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Corse de Leon; or, The Brigand: A Romance. Volume 1 (of 2)

by G. P. R. James · English · Gutenberg #36041 · 491,119 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Corse de Leon; or, The Brigand: A Romance. Volume 1 (of 2)

Author: G. P. R. James


        
Release date: May 6, 2011 [eBook #36041]

Language: English

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Credits: E-text prepared by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


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CORSE DE LEON:

Or,

The Brigand.

A Romance.

by

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

Author of "The Robber," "The Gentleman of the Old School," etc.

In Two Volumes.

VOL. I.







New-York: Published by Harper & Brothers, No. 82 Cliff-Street.
1841.




CORSE DE LEON;

OR,

THE BRIGAND.




CHAPTER I.


There are a thousand small and apparently accidental circumstances,
which, in our course through life, bring a temporary gloom upon us,
render our expectations from the future fearful and cheerless, and
diminish our confidence in all those things whereon man either rashly
relies or builds his reasonable trusts. Strength, youth, wealth, power,
the consciousness of rectitude, the providence of God: all these will
occasionally lose their sustaining influence, even upon the most hopeful
mind, from causes too slight to justify such an effect.

These accidental circumstances, these mental clouds, resemble much those
other clouds which sometimes, at the close of a bright day, come over a
landscape previously warm and shining, cast a gray shade over its rich
hues, shut out the redoubled glory of the setting sun, and make gloom
and shadow spread over the summer scene. Though nothing is changed but
the light in which things dwell, though the colour of the tree and the
form of the rock are the same, yet the brightness of the whole is
departed, and the lustre gone out as if for ever.

There are times, however, when a gloom, which seems to have no
counterpart in the physical world, comes over the mind; when all has
gone fairly with us; when every object around is full of brightness and
hope; when the horses of Fortune's car have never once even stumbled on
the way; and not a sorrow rough enough to rub the down from the wing of
a butterfly has fallen upon our hearts for years; and yet a deep and
shadowy despondence steals over our spirits, as if the immortal within
us were telling the mortal of anxieties, and griefs, and dangers
approaching--discovered by the fine sympathies of the higher part of our
being with things undiscovered by the mere material creature.

Cares, sorrows, and perils, corporeal agony, and anguish of the heart,
are often but as the fire which tempers the pure iron into the fine
steel, at once proving and strengthening the spirit. The last grand
lesson which leads generous youth to vigorous manhood, which confirms
our powers, and gives the great man's mastery over Fate, is to endure;
and I am inclined to believe that such sudden and unaccountable feelings
of despondency--I do not mean the ordinary fits of gloom that haunt a
moody and a wayward spirit, but, on the contrary, the dark impression,
the heavy shadow that once or twice, in the midst of a bright lifetime,
comes irresistibly upon a gay or placid mind--I am inclined to think, I
say, that such despondence is only given to the highminded and the
great: a prophetic voice, announcing, not to the ear, but to the heart,
that the day of trial comes: the trumpet of Fate, calling on a champion,
dauntless and strong, to rouse him to the battle, and arm his spirit for
some awful strife.

The day had been as bright and beautiful as a summer day in the south of
Europe can be, and yet it had spared the traveller and the labourer many
of the inconveniences and discomforts which those beautiful days of the
south sometimes bring along with them: for the year was yet young, and
with all the brightness of youth it had all the tenderness too. There
had been a fresh breeze in the sky during the hotter part of the day;
and one would have felt that it blew from the cool tops of snowy
mountains, even had one not seen, from time to time, some of the distant
peaks of the high Alps towering white over the greener hills below.

There was also a world of streams, and rivulets, and cascades about,
which gave additional freshness and life to the air that blew heavy with
the perfume of the flowers upon the banks; and the high swelling of the
mountains round still gave a pleasant shade to one side of the valley.
Each sense had something to delight it; and there was over every object
which nature presented that aspect of peaceful enjoyment which is the
greatest soother of man's heart.

The spot was in the extreme verge of Savoy, bordering upon France. It
would little benefit the reader to say exactly where, for the aspect of
the land has changed: the towns of that age and their laborious denizens
would not be recognised by their successors of the present day; the
castle, the fortress, and the palace are ruined and swept away, and even
the roads themselves now wind through other valleys or climb over other
hills. It was somewhere between Nice and St. Jean de Maurienne: that
space is surely limited enough to afford the reader a definite idea of
the scene. Let him take a map and a pair of compasses, he will find it
but a span; and in reality it is less--with a universe around it.

Nevertheless, it was a very lovely scene, as I have said, with the hills
tall and blue, and the snowy mountains looking down upon one through the
long defiles; with the valleys green and fresh, and the streams bright
and sparkling. Here and there, too, upon some rocky height which
commanded the entrance of the gorges of the mountain, a feudal castle
would raise its battlements, gray, and stern, and warlike; and either in
the open plain--where such a thing was found--or in the warm valleys in
the hills, were seen the villages and small towns of Savoy, with their
grayish white walls and their graceful church towers crowning the
loveliness of the whole with the aspect of human life. The period of the
world's history whereof I speak was one of gorgeous pageantry, and gay
wit and deeds of arms: a period when chivalry and the feudal system,
just about to be extinguished for ever, blazed with a dying flame.
Montmorency still lived, though Bayard and Francis had left the busy
scene but a few years before, and Henry the Second had not yet closed
his career in the last tournament which Europe was destined to witness.
The songs of Marot and the wit of Rabelais still rang in the ear, and
Ronsard, Dorat, and Montaigne were entering gayly upon the path of
letters.

It was in the year 1558, then, and towards the close of the day, that a
small party of horsemen wound along through the bright scenery of which
we have spoken. It consisted only of four persons, two of whom were
merely armed servants, such as usually attended upon a cavalier of those
times, not exactly acting the part of soldier on ordinary occasions, but
very well fitted so to do when any particular exigency required the
exertion of the strong hand. The third was a youth of no very remarkable
appearance, in the garb of a page; but the fourth was evidently the
leader of the whole, and, as such, the person who merits the most
accurate description. I will attempt to paint him to the eye of the
reader, as I have myself seen him represented by the hand of an unknown
artist in one of the palaces on the banks of the Brenta.

He was in person about the middle height, rather above it than below,
and at this period was not more than twenty-three years of age. His
forehead was broad and fine, with short dark hair curling round it: his
features were small, except the eye and brow, the former of which was
large and full, and the latter strongly marked. The mouth was very
handsome, showing, when half open in speaking, the brilliant white
teeth, and giving to the whole countenance a look of playful gayety;
but, when shut, there was an expression of much thoughtfulness,
approaching perhaps to sternness, about it, which the rounded and
somewhat prominent chin confirmed. The upper lip was very short; but on
either side, divided in the middle, was a short black mustache, not
overhanging the mouth, but raised above it; and the beard, which was
short and black like the hair, was only suffered to grow in such a
manner as to ornament, but not to encumber, the chin.

In form the cavalier was muscular, and powerfully made, his breadth of
chest and shoulders giving the appearance of a more advanced period of
life than that at which he had yet arrived. He was evidently a soldier,
for he was fully armed, as if having lately been or being still in
scenes of strife and danger; and, to say the truth, a man fully armed in
those days was certainly more loaded with weapons, offensive and
defensive, than was probably ever the case before or since.

The picture I have spoken of represents him with not only the complete
armour which was then still used to encase the person, with the long,
heavy sword, the dagger, and the large pistols, but also with four short
carbines--at least such they appear to be--one at each corner of the
saddle. His head, indeed, is seen unencumbered by the steel cap, which
usually completed the armour, but which is borne by the page at his
saddlebow, while the cavalier himself appears wearing upon his head the
somewhat cooler covering of a black velvet cap, without feather or any
other ornament.

The horse that carried him, which was a tall, powerful charger, fared
better in some respects than his master; for before this epoch, the
heavy armour with which steed as well as man used at one time to be
encumbered was lightened in favour of the quadruped, and the horse which
bore the young gentleman of whom we speak was only covered with such
pieces as might protect his head and chest in the shock of the charge.

The day, I have said, had been bright and sweet, and all nature had been
as fresh and happy as a young heart upon a holyday. Similar, too, had
been the mood of Bernard de Rohan as he rode along; not so much that the
scene and its charms created, as that they found, sympathetic feelings
in his bosom; for his disposition was naturally cheerful and bright,
full of gay thoughts and happy enthusiasms. He was returning, too, from
another country--from the midst of strangers, and perils, and
fatigues--to enjoy an interval of tranquillity in his own bright land,
and the society of those he loved.

France was within his sight; the tongues that he heard around him spoke
nearly the same language as that which he had used from infancy; and,
though the nominal frontier of Savoy lay some fifteen miles before him,
yet, in all but the name, he was in his own country. There was little of
that cold restraint about him which is either acquired by harsh dealings
with evil men, or is natural from some inward pravity of the heart, and
the cheerful mood of his mind found its way forth in many an outward
sign. From time to time he had turned round to speak to the page or to
one of the servants with some light jest or gay inquiry. Now he would
point out a distant spot in the landscape as they stood upon some
beetling point half way up the mountain, and ask if they recognised this
or that town in Dauphine; now he would pat the proud crest of his stout
horse, and talk to the noble animal as if he expected an answer; and now
would even break forth into a snatch of song. His heart, in short, was
as a fountain, so filled with happiness that it welled over, and the
waters sparkled as they overflowed the brim.

The servants smiled to see their lord so gay, especially an elder one,
who, commenting with the other, remarked that he might well look happy,
bearing back home such glory as he had won.

Thus passed the earlier part of the day's journey; but towards the
evening the mood of Bernard de Rohan changed. His open brow did not grow
cloudy, it is true, but there came a look of gloom upon it: the lips no
longer opened with a bland smile, and the teeth were shut together with
that stern expression we have already noticed. His eyes gazed on upon
the scene, but with somewhat of a vacant aspect, and everything told
that the spirit was busy in its tabernacle dealing with high thoughts.
Nor could any one who looked upon him suppose those thoughts were other
than sad ones. Intense they certainly were, and certainly they were not
gay.

Yet Bernard de Rohan had no remembered grief. Fate had indeed once
struck him severely, but ever after had spared him altogether; had
plucked not a flower from his bosom, nor cast a shadow on his path.

In early years he had lost both his parents, but that was the only
misfortune which had befallen him, and it was long ago. He scarcely
remembered them; and all that remained was a soft memory, affectionate
but not painful. Since then his course had been from one bright thing to
another. Wise and tender friends, the amusements, the sports, the
studies of youth, virtue and honour, wealth and station, praise,
success, and glory had been his. He had no thirst for power: so what
could he want more? Had any one asked him that question, he would have
replied, Nothing: nothing but what he might well hope to attain; and
yet, about an hour before the sun reached the edge of the sky, a fit of
gloom fell upon him, dark, vague, unaccountable, like one of those mists
that in mountain lands suddenly surround the wayfarer, shutting out the
beauty and the brightness, and leaving all around dull, chilly, vague,
uncertain, and confused.

For nearly half an hour he gave way to the sensations that oppressed
him. They seemed at first too mighty to be struggled with. It was what,
in the language of Northern poetry, is called "having the cloud upon
him," and he could not cast it off; till at length it seemed to rise
gradually, and the power returned, first, of arguing with himself upon
the unreasonableness of such feelings, and then of smiling--though with
a mingled smile--at his own weakness in giving way to them.

The effect wore off; but he was still communing with himself on the
sensations he had just experienced, when the page called his attention
to the clouds that were gathering round the mountains. With that quick
transition so common to hill countries, especially in the south, the sky
was becoming rapidly obscured. The lurid masses of stormy vapour writhed
themselves round the peaks; and, although beneath their dark canopy a
gleam of intense red light was seen marking the far western sky on the
side of France, the whole heaven above was soon covered with a thick
expanse of deep gray cloud. At a considerable distance, in the more open
part of the country, which lay beyond the mouth of the defile,
stretching in long lines of dark purple towards the sunset, appeared a
large square tower, with some other neighbouring buildings, cutting with
their straight lines the rounded forms of the trees.

"That must be Voiron," said the cavalier, as if in answer to his page's
observation regarding the coming storm. "We must quicken our pace and
reach shelter, or we shall have to pass half the night in cleaning our
arms, if yonder frowning cloud fulfil one half its menaces."

"Voiron must be ten leagues off, sir," replied one of the attendants;
"we shall not reach it this night."

"Then we must find some other covering," replied the master, gayly;
"but, at all events, put to your spurs, for the battle has already
begun."

Even as he spoke the large drops fell slowly and heavily, denting the
dusty covering of the road. Bernard de Rohan and his followers rode on
at full speed, though the descent was steep, the way bad, and the gray
twilight creeping over the scene. Five minutes more brought them to a
turn where they could obtain a wider view; but, alas! no place of refuge
was to be seen, except where the same tall dark tower rose heavily
across the streaks of red light in the west, marking the place of some
distant town or village. The attendants, who had pictured to themselves
during the morning's ride all the comforts of the cheerful inn, the good
rich wine of Dauphine, the stretching forth at ease of the strong,
laborious limb, the easy gossip with the village girls, the
light-hearted song in the porch, and all the relaxing joys of an hour's
idleness, now begun to think of the long and tedious task of cleaning
arms and clothing, and spending many an hour in rubbing the cold steel;
and, to say sooth, their lord also would have been better pleased with
fairer weather.

The road, as such roads ever must do, wound its way round many a turn
and angle of the rock, so that it was very possible for several persons
to be within a short distance of each other, without the one who
followed ever seeing him who was but a few hundred yards before him. At
the spot which we have mentioned, Bernard de Rohan paused for a moment
to look round for some place of shelter, and the road before him seemed
perfectly clear and free. He could see completely into the valley on his
right, and across the plains beyond, while the path which he was
following could be traced along the side of the hill, round two or three
sharp angles of the rock, about two hundred yards apart from each other.
All at first was clear, as I have said, when suddenly there emerged, at
the salient point which cut that part of the sky where the light still
lingered, the figure of a human being, which was lost again round the
turn almost as soon as it was seen.

"There is a peasant on a mule," exclaimed the cavalier, gladly. "We
cannot be far from some village."

"It looks more like a priest on an ass, my lord," replied the attendant
who had spoken before.

"Well, well," said his master, "we shall find the better lodgings."

"And the better wine," rejoined his follower; "but, perhaps, not the
better welcome."

"Oh, they are good men, these priests of Savoy," replied Bernard de
Rohan, spurring on; "but we must not lose him again."

In a few minutes they again caught sight of the object of their pursuit.
He was now much nearer, but still it was somewhat difficult to
distinguish whether he were priest or peasant, till, coming up with him
by dint of hard riding--for his long-eared charger was bearing him on at
a rapid pace--they found that he was, as the attendant had supposed, a
jovial priest; not, indeed, extravagantly fat, as but too many were in
that day, but in good case of body, and bearing a countenance rosy with
health, and apparently sparkling with a cheerful disposition. He seemed,
indeed, to be of a character somewhat eccentric; for, contrary to all
clerical rule, he had covered his head with one of the large straw hats
of the peasantry, which accorded but ill with the rest of his
habiliments. His features, which the young cavalier thought he had seen
somewhere before, were good, with an expression of much sharpness; and,
though undoubtedly he heard the tramp of horses' feet behind him, in a
land and in times not famous for safe travelling, either his conscience
or his courage were so good, that he turned not his head to see who
followed him thus closely, but kept his ass at the same brisk canter,
while the young cavalier rode up to his side, and gave him the ordinary
salutation of the day.

"A good-evening to you, father!" said Bernard de Rohan, riding between
him and the edge of the precipice.

"Pray let us have it quickly, my son," replied the priest; "for the one
we have got seems likely to be as bad a one as ever I saw, at present."

"Indeed it is," answered the young gentleman, smiling at his somewhat
cynical reply; "I am heartily glad to have met with you, my good father,
for I trust you can show us some place of shelter."

"Good faith," replied the priest, turning for a moment to look at the
cavalier's followers, "I cannot say I am so glad of the encounter; for
where I am going we cannot be sure of finding too many of the good
things of this life, and the lion's portion is always sure to go to the
fighting men."

"Nay, nay! we will share alike!" rejoined Bernard.

"Ay! but I am a king in those matters," answered the priest; "I do not
like to share at all. But come on, come on; I am only jesting. We shall
find plenty, I doubt not; for, when last I passed that little inn, there
was good meat and wine enough to have fed a refectory for a week, or an
army for a year. Come on quick, I say, for yon foul-mouthed railer at
the top of the hill is beginning to roar at us as well as spit at us. We
have still far to go, and a storm in these mountains is like a dull
jest, I can tell you, young gentleman; for one never knows what may come
next."

"Why, what can come next," demanded the cavalier, "but fine weather
after the storm?"

"A rock upon your head," replied the priest, "or an avalanche at your
heels, which would smother you in your steel case like a lobster in his
shell. Come on! come on! Sancta Maria! why, my small ass will out-run
your tall charger now!" and, bestowing a buffet with his straw hat upon
the flank of his bearer, the beast quickened his pace still more, and,
with a malicious whisk of the tail and fling with his hind feet, set off
into a gallop. But we must pause to change the scene, and precede the
travellers on their way.




CHAPTER II.


There are few situations in life which convey to the mind of man more
completely the sensations of comfort, security, and repose, than when,
after a long day's ride, he sits at ease by a glowing fire, and
hears--while all the ready service of a well-conducted inn is in
bustling activity to minister to his wants or satisfy his appetite--the
rain patter and the tempest roar without. Nor is it from any selfish
comparison of their own fate with that of others less happy that men
derive this sensation, notwithstanding the dictum of the most selfish of
would-be philosophers. It is, on the contrary, from a comparison of
their own situation at the moment with what that situation sometimes has
been, or might even then be, that the good and the generous experience
such feelings; and, though the thought of others exposed to the tempest
must naturally cross their minds, yet that thought is mixed with pity
and regret.

The little inn towards which Bernard de Rohan and his companions were
proceeding, under the guidance of the priest, when last we left them,
though the village in which it stood contained not above nine or ten
cottages, was good for the time and the country. Its only sitting-room,
of course, was the great kitchen, into which the door opened from the
road; but that kitchen was well fenced from the wind and rain; the
windows were small, and cased in stone; the door was sheltered by a deep
porch, where host and travellers sat and amused themselves in the summer
daytime; and, as it was the first house met with after passing some of
the steepest mountains between France and Piedmont, everything was done
to make it attractive in the eyes of weary wayfarers.

The thunder had passed, the air had become cold and raw, the night was
as dark as a bad man's thoughts, a fierce wind was blowing, and the
heavy rain dashed in gusts against the clattering casements; but all
those indications of the harsh and boisterous state of the weather
without did but serve to make the scene within seem more comfortable to
the eyes of a traveller, who sat in one of the large seats within the
sheltering nook of the chimney, watching the busy hostess prepare more
than one savoury mess for his supper on the bright wood fire that blazed
upon the hearth. In the mean time, several attendants of various kinds
might be seen in different parts of the wide kitchen, cleaning and
drying harness, clothes, baldrics, and weapons, or preparing other
matters for the service of their lord, with all the devices of courtly
luxury.

Those attendants, however, were not the attendants of Bernard de Rohan,
nor was the traveller that cavalier himself; he being yet upon his way
thither, and enduring all the fury of the storm.

The one of whom I now speak was a man of about the same age, but rather
older. He was decidedly a handsomer man also: his features were all
finer in form; he was taller; his complexion was fairer, without,
however, being effeminate; and it was evident, too, that he knew his
personal advantages, and was somewhat vain of them. He was dressed with
much splendour, according to the fashion of that day; and, though he
seemed to have met with some part of the storm, it was clear that he had
not been long exposed to it.

In short, as he sat there, he might well be pronounced one of the
handsomest and most splendid cavaliers of his day; but there was a
something which a closely-observing eye might detect in the hanging brow
and curling lip that was not altogether pleasant. It could scarcely be
called a sneer; yet there was something supercilious and contemptuous in
it too. Nor was it altogether haughty, though pride undoubtedly had its
share. It was a dark and yet not gloomy expression. It seemed as if the
heart beneath was full of many an unfathomable idea, and proud of its
impenetrability. The thoughts might be good or bad; but it was evidently
a countenance of much thought under a mask of lightness: a deep lake
beneath a ripple.

The stranger had, as we have said, been looking on while the hostess,
with a bustling maid, prepared manifold dishes for his supper; and he
added, from time to time, a gay jest to either of them upon the progress
of the work. His tone was familiar and easy; but it might be remarked
that his jest always arose from something that came beneath his eye, and
that, in general, he took no notice whatever of the reply, scarcely
seeming to hear that any one else spoke, and making no rejoinder, but
letting the matter drop till he thought fit to jest again.

At length, however, he said, "I prithee, dame, double yon portion of
steaks from the roe-deer, and add me some twenty eggs to the omelet. You
will have more visiters shortly."

The good woman started up with a look of some surprise, and might,
perhaps, have thought her guest a conjuror, had not his words been
followed so closely by the noise of horses' feet, that the source of his
knowledge was evident at once. A moment after voices were heard calling,
and the aubergiste, who had been aiding some of the servants at the
other side of the kitchen, opened the door carefully and looked forth.
The cold wind rushed in fiercely, like a besieging army into a stormed
city, and the yellow wax flambeau which the host carried to the door,
and which, in that land of bees, was in those days common to every
country inn, was extinguished in a moment, notwithstanding the fierce
flame wherewith it burned.

All on that side of the wide, dingy room was now in darkness; but voices
were heard as of many persons speaking, with cries for horseboys and
hostlers, in the easily-distinguished tongues of attendants, while the
landlord assured the travellers again and again that he would bestow
upon them a thousand-fold better accommodation and entertainment than
there was the least chance of their obtaining in reality.

At the same time, a full, rich, merry voice was heard chuckling at the
boasts of mine host, and exclaiming, "Ay, ay, landlord! is it not so? We
shall have dolphins and mullets, ortolans and beccaficos, musk sherbet
from Constantinople, true Roman Falernian mingled with honey, and, to
crown all, a Pythagorean peacock! Nothing less will serve us in this
cold night; though, methinks, a good capon and a tankard of mulled
Avignon claret[1] would warm me well, were it but ready this minute."

[Footnote 1: The first time I ever find the word claret used, it is
applied to the wine of Avignon.]

While the jovial priest, whom I have described in the first chapter of
this true history, descended from his ass, joking at every movement with
the host, Bernard de Rohan, smiling at his new companion's merriment,
sprang to the ground and entered the kitchen of the inn, leaving his
attendants to lead round the horses to the stables at the back of the
building. It might not, it is true, be very satisfactory to him to find
that the inn was so fully tenanted as he soon saw that it was; but he
was one of those who fail not to enjoy what may fall to their lot as far
as possible; and, as he advanced towards the fire, he thanked Heaven for
a place of shelter from the rude buffeting of the storm.

In the mean while, the first occupant of the inn continued, with that
air of self-satisfied indifference which has been a part of the
affectation of the pampered and insolent in all ages, to look at nothing
but the proceedings of some rebellious sticks upon the hearth, which
resisted all the soft persuasions of the woman whom the hostess had left
to tend the savoury messes at the fire, while she herself aided her
husband in receiving, like Hope, her new visiters with false promises.
The occupant of the chimney-corner looked neither to the right nor to
the left; and, to have judged by his countenance, one would have
supposed that he heard not one sound of all the many that were stirring
around him, nor had a greater interest in anything on earth than in the
cooking of a steak of roe venison. Even when Bernard de Rohan advanced
with his arms jingling as he trod, and, after a momentary glance at him,
laid hold of his arm with a friendly smile, the stranger merely turned
round, with a look of perfect unconcern, to see who it was that, either
in enmity or good-fellowship, thus called his attention.

When he saw who it was, however, he became more animated, and, rising
with a smile, shook hands with him warmly. "Ha! Bernard de Rohan!" he
exclaimed, "I can hardly believe my eyes. Why, baron, who would have
thought to meet you thus in a Savoyard inn? Have you then quitted Italy
to follow Guise, and meet the enemy in the North? You have not thrown by
the spear and sword, I see! But, in a word, say what do you here?"

"Why, to say truth," replied the other, "nothing is now to be done
beyond the Apennines; and though, as you might well know, after all that
occurred at Civita, I am as little likely to follow Guise as a greyhound
is to hunt in company with a lion, yet there is no use in staying behind
when he has not only left the field himself, but taken all his forces
with him. I am tired of this warfare, too! I long for some repose. I
have now been three years absent from France, and I have a yearning to
see my own land once more."

"Yes, and some fair dame therein," rejoined his companion. "Is it not
so, De Rohan? I remember well you seemed to have but small delight in
the bright eyes of the young Italians, and I often thought that it must
be some remembered love of the past that kept you thus heart-whole."

"It may be so, count," replied Bernard, gayly. "What man is there
without a lady-love? If there be one, he is neither fit for war nor
peace: he wants the great excitement to glory, and courtesy, and great
deeds. But, even had it not been for that, Meyrand," he added, more
seriously, "I love the ladies of my own land best. Bright looks are
little to me without true hearts, and beauty but a frail substitute for
goodness."

"Pshaw, Sir Moralizer!" cried his companion; "beauty is a woman's best
possession till she be old; and then, when she has done with the Graces,
let her take up with the Virtues, or the Muses, or anything else she
likes."

"Let her take up with anything, in short," said the jolly priest, coming
forward to the fire, and shaking his gown to dry it; "let her take up
with anything but a libertine, a fop, or a courtier. Let her bear age,
or ugliness, or anything but children to fools--so shall she do well in
this world and the next! Is it not so, gay sir?"

The Count de Meyrand stared at him with a look of haughty surprise; but
he found that the priest was as indifferent as he could be, and he
relapsed for a minute or two into silence, while the page of Bernard de
Rohan came up to disarm his lord. The operation was somewhat long, and,
by the time it was accomplished, the trestles had been brought forth
from their corner, the long wooden boards which, joined up the middle,
served for a table, had been taken from the wall against which they
stood and laid upon those trestles, and over all a fine white tablecloth
had been spread, with the salt in the midst.

Plate after plate of well-cooked viands, emitting an odour most savoury
to hungry men, was next placed on the board by the neat hostess, and the
count, with Bernard de Rohan in the buff jerkin he had worn under his
armour, moved to take their seats at the head of the table. The priest
sat down beside his young travelling companion, while a sneering smile
curled the lip of Meyrand, and he could not refrain from saying, in a
low but not inaudible voice, "Why, baron, what a princely youth you have
become, to travel with your fool, and in canonicals too."

Bernard did not reply; and the priest, though he heard every word, said
nothing till, the attendants having all ranged themselves at the lower
end of the table, together with the host and hostess, he proceeded to
bless the meat. He had scarcely concluded, however, when the door of the
inn suddenly opened, and a person rushed in in the garb of a servant. He
was without hat or cloak, and there was a cut, though but a slight one,
upon his forehead. "Help! help!" he cried, gazing eagerly around the
circle; "help! help! they are carrying away my Lord of Masseran and my
young lady to murder them in the mountains."

These words produced a very different effect upon the persons who heard
them. The Count of Meyrand sat perfectly still and indifferent,
listening with his usual air of cool self-possession to all that the man
said, and never ceasing to carve with his dagger the meat that was
before him, on which he had just commenced when the interruption took
place.

On the other hand, Bernard de Rohan and each of his servants, as if
moved by the same impulse, started up at once. The young gentleman's
left hand fell naturally to grasp the scabbard of his sword, and, before
the man had done speaking, he had taken three steps towards the door of
the inn.

Two or three circumstances, however, occurred to interrupt him for a
moment. There were various confused movements on the part of many
persons present, and a clamour of several tongues all speaking at once.

At the same time the count exclaimed, "Stay one moment, baron! Stay and
drink one cup of wine with me before you go out in this sweet stormy
night to help one of the greatest scoundrels that Savoy can produce, or
France either. Stay, stay one moment! Well," he added, seeing Bernard de
Rohan turn from him with a look of impatience, "well, go and help
Masseran, if you will! Heaven send the rogues may have cut his throat
before you reach them!"

"Your horse, my lord!" cried one of the attendants.

"Your armour, sir!" said another.

"No, no, on foot! on foot!" cried Bernard de Rohan; "on foot as we are!
Time is everything. Lead on, fellow! lead on! Send us out torches, mine
host!"

The jovial priest had started up almost at the same time as his
travelling companion. "By our Lady, I will go with you!" he cried, "to
shrive the dying. It is a part of a priest's trade; though, I confess,
if I were knight, and noble and gallant cavalier, I would stay where I
am, like this brave count, and exercise my chivalry upon venison and
tankards of wine."

While he was speaking, there drew out from some dark corner of the
inn-kitchen--where he had remained unnoticed by any one--a tall, thin,
gaunt man, with a straw hat on his head, and a large, coarse brown cloak
enveloping almost the whole of his figure. He took three steps forward
into the full light, and certainly there had seldom been seen a more
striking, if not a more handsome countenance, or a more remarkable and
even graceful bearing, than that which the stranger presented. He was a
man apparently about five-and-thirty years of age, with aquiline
features, large, black, flashing eyes, the bronze of sun, and wind, and
storm upon his face, and five or six deep scars upon his cheek and brow.
He was remarkably erect in person, and, though certainly meager, was
broad-shouldered and muscular, or rather, perhaps, I may say, sinewy;
for the hand that grasped his cloak, and the part of the arm and wrist
seen above it, displayed the strong markings of the muscles like cords
under the skin.

He came directly in the way of Bernard de Rohan as the young cavalier
advanced towards the door; and it must be confessed that there was
something strange and startling in the sudden apparition of the
stranger, which made the other pause, and, with an involuntary motion,
advance his right hand towards the hilt of his sword.

He drew it back again instantly, however, somewhat ashamed of the
movement, while the new personage thus brought upon the stage said, in a
deep but melodious voice, "I will go with you too, young gentleman, and
may do you better service than our good friend the priest here."

"But, Master Leon," exclaimed the landlord of the inn, advancing towards
him with an entreating look.

"Hush!" cried the stranger, holding up his hand; and, at the same
moment, the jovial priest turned also upon the host, exclaiming, "Fry
your eggs, fry your eggs, Gandelot, and leave other people to fry
theirs. Don't be afraid! we'll not toss the omelet into the fire, nor
spill the grease, nor set the chimney in a blaze. You know me and I know
him; and, though he is the last man that should say I can't do good
service when I like it, yet I will go with him without a quarrel!"

When every one is speaking at once, a conversation which would be
otherwise long is very rapidly brought to a conclusion; and though, as
we have seen, there were here two or three interlocutors, all that we
have described scarcely interrupted Bernard de Rohan half a minute.
"Lead on, lead on, then!" he exclaimed impatiently, addressing the
servant who had made the appeal for assistance, and to whom the Count de
Meyrand had been addressing a few words in a low tone. "Lead on, I say,
quick!" and in another moment they were all beyond the door of the inn,
and standing upon the mountain-side in the cold air of night.

The count remained at the table; and, shaping their conduct upon that of
their lord, not one of his servants attempted to move. Meyrand, however,
did not, upon the whole, seem particularly well satisfied with what had
taken place. Perhaps he might not be quite contented with the inactive
part he was playing; and it is certain he asked himself whether Bernard
de Rohan could attribute his conduct to want of courage. He recollected,
however, that they had mounted to the assault of many a well-defended
breach together, and he felt sure that there could be no doubt of that
kind on his companion's mind. He remained in thought, however, for a
minute or two longer, forgetting even the supper that was before him,
and the air of indifference which he usually bore; but at length he
beckoned one of his men to his side, and spoke a few words to him in a
very low tone, only suffering the last two to be heard: they were, "You
understand!"

The man bowed his head in reply, called three of his companions away
from the table, sought hastily in the different corners of the inn
kitchen for various offensive weapons, and then left the place, as if to
follow and assist Bernard de Rohan and his party.




CHAPTER III.


It had nearly ceased raining, but the night, as we have said, was cold
and chilly, the sky was still covered with thick clouds, and the air was
full of thick darkness; to use the expressive words of Scripture, a
darkness that could be felt. Bernard de Rohan and his companions paused
for a moment before the door of the little inn, listening to catch any
sounds of the conflict from which the servant seemed so freshly to have
come.

All was silent, however. The rushing sound of the mountain torrents,
swelled by the late rains; the sighing of the night winds among the
gorges of the mountains and through the deep pine forests; the distant
cry of a wolf, and the whirring scream of the night-hawk, as it flitted
by, were all heard distinctly; but no human voice mingled with the other
sounds.

This silence, however, gave no assurance to the heart of Bernard de
Rohan that the persons for whom the servant had appealed to his chivalry
had escaped from their assailants. It was well known at that time that
every part of Savoy was infested with bands of brigands, which had
rather increased than diminished in number since France had taken
possession of the country; so that, unable to put them down, the famous
Marechal de Brissac, in order to restrain their indiscriminate ravages
in some degree, had been obliged to give them occasional employment with
his own forces. When not thus employed, however, they were known to lay
wait in all the principal passes, both of Piedmont and Savoy, and take
toll of all travellers with a strong hand. Enormous barbarities were
from time to time charged against them; and, if one might judge from
general rumour, no scheme was too wild, no act too violent and desperate
for them to devise and execute. The only conclusion, therefore, which
Bernard de Rohan drew from the absence of all sounds of conflict was,
that the banditti had prevailed, and either murdered their victims or
carried them off.

"Quick! quick!" he cried, after that momentary pause. "Lead on, lead on,
good fellow! Where are your lord and lady? Which is the way?"

"This way, noble sir, this way," cried the man, advancing at once along
the road which led more immediately into the mountains. "They cannot
have gone far: I could hear the voices of the brigands from the inn
door."

Thus saying, he led the way onward with great speed; but, as Bernard de
Rohan followed with the same quick pace, the clear, deep voice of the
man whom the host had called Master Leon sounded in his ear, saying,
"There is some mistake here, and I think some villany; but fear not."

"Fear!" replied Bernard de Rohan, turning his head towards him. "Do you
suppose I fear?"

"No, I suppose not," replied the man; "but yet there was no common
interest in your eye, good youth, when this knave talked of his young
mistress, and one may fear for others, though not for themselves. But
hark! I hear a noise on before. Voices speaking. Some one complaining, I
think. Quick, quick! Run, Sir Varlet, run!"

At the rapid pace at which they now proceeded they soon heard the sounds
more distinctly before them. There was a noise of horses, and a jingling
as of the bells of mules. The murmuring of a number of voices, too, came
borne upon the air down the pass, and some four or five hundred yards
farther up the servant, who was now running on as fast as possible,
stumbled over a wounded man, who uttered a cry of pain. But the young
man and his companions slackened not their pace, for by this time they
could plainly hear some sharp and angry voices pouring forth oaths and
imprecations, and urging what seemed to be a band of prisoners to hurry
forward more rapidly. At the same time the light of a torch, or more
than one, was seen gleaming upon the gray rocks and green foliage, and
on one occasion it threw upon the flat face of a crag on the other side
of the ravine the shadow of a large body of men with horses and other
beasts of burden.

"Now out with your swords," cried the personage named Leon, in a tone of
authority, "for we are gaining on them quick, and I doubt not shall have
stout resistance."

Bernard de Rohan's sword was already in his hand before the other spoke,
and, hurrying on, the next moment he reached an angle of the rock, from
which he could plainly discern the whole party that he was pursuing. He
paused for an instant as he saw them, and well might that sight make him
do so, for the torchlight displayed to his eyes a body of at least
fifteen or sixteen armed men, some of them mounted, some of them on
foot, driving on in the midst of them two or three loaded horses, and
seven or eight men and women, several of them apparently having their
hands tied. The party was about two hundred yards in advance; and,
though the torchlight was sufficient to show him the particulars which
we have mentioned, yet it did no more than display the gleaming of the
arms and the fluttering of the women's garments, without at all giving
any indication of the rank or station to which the prisoners belonged.

The young cavalier, it must be remembered, was accompanied by only five
persons, and the greater part of those five were, like himself, but
lightly armed. His momentary pause, however, was only to reconnoitre the
enemy, without the slightest hesitation as to what his own conduct was
to be. He knew the effect of a sudden and unexpected attack, and
calculated upon some assistance also from the prisoners themselves; but,
had he had nothing but his own courage in his favour, his conduct would
have been the same. He was again hurrying on, when the powerful grasp of
the man named Leon was laid upon his arm, and stayed him.

"Hush!" he said: "do not be too quick! Do you not see that these men are
no brigands, as you thought?"

"How should I see that?" demanded Bernard de Rohan, turning sharply upon
him. "Who but brigands would commit an act like this?"

"Think you that brigands would have torches with them?" said his
companion, calmly. "Pause a moment, pause a moment: let them get round
yon point of the rock; for, if they hear us coming, and see how few we
are, we shall be obliged to do things that we had better not. Beyond the
rock they will be cooped up in a little basin of the hills, where they
can be attacked with advantage."

"You seem to know the country well," said Bernard de Rohan, gazing upon
him with some suspicion, as the light of the torches, faintly reflected
from the other side of the valley, served partially to display his dark
but fine countenance.

"Ay! I do know it well!" replied the other: "so well, that from the foot
of that rock which they are now turning, I will guide you up by a path
over the shoulder of the hill till we meet them in front, at the same
time that some of your people attack them in the rear."

Bernard de Rohan did now hesitate, but it was only for a moment. His
mind was not naturally a suspicious one; and, of course, had the
proposal been made by any one whom he knew, the advantages of such a
plan would have instantly struck him, and he would have followed it at
once. But the man who suggested it was unknown to him: nay, more, there
was something in his tone, his manner, in his whole appearance, which,
to say the best, was strange and unusual. His garb, as far as it had
been seen, was unlike that of the peasantry of Savoy; and, in short,
there was that about him which naturally tended to create a doubt as to
his ordinary pursuits and occupations.

Bernard de Rohan hesitated then, but it was with the hesitation of only
one moment. He had been accustomed to deal with and to command fierce
and reckless men; and, though his years were not sufficient to have
given what may be called the _insight of experience_, he had by nature
that clear discernment of the human character which is the meed of some
few, and may be called the _insight of instinct_.

During his momentary pause, then, he saw that the dark eye of his
companion was fixed upon him as if reading what was passing in his mind.
The jovial priest also seemed to penetrate his thoughts, and said, in a
low voice, "You may trust him! You may trust him! He never betrayed any
one."

"I do trust him," cried Bernard de Rohan, turning round and grasping the
stranger's hand; "I trust him entirely. You and I," he continued, "will
go over the hill alone. If I judge right, we have both been in many a
hot day's strife, and can keep that narrow road without much assistance.
It is better that there should be a show of more people behind."

As he spoke, the faint flash of the receding torches showed him a smile
upon his companion's countenance. "Come on slowly," said Corse de Leon,
"and keep near the rock; we shall soon get up with them, for they are
encumbered, and we are free."

Thus saying, he led the way, remaining, as far as possible, under the
shadow of the crags till the last of the party before them had turned
the angle beyond, and the whole valley was again in darkness. The
cavalier and those who were with him then hurried their pace till they
reached a spot where a point of rock jutted out into the valley. There
the stranger paused, bidding the attendants of the young nobleman pursue
their way along the road till they came up with the rear of the other
party, and then attack them as suddenly and vehemently as possible.
"Make all speed," he said, "for we shall be there before you, cutting
off the corner of the hill. Here, priest!" he continued, "here's a
pistol and a dagger for you. You'll need something to work with. Now
quick on your way, for the moon will be out in a few minutes, if one may
judge by the paleness of that cloud's edge, and her light would betray
our scanty numbers. Follow me, baron! Here! Upon this rock! Catch by
that bough! Another step, and you are in the path!"

As he spoke, he himself sprang up, seeming well acquainted with every
stock and every stone in the way; Bernard de Rohan followed with less
knowledge of the path, but all the agility of youth and strength, and
they had soon nearly reached the brow of the hill.

"Out upon the pale moon!" cried Bernard de Rohan's companion, pausing
and gazing up towards the sky. "She shines at the very moment she should
not. See how she is casting away those clouds, as if she were opening
the hangings of her tent! We may go slow, for we shall be far before
them."

He now led the way onward with a slower pace; and, after ascending for
somewhat more than a quarter of a mile, the path began to descend again
as if to rejoin the road. Every step was now clear, for the moon was
shining brightly; and though no one, probably, could see Bernard de
Rohan and his companion as they took their way among the rhododendrons
and junipers which were thickly mingled with the fragments of rock
around, yet they themselves, from time to time, caught a distinct view
of the valley. An occasional flash of light upon their left hand, too,
but a good deal in the rear, soon showed Bernard de Rohan that his guide
had told him the truth in regard to the shortness of the path he had
taken, though he could not absolutely see the road, or those who were
travelling along it. At length, however, they reached a spot where the
path which they were following wound along within ten yards of the chief
road itself, and, choosing a small break nearly surrounded with tall
shrubs and broken masses of crag, Corse de Leon stopped, saying, "It
will be well to stay for their coming here. They will take full ten
minutes to reach this place. You wait for them here; I will climb a
little farther up, to watch them as they come, and will be back again in
time."

If Bernard de Rohan entertained any suspicion in regard to his guide's
purposes, he knew that it would be vain to show it, and therefore he
made no opposition to the plan that his companion proposed, but let him
depart without a word; and then, choosing a spot among the trees where
he could see without being seen, he gazed down into the little basin
formed by the surrounding hills. The clear light of the moon was now
streaming bright and full into the valley, only interrupted from time to
time for a single moment by fragments of the clouds driven across by the
wind; but at first Bernard de Rohan could see nothing of the party which
he was pursuing; for the road, as usual, wound in and out along the
irregular sides of the mountain, being raised upon a sort of terrace
some two hundred feet above the bottom of the valley. In a moment or
two, however, he caught sight of them again, coming slowly on, but with
their torches now extinguished, and presenting nothing but a dark mass,
brightened here and there by the reflection of the moon's light from
some steel cap or breastplate.

The time seemed long, and their advance slow, to Bernard de Rohan; for,
although he had lain in many an ambush against the foe, and had taken
part in many an encounter where the odds against him were scarcely less
than those which were now presented, yet, of course, he could not but
feel some emotion in awaiting the result--that deep and thrilling
interest, in fact, which has nothing to do with fear, and approaches
perhaps even nearer to joy--the interest which can only be felt in the
anticipation of a fierce but noble strife, where, knowing the amount of
all we risk, we stake life and all life's blessings upon the success of
some great and generous endeavour. He felt all this, and all the
emotions which such a state must bring with it; and thus, longing to
throw the die, he found the moments of expectation long.

Now seen and now lost to his sight, the party continued to advance, and
yet his strange companion did not make his appearance. The young
nobleman judged that he could not be far, indeed, for once or twice he
heard the bushes above him rustle, while a stone or two rolled down into
the bottom of the valley; and he thought he distinguished Leon's voice
murmuring also, as if talking to himself. At length there was a clear
footfall heard coming down the steepest part of the mountain, and in
another moment the stranger stood once more by Bernard de Rohan's side.
As he came near, he threw off the cloak which he had hitherto worn, and
cast it into one of the bushes, saying to it as he did so, "I shall find
you, if I want you, after this is over."

His appearance now, however, left Bernard de Rohan scarcely a doubt in
regard to the nature of his usual occupation. When his cloak was thus
thrown off, his chest and shoulders were seen covered with that peculiar
sort of corslet or brigantine, which originally gave name to the bands
called Brigands. His arms were free, and unencumbered with any defensive
armour; and over his right shoulder hung a buff baldric, suspending his
long, heavy sword. This was not all, however; another broad leather belt
and buckle went round his waist, containing, in cases made on purpose
for them, a store of other weapons if his sword blade should chance to
fail; among which were those long and formidable knives which, in the
wars of the day, were often employed by foot soldiers to kill the
chargers of their mounted adversaries. Daggers of various lengths were
there also, together with the petronel or large horse pistol, which was
so placed, however, as to give free room for his hand to reach the hilt
of his sword.

In this guise he approached Bernard de Rohan, saying, "You see, baron, I
am better prepared for this encounter than you are. You have nothing but
your sword: you had better take one of these," and he laid his finger
upon the butt of a petronel.

"My sword will not fail me," replied Bernard de Rohan, with a smile. "I
see, indeed, you were better qualified to judge whether these were
brigands or not than I was."

"They are no brigands," replied the other; "brigands know better what
they are about;" and, as he spoke, he threw away his hat, and tied up
his long black hair, which fell over his ears and shoulders, with a
piece of riband. "I cannot very well understand," he continued, in the
same low tone, "what has become of your people and the priest: I could
see nothing of them from the height, and I almost fear that these
villains, fearing pursuit, have broken down the little wooden bridge
behind them, at what we call the Pas de Suzzette, where the stream falls
into the river."

"Hark!" said Bernard de Rohan. "They are coming up;" and, grasping his
sword, he took a step forward.

"Wait," said the brigand, laying hold of his arm. "Give your people the
last minute to attack them in the rear. By Heavens, they ought to have
been here by this time."

The sound of horses' feet and human voices now became distinct from
below, and oaths and imprecations were still heard loud and vehemently,
as the captors hurried on their prisoners.

"Get you on, get you on!" exclaimed one voice: "don't you see how
quietly your lord is going."

"He is not my lord," cried another, in a faint tone. "I am wounded and
hurt, and cannot go faster."

"Get on, get on, villain!" reiterated the other voice. "You would fain
keep us till the fools behind mend the bridge and come up with us. Get
on, I say! If he do not walk faster, prick him with your dagger,
Bouchart. We will skin him alive when we get to the end of the march!
Drive it into him!"

A sharp cry succeeded: Bernard de Rohan could bear no more, but,
bursting away from the hand of the brigand, he sprang into the road.
Leon followed him at once; but, even before he was down, the young
cavalier's sword had stretched one of the advancing party on the ground,
and was crossed with that of another.

"Hold, hold!" shouted the loud voice of the brigand. "Hold, and throw
down your arms! Villains, you are surrounded on all sides!"

For a moment their opponents had drawn back; but the scanty number of
the assailants was seen before Corse de Leon uttered what seemed so
empty a boast.

"Cut him down," cried a voice from behind, "cut him down!" and one of
the horsemen spurred on towards him. Another, at the same moment, aimed
a blow at the head of Bernard de Rohan from behind, which struck him on
the shoulder and brought him on his knee, while a shot was fired at the
brigand, which struck his cuirass, but glanced off harmless.

"It is time we should have help," said Corse de Leon, in a cool tone;
and while, with his right hand, he drew a pistol from his girdle,
levelled it at the head of one of those who were contending with Bernard
de Rohan, fired, and saw the man fall over into the valley below, with
the left he applied a small instrument to his lips, producing a loud,
long, shrill whistle, which those who have heard it will never forget.
It is like the scream of a bird of prey, but infinitely louder; and the
moment it proceeded from the lips of the brigand, similar sounds echoed
round and round from twenty different points above, below, and on the
opposite side.

When Bernard de Rohan staggered up from his knee, the scene was
completely changed. Corse de Leon stood no longer alone, but with three
stout men by his side armed to the teeth. The fragments of rock and
large stones that were rolling from above showed that rapid footsteps
were coming down the side of the mountain. Up from the rocky bed of the
stream five or six other men were seen climbing with the activity of the
chamois or the izzard, and, to complete the whole, the whistle was still
heard prolonged up the valley, while, from the same side, the ear could
distinguish the galloping of horse coming down with furious speed.

The party of the adversary, however, was large. All were well armed; all
evidently accustomed to strife and danger; and had all apparently made
up their minds to struggle to the last. They accordingly made a fierce
charge along the road, in order to force their way on; and the strife
now became hand to hand, and man to man, while, above the contest, the
loud voice of the brigand leader was heard shouting, "Tie them! Tie
them! Do not kill them if you can help it!"

Nor was his assumption of certain success unjustified. Every moment
fresh numbers were added to the party of Corse de Leon. The adversaries
were driven back along the road, dragging the prisoners with them some
way, but were stopped by fresh opponents, dropping, as it were, from the
mountains, and cutting them off in their retreat. They were still
struggling, however, when at length eight or nine horsemen, the sound of
whose approach had been heard before, reached the scene of combat; and
then, seeing that farther resistance was vain, several of them uttered a
cry of "Quarter! quarter! We will throw down our arms."

"Here, take my sword, Doland," said the brigand leader to one of his
men. "Wipe it well, and go back for my hat and cloak, which I left among
the bushes by the cross of St. Maur. Well, baron," he continued, turning
to Bernard de Rohan, "I am afraid you have to regret the want of your
armour: that was a bad blow on your head."

"No, it struck my shoulder," replied Bernard de Rohan, "where my buff
coat is doubled. There is no great harm done."

"You had better keep behind," continued Corse de Leon, in a low voice.
"I wished not to have displayed my men at all had it been possible to
avoid it, but it could not be helped. However, you had better not show
yourself with us. It may make mischief."

"But the lady," said Bernard de Rohan, "the lady: let me go and speak to
her and set her free: I have no fear of being seen."

"Leave it to me, leave it to me," said the brigand. "You shall have
opportunity enough to speak with her, and she shall know who is her
deliverer. Will you not trust me after all this night's work?"

"Entirely," replied Bernard de Rohan; "but it is natural, when one aids
a lady in scenes like these, to wish to speak with her, to sooth and
tranquillize her."

"Especially when one loves her," replied the brigand, laughing. "But you
shall speak with her in a moment, only keep back for the present."

Bernard de Rohan had neither the will nor the power to resist. The
brigand, indeed, might well assume the tone of command, for at that
moment there could be no successful opposition to his will; but, besides
this consideration, there were other feelings in the bosom of the young
cavalier which inclined him to yield at once.

Everything that he had seen was calculated to surprise and perplex him.
The knowledge which his strange companion seemed to have of his history
and circumstances; the state of active preparation in which he had found
him, as if he had been aware, long before, of all that was about to
occur, and had taken measures to meet every contingency; the interest
which he had shown in an enterprise that seemed not to concern him at
all, and the active and vehement opposition he had evinced to persons
apparently engaged in the same trade of violence with himself, were all
unaccountable to Bernard de Rohan; and he paused with some anxiety to
see what would be the next act in the strange drama in which he himself
was bearing a part.

While the brief conversation which I have narrated took place between
the brigand and the young cavalier, the successful party had drawn
closer and closer round their adversaries, and were busily disarming and
tying them. This operation, being carried on with great dexterity and
rapidity, had advanced considerably, when Leon again strode forward into
the midst of them to give farther directions.

"Not so tight! not so tight, Antoine!" he said: "you'll cut his wrists
with those thongs. Take off his corslet, Pierre. You cannot get it off
when his arms are tied. If he resists, pitch him over into the stream.
That horse will break away and be lost. Some of you come and untie my
Lord of Masseran and his people. Noble signior," he continued, and
Bernard de Rohan thought that he heard a good deal of bitter mockery in
his tone, "I pray you tell me what is to be done with these insolent
villains, who have dared to lay violent hands upon you and your lady
wife's fair daughter. Shall we either put them to death on the
spot--which, perhaps, would be the wisest plan, as the dead are very
silent--or shall we send them, bound hand and foot, to your chateau,
that you may give them your own directions as to what they are to say
and do?"

These words were addressed to a tall, graceful man, somewhere between
forty and fifty years of age, who had appeared as one among the
prisoners of the party just overthrown. He seemed not particularly well
pleased with the brigand's speech, and replied in a tone somewhat
sullen, "You must do with them as you please, sir, and with us also,
though from your words I suppose that you mean us good and not evil."

"Oh, certainly, my good lord," replied the other; "I am here to free
you, and you shall be safely conducted by my people to your own abode.
Am I, by your authority, then, to treat these men as they deserve?"

The Lord of Masseran seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then replied
sharply, "By all means! By all means! They well deserve punishment."

"Oh! spare them! spare them!" cried a lady's voice. "They have done
evil, certainly; but they might have treated us worse. Do not hurt them,
sir."

"Lady," replied the brigand, "I will only punish them as they deserve,
and you yourself shall hear the sentence. Strip off every man's coat.
Take off the bridles of their horses, and therewith flog them down the
valley to Gandelot's inn. When they are there, they will know what to do
with themselves. Now, lady, this is but small measure of retribution for
bad acts. Quick, my men, quick. You must take them over the hill, for
the bridge is broken."

He then spoke a few words to one of his companions in a low tone; after
which he returned once more to Bernard de Rohan, who had remained
behind, asked particularly after the wounds he had received, and
inquired whether he were fit to escort a lady some two leagues that
night. He spoke with a smile, and there was no hesitation in the young
cavalier's reply. Before their short conversation was ended, the
brigand's orders in regard to his prisoners were in the act of
execution; and certain it is that the discipline to which they were
subjected was sufficiently severe, if one might judge by many a piteous
cry which echoed up the valley for some minutes after they were driven
in a crowd down the road. The young lady covered her eyes with her hands
and remained silent; but a grim smile came upon the countenance of the
Lord of Masseran, as if there was something pleasant to him in the music
of human suffering.

There were still some ten or twelve of Leon's band around, and their
next task was to untie the hands of such of the Lord of Masseran's
people as were still bound. "Now, sir," continued the brigand, as soon
as this was accomplished, "you shall have good escort back to your
chateau. But we must go in separate parties. You and your four servants
under the careful protection of Elois here, by the mountain path you
know of. The young lady I myself will escort by the longer, but the
smoother road."

"Nay! nay!" exclaimed the Lord of Masseran, quickly. "Why separate us?
If you mean well by her, why not let--"

"Because it pleases me not," replied the brigand, in a stern tone. "Who
is lord here upon the side of the mountain but I? You are lord in your
chateau, and none dare answer you. But I am lord in the moonlight and on
the hillside, and none shall answer me."

"Oh! in pity, in pity!" exclaimed the young lady, holding out her hands
with a gesture of entreaty. But the brigand advanced to her horse's
side, and spoke a word to her in a low tone. She let her hands drop
again without reply, and Bernard de Rohan, who had remained in the
shade, while the moonlight fell full upon her, could see her eyes
suddenly turn towards the spot where he stood.

"Lead on the Lord of Masseran, Elois," said the voice of Corse de Leon.
"Leave that poor fellow who seems wounded with the lady, and take the
rest with you."

There was no reply, and the Savoyard nobleman, with his companions, was
led on by a strong party of the brigands up the valley, and then across
the stream. As he passed Bernard de Rohan, he fixed his eyes upon him
for a moment, but made no observation; and, at the same time, the
brigand held up his finger to the young cavalier, as if directing him
still to forbear for a time.

As soon as the hill hid the other party from their sight, Bernard de
Rohan, unable to bear the restraint any longer, sprang forward to the
lady's side, and threw his arms around her. His head was bare, and, as
he looked up towards her, the moonlight fell full upon his face. As if
still doubtful, however, she gazed wildly and eagerly upon him; parted
the curls of his hair with her hands back from his forehead; then threw
her arms round his neck, and, bending her head, wept upon his shoulder.




CHAPTER IV.


"At length! at length! Bernard," said the voice of the young lady; and
the heart of Bernard de Rohan echoed the words "At length! at length!"
as he pressed her hand in his.

"At length! at length! Bernard," she said, "you have come back to me."

"Did you not send me from you yourself, Isabel?" he said, thinking there
was something almost reproachful in her tone. "And have I not returned
the moment you told me I might; the moment you called me to aid, and, I
trust, to deliver you? Would I ever have quitted you but at your own
word?"

"It is true! it is all true!" she said, in a gentle tone: "but I knew
not, dear Bernard, all that was to befall me; all the painful, the
anxious circumstances in which I was to be placed. We were then too
young, far too young, for me to press my father's promise. I had no
right to rob you of so many years of glory. My brother, too, wanted
protection and guidance in the field. At that time, everything looked
bright, and I thought that you, Bernard, would lead him forth to honour
and bring him back in safety. I knew you would, and you have done it.
But in those days I little dreamed that my mother, in her widowhood,
would willingly wed a stranger, and make her hand the hire of this
Savoyard, to serve the cause of France against his native prince. But
you have returned to me, Bernard," she continued, in a more joyful tone;
"you have returned to me, and all will be well again."

So ever thinks the inexperienced heart of youth, when, even for a single
moment, the dark clouds break away, and a ray of sunshine, however
transient, brightens up a day of storms.

"Be not too sure of that, lady!" said the deep voice of the brigand; "be
not too sure of that! There have been more dangers around you already
than you know of. They have not yet passed away, and, perchance, may
fall upon him as well as you."

"Heaven forbid!" she cried, turning her eyes first upon the countenance
of the man who spoke, and then with a softer and a tenderer look upon
her lover. "If it is to be so, I shall wish you back again, Bernard."

"Not so," said the brigand, "not so! We are fools to think that life is
to be a bright day, uncheckered with storms or misfortunes. There is but
one summer in the year, lady: the winter is as long; the autumn has its
frosts and its sear leaves; and the spring its cold winds and its
weeping skies. In the life of any one the bright portion is but small,
and he must have his share of dangers and sorrows as well as the rest.
They will be lighter if you share them, and if he shares yours. Let us
go forward on our way, however. Will you mount one of these horses,
baron, or walk by the lady's side? Oh, walk, will you? Then follow the
onward path. We will come on some hundred yards behind, near enough to
guard you, but not to interrupt."

Bernard de Rohan and the lady proceeded on their way. Nor did they fail
to take advantage of the moments thus afforded for conversing alone,
though no one in such circumstances does take sufficient advantage of
the moments. Our minds are so full of thoughts, our hearts so full of
feelings, that they crowd and confuse each other in seeking to make
their way forth. But a small part is ever spoken of that which might be
spoken; and, had the time of their journey been more than doubled, there
would still have been questions to ask, and plans to arrange, and hopes,
and wishes, and fears to express; and Love, too, would have had a world
to tell and to hear; and many a caress would have remained to be given,
and many a vow would yet have required to be renewed.

Thus, when at length, after advancing for nearly two hours, several
distant lights were seen upon the side of a dark hill beyond, as if
issuing from the windows of some building, they found that they had not
said half that they might have said, and wished that the minutes could
come over again. It is not, indeed, in such circumstances alone that man
casts away opportunities. It is all his life long, and every moment of
his life. Those opportunities are like the beautiful wild flowers that
blossom in every meadow and in every hedge, while, heedless or careless,
unseeing or unknowing, man passes them by continually, or walks upon his
way, and tramples them under his feet.

When they reached that spot, however, and the castle of Masseran was
before their eyes, the brigand came up at a quick pace, saying, "Let us
pause a moment, and see whether our companions have arrived before us.
It might be dangerous for his deliverers to come too near the Lord of
Masseran's gates without sufficient numbers."

As he thus spoke, he put the peculiar whistle which he carried to his
lips, producing a lower sound than before, but sufficiently loud to be
heard around, and call forth many an answer up to the very gates of the
castle itself.

"They are here," continued the brigand, "and the good lord is in his
hold. Now, lady, you have doubtless promised things which you may find
it difficult to perform. You have promised to see this noble cavalier,
and give him--if needs must be, by stealth--the happiness of your
presence; but I know better than you do how things will befall you. You
will be watched; you will never be suffered to leave that castle's gates
without a train, which will cut you off from speaking with any one. The
gardens of the castle, however, will doubtless be free, for the walls
are high, the gates securely locked, and the way up to them watched.
Nevertheless, there is the small postern in the corner of the lowest
terrace, hid by a tall yew-tree: lay your hand upon the handle of the
lock at any time of the day you please. If it open not at the first
trial, wait a moment, and try it again. You shall never try it three
times without finding that door give way to your hand."

"But he tells me," said the lady, speaking more directly to what was
passing in the brigand's thoughts than to what he actually expressed,
"but he tells me that he is actually on his way to visit my mother's
husband, charged with messages of import to him from the noble Marquis
of Brissac, and that to-morrow morning he will be there, openly
demanding admittance."

"See him in the evening also, lady, whatever befall," replied the other.
"There are more dangers round you than you wot of. But I will speak to
him farther as we return. Now you had better go on."

A few minutes more brought them nearly to the gates of the castle. The
brigand had remained behind to wait the coming up of his people. Bernard
de Rohan turned to see if they were approaching; but he could now
perceive no one upon the road but a single figure coming slowly on at
some distance, and leading a horse by the bridle. It was a moment not to
be lost. Once more he threw his arms round the lady beside him, and she
bent her head till their lips met. There were no farther words between
them but a few unconnected names of tenderness, and in a minute or two
after they were joined by the wounded servant, who had remained behind
with the lady and those who accompanied her when the Lord of Masseran
and the rest were sent on.

"Ah! my lord," he said, looking wistfully in the face of the young
cavalier, "you have forgotten me, but I have not forgotten you; and if
it had not been for my love and duty to my young mistress, I would have
been with you in Italy long ago, especially when the countess sold
herself to her stranger husband."

"No, indeed, Henriot, I have not forgotten you," replied Bernard de
Rohan; "and I beseech you, for love of me as well as your young
mistress, stay with her still, and be ever near her. I much doubt this
Lord of Masseran, and have heard no little evil of him. She may want
help in moments of need, and none can give her better aid than yourself;
but I fear you have been much hurt," he added, "for you walk feebly even
now."

"It will soon pass, my lord," replied the man; "but I see a light at the
gate: we had better go on quickly, if, as I judge, you would not be
recognised."

Bernard de Rohan took one more embrace, and then parted with her he
loved. He paused upon the road till, by the light which still shone from
the gate of the castle, he saw her and her follower enter and disappear
beneath the low-browed arch. He then turned away, and retrod his steps
along the side of the hill. He was left to do so for some way in
solitude, though he doubted not that the hillside and the valley below
him were both much more replete with human life than they seemed to be.
At the distance of little more than half a mile from the castle he was
forced to pause, for the moon had now sunk behind the mountain, and
there were two roads, one branching to either hand.

"Keep to the right," said a deep voice near him, as he stopped to choose
his path; and the next moment the brigand, coming forth from the bushes
among which he had been sitting, walked on upon his way beside him.

"Ours is a busy life, you see," he said; "but yet it is not every night
that we have so much business to do as we have had lately."

"Nor, I should think," replied Bernard de Rohan, "is it every night that
you have upon your hands business which can leave so much satisfaction
behind."

"I know not," answered the brigand, "and yet, in some sort, what you say
is true. For I have had pleasure in what I have done: I have had
pleasure in serving that bright lady; why, it matters not: I have had
pleasure in serving you; why, it matters not: I have had pleasure in
frustrating a base and villanous scheme; why, it matters not. But you
must not think, baron, that in the ordinary business of my everyday life
there are any of those weak thoughts about me which poison its
enjoyments and make the memory of each day bitter. You and I are
different beings, born for a different course."

"We are both men," said Bernard de Rohan.

"Ay!" answered the brigand; "and so are the dove and falcon both birds.
As well might that dove think that the life of the falcon must be
miserable because it is a bird of prey, as you judge of my feelings by
your own. I am a bird of prey; I am the brother of the eagle on the
rock. Our joys and our pursuits are the same; and they leave no more
regret with me than they do with that eagle, when he folds his wings in
his eyrie after the day's chase is done."

The comparison was one which, as Bernard de Rohan very well understood,
was pleasant and satisfactory to his companion's feelings, but he could
not admit its justice to any great extent. He cared not to point out,
however, where it failed, and merely replied, "But there is a difference
between men and brutes. Man has his reason to guide him, and must be
governed by laws. The eagle has no law but the instinct which God has
given him."

"Is not God's law the best?" exclaimed the brigand. "God gave the eagle
his law, and therefore that law is right. It is because man's law is not
God's law that I stand here upon the mountain. Were laws equal and just,
there would be few found to resist them. While they are unequal and
unjust, the poor-hearted may submit and tremble; the powerless may yield
and suffer: the bold, the free, the strong, and the determined fall back
upon the law of God, and wage war against the injustice of man. If you
and I, baron," he continued, growing excited with the heat of his
argument, "if you and I were to stand before a court of human justice,
as it is called, pleading the same cause, accused of the same acts,
would our trial be the same, our sentence, our punishment? No! all would
be different; and why? Because you are Bernard de Rohan, a wealthy baron
of the land, and I am none. A name would make the difference. A mere
name would bring the sword on my head and leave yours unwounded. If so
it be, I say--if such be the world's equity, I set up a retribution for
myself. I raise a kingdom in the passes of these mountains: a kingdom
where all the privileges of earth are reversed. Here, under my law, the
noble, and the rich, and the proud are those that must bow down and
suffer; the poor, and the humble, and the good those that have
protection and immunity. Go ask in the peasant's cottage: visit the good
pastor's fireside: inquire of the shepherd of the mountain, or the
farmer on the plains. Go ask them, I say, if under the sword of Corse de
Leon they lose a sheep from their flock or a sheaf from their field. Go
ask them if, when the tyrant of the castle--the lawless tyrant; or the
tyrant of the city--the lawful tyrant, plunders their property, insults
their lowliness, grinds the face of the poor, or wrings the heart of the
meek, ask them, I say, if there is not retribution to be found in the
midnight court of Corse de Leon, if there is not punishment and justice
poured forth even upon the privileged heads above."

Bernard de Rohan felt that it would be useless to argue with him; for it
was evident that he was not one of those who are doubtful or wavering in
the course they pursue. There was some truth, too, in what the man said:
truth which Bernard de Rohan ventured to admit to his own heart, even in
that age, when such sentiments could only be looked upon as treasonable.
He was silent, then, considering how to reply, when the brigand himself
went on.

"Think not," he continued, "that I have chosen my part without deep
thought. There are some--and perhaps you think me one of them--who are
driven by circumstances, led by their passions, or their follies, or
their vices, to a state of opposition with the rest of mankind, and who
then, when cast out from society, find a thousand specious reasons for
warring against it. But such is not my case. Ever since my youth have
such things been dwelling in my mind. I had pondered them long. I had
fully made up my mind as to what was right and what was wrong, years
before injustice and iniquity--years before the insolence of privileged
tyranny drove me forth to practise what I had long proposed. Here I
exercise the right that is in man. I take the brown game upon the
mountain, which is mine as much as that of any noble in the land. I pay
no tax to king or to collector. There is no duty on the wine I drink.
There is no toll upon the roads I follow. You will say that I do more
than this: that I take from others what is not mine and what is theirs;
but I have told you why I do so. They have taken from me what was not
theirs; and I wage war against a world which first waged war against me;
in which, even among themselves, the hand of every one is against his
brother; in which, whether it be in camp, or court, or city, or mart, or
church, injustice and iniquity are striving to snatch from one another
the rod of oppression, and keep the humble beneath their own yoke."

"I cannot think," replied Bernard de Rohan, willing to answer as
generally as possible, "I cannot think that the state of society is so
terrible as you represent it. There may be occasional instances of
corruption and oppression, and doubtless there are. I have seen some
myself, and endeavoured to prevent them; but still these things are by
no means general."

"Not general!" exclaimed the brigand, turning upon him almost fiercely.
"Sir Baron, I say they are universal. There are one or two exceptions,
it is true. You are one of those exceptions yourself. You are one of
those who deserve to be convinced; and I can convince you. I can show
you men who pretend to be holy, and humble, and good, oppressing most
basely those who are in their power. I can show you tyranny and
injustice at every step and in every station throughout the earth, from
the tradesman's shop to the monarch's throne. I can show it to you in
every garb, and in every profession, and in every place. I can, ay, and
will show it to you, within these twelve months, in such forms of
cruelty and blood that you shall say the brigand on the hillside is mild
compared with the man of courts or the man of refectories; that he may
be an eagle, but that these are vultures."

"I see not," replied Bernard de Rohan, with a smile, "I see not how you
can show me all this. You forget that we shall most likely part here in
Savoy. That, as soon as I can rescue Mademoiselle de Brienne from the
situation in which she is placed, I shall hasten onward to my own
country, and we shall most likely never meet again."

"Not so, not so," replied the brigand. "We shall meet again. Either with
her or without her, you must, as you say, go thither soon. My steps are
bound likewise towards France; for think not that I dwell always here,
or appear always thus: were it so, my head would soon be over the gate
of Chamberry. I will find means to show you a part of what I have said,
perhaps to give you some assistance likewise, when you most need and
least expect it. But remember," he added, "if misfortunes should befall
me, or danger threaten me, it is a part of our compact that you do not
strive to give me any aid; that you neither raise your voice nor your
arm in my behalf."

"Nay, nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "I cannot promise that. I must
ever remember the generous assistance you have afforded me this night,
and must do my best to prove that I am grateful for it."

"The best way of proving it," replied the brigand, "is by doing what I
ask you. You are held wise for a young man: now ask yourself if you can
judge so well of what is for my advantage as I can judge myself. I tell
you that I have many means of deliverance which you know nothing of;
and, therefore, any attempt to aid me, without my asking you, might ruin
me and ruin yourself likewise."

"If you will ask me," replied Bernard de Rohan, "when aid can be
serviceable to you, I shall be contented."

"I will, I will," answered the brigand; "and now tell me, What have you
arranged with fair Isabel of Brienne? for I take an interest in your
fate and hers."

"You seem indeed to do so," replied the young cavalier; "and yet I know
not why it should be so, for I cannot remember that we ever met before."

"Once," replied the brigand, "only once. Several years ago we were side
by side, but for a moment. You and I, and that fair girl, and her
brother--her brother, the young Count Henry, who is now in Paris. It was
but for a moment, but that moment was one by me never to be forgotten."

"I cannot recall it," replied Bernard de Rohan. "It is strange, too, if
it was a moment of such importance. But you say that her brother is in
Paris: I wrote to Henry to meet me in Grenoble, and I think he must be
there by this time."

"Oh! he is in Paris still," replied the other. "He is a good youth; but
he is weak and young--ay, younger than his years. He will be easily
persuaded to stay in Paris, and flutter in bright silks, and flaunt at
tournaments, run at the ring, or fence at Moors' heads upon a turning
pole. He is at Paris still, depend upon it; and, if you count upon his
coming ere you claim the lady's hand, you must seek him in the capital,
and bring him with you."

"I shall demand her hand at once," replied Bernard de Rohan; "but we
doubt that there will be opposition from one who has no right to make
it; and, to bear down that opposition, Henry de Brienne must be with me.
He is the guardian of his father's promise solemnly given to me before I
first went to Italy. But I will write to him as soon as day breaks
to-morrow. Hark! do you not hear voices coming up the pass?"

"Most likely your servants and the priest," replied the brigand.

"I wonder they have not joined us before," replied Bernard de Rohan. "We
should have fared ill if their assistance had been all we had to trust
to."

"They could not do better," replied the brigand. "The other party had
caught a sight of us when you stood to argue with me at the corner of
the rock, and they broke down the little wooden bridge behind them. Your
servants know none of the paths; the priest knows not that which we
took; so doubtless, by this time, they think that we are hewed into
mincemeat. However, remember at that spot, by the broken bridge, a loud
halloo, a blast of your horn, or a whistle thrice repeated, will at any
time bring some one to you who can lead you to me should you want my
assistance. Now, jolly priest, now," he added, raising his voice, "here
we are safe, though no great thanks to you."

"If you are safe, and sound, and sober," said the priest, coming up with
the attendants of Bernard de Rohan, "it is more than I expected; for we
could not reach you for our lives; and as we were scrambling over the
hills, and each losing his way according to his fancy, we heard as much
noise as at a boor's wedding, though the concert was somewhat different.
But now let us hasten back as fast as possible: why, we are a league and
a half from the inn, and I shall be so hoarse with shouting and the
night air that I shall not be able to sing matins."




CHAPTER V.


The Count de Meyrand was awake early, and dressed with the most
scrupulous exactness of appearance, without a riband tumbled or a point
out of place. He descended slowly about seven of the clock from the
chamber in which he had passed the night, by the long black
double-railed staircase, that led at once from the rooms above into the
kitchen, which, as I have said before, served also as the saloon of the
inn. His air and his countenance bore the same appearance of
indifference which they usually displayed, and he made no inquiry
whatsoever regarding the events of the preceding evening, although he
had retired to rest more than an hour before Bernard de Rohan had
returned to the inn. His servants came and went, seeking directions
concerning this thing and that, and communicating with him, from time to
time, in a low tone. The aubergiste, with many a lowly reverence, asked
his distinguished guest manifold questions concerning his breakfast; but
still the Count de Meyrand was not heard to ask any questions either
regarding the fate of his friend, or the somewhat remarkable events
which had lately taken place.

At length, however, the jovial priest made his appearance; and whether
it was that the count was in a better humour for raillery than on the
night before, or whether he remarked, by the keen twinkling of the
other's eye, that he was about to commence an attack upon him, which
would not easily cease, he chose to be the first to open the encounter,
saying, "Well, good father, though I know it is not an easy thing to
cool a priest's courage, yet I trust your last night's expedition has
rather diminished your chivalrous ardour."

"Not a whit," replied the priest. "Everything depends upon how much a
man's courage wants cooling. Yours, noble count, seems not of a quality
very likely to boil over; and, doubtless, ten steps from the door of the
inn would have sent you home shivering. Mine carried me, however, a
little farther."

"Ay, doubtless," interrupted the count, "up to the point where you met
with these rogues; and then you waited behind a great stone to see who
had the best of the fray. Is it not so? I see you have brought home no
desperate wounds with you."

"None," replied the priest, "that I cannot bear as tranquilly and well
as you, my noble lord, could bear the sorrow of your best friend. My
trade, however, is not bloodshed; I love not hard blows, and shall
always keep out of their way as far as I can. So my confession is made;
but here comes one who has a greater liking for wounds and bruises than
I have; and now Heaven send us all as good food as I have a good
stomach. Mine host! mine host! that omelet will be overdone, and the sin
of burned eggs is one to which I refuse absolution. By Hercules! as the
Romans used to say--Body of Bacchus! as the Italians say--Dame! as we
say in France, did ever mortal man see such a basket of fine trouts?
Why, it is a gift for an abbot! Look! my noble baron, look!" he
continued, turning to Bernhard de Rohan, who now made his appearance;
"did you ever see such fair river-gods in your life? Put them upon the
ashes, host, put them upon the ashes!"

Bernard de Rohan did not pay so much attention to the fishes as the
priest, by his commendation, seemed to think they deserved; but, turning
to his friend, he shook him by the hand, saying, "Well, Meyrand, you
certainly always were a very unaccountable sort of personage, or I
should be inclined seriously to quarrel with you for suffering me to go
last night without assistance, at the imminent risk of getting my throat
cut for want of your help."

"If you risked getting your throat cut, De Rohan," replied his
companion, "that was your fault; I had nothing to do with that; I even
deviated so far from my usual habits as to ask you to stay, and not do
it. I have always a reason for everything I do, good Sir Bernard, and I
take it for granted that other people have a reason too. I supposed that
you had some motive for going and getting your throat cut, and therefore
did not in the least blame you for doing so, if you chose; but I had no
reason for anything of the kind, and therefore I stayed where I was.
Indeed, I had every reason in the world not to go: I was warm and
comfortable, and had good wine and good viands before me; I was tired
with a long day's hunting, and had got my boots off. Then what to me was
the Lord of Masseran, that I should try to save his life or liberty? I
had no motive for serving him: indeed, quite the contrary. Every one
knows him to be an egregious scoundrel, and at this moment he owes me
thirty thousand crowns, which he will never pay, and which I have no
chance of getting, unless some honest brigand should cut his throat,
when the King of France would doubtless take possession of his lands and
pay his creditors."

"Good faith, you are better acquainted with him than I am," replied
Bernard de Rohan. "Pray let me know something of his history; for I
never heard anything of him till some six months ago, when letters from
France informed me that the widowed Countess of Brienne, the mother of
my friend and comrade, Henry of Brienne, was about to be married to a
Marquis of Masseran."

"Oh! his history is told in a few words," replied the Count de Meyrand,
laughing; "but serve the breakfast, my good host, and do not stand with
your mouth open listening to the venerable character of your noble lord,
for I take it we are here upon his domain."

"No, no!" replied the host, "he is no lord of mine, noble sir; this is
ducal domain we stand upon."

"It matters not," answered the count; "this Lord of Masseran, then,
Bernard, though his mother was a Frenchwoman, was born on the other side
of those Alps, a Piedmontese vagabond; half Frenchman, half Italian; a
sort of water-snake, neither adder nor eel; though a sort of third-size
sovereign, an underling of the Duke of Savoy. He who would have been
beggarly for a French gentleman, was ten times more beggarly for a
prince; and thus, in all probability, he would have gone on
living--filled with all the small Italian vices of our day; sharing, it
is said, with the brigands who take refuge on the territories of such
small lords; and employing the stiletto or the drug when it suited his
purpose to get rid of troublesome friends--thus, I say, he would have
gone on living what is considered in Italy a very respectable, quiet,
insignificant life, had a fancy not suddenly come into the head of our
worthy king to take possession of the dominions of his friend and
cousin, the Duke of Savoy, which fancy at once raises this Lord of
Masseran into a person of importance. He has, it seems, upon his lands
one or two small towns and one or two small castles; but these towns and
these castles are so situated as to command several passes and defiles
valuable to France. Now my Lord of Masseran is a conscientious man, and,
of course, nothing would ever induce him to take part with any one who
could not pay him for the same. From the poor Duke of Savoy not a livre
tournois was to be expected. The King of France himself, though a
perfect Croesus in promises, was known to be somewhat threadbare in
the treasury. He, however, was the more hopeful speculation of the two,
for he had power if he had not money, and there was a probability of his
paying one friend out of what he pillaged from another. With him, then,
my Lord of Masseran chose to deal, and promised to give free passage to
the troops of France upon certain conditions, which are, of course, a
secret. One thing, however, is evident; my Lord of Masseran did with the
king as some of our followers do when they take service of us. He asked,
in short, for something in hand. Now the worthy monarch of France had
nothing to give but the hand of a fair widow in her fortieth year. With
that hand, however, went a dowry of some twenty thousand crowns a year,
and the Lord of Masseran came to Paris and opened the campaign against
the widow's heart. She has the repute, as you should know better than
any one, of being somewhat hard and stern in her purpose, and cutting
with her tongue. She was inconsolable, too, for the death of her noble
husband; always wore black, like the mother of the late king, and looked
the picture of widowhood. My Lord of Masseran, however, with his
Piedmontese eloquence, found means to win the widow, with the support of
the king. The lady thought, it would seem, to spend her days in Paris;
but that city soon became a residence unsuited to the health of her new
husband. There were strange stories current regarding him; but there was
one thing certain, namely, that he was marvellously fond of those small,
square, spotted pieces of mischief, which have the art of conveying so
many fortunes from hand to hand. He played largely; he won generally;
and his fortune seemed immense. One night, at the Louvre, he borrowed
from me the large sum I have named, with a promise to repay it the next
morning; but it would seem that, after I left the hall, either fortune
went against him, or he took an irresistible longing for Savoy. His lady
raved and raged, we are told: but she found that she had now to do with
one, upon whose dull ear the sweet sounds of a woman's tongue, raised to
ever so high a pitch, had no effect. The Lord of Masseran paid not the
least attention to anything that she said; he did not seem to hear her;
but, with the most kind courtesy and ceremonious respect, handed her to
the carriage which was prepared to bear her away; and she found herself
on the road to Savoy before she could arrange any scheme for resistance.
This is his history; mine is soon told: I choose not so easily to
abandon my hold of my Lord of Masseran; and I am here hunting his game,
riding through his woods, and visiting his castle gate; for he seems to
me to be as deaf to my sweet solicitations for repayment as he showed
himself to the melodious intonations of his lady's voice. Now, priest,
though your clerical appetite may be good, do not devour all the trout
in the dish, for I am hungry as well as you, and have told a long
story."

"And a good one too," replied the priest, laughing, and putting over the
dish to the count; but he suddenly added, "Have you never got within the
gates of his castle, then, my noble lord?" and he fixed his eyes full
upon the face of the Count de Meyrand.

A very slight change of colour took place on the count's cheek; but he
replied at once, "Oh yes, I have been within, but to no purpose."

"He must be an obdurate man indeed," said the priest, "if your
persuasions, my noble lord, can have no effect upon him. I wonder what
mine would have! Perhaps he might listen to the voice of the Church: I
will go up and try."

"Why what hast thou to do with him?" demanded the count, suddenly
turning his eyes sharply upon the priest. "On what pretext wilt thou go
thither?"

"To exercise my calling," replied the priest, with a sly smile; "to
exercise my calling in one of its various ways."

"I knew not that your calling had various ways," replied the count, his
usual air of indifference verging into a look of supercilious contempt.

"Oh yes it has," replied the priest, well pleased, as it seemed to
Bernard de Rohan, that he had piqued the count out of his apathy. "Our
calling has various ways of exercising itself. We address ourselves to
all grades and classes. If I convert not the Lord of Masseran, I may
convert his cook, you know. My efforts for the good of his soul may
prove for the benefit of my own body; and the discourse that is held
over venison and capons comes with a fervour and an unction which is
marvellously convincing."

There was a sly and jocular smile upon the priest's countenance,
especially while addressing the Count de Meyrand, that somewhat puzzled
Bernard de Rohan, and evidently annoyed the count himself. It was not
difficult to see that, in the most serious things he said--though,
indeed, there were few that he did say which were serious at all--there
was a lurking jest, that seemed pointed at something which the hearer
did not clearly see, but which might or might not be something in his
own character, purposes, or pursuits.

The significance of his tone towards the Count de Meyrand, however, did
not pass without that gentleman's observation; and, after listening to
him for several minutes more, while the party concluded their breakfast,
he turned towards him as he rose, saying, "It seems to me, priest, that
you would fain be insolent. Now let me tell you, that, though you are
very reverend personages in Savoy, and men meddle with you warily, in
France we have a way of curing clerical insolence, which is a good
scourging with hunting-whips. Perhaps you do not know that this is the
way French gentlemen treat those who are insolent."

"I know it well," replied the priest, turning upon him sharply, "I know
it well, as I happen to be a French gentleman myself."

He instantly changed his tone, however, and added, with his wonted
smile, "Nay, but now, Heaven forbid! that I should be insolent to the
noble Count de Meyrand. He being a generous and well-bred gentleman,
and, like every other gentleman, indifferent to all things upon earth,
can never take offence where no offence is meant; but, as he looks
furious, I will take myself out of harm's way. The blessing of a whole
skin is great. Adieu, my son! adieu! We shall meet some time again, when
I shall find you, I trust, restored to temper, and as lamb-like and meek
as myself."

While he thus spoke, the priest gradually made his way to the door and
issued forth; while the Count of Meyrand, calling one of his attendants
to him, whispered something which Bernard de Rohan construed into an
order unfavourable to the safety of the jovial priest's shoulders.

"Nay, nay, Meyrand," he said, "let him have his jest, for pity's sake.
Recollect he is a priest."

"His gown sha'n't save him," replied the count. "Those priests have too
much immunity already in all parts of the world. But what do you now, de
Rohan? Will you hunt with me to-day, and we will drive this Lord of
Masseran's deer from one end of Savoy to the other? or do you go on to
Paris at once, and deny me your good company?"

"I write to Paris," replied the cavalier, "and send off a messenger
immediately. But I myself go up to seek this Lord of Masseran. I have
despatches for him from the Marechal de Brissac, and also some orders to
give by word of mouth."

"I hope they are not disagreeable orders," replied the count, turning
towards the door of the inn; "for he is not one of those whom I should
like to offend in his own castle."

"Oh no, I shall say nothing that should offend him," replied Bernard de
Rohan. "But, besides that, I shall not go till after the arrival of the
rest of my men, who come across the mountain this morning; and he might
find it rather dangerous to do me harm."

"His ways of dealing with troublesome friends are various," replied the
count. "I should love neither to dine nor to sleep in his dwelling. A
word to the wise, good friend, a word to the wise! Now, my men, quick!
quick! get ready the horses, bring out the dogs. You will not be
tempted, De Rohan?"

"I cannot now," replied his friend. "Another day, if I stay so long. I
wish you sport, I wish you good sport;" and, turning towards his
chamber, he caused a table to be brought, and materials for writing to
be placed before him. He there remained for nearly an hour and a half,
busily tracing upon paper those small black characters which, since some
man--whether Cadmus, who, if he did it, may well be said to have sown
dragons' teeth and reaped a harvest of strife, or whoever else the
learned world may have it--those black characters, I say, which, since
some man, not contented with what mischief the tongue can do, invented
writing for the propagation thereof, have worked more of wo and
mischief, as well as of happiness and prosperity, than any other
invention that the prolific mind of man ever brought forth. At length
the sound of a trumpet coming down the hill saluted his ear, and in a
few minutes after it was announced to him that the rest of his train had
arrived.




CHAPTER VI.


We must now conduct the reader at once to the entrance of the castle of
Masseran. The gate itself was shut, though the drawbridge was down and
the portcullis was up. There was a little wicket, indeed, left ajar,
showing the long, dark perspective of the heavy archway under the gate
tower, gloomy and prison-like, and the large square court beyond, with
its white stones glistening in the sun; while the gray walls of the
castle and part of a window, as well as the door of the keep, appeared
at the opposite side. On either side, under the archway, but scarcely to
be seen in its gloomy shadow, was a long bench, and on the left hand a
low door leading up to the apartments in the gate tower. The right-hand
bench was occupied by one of the soldiers of the place, and at the door
was the warder's wife talking to him, while our friend, the jovial
priest, who had escaped without harm or hinderance, notwithstanding the
threats of the Count de Meyrand, was waiting at the wicket, from time to
time looking through into the court, and from time to time turning round
and gazing upon the mountains, humming an air which was certainly not a
canticle.

After a pause of some ten or fifteen minutes, the warder himself
appeared, a heavy man, past the middle age, and dressed in rusty gray.
"He won't see you, Father Willand," he said. "He's walking in the inner
court, and in a dangerous sort of mood. I would rather not be the man to
cross him now."

"Poh! nonsense," replied Father Willand, laughing. "Go in again to him,
good warder: tell him I have business of importance with him, and I know
that this refusal is only one of his sweet jokes. He will see me,
soft-hearted gentleman! Go and tell him--go and tell him, warder!"

"Faith, not I," replied the warder. "That business of last night seems
to have galled him sorely, and he is just in the humour to fire a man
out of a culverin, as we know his father once did; but in these days it
won't do: culverins make too loud a report, you know. I will not go near
him again."

"Then I will go myself," replied the priest. "He won't hurt me. Nay,
warder, you would not squeeze the Church in the wicket gateway! By
Heaven--or, as I should say less profanely, by the blessed rood--if you
pinch my stomach one moment more you will pinch forth an anathema, which
will leave you but a poor creature all your life."

"Well, be it on your head," cried the warder, with a grim smile; "though
a two-inch cudgel or a fall from the battlements is the best thing to be
hoped for you."

The priest was not to be deterred, however; and, making his way onward,
he crossed the outer court, turned to the right, and, passing through a
long stone passage, feeling damp and chilly after the bright sunshine,
he entered a colonnade or sort of cloister which surrounded the inner
court. It was a large, open space of ground, with tall buildings
overshadowing it on all sides. The sun seldom reached it; and there was
a coldness and stillness about its aspect altogether--its gray stones,
its small windows, its low-arched cloisters, its sunless air, and the
want of even the keen activity of the mountain wind--which made most
people shudder when they entered it.

But there was nothing the least chilly in the nature of Father Willand.
His heart was not easily depressed, his spirits not easily damped; and
when he entered the cloister, and saw the Lord of Masseran walking up
and down in the court, an irresistible inclination to laugh seized him,
notwithstanding all the warder had said of his lord's mood at that
moment.

It is true--although, from the description of the worthy officer of
bolts and bars, one would have expected to see the Lord of Masseran
acting some wild scene of passion--he was, on the contrary, walking
calmly and slowly backward and forward across the court, with his eyes
bent on the ground, indeed, but with his countenance perfectly tranquil.
It was nothing in his demeanour, however, that gave the priest a desire
to laugh, for he was very well aware that the passions of the Lord of
Masseran did not take the same appearances as those of other men, and he
saw clearly that he was at that moment in a state of sullen fury, which
might, very likely, have conducted any other man to some absurd excess.
His personal appearance, also, had nothing in it to excite mirth in any
degree. He was a tall, thin, graceful-looking man of the middle age,
with a nose slightly aquiline, eyes calm and mild, lips somewhat thin
and pale, and a complexion, very common in the northern part of Italy,
of a sort of clear, pale olive. His dress was handsome, but not
ostentatious; and, on the whole, he looked very much the nobleman and
the man of the world of those times. The priest, however, laughed when
he saw him; and, though he tried to smother it under the merry
affectation of a cough, yet the effects were too evident upon his
countenance to escape the eye of the Lord of Masseran as he approached.

"Ha! Father Willand," said the marquis, as their eyes met, "I told the
warder to say that I did not wish to see you to-day."

"Ah, but, my excellent good lord," replied the priest, bowing his head
low, with an air of mock humility and reverence, "it was I who wanted to
see your lordship; so I e'en ventured to make my way in, though the
warder--foul fall the villain--has so squeezed my stomach in the wicket,
that, like a bruised tin pot, it will never again hold so much as it did
before."

"You are somewhat of a bold man," said the marquis, with a cold, bitter,
sidelong look at the priest; "you are somewhat of a bold man to make
your way in here when I bid you stay out. You may come in once too
often, Father Willand."

"Heaven forbid, my lord," replied the priest; "I shall never think it
too often to serve your lordship, even though it should be at your
funeral: a sad duty that, my lord, which we must perform very often for
our best friends."

"I should imagine, priest," replied the marquis, somewhat sternly, "you
would laugh at the funeral of your best friends."

"I will promise your lordship one thing," replied the priest, "to laugh
at my own, if death will but let me. But surely, my lord, this is a time
for merriment and gayety! Why, I came to congratulate your lordship upon
your escape from those who attacked you last night--Ugh! ugh! ugh!"

While the priest, unable to restrain himself, thus laughed aloud, the
marquis bit his lip, and eyed him askance, with a look which certainly
boded no great good to the merry ecclesiastic. They were at that moment
close to a spot where a door opened from one of the masses of building
into the cloister, and the Lord of Masseran, raising his voice a little,
exclaimed, in a sweet Italian tone, "Geronimo!"

For a moment the priest laughed more heartily than before; but, seeing
the marquis about to repeat his call, he recovered himself, and, laying
his finger on the nobleman's arm, said, "Stay a moment, my lord, stay a
moment before you call him. First, because the sweet youth must not
exercise his ministry upon me. It would make too much noise, you know,
and every one in the valley is aware that I have come hither. Next,
because there are certain friends of mine looking for me at the bottom
of the slope, and expecting me within half an hour, so that I cannot
enjoy your Geronimo's conversation--"

"It is, in general, very short," said the marquis.

"And, thirdly," continued the priest, "because I have come up to tell
you two or three things which require no witnesses. I am here upon a
friendly errand, my good lord, and you are such a niggard that you
refuse me my laugh. However, I must have it, be it at you, at myself, or
at any one else; and now, if you behave well and civilly, I will tell
you tidings that you may like well to hear. If you don't want to hear
them, I will take myself away again, and then neither priest nor warder
is much to blame. Shall I go?"

He spoke seriously now, and the Lord of Masseran replied, in a somewhat
more placable tone, a moment's reflection showing him that the priest,
in all probability, would not have come thither except upon some
important errand: "No, do not go," he said, "but speak to me, at least,
seriously." He looked down upon the ground for a moment, and then added,
"You may well think that I am angry, after all that took place last
night; for you, who hear everything, have doubtless heard of that also."

As he spoke, he suddenly raised his keen dark eyes to the countenance of
the priest, as if inquiring how much he really did know of the matter in
question.

"Oh yes," replied Father Willand, "I do hear everything, my good lord,
and I knew all that had happened to you last night before I sat down to
my breakfast this morning: I heard of your happy deliverance, too, from
the hands of the daring villains who captured you, for which gracious
interposition I trust that you will keep a candle burning perpetually
before the shrine of Saint Maurice."

The priest spoke in a serious tone, but still there was an expressive
grin upon his countenance; and, after pausing for a moment or two more,
he added, as the marquis was about to reply, "You think I am jesting, or
that I do not understand what I am talking about; but I know the whole
business as well as you do yourself, and somewhat better. I tell you,
therefore, that it is a great deliverance that you have met with, though
perhaps you think it less a deliverance than an interruption."

The priest paused as if for the marquis to reply; but the Lord of
Masseran was silent also, regarding his companion with a quiet, sly,
inquiring air, which, perhaps, could be assumed by no other countenance
upon earth than that of an Italian. It might be interpreted to say, "You
are more in my secrets than I thought. A new bond of fellowship is
established between us."

As he remained actually silent, however, the priest went on to say,
"What I come to talk to you about is this very matter; for you may
chance be outwitted, my good lord, even where you are putting some
trust. But what I have to say," he continued, "had better not be said
among so many windows and doors."

"Come with me! come with me!" said the Lord of Masseran; and leading the
way through the cloisters, he thridded several long and intricate
passages, none of them more than dimly lighted, and many of them
profoundly dark. He was followed by the priest, who kept his hand in the
bosom of his robe, and, if the truth must be said, grasped somewhat
firmly the hilt of a dagger, never feeling perfectly sure what was to be
the next of the Marquis of Masseran's sweet courtesies. Nothing
occurred, however, to interrupt him in his course, and at length the
lord of the castle stopped opposite to a doorway, over which a
glimmering light found its way. As soon as it was opened, the bright
beams of the day rushed in, and the marquis led the way into a wide
garden, which sloped down the side of the hill, and lay between the
walls of the castle itself and an outwork thrown forward to command one
of the passes of the mountain. It was walled on all sides, and nothing
could be seen beyond it; but in itself it offered a beautiful contrast
to the wild scenery round, being cultivated with great care and
neatness, and arranged in the Italian style of gardening, which was then
very little known in France, where it had been first introduced some
years before by Catharine de Medicis. Long and broad terraces, connected
together by flights of steps, formed the part of the garden nearest to
the chateau, while below appeared many a formal walk, sheltered, even in
that mountain scene, by rows of tall cypresses and hedges of other
evergreen plants.

"Here we can speak undisturbed," said the marquis, as soon as he had
taken a few steps in advance. "Now what is it you have to tell me,
priest?"

"Did you ever hear of such a person as Bernard de Rohan?" demanded the
priest, fixing his eyes upon the countenance of the Lord of Masseran.

"I have--I have heard of him," replied the marquis, turning somewhat
pale. "What of him? what of him? Is he not still beyond the Alps?"

"He is within a few leagues of your dwelling," answered the priest.

"I thought so, I thought so," exclaimed the Lord of Masseran, striking
his brow with his hand. "But he shall find he has come too soon."

"You must take heed what you do," replied the priest, grinning. "Did you
ever hear how the fox vowed vengeance against the lion, and was wroth,
and forgot his cunning, and flew at the lion's muzzle, and the lion put
his paw upon him, and squeezed the breath out of the poor fox's body? My
very good lord, you do not know that this Bernard de Rohan has
men-at-arms at his back, and despatches to you from the Marechal de
Brissac, which may not be pleasant for you to receive; and, moreover, he
is a great friend of a certain Count de Meyrand, and they have been
conferring earnestly together both last night and this morning, and the
name of the Lord of Masseran was more than once mentioned. So now, my
son, you see what is going forward, and must take your measures
accordingly."

The wily Piedmontese sunk back into himself as he heard the unpalatable
tidings communicated to him. From the few significant words which the
priest had spoken, it was evident enough to the Lord of Masseran that,
by some means or another, all the plans and purposes in which he was
engaged in at the time were nearly as well known to the personage with
whom he was then conversing as to himself, and yet he could not bring
himself to speak with him freely thereupon. He wanted advice. He wanted
assistance. The priest appeared to know more than he said; and, to
arrive at certainty upon that point, the Marquis of Masseran now applied
himself with all the skill and shrewdness of which he was master; but in
good Father Willand he met with more than his match; for, with equal
dexterity and shrewdness, the ecclesiastic had resources which the Lord
of Masseran himself had not. He could evade a question by a laugh, or a
jest, or a figure, or a pun, and never did diplomatist more skilfully
turn and double in a conference than he did in his conversation with the
Marquis of Masseran.

At length, driven to speak more clearly, the marquis paused suddenly on
the terrace across which they were walking, and, fronting the priest,
demanded abruptly and sternly, "Tell me, then--tell me what is this
situation in which you say I am placed, which you always allude to and
never explain. Tell me this, and tell me how I shall meet the danger,
or, by the powers of Heaven and hell, you shall never quit this place
alive."

"A pretty and a sweet persuasion," exclaimed the priest, laughing
heartily; "but, my dear son, I am not so easily killed, even if such
parricidal thoughts were anything more than a jest. You know not what a
tough morsel an old priest is: hard of mastication for even stronger
teeth than yours. Nay, nay, think of tenderer food! In other terms, ask
me pleasantly and civilly, my good son, and you may then chance to
receive an answer. If you were to kill me forty times over it would do
you no good. My secrets are like the goose's golden eggs: not to be got
at by slaughter."

"There is something that you want, priest," replied the marquis, in the
same abrupt tone. "Quick! tell me what it is; if it be anything in
reason, you shall have it."

The priest smiled with a meaning look, but thought for a moment or two
before he replied; for, to say the truth, he had not, in his own mind,
fixed upon that which he was to demand as his recompense. He had, it is
true, an object in view, and the chief means of attaining that object
was to persuade the Marquis of Masseran that he dealt with him truly and
sincerely. Now he well knew that the mind of the worthy lord was so
constituted that it could by no means be brought to conceive that any
man dealt honestly with another, unless he had some personal object to
gain by so doing, and, therefore, the priest determined to assign such
an object, although he was, in reality, without one. "Well," he said,
"well, you shall promise me, most solemnly, first, not to tell any one
what I reveal to you; and also, if you find that what I tell you is
true, and if the way that I point out to you prove successful, you shall
give the priest of the church of Saint John of Bonvoison a fat buck in
August every year when he chooses to send for it; you shall also give
him a barrel of wine of your best vintage, and five silver pieces for
alms to the poor, and this in perpetuity."

"Fy, now, fy!" replied the Lord of Masseran; "for your own life were
quite enough; but in perpetuity, that is more than I can engage for: it
is owning your vassalage, good father."

"It must be even so, though," replied the priest, "or you have not my
secret. I care not for venison, sinner that I am, it is the good of the
Church I think of."

"Well! well!" answered the Lord of Masseran, "most disinterested father,
I give my promise; and now be quick, for I expect a visiter full soon,
my dealings with whom may depend upon your words: what is it that I
should fear?"

"That Adrian, count of Meyrand," said the priest, "and Bernard, baron de
Rohan, laying their heads together for their own special purposes--"

"That can never be, that can never be," cried the marquis, with a scoff.
"They both love the same woman. They both seek her. They can as soon
unite as oil and water. No, no, that is all vain!" and he turned away
with a sneer.

"Suppose," said the priest, smiling in a way that again shook the
Marquis of Masseran's feelings of security, "suppose that the one should
love her money and the other herself, and they should agree to settle it
thus: We will prove to the King of France that the Lord of Masseran
holds secret communication with the Duke of Savoy and the Emperor
Ferdinand. Suppose this were the case, I say, do you think, my son, that
there would be any chance of their really proving it? Could the noble
Count of Meyrand say boldly that, to his knowledge, the Lord of Masseran
conspired secretly with some troops of Savoy, to carry off, as if by
force, himself, the Lord of Masseran, and Mademoiselle de Brienne, for
special purposes of his own, somewhat treasonable towards France, only
that the scheme was defeated by an accident? Could Bernard de Rohan say
that he had seen the Lord of Masseran in the hands of his captors, going
along with no great signs of unwillingness, and showing no great signs
of gratitude to those who set him free."

"Was he there?" exclaimed the Lord of Masseran, eagerly. "What, a youth
in a buff coat? By Heaven, his eyes have been haunting me all night. He
seemed to look through me."

"The same person," replied the priest, with a loud laugh; "and he did
see through you, my son. You have been very transparent lately. I ask no
questions, but put it to yourself whether these two gentlemen can say
these things to the King of France. Then may not the one say, 'Sire, I
love this girl, and have got her father's promise for her hand; here is
her brother, too, consents to our marriage: I claim as my reward your
good-will and approbation.' Then may not the other say, 'Sire, the Lord
of Masseran, as I have showed you, betrays your trust. He has fair
castles and fortresses, beautiful lands and lordships, vineyards,
olive-grounds, cornfields: I pray you, in return for having discovered
his dealings with the empire, put me in possession of his lands and his
lordships till your majesty shall think fit to conclude a peace.'"

The Lord of Masseran looked moodily down upon the ground; and though, to
say the truth, he did not yet put great faith in the priest's sincerity,
he asked briefly, "Well, what remedy? How is this to be avoided?"

"That," replied the priest, "for certain I cannot tell you; but I can
tell you what I would do were you Father Willand and I Marquis of
Masseran. I would order horses to be saddled and grooms to be prepared,
and by the most silent, secret, and sudden way, I would betake myself to
Paris, cast myself at the king's feet, accuse this Count of Meyrand of
seeking to corrupt me, tell him that Savoy had offered me bribes, and,
failing there, had striven to carry me off. I would do all this, and
then--"

"Hush!" said the Lord of Masseran, "hush! here is some one coming to
seek me:" and, leaving the priest, he advanced a few steps towards a
servant who now approached from the house. The marquis asked a question
in a low tone, to which the other replied, loud enough for Father
Willand to hear,

"He will not come within the gates, sir, but desires to speak with you
for a moment without: he says he is but in his hunting-garb, and
unfitted to enter your halls."

"How many men has he with him?" demanded the Lord of Masseran.

"No one but a page, my lord, near the gates," replied the man. "The rest
I saw gathered together about a mile down the road, on the other side of
the valley."

"I will come!" said the Lord of Masseran, "I will come!" and he added,
in a lower tone, some words which the priest did not hear, but which he
judged had reference to himself, from perceiving the eyes of the
speakers turned more than once shrewdly towards him. "I will be back
again in a few minutes, good father," the Lord of Masseran continued.
"Wait for me, for we have yet much to speak of."

"I will wait, I will wait," replied the priest; "only be not long, my
good son; for, though I have much to say to you, I have little time to
spare."

The Lord of Masseran gave him every assurance that he would return
speedily; and then left the garden, followed by the attendant who had
summoned him. The priest looked after them and listened; and, being
someway connected with the race of that gentleman called in history
Fine-ear, he distinctly heard the door by which he and the marquis had
entered the garden locked after the latter had quitted it. "There is
another door," he muttered to himself, with a smile, looking towards one
of the archways upon the terrace leading to the chateau.

The next instant, however, there was a sound from that quarter also, as
if somebody turned the key there likewise; but the priest continued to
smile notwithstanding, and, proceeding slowly along the terraces, as if
merely to amuse himself by a walk, he approached the thick wall of the
garden, and stopped at the entrance of one of those little guerites, or
watch-towers, with which the whole enclosure was studded from place to
place. Up the narrow staircase in the stone he made his way, and then
looked carefully out through the loophole which was turned towards the
chief entrance of the chateau. No living object, however, was to be seen
in the immediate neighbourhood of the castle itself; though, as the
attendant had said, about a mile down the road which passed through the
valley was a group of men, and horses, and dogs gathered together in
various listless attitudes, while two large eagles were seen whirling in
immense circles high up above the tops of the mountains, upon the lower
part of whose tall sides a flock of sheep appeared feeding in peaceful
tranquillity.

"I may as well go," said the priest to himself, as he gazed out upon
this quiet scene. "I have said all that it is necessary to say, and this
sweet lord may not have done all that he may think it necessary to do. I
like not his whisperings, so I may as well go."

But, as the priest thus murmured to himself, he looked out again in the
same direction, when two persons came slowly forth from behind an angle
of one of the towers, and, taking their way under the garden wall,
approached the very spot where Father Willand stood. There was no
difficulty in recognising the Lord of Masseran and the Count de Meyrand.
"Now what would I give," murmured the priest to himself, "for one of
those famous inventions--those ear-trumpets--those sound-catchers--which
we read about in old histories."

The good priest, however, possessed none such; and though his ears, as
we have said, were very sharp; though he thrust his head as far as he
could into the loophole; though the count and his companion, thinking
that no one observed them, spoke loudly and vehemently; and though they
passed directly under the turret where the priest stood, nevertheless,
the words that he could catch were very few. "Well, my good lord, well,"
said the Lord of Masseran, "you blame me without cause. I have done my
best, and am as disappointed as you are."

"I do not blame you," replied the other; "I only tell you what must be
the result if the plans you have proposed cannot be carried through
immediately."

"Not that I have proposed, not that I have proposed," replied the other;
"the suggestion was your own."

"Indeed!" said the Count de Meyrand, "this is something new to me. All I
know is, that I have got the whole of your scheme drawn out in your own
hand; the names false, indeed, or written in cipher, but for that we
will soon find a key. What I asked was this, either that you should pay
me the large debt you owe, or that you should give me such assistance in
my suit to Mademoiselle de Brienne as would enable me to call her my
wife within two months. Those two months have now wellnigh expired, and
I will be trifled with no more."

The latter part of this sentence was lost to the ear of the priest; but
he guessed what it must be; and certainly the slight portion that he had
heard gave him a very strong inclination to hear more. He paused, then,
to consider whether this could be accomplished by any possible means,
but it was evident that such could not be the case; for, even while he
turned the matter in his mind, the little path along which the Marquis
de Masseran and his companion walked led them farther and farther from
the wall of the garden. We must now, however, follow the two noblemen,
and leave the priest to his fate, which we shall very speedily see.

"Well, well, my good friend," replied the Marquis de Masseran, in answer
to the last observation of the count, "the time has not yet fully
expired, and it shall be your own fault if my promise is not completely
fulfilled."

"How can it be my fault?" said the count. "I have nothing to do with the
fulfilment of your promise."

"Yes, you have," answered the Marquis of Masseran: "I will give you the
means; but if any pitiful scruple, any lady-like hesitation upon your
part, prevents you from employing them, the fault is your own."

"Mark me now, my good lord," replied the count: "it was understood
between us that I was to have no share in anything contrary to my
allegiance to the crown of France. With your own plans I had nothing to
do. If you chose to give the agents of the empire an opportunity of
making you a prisoner, and taking possession of your fortresses for
reasons and with purposes best known to yourself, I had nothing to do
with that: that was your own affair; I would be in no degree implicated
with it; I would receive no bribes from Savoy or Austria," he continued,
with a sneer; "all I agreed to do was to rescue the lady, if, on any
occasion, I were informed that she was travelling as a prisoner between
Fort Covert and Brianzone. This I promised to do, and I should have had
no scruple then to use my opportunities to the best advantage."

The Lord of Masseran smiled with a meaning look, which his companion
easily interpreted. The count added with a frown, "You mistake me: I
would have done her no wrong, sir! Though I would have taken care to
keep her so long with me that she could give her hand to no one else, I
would have treated her with all honour."

"Doubtless, doubtless," replied the Lord of Masseran; "but what I mean
now, my lord count, is, that if I again, at a great risk to myself, give
you good opportunity, you will have no hesitation in using a little
gentle force to compel this lady's union with yourself. We have priests
enough who will perform the ceremony with a deaf ear to the
remonstrances that her reluctance and maiden modesty may suggest; but
when we have carried the matter so far as that, remember that my safety,
nay, my life itself, may be compromised if you yield to any weak
supplications. Once commit ourselves, and our only safety is in her
being your wife! Then she will be silent for her own sake."

"By Heavens," said the count, in a deep, low tone, "she shall be my wife
if it be but in revenge for the scorn with which she treated me in
Paris. If it costs the lives of her and me, and all our kin, she shall
be mine, Lord of Masseran."

"So be it, then," replied the marquis; "but, to accomplish my new
scheme, I must be absent some few days."

The count gazed upon him somewhat suspiciously. "Some few days?" he
said. "What! long enough, marquis, to go to Paris or Vienna?"

"Neither," replied the Marquis of Masseran, coolly. "Three days will
suffice, if well used. In three days I will be back again."

"And in those three days," replied the count, "this Bernard de Rohan,
whom we were talking about just now, will have fair opportunity of
visiting the bright lady, and even, perhaps, by the connivance of her
fair mother, may carry her within the French frontier, and plead her
father's promise at the court of the king."

"Not by her mother's connivance," replied the marquis. "Her mother loves
him as little as you do; and, even were he at the court of France
to-morrow, her protest against the marriage would be sufficient to stop
it. But, to guard against all danger, and, if possible, to put the mind
of a suspicious man at ease, I will tell you that one great cause of my
going hence is to prevent this Bernard de Rohan from setting foot within
my walls. I know his coming: I know why he comes far better than you do.
I have heard his motives and his views within this hour from one who is
well acquainted with them, and, if he present himself at my gates, he
will find a stern refusal till I return. Then I must see him, but I
shall then be prepared. Will this satisfy you? If it do so, tell me at
once; for it is high time that I should mount my horse, and quit this
place without delay."

Though, in reality, anything but satisfied, the Count de Meyrand
expressed his consent to the proposal, determined in his own mind to
watch all the proceedings of a confederate whom he could so little
trust, even in the dark and tortuous schemes in which their interests
were combined. He tried, as he parted from the marquis, to conceal his
doubts lest they should betray his purposes; but that worthy gentleman
was far too practised a reader of the human heart and human countenance
to be so deceived; and when they separated, it was with the full
conviction that each would endeavour to deceive and circumvent the
other, unless some strong necessity continued to bind them together.

"Now," thought the Marquis de Masseran, as he paused for a moment
looking after the Count de Meyrand, "now for this priest. I must have
more information from him: more full, more complete. Then what is to be
done with him? It might be dangerous to confine him; and yet it were
easy to say that he had held treasonable discourses. A fall from the
walls might be as good as anything. I will speak with Geronimo about
it."

He had been standing with his back towards the castle and his eyes fixed
upon the ground while he thus held parley with himself. On the other
side of the valley, which was there profound, rose up the mountain, with
the road into Piedmont winding along it, at the distance of perhaps a
quarter of a mile, to use the ordinary expression, as the crow flies,
but fully a mile by the road; and, as he ended his murmuring soliloquy,
the Marquis of Masseran looked up in that direction. To his utter
surprise and consternation when he did so, he beheld the figure of the
priest walking quietly along the highway towards the lower ground of
Savoy.

He hastened back to the castle; but he was assured at the gates by all
the several persons who were standing there that no one had passed. On
examining the doors of the garden, every one of them was found to be
closed; and the Marquis of Masseran came to a conclusion, which was not
pleasant for a man engaged in his peculiar pursuits, namely, that he was
deceived and betrayed by some one of his own household.




CHAPTER VII.


The observation may seem trite, that to every period of life is assigned
by the Almighty and Munificent Being, who at our creation adapted to
each part of our material form the functions that it was to execute and
the labours it was to sustain, either peculiar powers of endurance or
counterbalancing feelings, which render the inevitable cares and sorrows
apportioned to every epoch of our being lighter and more easy to be
borne. The woes of childhood are, in themselves, speedily forgotten. The
pains are soon succeeded by pleasures, and care, gnawing care, the rack
of after-life, is then unknown. Boyhood, eager, enthusiastic, hopeful
boyhood, the age of acquisition and expectation, though it may know from
time to time a bitter pang, scarcely less in its degree than those that
afflict mature life, has so many compensating enjoyments, its own
sunshine is so bright, the light that shines upon it from the future is
so dazzling, that the griefs serve but as a preparation and a warning,
too little remembered when once they are past. Old age, with its decay,
with the extinction of earthly hopes, with the prospect of the tomb, has
also dulled sensibilities that allow us not to feel many of the more
painful things of early years. The blunted edge of appetite may not give
so keen a zest to pleasure; but the apathy which accompanies it extends
to griefs as well as joys, and, if wisely used, is one of the best
preparations for a resignation of that state of being which we have
tried in the balance of experience and have found wanting; wanting in
all that can satisfy a high and ethereal spirit; wanting in all things
but its grand purpose of trial for a life to come. But, besides all
this, unto that period of old age, thus prepared and admonished for
another state, God himself has also given comfort and consolation, a
promise and a hope: a promise brighter than all the promises of youth, a
hope brighter than all those that have withered away upon our path of
life.

There is still another age, however; an age the most perilous, often the
most full of pains; an age when the eager aspirations of youth reach out
the hand towards fruition; when the great truths of disappointment break
upon us; when we first learn the bitter lesson that hope has told us
idle tales, that fortune is of fickle favour, that friendships are too
often false, that our own hearts do ourselves wrong, that enjoyment
itself is often a vanity and often a vision, that we must suffer, and
grieve, and repent in the midst of a world which, shortly before, we
fancied was composed of nothing but brightness, and beauty, and
happiness. I speak of the time of life when we first put on manhood, and
meet all its sorrows at the moment when we expect nothing but its joys.
For that period, too, there is a bright compensation given, there is a
sustaining principle implanted in our breast, common to the highest and
the lowest, the savage and the civilized; a principle that furnishes a
balm for many wounds, that surrounds us with an atmosphere of
consolation, hope, and joy, and enables us to live on in one splendid
dream, even in the midst of hard and dark realities.

That principle is love; and that principle was warm and strong in the
bosom of Bernard de Rohan, as, on the day after that in which the
conversations we have mentioned in our last chapter took place, he
stood, a few minutes before the setting of the sun, under a group of
tall fir-trees that had pitched themselves upon a pinnacle of the rock,
about ten yards distant from the farther angle of the garden attached to
the chateau of Masseran. The trees grew very close together; and, what
between scanty soil and the mountain winds, their large trunks had
contorted themselves into manifold strange shapes. From this group two
or three rows of the same kind of firs ran down the side of the hill
into the valley. One would have supposed that they were the remains of
some old avenue had the lines been but a little more regular.

The shadow of those trees completely concealed any one who stood beneath
them, and the eyes must have been very near that could have perceived
Bernard de Rohan as he leaned against one of them, gazing upon a
particular part of the garden wall immediately under one of the small
watch-turrets. He thus waited some time, with an eagerness of
expectation, it is true, which in no other situation or circumstance had
he ever known before; but, at the same time, with sweet thoughts, and
hopes, and happy memories, which cheered the moments, and made even the
impatience that he felt appear like some of those drinks which man has
invented to satisfy his thirst, and which are at once pungent and
grateful to the taste. He had waited some time, we have said, when at
length, as a distant snowy peak began to change its hue and turn rosy
with the rays of the setting sun, the small postern door on which his
eyes were fixed was seen to move upon its hinges, and then stood ajar.
Bernard de Rohan sprang forward, passed the small open space in a
moment, and, pushing back the door more fully, stood within the garden
of the castle of Masseran.

Scarce a step from the gate, with her hand pressed upon her heart, as if
to stop the palpitation of fear and agitation, stood a lady, perhaps of
twenty years of age. She was certainly not more; and her beauty, like
the morning sun, seemed to have the promise of a long, bright race
before it. She was very graceful and very beautiful. The whole form
seemed to breathe of a bright and high spirit; but even had it not been
that her person so perfectly harmonized with her mind, and was, in
fact--as nature probably intended should be the case--an earthly type of
the soul within, yet Bernard de Rohan would still have loved her as
deeply, as tenderly as he did, for he knew that spirit to be bright and
beautiful; he knew the heart to be tender, and devoted, and
affectionate; he knew the mind to be pure and high, and fixed in all its
purposes of right.

He had been brought up with her from youth; her father had been his
guardian, and a parent to him when his own parents were no more. She had
fancied herself a sister to him till the hearts of both told them it was
happy she was not so. No disappointments had ever befallen them in the
course of their affection; no obstacles had been thrown in their way
till that time; and yet, though neither opposed, nor troubled, nor
disappointed, they loved each other with true and constant hearts, and
feared not the result of any hour of trial.

She was very beautiful, certainly. It was not alone that all the
features of her face were fine, but it was also that the form of the
face itself was beautiful, and the way that the head was placed upon the
neck, and the neck rose from the shoulders, all gave a peculiarity of
expression, a grace, which is only to be compared to that of some
ancient statue from a master's hand. The eyes, too, were very, very
lovely, deep blue, and full of liquid light; with dark black eyelashes
that curtained them like a dark cloud fringing the edge of the western
sky, but leaving a space for the bright light of evening to gush through
upon the world. Her complexion was a clear, warm brown; but now, as she
stood, there was something, either in the agitation of the moment or in
the cold light of the hour, which made her look as pale as marble.

She was pressing her hand upon her heart, and leaning slightly forward,
with an eager look towards the door, as if prepared to fly should any
one appear whom she did not expect. The instant she saw Bernard de
Rohan, however, her whole face was lighted up with a glad smile, and she
sprang forward to meet him with the unchecked joy of pure and high
affection. They were in a moment in each other's arms.

"My Isabel! my beloved!" he said. "I thought that this man had
determined to shut me out from beholding you again."

"And so he would," replied the lady. "So he would if he had the power.
But oh! Bernard, I fear him--I fear him in every way: I fear him on my
own account, I fear him on yours."

"Oh! fear not, fear not, Isabel," replied Bernard de Rohan. "He can but
bring evil upon his own head if he attempts to wrong either you or me.
Already has he placed himself in danger. But tell me, my beloved, tell
me, is he really absent from the castle, or was it but a pretence to
avoid seeing me when I came yesterday?"

"No, he is absent," replied Isabel de Brienne. "In that, at least, there
is no deception, for I saw him ride out with but a few horses yesterday
towards midday. He took the small covered way by the back of the castle
and by the other side of the gardens. I saw him from the window of my
chamber in the keep, and I do not believe that he has since returned."

"It must have been to avoid me," said Bernard de Rohan, thoughtfully;
"and yet, how could he know that I was here? Did he ever hint at such
knowledge, my Isabel?"

"Not to me," she answered; "but I have scarcely seen him since that
terrible night. I have been in my mother's sick chamber, to which his
cruelty and brutality have brought her. Nor would he ever, even if I had
seen him, nor would he ever mention your name to me. He would fain have
me forget it, Bernard; but on that score I have much to tell you too."

"I know that I judge your heart right, dear Isabel," replied Bernard de
Rohan, "when I say he would find it hard to make you forget that name;
and yet I have had warnings within the last two days of many a dark and
evil scheme, it would seem, against your peace and mine. A vague hint
has been given me that one whom I know to be brave, and whom the world
holds to be honest; one who was once my particular friend, and my
comrade in many a day of difficulty, and strife, and peril; one who, I
know, must be well aware, from many things that I have casually said in
thoughtless freedom of heart, that you and I are linked together by
promises that can never be broken, has been labouring hard to supplant
me in your affection. Yet I will not believe them, Isabel; I will not
believe, in the first place, that you would hear one word on such a
score from any man. Neither will I believe--though he has certainly
lingered strangely away from the army; though he has changed, I may say,
marvellously, and from a gay, rash, thoughtless youth, become a
cautious, calculating, somewhat impenetrable man--I will not believe
that Adrian de Meyrand would do me wrong. No, no, I will trust him
still."

"Trust him not, Bernard! trust him not!" replied Isabel. "Trust him not,
Bernard! I, at least, know what he is. You say that your Isabel," she
continued, gazing on him tenderly, "would not hear one word of love
spoken by any other lips than your own. You do her right, dear Bernard.
She would not, if she could help it; and even when against her will,
against remonstrance and anger, she has been forced to hear such words,
she has scarce forgiven herself for what she could not avoid, and has
reproached herself for that which was forced upon her. Do you, too,
reproach her, Bernard?"

"Oh no," he replied, holding her to his heart, and gazing into the pure
bright eyes, which seemed, as they were, deep wells of innocence and
truth. "Oh no, dear Isabel; what was done unwillingly needs no reproach:
but how was this? Tell me all! De Meyrand, then, has wronged me?"

"If he knew of your love for me, he has," replied Isabel de Brienne;
"but promise me, Bernard, that no rash or hasty act will make me regret
having spoken to you openly, and I will tell you all."

"None shall, my Isabel," replied her lover. "It is only dangerous
rivals, or insolent ones, that require the sword of a brave man. De
Meyrand is not the one, and probably may never be the other. Speak, dear
one! I must hear all."

"Well, then," she answered, "before we quitted the court, I remarked
that this Count of Meyrand paid me assiduous court; and though certainly
he was very attentive also to my mother and her new husband, still I
avoided him, for there was something in his look and his manner that did
not please me. I remarked, however, that many of the nobles of the
court--nay, even the king himself--seemed so to smooth the way and
remove all obstacles, that he was frequently near me. One day he
followed me through the crowded halls of the Louvre by my mother's side,
and, when I could not avoid him, poured into my ears a tale of love
which I speedily cut short. I told him at once that my heart was given
and my hand plighted to another; and I besought my mother to confirm
what I said, and stop all farther importunity. He had fascinated her,
Bernard; and though she did what I requested, it was but coldly. He left
me for the time; but the very next day, while I was alone in my mother's
chamber, he came in and pursued the same theme. Then, Bernard, I fear I
acted ill. He aroused my anger. I was indignant that he should thus
persecute me after what I had said. I treated him with some scorn. I
told him cuttingly, in answer to a question which he should not have
asked, that, even were I not plighted in faith and bound by affection to
another, I should never have felt for him aught but cold indifference.
He lost his temper at length, though it was long ere he would leave me;
and as he did at length quit the room, I could hear something muttered
between his teeth which sounded very much like a menace. Since then I
have only seen him three times. Once more at the court; but by that time
my brother had returned from Italy. He was with me, and the count did
not come near. I have twice seen him here, when I have been forced out
by the Lord of Masseran upon the pretence of a hunting-party. He comes
not near the castle, however; and, when we did meet, he was distant and
stately in his manner, but still there was something in his eyes that
made me shudder."

"For the last two days he has been in the same small inn with myself,"
replied Bernard de Rohan. "I will speak to him to-night, my Isabel,
calmly and gently, I promise you; but he must learn to yield this suit
if he still entertains it. Nay, look not grieved, dear one. I will keep
my promise faithfully, and forgive the past so he offend not in the
future."

"I grieve and apprehend, dear Bernard," she replied, "but think not that
I would strive to stay you from any course that you yourself judge
right. I know you are moderate and just, and that you will not think, as
some might do, that you prove your love for me by fiery haste to expose
a life on which hangs all my hopes of happiness. Your honour is to me
far more than life; but oh, Bernard, judge but the more calmly, I
beseech you, of what that honour requires, by thinking that not your
life and happiness alone are the stake, but mine also. Having told you
all truly, as I ever will through life, I must scarce venture a word
more to persuade or dissuade; and yet I cannot think honour can call
upon you even to speak angry or reproachful words, when this man himself
was not told, by me at least, that it was his friend he was trying to
supplant."

Bernard de Rohan's brow was somewhat cloudy, though he smiled. "I fear,
my Isabel," he said, "that he knew the fact too well. I can call many a
time to my mind when I have dropped words concerning you which he could
not mistake. However, I have said I will pass over all that is gone, and
now let us think of other brighter things."

"I know not," she replied, "I know not why, Bernard, but a dark shadow
seems to overhang me, which prevents my thinking of brighter things.
Within the last year, so much has happened to cause apprehension and
anxiety, so much to give birth to pain and grief, that my spirit has
sunk; and, whereas everything used to seem full of brightness and hope,
all is now full of despondency."

"Cheer thee, cheer thee, Isabel," replied Bernard, adding those caresses
that cheer far more than words; "I will take thee from the midst of the
sad things that must surround thee here. I know, dear Isabel, that thy
mother was often harsh and always cold, and, since I and your brother
have left you, you have had no support or comfort under the pain which
her behaviour must have given."

"Oh, it was not her harshness nor her coldness, Bernard," replied Isabel
Brienne; "I could have borne that easily; but when I recollected my dear
father--when I remembered all his high and noble qualities--his
kindness, his tenderness to her, and saw her again stand at the altar to
give her hand to another so unlike him in everything, dark, treacherous,
avaricious, and deceitful, it was then I first felt that I really wanted
aid and consolation. It was then that I wanted help, I wanted protection
and support; and even at that time I would have written to you to come
to me with all speed if it had not been for some foolish feelings of
shame."

"They were indeed wrong, my Isabel," replied Bernard; "for surely,
Isabel, with our faith plighted by your own father's will, with a long,
dear intimacy from childhood until now, if you could not repose full,
unhesitating trust and confidence in me, where, where could you place
it, Isabel?"

"I know it was foolish," she replied, "I know it was very foolish,
Bernard; but yet, even now," and she looked down blushing upon the
ground, "but yet, even now, the same foolish hesitation makes me scruple
to tell you what I firmly believe is the best, nay, is the only plan by
which we could hope to avoid the dangers that surround us."

"Nay, Isabel, nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "after saying so much, you
must say more. You must tell me all, freely, candidly. The brightest
part of love is its confidence. It is that perfect, that unhesitating
reliance, that interchange of every idea and every feeling, that perfect
community of all the heart's secrets and the mind's thoughts, which
binds two beings together more closely, more dearly than the dearest of
human ties: more than the vow of passion or the oath of the altar. It is
that confidence which, did we not deny its sway, would give to earthly
love a permanence that we find but seldom in this world. Oh, Isabel, you
must not, indeed you must not, have even a thought that is not mine."

"Nor will I, Bernard," she replied, "nor will I; though I may blush to
say what I was going to say, I will not hesitate to say it. It is this,
then, Bernard: You must take me hence without delay."

"Oh, how gladly," he cried, throwing his arms round her, and kissing the
glowing cheek that rested on his shoulder; "oh, how gladly, Isabel! I
waited but for the arrival of your brother to propose that step to you
myself. If this Lord of Masseran chooses to refuse me admission, I
cannot force my way in, and you may be subject to every kind of grief
and pain before I receive such authority from the king or from Brissac
as will force him to give you up."

"That is not all, Bernard, that is not all," replied the lady. "This man
is deceitful to all. Suppose but for a moment that, finding the King of
France obliged to withdraw his troops from Italy, as I hear has been the
case, he resolves to betray the trust that has been reposed in him, to
submit himself again to the Duke of Savoy, to receive the troops of the
emperor. Suppose, Bernard, he removes me and my mother beyond the limits
of Savoy, beyond the power of the king of our own country, beyond your
reach, Bernard, what would be the consequences then? I should be but a
mere slave in his hands. But listen to me still, dear Bernard; there is
more, more to be said; I have good reason to believe and know that all
these dangers are not merely imaginary, but that he is actually dealing
with the empire. I have seen couriers come and go, and heard them
converse long with him in the German tongue. I have seen officers who
spoke neither French nor Italian surveying the castle, and consulting
with him over plans of other fortresses. Twice, also, when I have
hesitated to ride forth with him, fearing dangers--I did not well know
what--my mother, who is already his complete slave, has held out vague
threats to me of removing me to far-distant lands, where my obedience
would be more prompt and unhesitating. Now, even now, Bernard," she
continued, "I believe that he is gone on some errand of this kind, and
it would in no degree surprise me, ere three days are over, to see this
place filled with German soldiers."

"Then, dear Isabel," exclaimed Bernard de Rohan, "we must lose no time.
I wrote to your brother to meet me at Grenoble, and I have sent off
messengers to him there and at Paris. But we must not wait for his
coming. Your father's written consent will justify us, and the king is
already aware that this man's faith and adherence to France is insecure.
It would have been better, indeed, if your brother had been here, for
then he might, in the first place, have openly demanded you at the hands
of this man."

"Oh no, no, Bernard," she replied; "I rejoice greatly that Henry is not
here. I feel a sort of terror at the idea of his falling into the hands
of this Lord of Masseran. You know that Henry's death would place great
wealth at the disposal of my mother; and, though it is dreadful to say,
yet I do fear there is no act at which this Italian would hesitate to
obtain wealth or power, or any of the objects for which men strive on
earth. I would not for the world that Henry should put himself into the
hands of one so treacherous. If Henry be at Grenoble, we can fly to him
at once, and be united there."

"Better, far better, dear Isabel," replied her lover, "that we should be
united before we go. There is a priest here who seems to have some
regard for me, and who lingers still at the inn, I know not why. He will
be easily persuaded to unite our hands, as our hearts are already
united, and then my right to protect and defend you will bear no denial.
Let it be soon, too, my Isabel. Why not to-morrow night?"

She replied not for a moment or two. Not that she hesitated, not that
there was a doubt in her own mind of what her answer must be; but yet
she paused, with her hand clasped in that of Bernard de Rohan, and her
eyes hid upon his shoulder, while he went on to persuade her, though
there needed no persuasion.

"Consider, dear Isabel," he said, "the secret of this postern door is
one that may be discovered at any time. He might return within a day. If
we were to meet often, our meeting might be discovered. What it is
necessary to do, it is necessary to do at once."

It need not be said that Bernard de Rohan's entreaties were successful.
Isabel promised to be there at the same hour on the following night,
prepared for flight; and Bernard de Rohan undertook to have the contract
of their marriage drawn up by some neighbouring notary, and a priest
ready and willing to unite them.

"In four or five hours," he said, "we shall be within the pale of
France, and, as you saw the other night, we shall have plenty of willing
guards thither, dear Isabel. Besides that wilder retinue, too, my own
train is down at the hamlet; but, of course, I must bring few people
with me, for fear of attracting attention. Have you anybody in the
castle, dear Isabel, besides good Henriot, who can give you aid and
assistance?"

"Oh yes," replied the lady; "there is the maid who conveyed to you the
note to-day. I can trust her."

"She seemed sullen or stupid," replied Bernard de Rohan: "I could not
induce her to utter more than one or two words, and those I did not
distinctly hear."

"She is very silent," replied Isabel, "but is not so dull as she looks.
Give her but one thing to think of, and one object to attend to, and she
will execute what she is directed to do well enough; and perhaps it is
all the better that she observes nothing which passes round her, and is
so sparing of her words."

"Hush!" said Bernard de Rohan. "There is a light upon the terrace, near
the castle, and some one seems coming hither. Adieu! dear Isabel, adieu!
Though the evening is too dim for them to see us, it is better that I
should leave you till to-morrow. But forget not, dear one; and oh! be
rather before than after the hour."

Thus saying, he pressed her to his bosom for a moment, and then passed
through the postern door. He closed it not entirely, however, for some
vague apprehension concerning the sweet girl he had just left behind
caused him to pause and listen, till he had assured himself that the
person whom he had seen approaching was no unfriendly one. In a few
minutes he heard another female voice saying distinctly to Isabel, "Your
lady mother, mademoiselle, desires that you would come and play to her
on the lute."

"I come, I come, good Maddelene," replied the voice of Isabel de
Brienne; and in the clear evening air Bernard de Rohan could hear the
sound of receding footsteps.




CHAPTER VIII.


"Has not the Count de Meyrand returned?" demanded Bernard de Rohan, as
he re-entered the kitchen of the little inn, and saw it tenanted only by
one or two of his own attendants, the host and hostess, and a
waiting-boy.

"He has not only returned, my lord," replied the landlord, "but has gone
away again, and, sorry I am to say, gone away altogether. He came back,
and departed in great haste, paying for all that he had like a prince."

"This is strange!" replied Bernard de Rohan. "Did he leave no message
for me?"

"No message, my lord," replied the host; "he gave your man, Master
Martin, a note for you, however; but he has just gone up the hill, and
taken the note with him."

"Do you know where the count has gone to?" demanded the young nobleman.

"Oh, to Pont Beauvoisin, on his way to Paris," the landlord answered;
"he has been gone wellnigh two hours."

It is a very common piece of policy on the part of hosts, aubergistes,
landlords, and others of the same class and character, by whatsoever
denomination they may be known, to laud up to the skies the guest just
departed, praising in him those especial virtues which they wish to
inculcate upon the guest who happens to be their listener. Thus the
landlord was proceeding to paint in high colours the generosity and
careless liberality of the Count de Meyrand, when some persons speaking,
and a loud, rich, buttery laugh, merry in every tone, announced that the
good priest, Father Willand, was approaching the auberge with some
companion.

"We shall live like clerks now he is gone, we shall live like clerks,"
exclaimed the voice of the priest. "By the holy mass, he was not content
with eating more than his own share of everything, but his very look
changed everything that he did not eat, and turned it bad. His aspect
was so cold that it chilled the pottage; his look so sharp that it
turned the wine sour. I will make a new prayer night and morning: May I
never again meet such a companion at an inn as this Count de Meyrand."

Bernard de Rohan found, on the entrance of the priest, that it was his
own attendant, Martin, with whom Father Willand had been conversing. The
attendant immediately produced the Count de Meyrand's note, which his
master read attentively, and with an appearance of satisfaction. "So my
friend De Meyrand has gone on business of importance to Paris," he said
aloud.

"Ay, as the fox is said to go to his hole," replied the priest.

"I dare say, indeed," replied the young cavalier, "that there are many
foxes in that hole, my good father; but still your comparison is not a
very pleasant one for the good count."

"The comparison was more aimed at his way of going to Paris than at
either Paris or himself," replied the priest. "I repeat, he is gone to
Paris as a fox is said to go to his hole; that is, back foremost."

"Nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "I never yet saw fox so stupid. Why
should a fox go back foremost?"

"To hide the way he goes," answered the priest; "to make the footsteps
point out of the hole instead of into it. So the good peasants tell
one."

"But how can this apply to the Count de Meyrand?" asked Bernard de
Rohan, with his curiosity now considerably excited.

"Because he tells you," replied the priest, "that he is going to Paris,
and we watched him from the top of the hill, and saw him turn quite the
other way before he got two leagues out into the plain."

"Strange enough!" replied Bernard de Rohan, not choosing to appear as
much interested as he really was; "strange enough; but he may well have
some friends to see--some town to visit in the way. Come, my good host!
come, let us have supper speedily, and give us more light, for the night
is growing dark and sombre. Good priest," he continued, turning to
Father Willand, and speaking in a low voice, "I have a word for your
private ear by-and-by; somewhat to consult upon, regarding which I need
sound discretion and good counsel. I beseech you, therefore, pause at
the end of the first stoup of wine."

"My son, my son," replied the priest, "men have always made a mistake
with regard to the abode of truth. Truth and my brains lie together at
the bottom of the second pottle pot, for most men are sure to tell the
truth when they get to that pitch; and my brains are never clear, clean,
and neat till they have been washed in that quantity at least. Fear not,
fear not, I will be careful; though, if you are going to confess
yourself, you ought to wish me as drunk as possible, for the penances I
enjoin are always light when my knees feel like an unstarched ruff. Were
it not better, however, to talk this matter over first, while my good
host prepares the supper, and then we can consider it in our cups, you
know?"

"It may indeed be as well," replied Bernard de Rohan. "Follow to my
chamber, good priest, then. Go on, Martin, with a light;" and, taking
his way up the dingy staircase, Bernard de Rohan led the priest to the
large square, lofty bedroom which had been assigned him as his place of
repose, and which no one would have imagined that lowly and
humble-looking inn could boast of. The moment the door was closed and
the attendant gone, the priest's eyes assumed a shrewder, but more
serious expression, and he said, "Know you that I have been here twice
yesterday, and three times to-day, seeking you?"

"In truth, I did not," replied the young cavalier. "On what account did
you seek me?"

"To tell you to make good use of your time," answered the priest. "The
Lord of Masseran is absent. He, I doubt not, is really gone to Paris;
gone to justify himself to the king against accusations which he hears
are to be made against him. You have, therefore, time to do all that you
would, and nothing is required but to be diligent, quick, and secret."

"I have been all three," replied Bernard de Rohan. "And I just come from
the postern by the fir-trees."

"Then you have seen Corse de Leon," said the priest, abruptly. "When and
where? For I could not find him, neither yesterday nor to-day."

"I met him this morning," replied Bernard; "I met him this morning, and
took him for an old drover, so completely had he disguised himself."

"Then have you seen the lady also?" asked the priest.

"I have, my good friend," answered the young cavalier, somewhat
surprised to find how completely his proceedings were divined. "I have
seen the lady; and it is in regard to that interview that I wished to
speak with you. May I trust to you to do for me to-morrow night one of
the offices of your holy function, and--"

"Marry you, in short," replied the priest, "marry you to this fair
Isabel of Brienne. Well, my son, I see no impediment--no harm therein.
If you have well considered the matter," he added with a laugh, "and
have determined to take upon yourself the holy estate of matrimony, far
be it from me to prevent you, although I must say, that it was in
gracious consideration and providence for our temporal as well as
spiritual happiness that our holy church exacted from us an oath not to
enter into the condition you so much covet; however, I will put the
couples round your necks, and then you must run along the road together
as you can; but where shall it be?" he continued. "Tell me the whens and
the hows, for that is very needful."

Bernard de Rohan explained to him as much as he judged needful. Indeed,
what he was obliged to explain put his plans completely in the power of
the priest. Nevertheless, he did not anticipate any evil on that
account. All of us, wise and simple alike, are more or less guided in
our dealings with our fellow-creatures by various other principles than
the dictates of mere reason. The most suspicious man, the most cautious
man, will, from time to time, place confidence where it is least
deserved, from some motives to which his judgment would refuse its
assent. The calm and deliberate politician, who has frustrated many of
the cabinet knaves of Europe, and concealed his thoughts from the
penetrating eye of diplomacy, has often betrayed his secret to a pretty
face, and sometimes let it fall into possession of a roguish valet.

But Bernard de Rohan was neither a very cautious nor a very suspicious
man. His nature was frank and confiding; and, wherever he showed himself
reserved, he was rendered so by the effect of reason and deliberate
consideration. In the present instance he was forced to trust the
priest, and he trusted him without regret or hesitation; for there was
something in good Father Willand's face and demeanour which was frank
and kindly, and, to say sooth, Bernard de Rohan had conceived a
prepossession in his favour, which might or might not be justified. He
thought, too, that, although his own memory of the good priest's
features might have faded in the lapse of many years, and though those
features themselves must have been much changed by time since he had
seen them--he thought, too, that they were not wholly without some
corresponding traces on the tablets of remembrance. Memory has her
instincts, too; and often, though we cannot recollect the why or the
wherefore, the time or the circumstances regarding an object suddenly
presented to us, we feel that it is connected with pleasant or
unpleasant things in the past; that there have been causes to love, or
hate, or fear a person whose very name and being we have forgotten. Thus
was it with Bernard de Rohan and Father Willand; for, though he knew not
where they had met before, though he was not sure that they ever had
met, he was sure that if they had, there had existed good cause to hold
the priest in some esteem.

When all the arrangements for the succeeding night had been made between
the priest and the young cavalier, the latter turned to a point
connected with the same subject which pressed somewhat heavily upon his
mind.

"And now, my good Father Willand," he said, "you must tell me, sincerely
and candidly, whether you have reason to be perfectly certain that this
Lord of Masseran has betaken himself to the court of France."

"My dear son," replied the priest, "there is nothing upon the earth or
under the earth that we have any reason to be perfectly certain of. And,
now that you put it in my head," he added, pausing thoughtfully for a
moment or two, "now that you put it into my head, there are several
reasons for believing that this Savoyard devil has not gone to Paris. In
the first place, I advised him to go, which is a strong reason for
supposing he would not; he being one of those who think that no man can
be sincere in anything. I was so far sincere, however, that I told him
what is really the only way of saving his neck from the gripe of the
King of France; but I had another object, too, which was to clear the
place of his uncomfortable presence. At the same time, there is a second
reason for believing that he is not gone to the court of France--"

"There are a thousand," interrupted Bernard de Rohan.

"Ay, but there is one," rejoined the priest, "which, though not one out
of your thousand, is stronger than all the rest, namely, that the worthy
and truth-loving Lord of Masseran told some of his servants, and those
not the most confidential ones, that he had gone to Paris. Now, as he
was never known to tell truth in his life when a lie would do as well,
this is a second strong reason for believing that he has not gone to
Paris. But then, again, on the other hand, we have to recollect that it
is very possible he might for once tell the truth, in the hope and
expectation that, from his known character, it might be mistaken for a
lie, and deceive his dear friends that way. In short, the matter is
doubtful; for every saying of the Lord of Masseran is, like one of the
learned propositions of the schools on which we dispute so learnedly,
compounded of so much lie, that if there be a grain of truth therein,
the finest head in France will not separate it in a year. But let me
hear, my son, let me hear, what reasons have you to bring forward on the
one side or the other?"

"None of very great weight, indeed," replied Bernard de Rohan, unable to
divulge the orders, written or verbal, that he bore from the Marechal de
Brissac. "A report, indeed, has reached us in Italy," he continued,
"that this man is playing a double part between the courts of France and
Austria; and, when I did hear of his departure, I certainly suspected
that the end of his journey might be Milan rather than Paris."

"I will soon learn that," cried the priest, "I will soon learn that.
What you suspect is anything but improbable. And although--knowing well
the object of your journey--he might give out that he went to Paris to
clear himself before he saw you, yet the whole may be false together,
and he himself be within ten miles of his castle at the present time.
One thing, however, is clear, my son, no time is to be lost; and, in the
mean time, I will ascertain beyond all doubt what road he took."

"But can you ascertain?" demanded Bernard de Rohan; "is it possible to
learn exactly in such a labyrinth-like country as this?"

The priest laughed. "Beyond all doubt, my son, beyond all doubt," he
said. "The past we can always ascertain. The future is God's," he added,
more reverently; "the future is God's, and must rest in his dark council
chamber. But do you not know, have you not yourself seen, that though
the peasant and the traveller wander along the sides of these mountains
without beholding anything but the gray stone, and the clear stream, and
the green bush; though he might whistle all the lays of France and Italy
together, and blow all the horns that ever were winded from Naples to
the far North, without rousing anything but a roebuck or an eagle, there
are particular sounds, to be uttered by particular voices, which would
call every bush into life, and change every rock into an armed man? My
good friend, my good friend, the mountain is full of eyes; and the Lord
of Masseran himself, though he knows it is so, does not know to what
extent. There is only one being under the blue eye of heaven that sees
it all, and that is the man whom I met with you the other night."

"He is certainly a very extraordinary being," replied Bernard de Rohan,
"and I would fain know more of him."

"In all probability you will know more," replied the priest. "But you
may meet with thousands like him in various parts of the world. There
are three places where you generally find the great rogues
congregate--the court, the court of law, and the refectory. The honest
man has only two places that I know of--the mountain-side and the
highway. There are exceptions, you know; for instance, there is a very
honest priest, who has the care of the poor souls in the parish of Saint
John of Bonvoisin, just across the frontier line in France. Sinner that
I am! what should he be doing here, using his time no better than his
patron, Saint Anthony, used his head? Why should he be here, I say,
preaching to the stones upon this mountain, when his reverend
predecessor preached to fishes and petted a pig? However, the king, a
blessing on his good-humoured head, sent the said priest to Bonvoisin to
keep him out of harm's way; for that boisterous heretic, Clement Marot,
threatened to drive his dagger into him for throwing back some of his
ribald poetry on his own head. Then, again, the grave and serious
admiral felt aggrieved at his preaching, one Saint Anthony's day, upon
the subject of herrings, which he vowed was a satire upon the tax he had
laid on the fishery. However, there the good priest is--or, rather,
there he is not, but ought to be--one of the honestest men in all
France, if you will take his own word for it; a great rogue according to
some men, and a good soul according to others. There may be two or three
like him in other parts of France; and depend upon it, wherever they
are, you will find the poor speak well of them, the widows and the
maidens over forty shake their heads and disparage them when they
compare them with their reverend predecessor; while some very grave men
in the parish look wise and suspect them to be heretics, without being
able to prove it."

Bernard de Rohan smiled; but, wishing to hear somewhat more of Father
Willand's acquaintance with his friend Corse de Leon, he replied, "I
thought that this same good priest you mention, if not a Savoyard by
birth, had a Savoyard cure, and that the first of his penitents was our
good friend Corse de Leon."

"You are mistaken, my son," replied the ecclesiastic, "you are mistaken
altogether. He has no cure in Savoy, though he may have business there;
and as to Corse de Leon being a penitent, he is very impenitent indeed.
I remember now," he continued, in a thoughtful way, "it is some five or
six years since, when I was travelling through a little village called
Pommieres, not far from the foot of Mount Rosa, that the people called
me to confess a young man who had been crushed under an earth-slip of
the mountain. It was difficult to get him to confess at all; and one
priest from Saint Maurice had left him. But I set about the matter in a
different way; told him I did not think he would die, and had great
hopes of his not being damned if he did. He said he would rather die
than not; but I argued him out of that, and in the end got him to make a
full confession. What he did confess is no business of yours, my son;
but I found him to be a man who had suffered many wrongs, and had
endured bitter griefs; but one who was naturally as kind of heart as he
was bold, fearless, and determined, and as noble and generous in his
purposes as he was sometimes wild, fierce, and intemperate in their
execution. I sat by his bedside for six weeks, for the three first of
which he fluttered between life and death. At the end of that time he
recovered, and his frame, like iron tempered in the fire, seemed to
become but the stronger and more active for what it had undergone. Two
or three years elapsed ere I met him again, and by that time he had
become Corse de Leon. The cause of his quitting his native country,
France, which was just before I first met with him, was that, on his
return from the army, where he had served his king for years, he found
his sister injured, insulted, and disgraced by the intendant of a high
nobleman who was lately dead. He first sought for justice, but could not
obtain it. He then visited the deathbed of the poor girl, and found her
head supported by the daughter of that very high noble, and her lips
moistened by the hand of--_Bernard de Rohan_. He turned away as soon as
Death had done his work, and, mad for revenge, had sought the house of
the intendant. But the generous spirit of two high youths, Bernard de
Rohan and Henry de Brienne, had been beforehand with him, and had driven
forth with ignominy the oppressor whom he sought. Still, however, the
thing rankled on his mind, and the injustice which he had once suffered
and but too often seen, turned a portion of his blood to bitterness. But
hark! there is mine host knocking at the door to tell us that supper is
ready; and what is all human nature compared with supper?"




CHAPTER IX.


The evening was dark and somewhat stormy; and, though the hour was the
same as that in which Bernard de Rohan had met Isabel on the preceding
day, so much less light was there now in the heavens that he could
scarcely see the postern gate, while with a beating heart he watched it
from the small clump of fir-trees of which we have already spoken.
Although a hollow and whistling wind blew sharp and strong among the
mountains, the heavy vapours hung unmoved around the peaks; and though
there was a reddish glare upon the edges of some of the clouds in the
western sky, no light was derived from any lingering rays of the sun.
Everything was gloomy, and dark, and cheerless; and yet the heart of
Bernard de Rohan beat high with love, with joy, with expectation.

She was to be his, the being whom he had so long, so deeply, so tenderly
loved. Within one short hour she was to be his own, bound to him by that
indissoluble bond, to which he looked forward all the more joyfully,
because it was to be eternal. Whose heart would not beat high at the
fulfilment of the dream of years?

At length he thought he saw the door move, and, darting forward, he
opened it gently. Isabel was waiting within with the faithful Henriot
and her silent maid; and though she trembled very much as Bernard threw
his arms around her, it was agitation, not fear, which moved her. The
Lord of Masseran was still absent: there was no one likely to interrupt
them; and when her lover strove to sooth and to encourage her, telling
her that his own men were within sound of his horn, and many more
unseen, surrounding them on all sides, she replied by assuring him in a
low voice that she had no apprehension, and was ready to follow him
whithersoever he would. Still, however, he saw that she was agitated;
and, as he led her forth, he poured many a soothing and a tender word
into her ear, drawing her nearer to his heart, and seeming to assure
her, by every action as well as by every word, that the love and the
protection which he was about to vow was as tender, as unchangeable, as
the brightest dream of hope and expectation could picture it.

"Do you know the chapel down in the valley, my Isabel?" he asked, as he
led her onward down a narrow path that wound along the side of the hill,
as close under the walls of the castle as might be. "We have obtained
the keys, and the priest is waiting."

"But at this hour," demanded Isabel, eagerly; "can he perform the
service at this hour?"

"He has procured full authority," replied Bernard, in the same low tone.
"Nothing, dear girl, has been left undone."

"Hark!" said Isabel, stopping. "Did you not hear some voices above?"

He paused and listened, but no sound met his ear. "The echo of our own
voices," he answered; "though we speak low, they catch the angles of the
rock, and are given back again to our own ears. But let us hasten
onward, dearest. Once thou art mine, such apprehensions will cease."

Nothing occurred to interrupt them. Step by step, over the rough and
encumbered path, they pursued their way, till at length, in the lowest
part of the valley, shut in between the small river and the rock on
which the castle stood, appeared an old Gothic chapel. The pinnacles,
the towers, the mouldings of the little building, in all their rich
tracery, were fully visible; for, as the party descended, the chapel lay
exactly between them and a clear part of the stream, so that the
glistening surface of the water formed a background to the dark lines of
the building, though none of the surrounding scenery, except the bold
masses of some adjacent rocks, could be distinguished.

Thither, by another path, which, being cut through the rock, gave
admission to the castle at once, had Isabel often come to attend the
service on Sundays and on holydays; but all seemed changed as she now
approached it; as much, indeed, in regard to the feelings with which she
revisited it, as to the aspect of the place itself. Through the windows
on the side which they approached, a small ray of light stole forth from
the altar like a pure and holy religion in the midst of ages of
darkness, and, guided onward by that, they were soon at the door of the
chapel. It yielded easily to the hand, and Isabel, half led, half
supported by Bernard de Rohan, found herself approaching that altar
where the last vow of maiden love was to be spoken. On one side of that
altar stood the good priest, Father Willand; but on the other, to the
surprise both of Bernard de Rohan and of Isabel de Brienne, appeared the
ordinary priest of the place, pale, somewhat agitated, and looking from
time to time round the building with a wild and fearful glance.

"Quick!" cried Father Willand, as the party approached; "you have been
very long, my children. Let us despatch this business speedily, and put
out the lights."

"I am forced," said the other priest, "by commands that I dare not
disobey, to be here this night; but I call you all to witness that it is
against my will that I am here; and, in case the Lord of Masseran--"

"Pooh, pooh!" exclaimed Father Willand, "we don't want you to be here at
all, my good friend. All we want is the chapel. I will read the service,
brother. Approach, my children, approach;" and, taking up the book, he
commenced at once, and in the most abridged form that the Church
allowed, the marriage service between Bernard de Rohan and Isabel de
Brienne.

The latter needed support not a little; but the quiet maid, who was the
only woman that accompanied her, was far too inanimate and statue-like
to afford her any. It was in no ordinary circumstances that poor Isabel
was placed. True, indeed, she was not called upon to give her hand to
one who was nearly a stranger to her, as is but too often the case;
true, that with her all the sweet and delicate feelings which surround
the heart of woman from her youth were not to be rudely plucked away
without preparation, like flowers torn by a harsh and reckless hand,
which, while it takes, injures the plant which bore them; true, that she
was giving herself to one whom she had long known and deeply loved, and
towards whom she had ever looked as to her promised husband; but still
she was becoming his bride suddenly, secretly; she was flying with him
in darkness and in concealment, with the presence of none of those bound
to her by the ties of blood to sanction the new bonds that she was
taking upon her.

The fear, too, of discovery and pursuit was superadded to all the other
feelings which such circumstances might well produce. She knew that it
might not, and probably would not, be long before her mother--who had
been left evidently as a sort of spy upon her actions and a jailer of
her person, rather than a friend, a protector, and an adviser--might
send to make sure that the harsh commands of the Lord of Masseran were
strictly observed, and that she did not quit the walls of the castle for
a moment during his absence; and she was well aware that the discovery
of her flight would produce instant pursuit. Thus, though generally she
kept her eyes either bent down upon the ground, or raised with a look of
confidence and affection towards Bernard de Rohan, yet from time to time
she cast a hasty glance over her shoulder towards the door of the
chapel; and, as she did so, she remarked that the same fears seemed also
to possess the waiting woman, whose eyes were generally turned in the
same direction.

No interruption took place, however. The words, the irrevocable words
that bound her and Bernard de Rohan together, were spoken in a low but a
firm voice. The ring was upon her finger. The benediction was
pronounced, and for a moment, for one short moment, she was clasped as a
bride in the arms of him she loved, when there came suddenly a noise as
of something thrown down in the small vestry on the right-hand side of
the altar.

The priest instantly put out the lights. Bernard de Rohan still held her
close to his heart with his left arm, but, at the same time, laid his
right hand upon his sword. Before he could draw it, however, three men
sprang upon him, two from the vestry itself, and one from a window
behind him, through which several had forced a way.

All was now darkness and confusion in the chapel; but it was evident
that the number of persons it contained increased every moment. The
young cavalier strove violently to free himself, and, by an exertion of
his great strength, dragged his assailants hither and thither; but still
they clung to him; still, twining round his arms, they prevented him
from grasping either sword or dagger, and from reaching the small
hunting-horn which he carried at his side, and which he knew, could he
but blow it, would bring assistance speedily. Frustrated in his attempt
to lift it to his lips, he raised his voice and shouted loudly; but
fresh assailants poured upon him; a scarf was tied over his mouth; his
hands were pinioned behind, and he found himself irretrievably a
prisoner.

All was darkness, as I have said; not the least light appeared in the
chapel, and no words were spoken aloud by any one; so that all Bernard
de Rohan could hear was the moving of many feet; a low, murmuring
whisper, as if of consultation or direction; and the sobbing of a bosom
which he knew too well to be that of her he loved best on earth. At one
time a voice was raised somewhat louder than the rest, and he thought he
distinguished the tones of Adrian de Meyrand. The next moment another
voice that he did not know replied, "No, not that way. Keep that door
shut. There is another here which leads us thither more quickly."

Now completely overpowered--although his heart burned within him, and he
longed for the strength of him who cast down the temple of Gaza to burst
the bonds upon his hands--Bernard de Rohan strove no longer with those
who held him, for he felt that to struggle was utterly vain.
Nevertheless, it was not without rude violence that they dragged him
along through the vestry, and from thence by a small door into the open
air. The scarf was still over his mouth, so that he could not speak, and
could scarcely breathe; but, as there was some slight increase of light,
he looked eagerly around him. Isabel, however, was not to be seen. There
were some dark, scattered groups here and there, but he could
distinguish no one clearly, and was dragged on towards the rock on which
the castle of Masseran stood.

Into whose power he had now fallen there was no doubt. The character of
the man was well known; and, had Bernard de Rohan thought at that moment
of his own probable fate, he could have anticipated nothing but the
darkest and most atrocious termination of the act which had been just
committed. At that moment, however, he thought alone of Isabel de
Brienne; and he remembered, with grief and agony that will not bear
description, what might be the consequences to her of falling into the
hands of the Lord of Masseran under such circumstances, and beyond the
pale of her native country.

They dragged him on, however, across the short space which lay between
the rock on which the castle stood and the chapel, to a spot where a
doorway presented itself, hewn in the solid stone, under the arch of
which appeared a soldier with a light. Into his hands those who brought
him thither consigned the young French gentleman, pushing him forward,
and saying, "There, take him, and put him where my lord told you."

The man with the light replied nothing, but with another, who had been
standing behind him, received the prisoner from the hands of his
comrades, and, with somewhat more gentleness than they had shown, led
him onward. The moment he had taken a step or two forward, a large,
oblong mass of solid rock, which, turning upon a pivot, served the
purpose of a door, and, when shut, blocked up the whole passage that led
under ground to the castle, rolled slowly to behind him. He went on
patiently, for it was clear that no effort of his own could effect
anything towards his deliverance; and when he had gone on some way and
ascended a small flight of steps, he found another armed man standing
with a light at a door plated with iron. Those who followed told him to
go in, and he found himself in a dungeon, of which he was evidently not
the first tenant, for there was a crust of bread covered with long green
mould upon the table, and a broken water-pitcher in one corner of the
room. There was a bed, too, with some straw, at one side of the door,
and a single chair; but besides these necessaries there appeared hanging
from the wall, to which they were attached by a stanchion imbedded in
the solid masonry, a large, heavy ring, and some strong linked fetters.
At these Bernard de Rohan gazed for a moment fiercely, and then turned
his eyes to one of his jailers, who had been removing the mouldy crust
from the table and the broken water-cruise from the corner of the
dungeon.

The man seemed to understand the look at once. "No!" he said, "no! They
are not for you unless you are violent. But we may let you speak now as
much as you like;" and he untied the scarf from Bernard de Rohan's lips.
The young cavalier drew a deep breath, and then demanded, "What is this?
Why am I here? Take notice, and remember that I am an officer of Henry
the Second, king of France, now actually on his service; that I came
hither from the Marechal de Brissac, with despatches and messages to the
Lord of Masseran; and that bitter will be the punishment of all those
who injure or detain me."

The man heard him to the end with the most perfect composure, and then
replied, "We neither know nor care, young gentleman, who or what you
are, or in whose service you are. We obey the commands of our own lord;
and, if you are inclined to give up all resistance and be quiet, we will
untie your arms, and let you have the free use of your limbs and tongue.
There is only one thing necessary for you to tell us. Will you be quiet
and peaceable, or will you not?"

"I have no choice," replied Bernard de Rohan, in a bitter tone. "As you
have wrongfully and unjustly made me a prisoner, I have no power of
resisting whatsoever you choose to do with me."

"That is talking sensibly," replied the man; "but, in the first place,
if you please, we will take away all these pleasant little things from
you, as I would rather have them in my hand than my throat." And he
deliberately stripped the prisoner of all his weapons, to keep them, as
he said, with a laugh, for his use at a future time. He then untied his
arms, which were benumbed with the tight straining of the cords with
which they had bound him, and saying, "I will bring you some food," he
moved towards the door where his companions stood.

"I want no food," replied Bernard de Rohan, gloomily; and in his heart
he asked himself if any human being could find appetite to eat in such
an abode as that.

"You will come to it, young gentleman, you will come to it," replied the
man; "before you get out, you will come to it well enough. I have seen
many a one who thought of nothing else all the day long but the time for
eating and drinking. Why, it was the only thing they had to do with
life. They might as well have been a stone in the wall if it had not
been for that."

With this awful sermon upon the imprisonment that awaited him, the
jailer set down the lamp he held in his hand and went away. He returned
in a minute or two, however, with some food, which he placed upon the
table before which the young cavalier was still standing, exactly as the
other had left him. The man gave him a cold look, as if merely to see
how he bore it, and then once more quitted the dungeon, turning the key
in the heavy lock.

Bernard de Rohan remained long in that same attitude, and filled with
the same dark and melancholy thoughts. Still, still they pressed upon
his brain, although he sought to banish them and to bear his condition
with his usual equanimity and fortitude. He was not one ever to give way
to despair where any opportunity existed for active exertion; but here
he could do nothing. With his own hand he could not right himself. With
his own voice he could not plead his cause. Talent or genius he might
possess, but all in vain. Vigour and courage were useless. There was but
one thing left--endurance; a species of courage which the very bravest
do not always possess. Bernard de Rohan strove to summon it to his aid.
It came but slowly, however; and, when he thought of Isabel of Brienne,
his own sweet, beautiful bride, snatched from him in the very first
moment that he could call her so, resolution forsook him, and in agony
of heart he cast himself down upon the straw in his dungeon. Was that
his bridal bed?




CHAPTER X.


"Now, then, have I not kept faith with you?" said a voice in the chapel.

"Yes, in truth you have," replied a second voice; "but I fear we have
been too late. The falling of that accursed horse has lost us the five
minutes--the important five minutes on which all success in life so
often depends."

"You should not bring fine-pampered Barbary steeds into these wild
mountains, count," replied the other voice; "but a bold man is never too
late. The lover is safe enough for a long time to come, and you can--"

"Hush! hush!" said the other, as if fearful that their conversation,
though the tone in which they spoke was little louder than a whisper,
should reach the ears of some one near.

"Oh! she has fainted," said the other. "She sank back upon my arm a
minute or two ago. Here! Forli, bring me a lantern!"

A lantern was soon brought, and, one side being opened, the light was
suffered to stream full upon the face of Isabel de Brienne. The
beautiful eyes were closed; the long, dark lashes rested on the fair
cheek; the lips themselves were pale; and there was no indication that
the heavy, senseless sleep in which she lay was not the slumber of death
itself, except a slight movement of the fingers, as if the cord that
tied her wrists caused some corporeal pain, which was felt even through
the swoon in which she lay. It was upon her face and form alone that the
full light shone, but the feeble rays which found their way around
dispelled in some degree, though but slightly, the profound darkness
that before had filled the whole building. No one could be seen so as to
be recognised; but

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