Orrain

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He was at my mercy. It needed but a thrust, and his life was ended;
but I gave him his chance.

"Get up, and take your sword!"

Trotto rose, his face white, his lips bleeding, and snatching his sword
from its sheath thrust at me, with a strange smile on his face. He had
lied when he said Piero was gone. All unknown to me Piero had
remained, and opening the door stood at my back, his knife in his hand.
I saw not the death behind me, and stiff as I was from my wound my
attention was fully taken up by Trotto, who was no mean artist, and
fought like a cat at bay. But Pierrebon saw, and raised his arquebus.
The bravo behind me was about to strike, when there was a flash, a loud
report, and he rolled over a huge, limp, and lifeless mass. At the
shot Trotto had sprung back with a gasp to the corner of the room, and
crouched there like a rat, staring through the smoke at us, for
Pierrebon had run to my side.

"Keep the door, Pierrebon," I said, and I stepped forward; but the
Italian was done.

"I yield," he said; "I have lost." And he lowered his sword; but
between us there could be no parley.

"Put up your sword--put it up, or I run you through as you are!"

And because there was no help for it, save to fight, Trotto did so, but
his hand shook, and his courage was gone. He made a little show of
resistance; but it was nothing, and at the third or fourth pass he
thrust too high. He was late in the recovery, and I ran him through
the side.

"Jesus!" he screamed, "I am dead!"

Then he fell forward on his face, his fingers working convulsively.

"He is dead too!" said Pierrebon as he stooped over the body.

"Not yet," I said, and then for the first time I saw the huge figure of
Piero lying stark, the knife still in his clutch, and I saw too what I
owed Pierrebon, and wrung the honest fellow's hand.

"Come!" I said. "Now for mademoiselle, and we shall be off. There are
others who will attend to these."

"A moment, monsieur! The arquebus is not loaded, and this, perhaps,
will be more useful." So saying Pierrebon stooped and picked up
Trotto's sword. As he did so he noticed the keys at the Italian's
girdle.

"And this too," he added, as with a touch of the sharp sword he cut the
light leather strap, and taking the keys followed me out into the
gallery.

CHAPTER X

THE BITER BITTEN

When Torquato Trotto lifted the candle to guide mademoiselle and La
Marmotte from the supper-room he was confident in the success of his
plan, and already heard the jingle of Simon's crown-pieces in his ears.
Perhaps it was the certainty that the birds were caged that made him a
trifle careless, and so there was something in his air and in the
glance he cast back upon his companions, whilst leading them through
the gallery, that filled mademoiselle with a sudden fear, and, but for
her pride, she would have run back to my side. So she nerved herself,
and went on to La Marmotte's room, though it was with a quaking heart.
At the door Torquato stopped, expressed a civil hope that mademoiselle
would be comfortable, and, bowing politely to her as she passed in,
handed the candle to La Marmotte, and was about to return when he felt
his arm seized. It was La Marmotte, and she looked into his face with
eager, searching eyes as she asked: "What does this mean?--more
treachery?"

There was a bitter note in her voice, and the Italian looked at her
steadily. "She grows old," his thoughts ran on, "old, and exacting; I
must end this." Then, because there was other business on hand, he
restrained himself, and answered calmly:

"I mean no harm to her, I assure you."

With this he tried to disengage himself; but La Marmotte was not
satisfied. She felt he was lying. Then, too, all the vague feelings
of the past that had somehow been aroused in her that night were awake
and groping in her poor heart, and, perhaps, with these emotions there
was jealousy--who knows?

Time had been in the gay days in Paris when La Marmotte could have
counted her lovers by the score. At last fate had thrown her across
the path of the Italian, and she, although knowing him evil, loved him
none the less, and followed his uncertain fortune like a faithful dog;
but years were going, and beauty was fading, and her heart was fearful
lest she should be cast adrift.

"Trotto," she said, and her voice was husky, "I--I do not like this.
Let them go."

Torquato Trotto cursed under his breath; but time was short, and he
could not afford to waste it. He bent down and kissed the woman's hand.

"_Carissima_! have no fear. And now let me go and see to our guest's
wounds." With this he freed himself, and went back.

La Marmotte stood for a pace watching the dim figure as it slipped
through the gloom of the corridor, the candle in her hand casting its
light on her red lips, her white neck and arms, and on the silken black
hair that hung to her waist. Then with a half-stifled sigh she
followed mademoiselle, and stepped into the room. It was empty. La
Marmotte's heart almost stood still, and the candlestick she held all
but fell from her trembling hand, as the poor wretch thought of the
wrath that would overtake her if her charge escaped. But it was
impossible! It could not be! And La Marmotte made another step
forward, and as she looked she saw a white-robed figure kneeling at a
_prie-dieu_, half concealed by the valence of the bed.

"It is her," murmured La Marmotte with a sudden relief; and then she
almost spoke the words aloud, "she prays." And after a moment of
hesitation, she crept up softly, step by step, and stood behind
mademoiselle, a tumult of strange thoughts in her soul. La Marmotte
quivered from head to foot. Near her was a small table. With a
shaking hand she placed the light thereon, and made yet another step
forward.

Prayer! Years had passed since she had prayed. It was years since she
had learned to laugh at the soul's communion with its God; to laugh,
and yet to know, in her heart of hearts, that she lied to herself.
After all, life had gone gaily with her. She was as a sleep-walker in
some garden of dreamland until this girl had come, and with her coming
startled her into wakefulness. And, standing there, La Marmotte was
for the moment innocent and pure in heart. "I will pray too," she
thought. What she was going to say, what she was going to ask from her
Creator, never struck her. All that she felt in her impulsive and
emotional heart was an overpowering desire to pray. She half sank on
her knees, and then sprang up, flushed and trembling, for at the moment
mademoiselle arose, and, turning, saw her.

"Mademoiselle was praying?" stammered the woman.

"Yes, madame. I was thanking God for our escape, and for the friends
He has given us here."

La Marmotte thought of Simon lurking in his chamber. She thought of
Torquato Trotto, and she shivered at the thought. Mademoiselle came up
to her, and placing a hand on her shoulder, said: "I will never forget
the kindness I have had here."

It was too much for La Marmotte. She shrank from the gentle touch.

"Don't," she said; "I am not worthy."

But mademoiselle simply leaned forward and kissed her forehead, and the
caress broke the woman down.

Falling on her knees she sobbed out: "Forgive! forgive! Mademoiselle,
there is danger here! They are going to kill here! Go back to
monsieur, and leave this place whilst there is time. Better trust to
the mercy of the forest wolves than the mercy of Le Jaquemart."

"Is this true?"

"True as I kneel before you." And, springing to her feet, La Marmotte
went on: "But there is no time to waste; come--come at once. A--h!"
For the loud report of the arquebus, and Pierrebon's angry shout, rang
out; then followed the rasping of swords, and the two stood speechless,
staring at each other.

But mademoiselle was brave, and she came to herself.

"Oh! they are killing him." And she flew to the door, but La Marmotte
clung to her. "Not that way! There is dreadful work there!
Here!--come here with me!"

So saying she strove to drag mademoiselle back; but the latter, with a
strength surprising in one so slight, freed herself, and slipping past
La Marmotte made for the corridor. Down this she ran, almost brushing
against a figure crouching behind the arras--a figure skulking there
like the evil thing it was. It was Simon, who had heard the shot too,
and overcome by his fierce impatience had come forth from his chamber,
poniard in hand. As the girl passed he made a half movement towards
her, like the spider about to pounce upon his prey. But La Marmotte
was following, and he drew back, and watched the two figures speeding
down the gallery, and then they halted suddenly, for the clashing
ceased, and there was the thud of a heavy body falling. Through the
partly-open door of the supper-room a banner of light fell crosswise on
the corridor, throwing into relief the figures of the two women
standing side by side with blanched faces, and for the moment there was
an awful stillness.

"Well thrust, Trotto!" shouted Simon from his lurking-place, too sure
of the issue, and then he started back with a sickening chill.

He had heard my voice as I stepped out and called to mademoiselle. And
she, who was but an arm's length away, sprang forward.

"Here! here! Oh! what has happened?"

"It has happened that we have come into the house of murder," I
replied; and then, my eyes falling on La Marmotte, I said, as I pointed
to the room within: "He needs all your care; go to him."

La Marmotte shrank back at my look and tone, and then cried out: "I am
innocent--I swear it."

"Go to him!" I said; and turning to mademoiselle: "Come! we have not a
moment to lose."

And so we went out, leaving La Marmotte staring after us, for she made
no movement. And, standing there, a cold hand grasped her wrist, and a
voice hissed in her ear:

"Fool! there is a dagger at your girdle. Could you not have driven it
through his heart?"

But La Marmotte only looked at the Vidame foolishly, and from the far
distance there came through the night the sound of a horn.

"It is Aramon returning," exclaimed Simon; "we have them yet." And
leaving La Marmotte where she stood he followed on our footsteps, his
dagger in his unwounded hand.

On he went, with uncertain, wavering footsteps, and fury in his heart.
He meant to kill if he could. It was in Simon's mind to make a sudden,
desperate attack. An unexpected stroke from his poniard might free him
from me, and his prize might yet be his. As for the varlet--Simon gave
Pierrebon not a thought. But as he went on his wounded arm began to
sting and bleed afresh. A faintness came upon him, and, overcome by
the pain and loss of blood, he sank down all dizzy behind the high
privet, a cold sweat on his forehead. In impotent fury he struck his
dagger to the hilt in the soft turf at his side, and, still holding the
haft, leaned forward and peered through the hedge. Then as he crouched
he heard quick voices, and then three mounted figures rode across the
parterres to the gate. Again the sound of the horn rang out, and Simon
heard Pierrebon's voice.

"The other wasps come back, monsieur! Hasten! Let us be off!"

"But not before I have struck a blow," answered Simon, as, heartened by
the sound of the horn, he gathered himself together and made for the
gate, only to see us pass through it ere he had gone ten paces.

He reached the gate somehow, and stared into the night. We were gone.
We had turned to the right in the direction of the river, and were
already hidden from view by the woods.

Twice Simon heard the beat of hoofs as the horses dashed over the hard
ground, and after that all was still.

"If Aramon would but come!" he groaned; and then, through the moonlit
haze on the left, where the moorland stretched long and brown, came the
sound of hoarse voices, and a loud laugh, and upon this a line of about
half-a-dozen horsemen appeared riding slowly towards the house.

"Aramon! Aramon! Here! To me!"

At his call they put spurs to their beasts, and were soon beside
him--an evil-looking set of knaves, mounted on horses foam-flecked and
weary with hard going. Simon gave them no time for speech, but shouted:

"After them! After them! Else they escape!"

"After whom, monseigneur?" asked he who appeared to be their leader as
he went on: "We have chased the air all day; are we to ride after
phantoms by night?"

"Fool! It is Mademoiselle de Paradis and her lover. He has wounded
me, and killed Trotto and Piero and Malsain, and escaped with her ten
minutes ago. They cannot have gone far, and the river must stop them.
After them!" And, panting with excitement, he ceased.

From the height of his saddle Aramon looked down on Simon, and whistled
low to himself.

"So monseigneur is wounded, which is bad for you, monseigneur; and
Piero is dead, which is good; and Malsain is dead, which is bad, for he
was my own man; and the captain Trotto is dead, which is good
again--for me, monseigneur."

"Fool! Will you waste time? Every moment is precious."

"Softly, monseigneur! There is plenty of time for me. Trotto is dead,
you say, and I sit here in my saddle captain of the wolves of
Fontevrault; and," he continued with a chuckle, "with a new king comes
a new policy, as you are aware, monseigneur."

"What do you mean?" asked Simon, with an uneasy note in his voice.

"I mean, monseigneur, that of late you have not played fair with us. I
mean that a sword that can slay as the one you describe is not one to
be meddled with by weary men; and I mean that I, Aramon, being captain
of these brave fellows now, intend to be my own captain for the future.
Is it not so, my wolves?"

There were gruff murmurs of assent, and Simon drew back a space. It
was not, however, from fear--Simon of Orrain never suffered from the
poltroon fever; he but drew back to strike hard, and to sell his life
dearly. They ringed him in--his own men who had turned against
him--and he stood with his back to the gate. He did not flinch, and
meant to fight, hopeless as it was, for all around him were white,
shining swords, that needed but a word from Aramon to be red with his
blood. But the new captain did not want this.

"Bah!" he said, "throw down your dagger, monseigneur. We want not your
life. For the present you will be the guest of Aramon--that is, until
you have paid me, and these gentlemen here, two thousand gold
Henris--fat gold Henris--for all our trouble. Come!--throw down the
dagger! Put a good face on it!"

CHAPTER XI

THE ROAD TO POITIERS

We reined up on the edge of a shelving bank, and the Mable swirled
before us. Beyond the alders on the opposite shore, but about a mile
higher upstream, lay Richelieu. Late though it was there were many
lights still burning, and now and then a fitful flare, that made the
houses stand out redly for a moment, led me to think that the place was
occupied by troops or marauders; and if so, the result would in either
case be the same for the town, or for ourselves if we ventured thither.
It must be remembered that the King's Writ was waste-paper here. All
that was ill was loose in the land, and though Montpensier from the
north and Montluc from the south struck with heavy hands, the
Christaudins--or Huguenots, as they called them--held all the country
from the chalks of Chatellerault to Saumur, and from Fontenaye to
Thouars and La Mothe St. Heraye.

Craning forward from the saddle I looked in the direction of the town,
muttering to myself: "It may be out of the frying-pan into the fire."
And as I did so mademoiselle exclaimed:

"Monsieur, why do we stay? That is Richelieu; and they follow us.
Cross, cross!"

I made no answer; but Pierrebon dismounted, and placed his ear to the
ground.

"No one follows," he said after a little, rising to his feet; "they
have had enough, these accursed bandits." And with this he mounted
once more.

"But why stay? See! there is the house of the Bailiff of Muisson--that
tall one where the lights are burning at the windows."

"The Bailiff keeps late hours, mademoiselle." And even as I spoke a
bright flame suddenly flashed out, a ruddy light lit the walls, and the
distant shouting of many voices came to our ears.

"See!" I went on, "they are cooking a late supper with the doors. They
will make breakfast with the rafters."

"What is happening? Oh! what an awful night this is!"

"What is happening, mademoiselle, I cannot tell; but it seems we have
only escaped a great danger to meet with another. Richelieu is full of
armed men. Who they are we do not know. At any rate, for your sake if
for nothing else, we will risk no more. We will cross, and make for
Razines. There we will wait for daylight. Come!"

Leaning forward I took her horse by the bridle and we entered the
stream.

"Courage!" said Pierrebon, who rode at her right; "courage,
mademoiselle! It is not deep."

And she laughed, for she was not afraid, though the water bubbled and
hissed around us, and once or twice the horses staggered and swayed, as
though they would have fallen. Finally we made the passage, and
reached the opposite shore. Once there I led them at a trot along the
white, dusty track. We were in the angle formed by the Mable and the
Veude, and here, where Poitou slopes towards the sea, the country still
retains, with a roughness like unto that of Auvergne, all the freshness
of La Marche. Far south was a dreary plain, but around us the land
billowed into low hillocks, that stood over long stretches of stunted
forest.

We rode in silence, except when now and again I spoke a word of warning
in regard to the state of the road, or to regulate the pace. I began
to wonder how long mademoiselle would hold out; and my doubts were soon
set at rest. It was whilst crossing the almost dry bed of one of the
small streams, spreading like veins over the country, that she suddenly
reined up.

"I cannot go farther," she said faintly; and calling a halt I looked
around me. A little distance from the track, which wound before us
amongst the glistening stones, lay a dark grove of trees. I pointed at
them.

"We will rest there, mademoiselle. 'Tis barely fifty paces; bear up
till then!" And dismounting I walked by the side of her horse.

Short as the distance was I was in doubt if she would hold out, and as
I glanced at her I saw even by the moonlight how white and drawn was
her face, and then she began to sway in her seat. Calling to Pierrebon
to take the reins of her horse I tried to hold her in the saddle, but,
feeling her slipping, I put my unhurt arm around her and lifted her to
the ground. For a little space she stood as one dazed, leaning against
me with closed eyes, and then with an effort recovered herself and drew
back.

"I am able to walk, monsieur--I--how far is it?"

"Only a step now." And, still supporting her, I led her onward until
we reached the trees.

"We are here, mademoiselle." And taking her into the shade of a huge
walnut-tree I flung my cloak on the grass, and made her sit thereon,
whilst we hedged her around with saddlery. It was done as quickly as
we could, and the tired girl leaned back against the saddles utterly
wearied and exhausted. I stood watching her for a little, and then
with a whispered word to Pierrebon about the horses stepped aside. I
could do no more; but my heart was heavy within me, for I feared the
result of exposure for her.

A few yards off a withered tree stood apart, an outcast from its
fellows. The thought struck me as I went up to it, and tapped the
decayed trunk with my fingers: "You and I, my friend--we have seen our
past, and are out of the pale now." With this I sat down on one of the
huge roots, that coiled like monstrous serpents at my feet, and leaning
my head against the tree prepared to wait for the dawn.

My arm, where Simon's sword had touched me, now began to remind me that
it needed attention. A low whistle brought Pierrebon to my side, and
the injury was looked to by such light as the moon gave. Fortunately
it was but a slight flesh wound, and an improvised bandage soon gave
relief. So, resting it in a sling out of my scarf, I leaned back once
more, and bade Pierrebon go and sleep.

For an hour or more I sat thus, watching and thinking. At last, rising
slowly, I cautiously stepped up to mademoiselle and looked. She was
asleep; but so still did she lie, so pale and white did she look, that
I thought for a terrible moment that she was dead, and bent over her,
placing my hand close to her lips to feel if she breathed. She moved
uneasily as I did so, and I came back to my tree and to my thoughts.
Finally, as the moon was sinking, I too slept, and as I slept I
dreamed. I saw myself once more riding towards Orrain, and not alone,
for mademoiselle was by my side. As we rode out of the pine-woods the
Chateau stood before us. There was the square keep, with its
pepper-box towers, and bartizans overhanging the moat. There were the
grey ramparts tapestried in ivy, and the terraced gardens, where the
peacocks sunned themselves. All around us were happy faces, and joyous
voices welcoming us home--the home to which I had so long been dead;
and it was mine now, and more besides--and then--I awoke with a start
and looked around me. It was all so real.

"Tush!" I exclaimed, "have I slipped back into the days of enchantment
and the fay Melusine?" And rising I saw it was touching dawn, for the
east was red, and the morning star, Maguelonne--the shepherd's star, as
we call it in our hills--was burning bright. Mademoiselle and
Pierrebon were still asleep, and it was too early yet to awaken them.
It would be time enough when the sun rose, and in the meanwhile I began
to reflect upon the best means of bestowing mademoiselle in safety.
Razines was so near to Richelieu that if the latter were occupied by
marauders they would hardly have left the little hamlet alone, unless,
indeed, they were Huguenots who were in Richelieu. In which event
Razines, which was known to be touched with the new heresy, would
probably be unharmed. This, however, did not make things any the
better for us. I made up my mind that the best course would be to take
mademoiselle on with me to Poitiers, and there hand her over to some
responsible person until her friends could be told of her. The very
thought of this, however, jarred on me somehow, and I caught myself
building castles in Spain again. "Come," I said to myself, "at your
age, _mon ami_, you should know better than to go off dreaming at the
sight of a pretty face and the sound of a sweet voice." And then I
laughed aloud at the thought that I knew but half her name--that at any
rate would be remedied soon. So, rising, for it was time now, I softly
awoke Pierrebon and mademoiselle, and in a short while we were once
more on our way through the low hills that stretched through Lencloitre.

It was necessary at all hazards that we should get some food, as well
for the horses as ourselves, and when we had gone a little way we saw
Razines lying to our left. Here I halted, and, moving my party into
cover behind some trees, I explained the position, and begged
mademoiselle to remain with Pierrebon, whilst I went forward to the
village to see how matters stood, adding that, if I did not return
within a short time, her best course would be to go on to Poitiers with
Pierrebon, and place herself in a convent there until she could write
to her friends.

"Monsieur," she answered, her colour rising, "you have risked enough
for me already. I will not permit you to do this. If you go to
Razines I go too."

I was delighted with her courage; but though I pressed her hard to do
what I asked she was firm in her resolve. In this matter, however, I
had no intention of yielding, and we might have been there half the day
had we not seen coming up the road a couple of villagers with some
cattle.

"We can at least inquire from them," I suggested, and she laughed.

"At the first sight of you, monsieur, they will be off. Let me go!"
And suiting action to words she rode out towards the peasants. There
was truth in her words, for as she rode out of the trees one of the
yokels fled at once, but the other, seeing it was a woman, held his
ground. A moment after they were in converse, and I saw a broad grin
on the man's face. Then mademoiselle beckoned to us, and we came
forth. On our appearance the peasant seemed inclined to follow his
friend's example; but we somehow managed to reassure him, and gathered
that, except for a small party of harmless travellers who were at the
Green Man, Razines was empty.

"You are luckier than they are at Richelieu, my friend," I said.

"Then Richelieu is taken?"

"Apparently so."

"Hola! for Monsieur de Ganache!" And he flung his cap in the air.
"Ha, monsieur, the Vicomte passed here but yesterday evening, with
sixty lances at his back, to hang the Guidon. Has he done so?"

"I know not," I answered; and turning to mademoiselle, said: "We have
had a lucky escape."

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