to lose them in the defence of their leader, to barter them freely for the lives of their enemies.
The tension was at the breaking pitch, there wanted but a man in the crowd to throw a stick or a stone, and the little band would have been overwhelmed, when from the distance came the shouts of "Long live theDuke!" The crowd heard them, wavered for a moment, and then turned, and began to struggle backward.
"Mademoiselle, let me help you to your carriage," said Herrick. "Yonder come the men who have fought with me upon the frontier. They shall make free passage for you to the castle."
Her hand rested in his for a moment as she stepped into the carriage. He set free the folds of her dress carefully, and closed the door. She did not speak to thank him, but she lowered her head, and a tear fell suddenly into her lap. Lucille saw it, and her hand went out to touch Christine's in silent sympathy; but it fell unnoticed by Herrick, who had turned suddenly to Felix.
The Count had made a last effort, and had shouted to stay the struggling retreat of the crowd.
"Would you leave your Duchess to her death? Strike, curs, strike!"
"Silence, fool!" said Herrick. "Only very hardly shall I save you from the swift vengeance of these men who come. To cry against me will be your death. Look! Are such men to be played with, think you?"
On they came, forcing their way wedge-like through the crowd, which burst aside from them to right and left, blows helping the pace of any who were slow to move.
"Lemasle, Mademoiselle returns to the castle," said Herrick. "See to it. A prisoner in her own rooms; none to have speech with her but her companion who is in the carriage."
There were a few swift orders from the captain, instantly obeyed, and then, surrounded by soldiers, Christine's carriage moved slowly away.
"Briant, the Count and de Bornais are prisoners. Find safe ward for them in the castle."
"Traitors!" And there was no mistaking the temper of the soldiers who surrounded them.
"I said safe ward," Herrick commanded. "Safe ward in the castle. Pierre Briant, I hold you responsible for their safety."
Briant saluted.
"Be silent if you value life," Herrick said to the Count. "And you, de Bornais, I trusted you."
"I have betrayed the trust, sir."
"And your men?"
"Are now without a leader, sir."
"They shall stay with me," Herrick returned, "and prove what honor is in them."
Another sharp command, and the Count and de Bornais were marched quickly away.
"Your horse," said Herrick to one of de Bornais' men, who immediately dismounted; and springing to the saddle Herrick gave orders that the crowd should be dispersed in every quarter of the city. The men were to march in different directions, but no violence was to be used unless it was absolutely necessary.
"The rabble will easily shout for us again now we have returned to Vayenne." And with part of his force, Herrick started to ride through the city.
"You have forgotten me, friend Roger," said Jean, who had slipped his knife into its hiding-place beneath his tunic and now had his bauble in his hand.
"Another horse, there! Mount, friend Jean. If they shout for the Duke, they shall also shout for him who has helped the Duke to know that life is still worth the living. Forward!" And there was a joy in Herrick's voice that would seem to argue he hadread in Christine's eyes something of what was in her heart.
The mob, leaderless and without definite purpose, scattered in all directions. Some there were who hastened to reach their homes as speedily as possible. Some, hurrying away in gangs, and finding themselves in some quiet quarter, safe from pursuit apparently, took to plundering. The sight of a half-closed shop inflamed their desire to reap some profit for themselves before they dispersed, and they were quick to follow any man who had the daring to lead the way. The cries of those who were robbed, and the incapability of the rioters to keep from quarrelling and shouting, soon attracted some of the soldiers who were parading the city to restore order. Many of the soldiers were in no humor to be lenient, and the slightest resistance met with immediate retribution. Then were ugly blows struck, wounds given which would not heal for many a day; and here and there some persistent rioter paid for his temerity with his life. It was a case in which violence was necessary, the soldiers argued, and they had merely fulfilled the Duke's commands.
A section of the mob showed a different spirit. They had shouted Herrick's name as he rode through the streets, and his lip had curved scornfully at the fickleness of the rabble. Not an hour since the shouts had been for his enemies. Fickle they were, but perhaps with more reason than appeared on the surface. Herrick's presence, and the sight of the soldiers in the streets brought to sudden remembrance what had been accomplished upon the frontier. There might be a doubt who lawfully should rule in Montvilliers, but this man had saved the country from invasion. So they shouted for him, and for the soldiers who had returned victorious.It was easy for them to imagine themselves on the side of order; they became anxious to help the soldiers, and were loud in their praises of them. To some of the soldiers such praise was not displeasing; besides, many of them had friends in the crowd, relations some of them. There were no rioters to disperse here, only a friendly and loyal crowd surrounded them. Here and there an open tavern door was suggestive, and the health of the brave heroes was drunk. So it chanced that certain of the soldiers became absorbed by the crowd, became virtually their leaders. Such men, loud in their praises of the Duke, set the crowd about them thinking of the Duke's enemies. The traitors ought to suffer. Why not since they were enemies? But Count Felix and de Bornais were safe within the walls of the castle, and where was there an enemy of whom an example might be made?
Who first mentioned the Rue St. Romain no one knew, but in a moment the name of Father Bertrand was being repeated with eager excitement. He had crowned Duke Roger, and even then he must have been a traitor in his heart. Some discovered suddenly that he had been a plague to the city for years. One man, whether speaking out of his imagination, or because some chance word had reached his ears, declared that the priest would have sold the country to her enemies had he been able to do so. At this there was a hiss of rage, and a purpose seemed to come into the heart of every man.
"Ay, Duke Roger said there were vipers in Vayenne, and we had come to crush them," a soldier cried, and his words stirred the smouldering fire into flame.
"The Rue St. Romain!" was the quick answer. "Down with the priest!"
Into the quiet street poured the crowd. Justice wastheirs, they argued, the Duke's will was their mandate, yet they went quietly, lest they might be robbed of their prey.
One knocked at the door, but there was no answer. No cassocked figure opened it. A dozen men hammered at it. Still no answer.
"Open it, or we break it down!" was the cry.
The man in the cassock rushed up the stairs calling "Mercier! Mercier!"
"What is it?"
"A crowd is at the door angrily demanding admittance. There is murder in their eyes."
For a moment Mercier stood irresolute at the top of the stairs, while hammering again sounded on the door. He knew nothing of what had happened. He had heard the distant shoutings, but had attributed them to another cause.
"In the name of the Duke, open!" came the shout from the crowd without.
"He has come back!" Mercier exclaimed, and then turning to his companion he went on: "Quick! we can leave by the back way. Few know of it. The Duke is in Vayenne. Find him. Tell him what the crowd is doing. They use his name, but I dare swear he set them to no such task as this. Come! They are breaking the door. Run quickly and inquire as you go. Hundreds will surely know where the Duke is to be found."
As Mercier slipped out of this back entrance which opened into an alley and so into a street beyond, the crowd broke open the door, and rushed into the house.
"Down with the priest!" they shouted. Some burst into this room, some into that, their passion let loose as the waters from a dam. At first they did not stay toplunder and break, they were too intent on finding the priest; but when every room had been entered and found empty, their rage found vent in spoliation. Some of them had known the room on the ground floor with its ascetic simplicity. Had they not often said that the priest lived no better, in no more comfort, than the poorest among them? The room on the first floor was a revelation to them. Was it not a further proof of the villainy of the priest?
"Curse him!" cried a man as he sent his stick through one of the pictures. In a moment they had taken the action as an example, and the room was wrecked. The whole house was wrecked from roof to cellar, windows smashed, doors torn from their hinges, the stairs broken, even part of the walls and floors and ceilings were hacked to pieces. Might there not be some hiding hole, behind the walls or under the floors, where the priest had crept?
"Where is he?" asked one. There had come a pause, for the wreckage was complete.
"The church! St. Etienne!" came the answer.
"Is he to find sanctuary there?"
The question was asked fiercely, and none answered it, but one idea seemed to impel each one of them to reach the street as soon as possible, and immediately they were struggling toward the door.
Meanwhile a man ran quickly through the city, and ever and anon he paused to ask: "Where is the Duke?" Some answered him by questions, some pointed to the way they had seen the Duke take only a little while ago, some shouted out directions after him. He found Herrick after a long search returning from the Place Beauvoisin. Herrick had heard that Countess Elisabeth was confined in the gate tower, and he had atonce had the horses put to her carriage and seen that she was safely conveyed home again.
The man in the cassock ran panting to his side, and in a few words told his story.
"They broke in as I left, sir."
Herrick stayed to hear no more. Part of the crowd were using his name as an excuse for plunder, for murder perhaps; and in another moment he was leading his men quickly in the direction of the Rue St. Romain.
There had been consternation in St. Etienne at the sudden interruption of the wedding, but the real cause was not known at first. As the whisper that the Duke had returned and had arrested both Mademoiselle de Liancourt and the Count became a certainty, the congregation left quickly.
Father Bertrand stood motionless by the altar. He stood alone there for a few moments after the last person had gone. Then he returned slowly to the sacristy, unrobed, and gave orders that all the doors of the church should be shut. It was the church he thought of, there was no thought of his personal safety. Nor was it fear that made him remain in the sacristy. The Countess Elisabeth had said that he did not bear upon him the mark of an honest man, but she had only seen part of the schemer, she knew nothing of the priest. His ways may have been narrow, cramped by the very work he had been called upon to accomplish, but according to the light that was in him, he was an honest man and a brave one. He had been called to fight in one particular direction for the church he loved, and he had allowed nothing to turn him from the thing he had set out to perform. Were many men as honest as this? for, truly had Father Bertrand said thatpersonal honor lay along a different road. Now all his schemes were ruined. His work in Vayenne was over, the end not attained. He had failed. It was a broken man who sat leaning slightly forward in his chair in the sacristy.
The sacristy opened into a cloister, and so into a street at the east end of the church. This way came Mercier.
"Fly, father, fly. There is yet time," he said.
"Whither, my son?"
"They are seeking you," panted Mercier. "They have broken into your house. They will wreck it, and not finding you, will come here, father."
"I do not hide. When they come they shall find me."
"It means death," Mercier said in a hoarse whisper. "Hide for a little while. I have already sent to find the Duke. Surely this is not done by his command?"
"Failure to the man who plays for high stakes often means death, Mercier," the priest answered. "We have failed, and I do not shirk the penalty. Indeed, is there anything left but death for me?"
"The Duke will be merciful," pleaded Mercier.
"I look for no man's mercy. My conscience is clear. But for you, Mercier, there is danger, too; we must not forget that. Hasten. Make your peace quickly with the Duke. You were but a tool. They will not seek to break the tool, once they have crushed the hand that held it."
"Come, father, there is yet time."
"Go quickly, Mercier. Listen! They are shouting in the street. Go, I say. I would be alone." And he put his hands on Mercier's shoulders, and gently pushed him from the sacristy. "Go, and peace be with you."
The crowd were not at the door of the sacristy, but at one of the larger doors which opened into the Rue St. Romain: Father Bertrand passed into the church. For a few moments he knelt before the altar in a side chapel, and then he went with firm steps toward this door.
Long ago the crowd had lost all self-control. The spoliation of the priest's house had but inflamed their appetite for further violence. The door of the house had been locked against them, and they had broken it down and done their will; was the closed door of the church to stop them from wreaking their vengeance upon the priest? So they hammered upon the door, crying aloud for their prey.
"Break it down!" shouted those behind, some of the men who were superstitious in their sober state, and had a reverence for sacred things. All reverence, all superstition was forgotten. They would kill the priest, but they were unlikely to stop at this. All control was gone, every restraint loosened. To wreck and spoil had become fierce joy. What mad delight it would be to wreck St. Etienne!
Suddenly the door was flung open from within, and Father Bertrand with arms outstretched stood upon the step.
"Who are they that thus insult the House of God?" he cried in a loud voice.
For an instant the crowd fell back before the commanding figure. But behind, the crowd surged and shouted, as though they struggled to get to the front.
"False priest! Betrayer of his country! Traitor."
The cries were sharp and fierce, and then one man, a soldier, sprang forward, and struck twice at the priest's breast. For an instant he swayed, his arms flung upward,the fingers wide outspread, and then he fell prone across the threshold. But there was no forward rush into the church. The body of the murdered priest guarded it. That was a barrier they dared not pass.
Nor was it those at the back of the crowd seeking to press forward to the front which caused the surging and shouting there; it was Herrick and his men fighting their way to the priest's rescue. Even as the man stepped back after striking the second blow, Herrick was upon him, and cut him down.
Silence fell suddenly upon the crowd, and then another soldier who had been leading the mob pointed to his dead comrade; and said:
"Sir, is that justice? Did you not say that there were vipers in Vayenne that must be crushed?"
ONLY THE FOOL
Roger Herrick signed the last of the papers upon his table, and leaning back in his chair looked at Lemasle, who had entered the room a few moments before. Jean squatted in his favorite attitude on the floor beside Herrick's chair.
"Yes, yes, Lemasle, all you say is true. While they live, some men will plot and scheme, but to me this seems no reason why I should kill them."
"Sir, once before I said you were too lenient; was I wrong?"
"No; you were right, yet I would be lenient again. Do I disappoint you, Lemasle?"
"Only in this, sir. Justice and expediency demand that traitors should pay the penalty of their treachery."
"There must be something wanting in my nature to make me an ideal Duke."
"Sir, Montvilliers is proud of her Duke, and every day, every hour, the people grow to love you better."
"Surely then we can afford to be lenient," said Herrick.
"Not to traitors," Lemasle answered promptly. "Count Felix despised your leniency. De Bornais, whom you trusted, rebelled, and would have sold his country."
"And Mademoiselle de Liancourt?" asked Herrick quietly.
"She is a woman, sir."
"And is a woman never a traitor?" asked Herrick.
"At least Mademoiselle loves her country, and perhaps——" The captain paused, and looked at Herrick.
"Well, Lemasle?"
"The sentence is best left unfinished, but women's love finds strange ways of revenging itself if it is scorned," said the Captain.
Herrick did not answer, but Jean, either of set purpose or by accident, made his bells jingle for a moment.
"I would once more urge stringent measures, sir," Lemasle went on after a pause. "The people expect it. They look for such measures to bring peace to the country. You are reluctant to let justice take its course, and it may be that I understand something of your mind in this, but, if I may advise, why not postpone judgment? In a few days the nobles will be assembled in Vayenne, let them decide against the Count and de Bornais as they will. Have they not often in times past been summoned to give decision in such a case? Why should you give judgment to-day?"
"Because, Lemasle, I fear the justice of the nobles," Herrick answered. "My orders must stand. See that the prisoners are brought into the hall. And, captain, think presently of some honor you covet, and it shall be yours. If we are slow to condemn, we would be quick in our rewards."
"Sir, your trust, your friendship almost, leaves me covetous of little else."
"Yet think, Lemasle. Dukes die, or are deposed, it is well to take something off them while they have the power to give. We will talk of this again."
Lemasle saluted, and withdrew.
"What would that good soldier say if he knew?" mused Herrick.
"I wonder," said Jean.
"I had forgotten you," said Herrick, with a start. "Did I put my thought into words?"
"You spoke, friend Roger, and have still some secrets, it would seem."
"Many, Jean. I will tell you one. I am not fitted to be a Duke."
"In that matter, at least, I should leave others to be the judges," said the dwarf.
"None can judge a man so well as he can judge himself if he will only be honest," Herrick returned. "I spoke inadvisedly, Jean, the other day, and it has quickly resulted in tragedy. Would I had been in time to save Father Bertrand."
"You avenged him," said Jean.
"And for my action stood reproved by one of my own soldiers. My own words were quoted against me."
"Yet the priest was a rebel," said the dwarf slowly. "There is much in what Captain Lemasle says."
"True, but there are always other points of view besides our own. Even dukes have no monopoly in such a thing as truth. I have tried to do a great deal, Jean, and I have succeeded in discovering how much better I might have done."
"That's a complaint common to all honest men, friend Roger, and as a wise man you will be thankful that you have done no worse. Have you not saved this land from herself and from her enemies? Are not your foes easily learning to become your friends? And love itself stands without, only waiting for the opening of the door."
"Open it, Jean."
"That I cannot do," answered the dwarf. "You alone can do that, but I can show you the way."
"Speak, my wise philosopher."
"Oh, it's no work for a philosopher. Even a fool finds it easy. You have but to learn wisdom out of your own mouth, and remember that there are other points of view beside your own, and that a woman usually sees these points better than any one else. Would it surprise you to learn that in you pride and self-will somewhat mar an otherwise excellent man?"
"Or come in to make my true character, my real self," said Herrick.
"Put it so if you will; mine was a gentler way," said Jean. "I would save you from yourself."
Herrick remained thoughtful for some considerable time, and Jean did not interrupt his reverie.
"I have staked out my course, Jean; I must run to the finish of it," he said, suddenly standing up, and giving the impression that he shook himself free from his thoughts as a dog shakes the water from him when he scrambles upon the bank after his swim.
"It may be a good course," said the dwarf, rising from his cross-legged position.
"And if not?"
"Disaster perhaps, but whatever comes I shall always love you."
"Love me, Jean?"
"Why not? Love's a big word, I know, but it is the right one. Trust came when I sent my knife skimming across the stone floor to your feet that night in the South Tower. We've travelled far since then, friend Roger. There has been friendship between us, different though we are, and on your side a little pity perhapsfor these twisted limbs of mine. I have gone a step farther. Yes, love is the right word."
"I think it is, Jean," said Herrick, putting his hand on the dwarf's shoulder.
The next moment Jean had caught Herrick's hand, and kissed it as he fell upon his knee.
"Sir, I thank you for the greatest honor it is even in your power to bestow."
"And, Jean, I do not like the fool's motley for you," said Herrick, bending over him. "You shall change it presently."
"As you will," said the dwarf, rising, "yet it seems to fit this queer body of mine."
"And outrages the great heart that it holds. Come. These prisoners must be judged."
"For the present I still sport the scarlet and green," said Jean, making his bells jingle. "We are both public characters. The Duke and his fool. Bother gossips."
Three days had passed since Herrick returned to Vayenne, and in this time order had been restored in the city, and the Duke was a popular hero. With the return of the soldiers, definite news of what had taken place upon the frontier began to be known. The people were proud of their Duke, and were ready to cry confusion to all his enemies. Father Bertrand had paid the penalty of his treachery, and they were glad of it. They fully expected that a like justice would be meted out to both Count Felix and de Bornais, but they were in no mood to dispute the Duke's will. He could do no wrong.
There was no uncertain sound in the cheers which greeted Herrick as he entered the hall with the dwarf. A few of the nobles had already come to the city, andwere near the dais. Many officials about the castle and in the city were in the hall, and a strong force of soldiers. Count Felix and de Bornais stood at a little distance from the dais, and near them sat Christine de Liancourt. Only the fact that Lemasle and the guard were with drawn swords showed that they were prisoners. As Herrick seated himself upon the dais, Jean sank cross-legged on the lowest step, his bauble lying across his knees.
"There has been bloodshed upon the frontier, there has been bloodshed in the city," said Herrick, breaking the silence which had fallen upon the assembly. "The responsibility rests in varying degree with the prisoners, and with Father Bertrand, who has already been slain by the people. I say the responsibility is in varying degree because I have learned the truth from one Mercier, a tool of Father Bertrand's and himself a schemer. Montvilliers is not his native land, however, and therefore the basest of treachery is not his crime. It was not his own country he betrayed, therefore he has his freedom. Nor would we omit the fact that our presence in Vayenne has fallen hardly upon two of the prisoners. We have sought to weigh every circumstance in arriving at our judgment."
There was a pause, and not a sound stirred in the hall.
"Christine de Liancourt."
As Herrick spoke her name she stood up almost involuntarily, and looked fixedly at him. Her head was held erect, but the defiance that had so often been in her bearing was not there to-day. Perhaps it was Roger Herrick she saw rather than the Duke.
"Mademoiselle de Liancourt, you have had the opportunity of knowing most of the circumstanceswhich led to our ascending this throne. You have misjudged those actions from the first, and have proclaimed yourself our enemy. You warned us that those who plotted should find an easy tool in you, and they have. You were to marry Count Felix, you were to reign with him as Duchess, equal to him in power. Your country's good may have been in your mind, but it was a less incentive perhaps than your hatred to us. But when Father Bertrand schemed with you he had other ends in view. This Mercier was dispatched to the frontier, where long since the enemy have been waiting to strike at this country. A religious fanatic, this priest was selling Montvilliers to her enemies, and using your marriage, your coronation, to stir up further civil strife, and thus render the project easier of accomplishment. This has been his scheming for years. The weaker the power of the Duke, the less resistance to the enemy."
Both Christine and Felix had started at the mention of Father Bertrand's schemes.
"It is evident that you were innocent of all knowledge of such a betrayal," Herrick went on, "but the state must guard against the danger of such unconsidered actions as yours. Three days hence you will depart under escort to the Château of Passey, there to remain until it is our pleasure that you return to Vayenne. Those in Passey have our orders to see to your welfare and safe keeping."
Christine bowed her head, and spoke no word. Retirement to the Château of Passey was no great punishment, but there was bitterness in her heart that she had played into the hands of her country's enemies. In thwarting her this man had saved Montvilliers. Surely he was a worthy Duke, and he was Roger Herrick.
"Count Felix, to you also the news of this scheming comes as a surprise," said Herrick, "and truly for plotting against us you have much excuse. The plot against your cousin was of another kind, and were you justly heir to this throne, your own subjects have decided against you. You possess an estate in the south of Montvilliers. To that estate you are confined. You may win ultimate pardon, but I warn you that any attempt to escape will mean death."
The Count did not speak. Neither by look nor gesture did he show that he had heard what had been said to him.
"You, de Bornais, have been guilty of a greater crime—treachery to your country," Herrick went on, and a low murmur like a sullen growl sounded through the hall. "How far religious fervor prompted you, I cannot judge, but this I am sure of, that no religion can serve as excuse for betrayal of country."
The growl became articulate.
"Down with de Bornais! Death to him!"
"Yet we cannot forget that even in the middle of your plotting you hated the part you felt called upon to play." And Herrick raised his voice almost as if he were pleading the prisoner's cause to those who had shouted for his death. "This also has Mercier told us; and more, we do not forget that the other day before St. Etienne you refused to speak the word that would have meant almost certain death to us."
"Long, long live the Duke!" was the enthusiastic cry. "Repentance had come to you, and pardon ever runs at the heels of repentance. Yet cannot the crime be forgotten or go unpunished. Within three days you must cross the frontier and never return. The whole world is free to you save only this State of Montvilliers."
"Sir, I am leniently dealt with," de Bornais answered. "My life will be one long regret."
It was over. Judgment had been given. The tension was relaxed. It was the moment one man had waited for. Herrick had descended two steps of the dais, when Count Felix sprang from his guards.
"Death rather than submission to this adventurer!" he cried, and with one bound had rushed upon Herrick. The dagger he had concealed was in his hand. The attack was so sudden and unexpected that Herrick slipped upon the steps. The dagger flashed down, but there rose to meet it a mass of scarlet and green, a mass that hurled itself upward at the weapon, and there was a jingling sound of bells.
The next moment Felix was dragged backward and thrown to the floor. A dozen sword points were at his throat, and even at Herrick's quick command, were scarcely stayed.
"Jean!" cried Christine, throwing herself on her knees beside the dwarf.
"Mademoiselle!" came the answer, and how faint it was. The dagger had done its work only too well.
Herrick was kneeling beside him too, and the heads of the man and woman almost touched over the dwarf. "Love," Jean said faintly. "It was the right word, friend Roger." And then he sighed, and lay quite still.
"Oh, he's dead," whispered Christine, "and to save you!"
The crowd were pressing round the dais now. The Duke was alive. They had seen him fall, had feared the worst, and a great wave of relief came as they knew the truth. The shout went up and echoed along the corridors, gladness in it, for the Duke was alive.
"Thank God! It's only the fool!"
THE SUBMISSION OF MADEMOISELLE DE LIANCOURT
They buried Jean in the great Church of St. Etienne, as was fitting, and a whole city mourned him. He had passed in and out amongst them, there was hardly a man, woman, or child in Vayenne who had not known him, now his place was suddenly empty. Some had laughed at him, some with him; some had pitied him; and a few, understanding him better, had loved him. To-day the whole city mourned and honored him, and a great silent crowd was in the streets as he passed to his last resting place, to sleep for ever in that beautiful House of God where he had so often crept in to sleep at night. Soldiers saluted as he passed, and men remembered what he had done for the city that he loved, crowning his good work by giving his life for the Duke's. "It's only the fool!" they had cried in their first gladness that the Duke had not been struck down, but now there was a sense of regret almost that they had expressed their gladness in such words, words which seemed to mark the loss as a trivial one. They recognized that the loss was a great one, that Vayenne would be the poorer without that strange misshapen figure in its streets.
And chief among the mourners stood the Duke himself, and those about him saw that the strong man who seemed to know no fear, to whom, as they believed, all sentiment and love were unknown, wept. They spokeno more of the Duke's fool, but of the Duke's friend. They understood Jean better now, and perhaps they understood the Duke better, too, as they returned homeward.
A solemn city to-day, yet over it the carillon laughed its constant message. Time passeth into Eternity, and Time is a little matter. Always Jean had understood something of the meaning of the message. He had a fuller understanding now.
Jean's death had one marked effect upon the people's mind. Three days since they had accepted the Duke's judgment upon the prisoners without a murmur, and, if they were inclined to think it too lenient, they realized that mercy has its part in justice, and were content. They were still content to exonerate Mademoiselle de Liancourt from any part in deep-seated treachery, but they were loud in their demands that Count Felix should die the death of a traitor, nor was their fury against de Bornais much less. The Duke remained firm in his purpose with regard to de Bornais, who had left the city two days ago to the accompaniment of hisses and execrations from the assembled multitude. Only a strong force of soldiers had procured his safe passage through the streets. Now Jean's funeral had further inflamed the people's anger against the Count, who remained a close prisoner in the semi-circular cell in the South Tower. There was no loose bar in the window high up in the wall any longer, there was no Jean to come to his deliverance. Indeed, it was the safest refuge the Count could have, for in their present mood the populace would have torn down any less well defended prison to get at him.
Very sad at heart Herrick had returned to the castle after Jean's funeral. He had been met on all sides withloud demands for the Count's death. It seemed suddenly to have become the one question of importance. Many more of the nobles had come to Vayenne, and they, too, advised his speedy execution. He had added murder to treachery. No further mercy ought to be shown him.
Herrick sat alone thinking of Jean. Something had gone out of his life with the quaint figure with which he had become so familiar. He had never liked the motley, yet, as Jean had said, it seemed to suit somehow his outward appearance. Herrick would have given much to see the door open quietly and to hear the jingle of the bells. Clad in that gaudy green and scarlet, Jean had been a very wise counsellor, and Herrick missed his wisdom and advice every hour.
"I had not been so good a Duke as I am had it not been for Jean," he murmured.
The door did open presently, quietly too, but it was Lemasle who entered.
"You have not forgotten that Mademoiselle de Liancourt rides to Passey this afternoon, sir."
"No, captain. You will take a strong force. There may still be robbers on the Passey road, but not of the kind you and I have had experience of."
"Am I to return with my men from Passey at once?" asked Lemasle.
Herrick was thoughtful for a few moments.
"No," he said slowly. "Viscount Dupré has certain instructions concerning the—the prisoner, and will decide when it is advisable for you to return. Be guided entirely by him, Lemasle."
The captain regarded him curiously for a moment.
"Sir, you surely do not intend——" Then he stopped, partly because of the absurdity of the idea that hadsuddenly come into his mind, partly because of the expression in the Duke's face.
"I do nothing without careful consideration, Lemasle," said Herrick. "Though I seek to serve the state, I am despot enough to do it in my own fashion."
"Pardon, sir; instead of simply obeying orders, I was presuming to try and understand."
"To understand what, captain?"
"Your purpose regarding Mademoiselle."
"She is a prisoner sent to the Château of Passey," Herrick answered. "Is it too lenient a punishment? It is a dull place, Passey, likely to break the high spirits and proud defiance of any woman. Is there not some vindictiveness in my action in this matter?"
"And afterward, sir?"
"Ah, my good friend, so you would look through the Duke into the heart of the man," said Herrick, with a smile. "The passing hours must bring the afterward as they will; but this much of my heart you may know: I send Mademoiselle to Passey guarded by the man, the one man I trust as I would trust myself—Gaspar Lemasle; yet even he would be a fool to enter Vayenne again should harm befall Christine de Liancourt. She is dear to me, dear as my own soul; know, therefore, Lemasle, how I trust you."
"Your words prophesy summer weather for this land of Montvilliers," said the captain quickly. "If only——"
Herrick looked at him as he paused.
"I would to heaven my sword had been thrust deeply into the Count's throat the other day before your sharp command had had time to hold it back," the captain burst out.
"Truly he is a great difficulty," said Herrick.
"Let him die, sir. No man ever merited death more. The whole city demands it."
What would Jean have said? Herrick found himself glancing down at the floor beside his chair, caught himself listening for the jingle of bells. There was no sound, there was no quaint little figure seated beside him.
"For a few days longer he must live," he said suddenly. "He is a pawn in the game, and must keep his place on the board. He shall be judged, Lemasle. Rest assured, he shall be judged. Has not a man, because of him, died for me?"
The captain had turned to go, fully satisfied that the Count's fate was sealed, when the door opened, and a messenger entered.
"Sir, Mademoiselle de Liancourt prays that she may see you before she leaves the castle."
"I will come to her at once," Herrick answered, and the messenger withdrew.
The prompt answer, the sudden change in Herrick's face, the alertness of his movements as he rose from his chair, were not lost upon Lemasle. The least observant of men could not help but be conscious of them.
"Is it possible that, after all, Mademoiselle will not leave the castle?" he asked.
"Nothing will prevent her going to Passey, Lemasle, I trust you to see that she goes in safety." And then as Herrick reached the door he turned back. "You must take a strong force. The rabble is fickle, and may think to please me by jeering at her. Should any cur fling so much as a sneering word at her, drag him to his knees, captain, make him kiss the dust before her, humble himself, and crave her pardon. If, as you let him go, you so far forget yourself as to give him a sound cuff to help him to better manners in the future,no great harm will be done. There is more vindictiveness in me than you supposed."
With the stripping off of her wedding garments a gladness had come into Christine's heart, a feeling that in casting them aside she had escaped some great disaster. Herrick was hardly absent from her thoughts for a moment. She had credited him with an overweening ambition; had judged all his actions in this light. She could no longer believe that he was prompted by mere ambition. He had fought for, and saved Montvilliers. He had returned to save her from a disastrous wedding. She knew now that others about her had schemed and plotted for their own ends, and that, whatever motive lay under Roger Herrick's actions, the love of this land was deep rooted in his heart. He had indeed taught her a lesson in patriotism. She did not understand him, how could she? but the outlines of the man, as it were, began to take a different and a larger shape. They were indefinite still, she could not fit the Roger Herrick who had knelt to her offering his service with the Duke who seemed desirous of bending everyone and everything to his will. His splendid courage before the Church of St. Etienne had fascinated her. The man she had come to marry, all the men about her, seemed to sink into insignificance beside this one commanding figure; she felt that he must be obeyed, and forgot to be resentful. The words he had spoken to her were stern ones, yet there was a look in his eyes, something in the touch of his hand as he helped her into the carriage, which had thrilled her. Then had come that day in the hall. Surely he had excuse enough to avenge himself, not upon herself, she had not expected him to do that, but upon Felix and de Bornais. She had to confess that his judgments upon themwere more lenient than probably her own would have been. Too lenient, surely, for the swift tragedy of Jean's death had followed. As surely as the downward stroke of that cruel dagger had taken the dwarf's life, so surely had it shown to Christine, in an instant of time, what this man Roger Herrick really was to her. Real grief had cast her upon her knees beside Jean, but there was wild joy in her heart that it was not Herrick who lay there.
They had hurried Felix roughly from the hall, and she had left Herrick bending over the body of the man who had died to save him. He had not spoken to her, he had not replied to the words she had whispered as Jean died; their eyes had met for a moment, and she had not seen him since. Lucille, her only companion, was as close a prisoner as herself, so nothing of the gossip of the castle was brought to Christine. One of those who watched and waited upon her told her that the Count was confined in the South Tower, and gradually Felix began to come into her thoughts. For prisoners there had ever been a sinister meaning in that semi-circular cell in the South Tower. Death had so often been the only road to freedom from it. Felix deserved death. It was almost certain that the Duke had decided upon his death. It was just, and yet Christine shrank from the contemplation of it. By reason of Roger Herrick's coming, Felix had suffered terrible humiliation; there was surely some excuse for him. There was, Herrick himself had admitted it, but that, of course, was before Jean had been murdered. Yes, it was just that Felix should die, and yet he was her cousin, the man whom a few days ago she had been willing to marry. Was she not in some measure responsible for what had happened? The thought thatin an hour or two she would have left Vayenne, would be powerless to plead for mercy, made her send impulsively to Herrick and pray for an audience.
She had sent Lucille into another room, and was standing by the window clad in her riding habit ready for her journey to Passey when the door opened, and a soldier, saluting, announced the Duke.
Christine remembered that last time he had come unannounced.
For a moment Herrick paused upon the threshold. She had been dressed as she was now when he had first seen her. She had looked like this when he had first offered her his service. Nothing could suit the pretty head so well as that astrakhan cap. It was with an effort that he advanced slowly toward her; he would like to have caught her in his arms, and stopped all remonstrance with his kisses on her lips.
"You sent for me, mademoiselle."
Now he had come Christine hardly knew what to say to him, or how best to say it. Could she move him to mercy if she were humble enough?
"I wanted to thank you," she said, "for your leniency to me and—and to others. You might have chosen a harder prison for me than the Château of Passey. It has its associations for me. You thought of that when you chose it."
"Naturally I had reasons for choosing it," he answered.
"My lord, Count Felix is——"
"Mademoiselle, for these three days past the Count's name has been ringing in my ears. Spare me more of it. They shout in the streets at me for his death. In the castle they are insistent that he should die. I cannot forget that Jean's love for me saved my life, and Jean is dead."
"Neither do I forget it; still, I would plead for the Count."
"Surely he merits death?"
"Yes; still, I would plead for him," said Christine earnestly. "You know—you said—you have admitted that for his plotting, at least, there was some excuse. He was mad with the uncontrollable madness of a desperate man."
"It was murder, mademoiselle, no more, no less; that the victim was not the one he hoped for makes little difference."
"Yet I plead for him," she persisted. "You have already shown great generosity; show it once more, if not to him, to me. Felix is my own flesh and blood. How far I may be responsible for his madness I do not know. He had lost everything, his kingdom, his honor, the woman he has always desired to marry. In his own fashion he may have loved me. I had plotted with him against you. Truly in a large degree I am responsible, and I pray you have mercy. Make my punishment greater if you will, so that you save Felix. Banish him, anything, but do not kill him."
"You forget that the state has laws, and that the Duke but serves the state," he said quietly.
"You are all-powerful, and you know it. On my knees I beg this thing." And she suddenly dropped at his feet. "I beg it of the Duke, the Duke I promise to serve should it presently please him to give me freedom. You have taught me patriotism. I would I had the power I once had to make my service a worthy gift."
"Mademoiselle, I doubt not the people still love you," said Herrick, putting out his hand to raise her; but she would not see it.
"You believe that? You believe that I might still be a danger?"
"Am I not sending you to the Château of Passey? If you were of small account in Vayenne, why should I banish you from the city?"
There was a moment's pause, then she said quietly. "Not long ago in this room you asked me to make a sacrifice, it was your own word, and I refused. I have learned much since then. I will do anything to serve the Duke and my country."
Herrick remembered the manner in which he had asked her to marry him. For an instant now he nearly lost control of himself, almost bent down and caught her up in his arms to tell her all that was in his heart, but he quickly had himself in hand again.
"Mademoiselle," he said, gently raising her, "I do not like to have you kneeling to me, and I will not bargain with you in this fashion. For the present Felix must remain where he is, but this I promise, you shall have speech with me again before he is condemned."
"Thank you," she said. "Before he is condemned; you mean before——"
"There is no juggling in the words," Herrick answered. "Is it too much to ask you to trust me?"
"I trust the word of the Duke," she said.
"I will leave you, mademoiselle. I hear your escort assembling in the court-yard. You may find the Château of Passey a less dreary prison than you imagine."
A little later Christine and Lucille rode out of the great gates with Gaspard Lemasle and a large escort, and from a corner of the terrace Roger Herrick watched them go. His world had moved since the night he had seen her ride out upon the same journey when she went to bring the pale scholar of Passey to Vayenne.
THE DUKE'S MESSENGER
Herrick's parting words remained with Christine. At first she had paid small heed to them. They were a mere conventional phrase, spoken to do away with any abruptness there might be in his leaving her, a slight courtesy in the place of a farewell which could have little meaning since she was a prisoner. But the words would not be forgotten, and there were circumstances which accounted in some measure for their insistency. A guard was drawn up at the castle gate, and at the sharp word of command saluted her as she passed through. Again at the city gate it was the same. She had not expected this as a prisoner. There had been no crowd in the streets of the city, but all who recognized her raised their hats. She had their sympathy if not their love. She was prepared to hear some hisses as she passed, for not every one could believe that she was innocent of any part in the plot to betray the country since she had schemed with those who had this end in view; yet no sound of anger had reached her. It seemed evident, too, that Captain Lemasle had not felt certain of the temper of the people, for as they went through the city, he was watchful, and the soldiers rode close about her and Lucille. Once across the river, however, Lemasle divided his men more, and Christine and Lucille rode alone side by side, soldiers before and behind them.
It was then that Herrick's words began to drum inChristine's ears as though to impress upon her that there was a meaning in them. Why should she find the Château of Passey a less dreary prison than she imagined? True, it had been Maurice's home for many years, and had associations for her for this reason, but they had spoken of that before, and she had thanked him for choosing such a prison. Why should he refer to it again? Or was it that the Duke had in some way brightened the château for her reception? But this was an absurd idea. It did not belong to the Duke but to the Viscount Dupré, and besides, there had been no time to make much preparation for her. She knew that her appeal for Felix had not been altogether in vain. The Duke had been touched, he had treated her very gently, not at all as a prisoner, and he had left her with these words. What was the meaning that they held? What was the Duke's real purpose concerning her? It was strange how persistently she thought of him as the Duke.
"You are sad, mademoiselle."
Lucille broke the long silence so suddenly that Christine started.
"Not so sad as the circumstances might well make me," was the answer.
"Then you will smile again, laugh even, and there will be quiet, peaceful days at Passey."
"Quiet enough," said Christine, smiling at once, "and such peace that we are likely to grow dull and gloomy with so much of it. It was selfish of me to let you come."
"I shall not be unhappy with you," said the girl.
"And presently you can return to Vayenne," said Christine, "you are not a prisoner, and for a time the ruined old place will amuse you."
"Ruined, mademoiselle?"
"Oh, there is plenty of room to live in it decently if they will let us do so," was the answer; "but it is no longer a castle that could defend itself against an enemy. Grass peeps between the stones in its court-yard, and the moss and lichen find rootage in its broken walls. No sentry paces through the day and night, and the corridors give forth an empty sound as one walks along them."
"What a strange place for a prison," said Lucille.
"It is pretty, and for a time will while away your hours, and you can always return to Vayenne. What kind of treatment we are to receive I do not know. There may be deep-dug dungeons which decay has left untouched."
"Ah, now you would try to frighten me, mademoiselle."
"No, I do not think they will put us there," said Christine. "We shall probably be allowed to wander about the château as we will, but you will soon tire of it, child. It is an unlikely place for a prince to come who, passing all others, shall kneel before you."
"You will not let me forget my dream," said the girl, with a flush in her face; "yet, mademoiselle, think, if he came the broken walls could not keep him out, and there would be no challenge from the sentry."
"No, and no other woman to pass before he came and knelt to you. In Passey you will have no rival if the prince should come," Christine returned.
"Yes, mademoiselle, one—you."
Christine laughed, and her thoughts flew back to Vayenne and to Roger Herrick. Full well she knew that her prince had come long ago. It seemed almost as though the strong walls of circumstance and thesentries which keep vigilant watch over the affairs of men had shut him out.
The twilight was deepening into night as they drew near to Passey. The château stood gaunt against the fading light in the western horizon, and Lucille shivered, while even Christine's fingers tightened on the reins. Perched on its hill, grim and alone, the château looked uninviting to-night. A feeble light glimmered here and there in the village, but no light shone from the summit of the hill. Ghosts might well be the only inhabitants of those ghostly walls, and as they rode forward the light in the west and the château vanished in the night as though it had been the mere outline of a dream.
A few doors were opened at the unwonted clatter as they went through the village street, and then they rode into the court-yard. There was a sentry by the gateway, and one of the ruined guard-rooms seemed to have been repaired. There was a light there, and Christine saw the shadowy figures of two or three soldiers. Some change had been made, and then she remembered that this was to be her prison, and that, of necessity, there must be men to guard it. Lemasle assisted her to dismount, and, silhouetted against the light within, the figure of the old Viscount stood on the threshold to receive her.
"Welcome, mademoiselle, to the Château of Passey," he said.
"I am grateful at having so courteous a jailer," she answered. "This child loves me enough to share my banishment for a time."
The old man bowed to Lucille.
"I hope you will consider me your host," he said to Christine, "and not think of me as a jailer. Thereis no great severity here. I will take you to the rooms which have been prepared for you."
He led the way across the wide hall and up the stairs. At the top he paused, and, opening a door, turned to Lucille.
"Will you wait here for a few moments? Mademoiselle de Liancourt shall first see whether she approves of the arrangements which have been made, and will return to you."
Without a word Christine followed the Viscount along a corridor, and then as they approached the end of it she stopped.
"Is one of my rooms to be that which Maurice used to have?"
"Yes, mademoiselle. The Duke thought you would like to have it."
"It was a kind thought," Christine said.
"The people of Montvilliers have much to learn concerning Duke Roger," said the Viscount. "For once we are ahead of the times in Passey, and love him already."
"Perhaps I shall learn the lesson easily in Passey," Christine answered.
"I hope so, mademoiselle. You will find this room little changed." And the Viscount stood aside to let her enter. He did not follow her in, but, closing the door, walked back along the corridor.
Lighted candles were upon a table at the far end of the room, and a man rose from a deep chair, and came toward her.
"I have been expecting you, Christine."
"Maurice!"
Even as she spoke his name, tears of joy and excitement at this sudden and unexpected revelation in hereyes, her thoughts flew to Roger Herrick. She understood the meaning of his parting words now. And as Maurice told her of his slow recovery; his waking to consciousness to find that he was in the hands of his enemies; his refusal to purchase his freedom by accepting their help to regain his kingdom and to hold it as a tributary state; his close confinement in the tower by Larne; the sudden coming of Roger Herrick, and all that he had achieved upon the frontier; Christine began to understand the character of the Duke better.
"And what is the Duke's purpose with regard to you now?" she asked at length.
"I hardly know," Maurice answered. "He would send for me presently to come to Vayenne, he said, but for a little while I was to return to Passey. I was glad to be back in the dear old place, to have my books about me again, but somehow, Christine, they had lost part of their charm for me. The scholar of Passey has changed. Side by side with Roger Herrick I had struck a good blow that day at the clearing in the forest, and after my rescue from the tower at Larne I rode by his side again, fighting, and a different man. I wanted to prove to him that I was a man, and a fighter, something more than a pale student. In his presence I felt all the spirit of my fathers rise in me, bubbling up joyously like water from a newly tapped spring. No one else's opinion counted to me but his. There were few who knew even who I was. I have not been a prominent person in Vayenne."
"And now, Maurice?" questioned Christine.
"Do I look only a scholar now?" said Maurice, drawing himself up, and standing before her. "I shall have some place about the Duke, high place, I doubt not, since I intend to make myself worthy of it."
"And the last time I came to Passey it was to persuade you to go to Vayenne to be crowned," mused Christine.
"I have no quarrel with Duke Roger," laughed Maurice. "I recognize his claim, and I know that Montvilliers is ruled by the right man, the man who will make history for her."
"Yes; I feel that too," said Christine.
"So again you come to Passey on an important mission," Maurice went on. "You come to summon me to Vayenne to prove myself a man."
"What are you saying, Maurice? You have been misled. You are wrong, indeed; you are wrong. I come to Passey a prisoner."
"A prisoner! You!"
"To the Duke I have been a traitor. This castle is to be my prison during his pleasure."
"I do not believe it. The Duke said—ah! he would make no false promise. I would trust his word against the sworn oath of other men. I do not believe it." And Maurice went to the door, and shouted loudly for the Viscount.