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Vayenne

by Percy James Brebner · English · Gutenberg #39652 · 528,574 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Vayenne

Author: Percy James Brebner

Illustrator: E. Fuhr


        
Release date: May 8, 2012 [eBook #39652]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39652

Credits: Produced by Bruce Albrecht, Matthew Wheaton and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VAYENNE ***




Produced by Bruce Albrecht, Matthew Wheaton and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net







    [Illustration: _Christine._]




    VAYENNE

    BY
    PERCY BREBNER

    _Author of "Princess Maritza"_

    ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. FUHR


    THE JOHN McBRIDE CO.

    NEW YORK


    COPYRIGHT, 1907--1908

    BY

    THE JOHN McBRIDE CO.




    CONTENTS


         I. THE TRAVELLER ARRIVES,
        II. THE CROIX VERTE LOSES ITS GUEST,
       III. THE DWARF OF ST. ETIENNE,
        IV. THE ROAD TO PASSEY,
         V. THE SCHOLAR,
        VI. AT THE CLEARING IN THE FOREST,
       VII. THE END OF A RACE FOR LIFE,
      VIII. INTO DEATH'S JAWS AGAIN,
        IX. COUNT FELIX,
         X. THE SUPERSTITION OF COUNT FELIX,
        XI. THE LAW OF THE LAND,
       XII. HOW JEAN LOST HIS ENEMIES,
      XIII. OBEDIENCE AND TRUST,
       XIV. THE DUKE'S FOOL,
        XV. THE COUNT LOSES HIS SWORD,
       XVI. THE ORDERS FOR RELEASE,
      XVII. THE DUKE OF MONTVILLIERS,
     XVIII. THE PRICE OF SUCCESS,
       XIX. A CHANGED MAN,
        XX. FATHER BERTRAND JUSTIFIES HIMSELF,
       XXI. THE OLD HAG,
      XXII. THE DWARF'S APPEAL,
     XXIII. THE GATES ARE SHUT,
      XXIV. THE FORD BY LARNE,
       XXV. THE CRYPT OF ST. ETIENNE,
      XXVI. THE VENGEANCE OF THE MOB,
     XXVII. ONLY THE FOOL,
    XXVIII. THE SUBMISSION OF MADEMOISELLE DE LIANCOURT,
      XXIX. THE DUKE'S MESSENGER,
       XXX. THE CROWNING OF ROGER HERRICK,
      XXXI. DUKE AND SUBJECTS,




    ILLUSTRATIONS


    Christine
    "The Spy!" she said
    He rushed upon Herrick wildly
    She sank into a chair
    His strong arms were about her




VAYENNE




CHAPTER I

THE TRAVELLER ARRIVES


A long, straight road, no hedge or ditch separating it from the fields
on either side, but at intervals of fifty yards or so trees in pairs;
tall, thin trees, but heavy-headed and with foliage spread out fussily
near the ground, all bent forward in one direction, and looking for
all the world like ancient dames with their petticoats held out of the
mud as they struggled wearily homeward against a strong wind. In its
season this road could be muddy, as many a traveller knew, the fierce
storms which raged across the low country making it almost impassable
for days together in winter-time. To-day the ancient diligence which
traversed it at an even, jog-trot pace only left a long cloud of dust
in its wake; and the driver, an old man who had driven along this road
at regular intervals for more years than he could count, who possibly
knew the exact number of trees which lined it, sat hunched upon his
seat and had nothing to do. Perhaps he slept, for the horses knew the
way well enough to have performed the journey without him. Earlier in
the day there had been half a dozen passengers, but of these only one
remained, and he had found the driver so taciturn, and his patois so
difficult to understand when he did speak, that he had given up all
attempt at conversation. He was weary of the long journey, and dozed
whenever the jolting of the somewhat crazy vehicle would allow him to
do so.

For two days he had waited in the little frontier town, for the
diligence only performed this journey twice in the week, and he had
been travelling since early morning. At the last moment, indeed, he
had hesitated whether he should take the journey at all. It was an
absurd fancy that had brought him to this Duchy of Montvilliers, a
wonder and speculation which had lain latent in him since childhood.
As a boy a few chance words, and an elderly woman's earnest looking
into his face, had stirred his imagination. Since then the work of
life had come to fire him with other ambitions, some partially
realized, perhaps, some found to be unworthy of pursuit; and then,
suddenly as it were, almost as though some compelling voice had spoken
to his inner consciousness, the old wonder and speculation had sprung
again into life, and at last he was nearing the end of a journey which
as a lad he had promised himself one day to take.

The sun was fast sinking westward when the jolting of the vehicle
again woke the traveller, and he saw that the aspect of the land had
changed. The monotonous pairs of trees had gone, and the diligence Was
ascending a stiff incline between two swelling downs, part of a long
line of hills which had risen mistily in the distance before them all
day. It was a long climb and the horses stopped at intervals to rest
without any suggestion from the driver; on their own initiative they
went on again, and finally paused on the summit before beginning the
long descent on the other side.

"Vayenne?" asked the traveller, suddenly leaning toward the driver and
pointing down into the valley. The man looked at him with sleepy eyes
and nodded. It seemed a foolish question to him. What place could it
be but Vayenne?

It lay in the gathering twilight like the city of a dream, indefinite,
unreal, mystical. The hills overshadowed it, keeping silent watch; and
spanned by a stone bridge, a river, dotted with green islands like
emeralds upon its bosom, swept around its southern and western sides,
holding it in its arms. Over all was the diaphanous haze of evening
and silence, save for the thin music of bell and chime from belfry or
clock tower, joyous little cadences which rose and fell at short
intervals. Indistinctly the eye could trace the direction of some of
the wider streets, and toward the northern side, dominating the city
from rising ground, five gaunt, weather-beaten towers, with massive
walls and battlements between, frowned over all below. There was
menace in this castle, power, and perchance cruelty. It spoke of
despotic government, of might as right, of stern repression, of feudal
laws and the crushing of all liberty; and yet close to it, the
crowning glory of a glorious church, a great spire pierced upward
through the haze, telling of other things and a time to come.

They were complex thoughts which filled the mind of the traveller as
the diligence swung rapidly down toward the town. To him, indeed,
Vayenne was a dream city, an unknown city; yet somehow it had always
seemed a part of himself. In an indefinite way he had always known
that some day he would come to it, would have a part in its life, be
of it; and now, as every moment brought him nearer to it, he forgot
that he was a casual traveller merely, that only a few hours ago he
had hesitated whether he should come at all. He was obliged to come.
He was only fulfilling his destiny.

Lights began to blink in the houses as they crossed the old stone
bridge and passed under a massive gateway on the city side of it.
Lights swung at street corners as the lumbering vehicle passed over
the cobblestones with much rattle and noise upward toward the castle.
Even the driver roused a little from his lethargy, and cracked his
whip. They had proceeded some distance when he suddenly drew to the
side of the street, and the horses came to a standstill. They were
evidently used to such pauses; for in these narrow thoroughfares
traffic was difficult, and the diligence made no pretence of keeping
time. There was the sound of horses' hoofs behind, and in a few
moments a woman, followed by half a dozen horsemen, rode by. She
checked her pace as she passed, and turned to look at the traveller,
while the driver slowly raised his whip in salute. The light from a
lamp swinging from a bracket on the wall fell upon her, and the
traveller saw that she was young, two or three and twenty, her figure
slight and supple. Her dark gray habit may have made her look smaller
than she really was, and the mare, which she sat like an accomplished
horsewoman, was a big and powerful animal, almost too much, it seemed,
for those little gloved hands which held the reins to manage. Yet
there was strength in those little hands. There was a suggestion of
strength about her altogether, strength of will and purpose. It shone
out of a pair of dark gray eyes set under gracefully curved brows and
veiled with long lashes. The firm little mouth showed it, and there
was just enough suspicion of squareness about the chin to emphasize
it. She had nut-brown hair, a curl of which fell upon her forehead
from underneath a gray astrakhan cap, and the little head was poised
proudly on her shoulders. No ordinary woman this, not one to be
easily swayed by love or any other passion, a woman to rule rather
than be ruled.

"Who is that?" asked the traveller, leaning toward the driver as the
cavalcade passed on.

"A beautiful woman," was the slow answer.

"But her name?"

The driver cracked his whip and the diligence began to rattle over the
cobbles again.

"Some day she may be Duchess," he said, as though he was following his
own train of thought rather than answering his companion's question.

There was no time to tempt him into being more explicit, for the
horses turned a corner sharply, and with a shake of their harness
stopped before a long, low building, on which the traveller could just
decipher the words, Hotel de la Croix Verte. It was an old house,
redolent of the past, the lights within shining but faintly through
the small windows. Its upper story projected over the narrow footway,
and its lower walls bulged outward, as though they had grown tired of
the load they had had to bear so long. Its age seemed to have infected
its inhabitants, too, for some moments elapsed before the door opened,
and a man came out leisurely to receive the parcels which the
diligence had brought. That it had brought a traveller also did not
excite him, nor was he in any hurry to welcome him. Perhaps the
traveller was half dreaming, for he almost started when the man turned
and spoke to him.

"Yes; it's a long journey," he answered, "and I am ready to do justice
to the best you have."

He followed the landlord along a narrow passage and up a twisting
staircase.

"The best room," said the landlord as he opened a door and lit a
candle. "There's no one else staying in the house. Strangers do not
come much to Vayenne."

"No?" said the traveller interrogatively.

"No," returned the landlord. "It's not an easy journey, and, besides,
what can strangers want in Vayenne? By your accent you'll be----"

"Well, to what extent does my accent betray me?" asked the traveller,
with a smile.

"English or German," was the answer.

"Englishman," said the traveller--"Roger Herrick by name, a casual
visitor who may be interested enough to stay in Vayenne some time."

The landlord nodded, as though he were not surprised at anything an
Englishman might do, and went out promising an excellent dinner
forthwith.

"So I am in Vayenne at last!" Herrick exclaimed as he glanced around
the old room, pleased with its panelled walls and low, beamed ceiling.
"In Vayenne! I hardly thought when the time came that the fact would
impress me so much."

He went to the window, opened it, and looked out. Like shadows in the
darkness he could dimly discern the towers of the castle above the
roofs opposite, and the slender spire with its top lost in the night.
The chimes made little bursts of ecstatic music like the voices and
laughter of spirits in the air. Somewhere there was the low rumble of
a cart over the cobbles, but the street below him was empty. The
diligence had gone; no pedestrian was on the narrow footway. It almost
seemed as though he were deserted, left here for all time; that,
however anxious he might be to leave Vayenne, he would not be able to
do so. The city of his dreams had him fast, and already the first of
her surprises was preparing for him. Could he have looked but for an
instant into the near future, he might possibly have gone to dinner
with less appetite than he did.

The long, low room had its windows toward the street, and was broken
up by partitions. A waiter pointed to one of these separate retreats
as Herrick entered, and he saw that his table was laid there. On the
other side of the partition four men were sitting, a bottle of wine
and glasses on the table between them. Herrick casually noticed that
one was in uniform and that another wore the cassock of a priest, but
took no further interest in them, and he had come into the room so
quietly that they did not look up at his entrance, and were perhaps
unconscious that any one was dining on the other side of the
partition.

The landlord had been true to his word, and had provided an excellent
dinner. It was good wine, too, that was set upon the table, and
Herrick began to discover how hungry he really was. For a long time
his attention was confined to the business in hand, and then he
suddenly became conscious of the conversation on the other side of the
partition. It seemed to have taken a more serious turn, the voices
were dropped a little, and it was this fact, no doubt, which made
Herrick listen unconsciously.

"Such men as he is die hard," said one man. "The old Duke may hold
death at arm's length for years yet."

"Not so, my son. I know something of his disease, and naught but a
miracle can help him. A few weeks perhaps, and then----"

It was evidently the priest who spoke. His voice was soft and
persuasive, and Herrick thought that some suggestive gesture,
explaining what must ensue, had probably finished the sentence.

There was silence for a few moments, and then the ring of a glass as
it was placed on the table.

"When the reins fall from a strong hand there is always trouble," said
another man.

"And opportunity, don't forget that," said the priest. "You have your
ambitions; have we not talked of them before this? They are within a
few short weeks of realization, if you will be guided by me."

"Ay, or I am within measurable distance of losing my head, if things
go awry," was the answer. "There are always two sides to such a scheme
as this."

"I hadn't thought to find a coward in Gaspard Lemasle," said the
priest.

There was a sudden movement and quick shuffle of feet, then a laugh,
the laugh of a strong man, deep-chested and resonant.

"Bah! I forgot. One cannot fight with a cassock. See here, Father
Bertrand, granted I have ambitions, where it not better to stand by
the stronger side? Count Felix is strong, even as his uncle. The old
Duke looks upon him as his successor. Strong hands are ready to catch
the reins as they fall. In the face of such a man will Vayenne shout
for a pale-faced scholar it has little knowledge of, think you?"

"And what reward is Gaspard Lemasle to win from Count Felix?" asked
the priest. "Is Gaspard Lemasle's support necessary to him? Rewards
come only to those who struggle for them. For you they lie in the
hands of that pale scholar at Passey. There will be many to shout for
him, and, with a determined leader to fight for him, I can see
enthusiastic crowds in the streets of Vayenne."

"Father Bertrand speaks nothing but the truth," said another man, and
it seemed certain that only Lemasle's consent was wanting to complete
a scheme which had long occupied the priest's attention.

"Maybe," Lemasle returned, "I care not overmuch which way it goes."

"And you have forgotten Mademoiselle de Liancourt," said the priest.

"A second time your cassock protects you, father," laughed the other.
"It were a sin, indeed, to forget her. Pass the bottle, and let us
have brimming glasses to drink her health. Christine de Liancourt, the
most beautiful woman in Montvilliers."

"In the world," corrected the priest quietly. "She is heart and soul
for this pale scholar, and she has mentioned Gaspard Lemasle to me."

"By the faith, you shall tell me what she said," the other cried,
striking the table until the glasses rattled.

"Nay, nay, it was for no ears but mine; yet, mark you, she knows a
brave man when she sees him, and----"

The priest stopped suddenly. The silent street had suddenly awoke.
There were hurrying feet and men shouting to each other as they ran,
then the sound of a gun which boomed in deep vibration and died slowly
away in the distance.

With inarticulate and fragmentary exclamations the four men sprang up
and hurried to the door. Herrick followed them more leisurely.

"The Duke is dead!" a man cried to them as they stood in the doorway,
and as he ran he shouted the news to others who had been brought from
their houses by the sound of the gun. "The Duke is dead!"

"Dead!" said the priest slowly, crossing himself, more by habit than
intention it seemed, for other thoughts than of death were reflected
in his face. He looked at his companions one after the other, deep
meaning in his look, and last of all his eyes rested on Roger
Herrick, standing a little in the rear, his face lit up by the light
of a lamp hanging in the passage. For a moment the priest did not
appear to realize that Herrick was a stranger, and then his eyes
opened wider and remained fixed upon him.

"A sudden death," said Herrick. "I heard you say just now that he
might live for weeks."

Father Bertrand glanced back into the room they had left, to the place
where he and his companions had been sitting.

"Very sudden," he answered, and then after a pause he added, "Very
strange."




CHAPTER II

THE CROIX VERTE LOSES ITS GUEST


"Does the death of a man prevent the living from finishing the bottle?
It's a sin to waste good wine," said Lemasle, striding back into the
room.

He spoke rather as a man who was perplexed than as one who was
callous. Whatever scheme Father Bertrand was persuading him to, had
been in the future a few moments ago; there was plenty of time to
weigh it and digest it, to play with it and calculate the chances;
that cannon booming out into the night had made a quick decision
imperative, and Gaspard Lemasle was troubled.

"Leave him to me," said the priest to the other two men, and then as
Herrick turned and went down the passage toward the stairs, Father
Bertrand drew his companions closer to him, and talked eagerly to them
for a few moments.

When Herrick descended the stairs a few minutes later the passage was
empty, and only a waiter was in the long room. The conversation he had
chanced to overhear had made little impression upon him. Was there
ever a state yet in which every citizen was contented with his rulers?
Here in Montvilliers there were contentions, and the coming demise of
the Duke prompted men to talk. How dangerous such talk might be,
Herrick had no means of judging. He had heard a few names which had
little meaning for him--a count, a beautiful woman, and a scholar.
Evidently they were of import in the Duchy, but of what interest
could they be to him? Nor had he particularly noticed the priest's
close scrutiny of his face. Father Bertrand had been astonished to see
a stranger there, one who had certainly overheard something of what
had been said, and, being a politician as well as a churchman, more
loyal as the latter possibly than as the former, he had naturally
sought to understand what manner of man this stranger might be. That
was all.

So Herrick sought to dismiss the occurrence from his mind as he passed
out of the inn, and, after standing on the narrow footway for a moment
looking up and down the street, turned in the direction of the castle,
bent on a short walk before bed.

There is ever a sense of mystery in an unknown city when it is
traversed for the first time after nightfall. Seen over the
intervening roofs, some tower or battlemented edifice, rising gray and
ghost-like in the dim light of the moon as it did to-night, seems full
of mystery; there is a secret in every street turning to right and
left, leading we know not whither; in every narrow alley, looking
dangerous betwixt frowning walls; in every dark window, from whence
evil might peep out unseen. In Vayenne this sense of mystery was
intensified since for long centuries history had been busy with it.
Its interest lay in the folded mantle of the past rather than in the
open lap of the present. Its foundations were in the days of
Charlemagne, and in war and peace it had played a foremost part since
then. Hate and ambition had fought out their deadly feuds around it
and in its streets. Thrice it had closed its gates against the invader
and stood a siege. Chivalry had held sway in it, and in cruel ages
deeds unspeakable had been perpetrated within its walls. It had had
its periods of great glory and of even greater neglect, of victory and
defeat, yet it stood to-day as it ever had stood, the capital of the
Duchy of Montvilliers, the centre of an independent state, the dukes
of which could still link themselves with those Frankish pirates who
had conquered and made their home here.

But to-day Vayenne had fallen behind in the march of modern
civilization. For the most part its streets were old and ill-lighted.
Men still inhabited houses which had stood for centuries, the castle
still frowned over the city as it had done in the Middle Ages, and the
ruling hand had still an iron grip in it. Perhaps nowhere in Europe
had the ways of the foreigner made less progress. Travellers had not
yet marked Vayenne as a place to visit. It was not easy of access, and
no one had written eulogies concerning it. That it had fallen behind
the times in this manner may have been a potent factor in keeping it
inviolate and independent. What wonder then if its rulers, and its
people, too, were satisfied with things as they were?

Well might a traveller feel strangely alone and out of the world in
this city, whose monuments of chiselled stone and sturdy oak had
defied the ravages of the conqueror and of time. Yet no such
strangeness took possession of Roger Herrick. Vayenne had been to him
a dream city. He had known of it from earliest childhood, why and how
he hardly understood; as a boy he had vowed one day to see and know it
in reality; and to-night the sudden rushes of bell and chime music,
the very cadences of the carillon, which came from the belfry of the
great church whose spire rose high toward heaven, seemed familiar.
They were not new, he had only forgotten them for a while. He seemed
to have known these dark streets with their overhanging houses in some
other life, and in this present existence the death of the Duke
to-night seemed to hold some meaning for him.

This sense of familiarity with his surroundings was particularly
strong as he stopped at a corner with the intention of turning and
retracing his steps to the inn. Some distance down, the street was
spanned by a deep archway, in the upper part of which was a great
clock. By the light of a lamp swinging at the corner, Herrick saw that
it was called the Rue de la Grosse Horloge. Its upper end, at least,
was better lighted than most of the streets he had passed through, and
he walked toward the archway, which was old and weather-worn, and must
have been a familiar object in Vayenne long before any clock was
placed there. There were small shops, part of the structure on either
side of the road, and in the deep arch itself, above and on the sides,
were bold reliefs, some past history of the city carved into
permanence in stone. Herrick paused to look up at them, his action
marking him for a foreigner, for who amongst those who passed daily
through that familiar archway would give them a thought? Two men
walking a dozen yards behind him stopped to watch him, and when he
went on, they went on, too, quickening their pace a little and drawing
closer to him. The street beyond the arch was darker, most of the
shops there being closed for the night, and the fact reminded Herrick
that it was time to return to the Croix Verte. He turned so suddenly
that he almost collided with the two men who followed him, and had
walked so lightly that he was quite unconscious of their presence. One
stepped aside and passed on, the other stepped back and began a
voluble apology.

"Pardon, monsieur, I did not see. I was walking with my eyes on the
ground. It is a bad habit."

Raising his hat and bowing even as the other did, Herrick was
explaining that if there were any fault it was his, and that no
apology was necessary, when an arm was thrown suddenly across his
throat from behind, and he was dragged violently backward. Immediately
the man in front closed with him, endeavoring to prevent his using his
hands; and the attack was so unexpected that for some moments it was
all Herrick could do to keep his feet. He was, however, a strong man,
a wrestler and a fighter of no mean skill. With the hand that he had
succeeded in keeping free he gripped the arm about his throat, and
with one great heave of his body threw the man over his head on to the
roadway, where he lay motionless, as though all life were beaten out
of him. In another moment it would have gone hard with his other
assailant had the man not slipped to the ground, keeping his arms
tightly clasped round Herrick's legs, however.

"A spy! Help! A spy!" he shouted. The effect of that cry was
wonderful. Before Herrick could kick himself free, a score of men were
upon him. He attempted to shout an explanation, but to no purpose.
This way and that was he thrown, his arms were seized and twisted
behind him, and then a noose was slipped over his wrists, rendering
him helpless.

Hatless and with torn clothes he was hustled down the street, the
crowd about him becoming larger every moment, those on the outer
fringe of it loudly questioning who he was and what he had done.

"A spy!" some one shouted.

"A quick death to all spies," came the ready answer.

Herrick had been severely handled, and for a few moments was hardly
conscious of what was happening about him. The reiterated cry of "Spy"
served to rouse him. For these people the word appeared to have a
special interpretation. They expected and feared spies, and were
inclined to be merciless. Revenge was in their minds rather than
justice. That the two men who had attacked him took him for a spy,
Herrick did not believe; the man clasping his legs had only raised the
cry to save himself, knowing full well how promptly assistance would
come to such a shout. A quick death seemed likely to follow capture,
and, one man as he was against a multitude, Herrick nerved himself for
a last struggle. The cord that bound his wrists was not fastened in
too workman-like a fashion, he could work his hands free, and it
should go hard with some before they succeeded in stringing him to
some lamp at a corner, which he imagined was their intention.

The cry, however, had gone farther than the street of the great clock.
There was a spirit of excitement abroad in Vayenne to-night consequent
on the death of the Duke, and the closing of the shops had only sent
more men into the taverns and streets to talk and perchance to plot.
The cry of "Spy" had leaped from lip to lip far beyond the man who had
been the cause of it, and now as the excited crowd poured out of the
street into a wide, open square, and Herrick was about to make a last
struggle for his life, there came a sharp word of command, a ring of
steel drawn from the scabbard, and the crowd halted in confusion
before a body of soldiers.

"What have we here?" said a voice which sounded familiar to Herrick.

"A spy, captain," shouted a dozen voices.

"You may easily call a man that, but the proof?"

There was silence, each man expecting his neighbor to speak.

"You may well ask for the proof, since there is none," said Herrick.
"Some scoundrels----"

"Ay, and the accusation is as easily denied," interrupted the soldier,
turning toward Herrick. "There was never a spy yet but had plenty of
lies ready to his tongue."

"I am a stranger in Vayenne--shall I seek justice in it in vain,
Captain Lamasle?" For Herrick recognized him as the soldier who had
been with the priest at the Croix Verte that evening.

An expression of astonishment crossed the captain's face at being
known by this stranger. It was evident that he did not recognize
Herrick, but perhaps he remembered what company he had been in not
long since and what had been said over the wine.

"Being so ready with my name is not much in your favor," he said;
"you'll get justice, I warrant." And then in obedience to a quick
command, Herrick found himself a prisoner amongst soldiers instead of
in the midst of a crowd. It would be useless now to attempt to escape,
and at the word of command he marched forward.

Until this moment Herrick had taken little note of his surroundings.
Now a sudden rush of music in the air above made him look around him.
The square was of great size, misty and ghost-like in the pale,
uncertain moonlight, but, in front of him there loomed a great gateway
flanked by towers, and behind and on higher ground, there were other
towers and frowning walls. It was the castle, and near it rose the
stately pile of a great church, its spire piercing far into the
night.

As they approached the castle the great gates were flung open, and
Herrick saw that the court-yard within was full of men hurrying to and
fro. Horses' hoofs impatiently beat the stones, which were rough and
uneven. There was much jingling of harness and ring of spur and steel.
Lights shone in narrow doorways, and there was the flame of a torch
here and there. All was hurry and excitement; and in some silent
chamber near, the Duke lay dead. Herrick remembered this, found
himself speculating upon it, yet even as he passed through the gate he
hardly felt strange in playing a part in this drama.

The word "Spy" seemed to have run before him even here. That grim
gateway had not kept it out. Men paused a moment to look at him: some
were silent, some uttered a sound of hatred and contempt, but all
seemed convinced that the accusation was a just one.

The soldiers halted by the wall some twenty feet in height. Herrick
concluded that there was a terrace or garden above, because several
persons, women and pages among them, were leaning over the wall
looking into the court-yard below. A flight of stone steps, placed
sideways to the wall, led down from this terrace, and at the foot of
these steps was a woman mounted upon a beautiful bay mare, which pawed
the ground, impatient to be gone. At a little distance a group of
horsemen waited for her signal, which she was in the act of giving
when the soldiers, with their prisoner in their midst, came to a halt
not a dozen yards from her. The light from two or three torches held
by servants who stood on the lower steps lit up her face, and Herrick
saw again the woman who had ridden past the diligence a few hours ago,
the woman who was destined to play so great a part in his life.

Captain Lemasle stepped to her side and saluted.

"Are you not to ride with us?" she asked. "We are waiting."

"Pardon, mademoiselle. I have just been rescuing a spy. The crowd had
caught him, and it would have gone hard with him had we not taken
him."

"If he is a spy, would that have mattered?" she said, loud enough for
Herrick to hear.

"There is justice in proving a man guilty before he is hanged,"
Lemasle answered.

"Since when have you been so fastidious? I have heard other things of
Gaspard Lemasle. Let me look at this spy."

"I seem better known than I imagined," the soldier muttered as he
stood aside.

She rode toward Herrick, the men about him falling back, until she was
close upon him.

"Look up," she commanded, "and let me see the face of a spy."

"Not of a spy, mademoiselle, but of an honest man," he answered,
looking her straight in the eyes.

"Spy, spy," she contradicted sharply, "or what do you in Vayenne at
such a time as this?"

"I am a traveller."

"So are they all," she cried. "There is a guest-room within these
walls for you. Vayenne knows how to welcome such travellers. Ah! I
could honor an enemy, but a spy----" And there was such utter contempt
in her face that Herrick could find no words to answer her.

As she tightened her reins, her riding whip slipped from her fingers
and fell at his feet, and before any one could prevent him he had
shaken the loosened cord from his wrists, and had stooped and picked
it up. In an instant half a dozen soldiers sprang forward to prevent
his attacking her. She did not flinch, but waving them back, held out
her hand for the whip.

"Thank you, mademoiselle," said Herrick. "At least you have generosity
enough to know that I am incapable of such a thing as that."

She looked at him for an instant as she took the whip, a new interest
in her eyes, and a slight lowering of her proud head thanked him. Then
she turned the mare round sharply.

"Captain Lemasle, I am ready," she said, and as the soldiers closed
round Herrick again, she rode out through the grim gateway, followed
by the troop of horsemen.




CHAPTER III

THE DWARF OF ST. ETIENNE


Along dark stone passages, through many a doorway, and across two or
three rough court-yards, half a dozen soldiers conducted Herrick to
his "guest-room." The woman's pleasantry had caught their fancy, and
they laughed boisterously as they went, hoping, perhaps, to put fear
into the heart of their prisoner.

They halted before a low door, which one man unlocked with a great
key. The immense thickness of the wall formed a narrow passage, at the
end of which some steps descended into a semicircular cell of no great
size, but of considerable height.

"There's straw for a bed," said the jailer, pointing to a corner,
"though how it came here I don't understand, and you've got heaven's
light itself for a candle." And he nodded toward a patch of moonlight.
"There are honest soldiers who are worse lodged, I warrant."

"It ill becomes a guest to complain of his treatment," Herrick
answered.

"Ay; that idea of a guest-room was smartly thought of," the man
returned, "but maybe you hardly see the full humor of it. This is the
South Tower, and it's usually the last lodging a man needs this side
the grave."

"Is that so?" And Herrick's attitude had interest in it, but little
personal concern.

"Yes; and it's a short walk from here to the last yard we crossed. It
usually happens there." And the jailer made a suggestive downward
sweep with his arm.

"Axe or sword?" asked Herrick.

"Sword. Unless they decide to make an especial example in your case,
then they're likely to hang you over the great gateway."

"Am I sufficiently important for that, think you?"

"I've known a dead sparrow on a string scare away much finer birds,"
the jailer answered; "but at any rate you're no white-livered man, and
I shouldn't grieve to see you cheat both sword and rope."

"Thanks for your good will," said Herrick. "Who knows, I may live to
speak a comforting word to you. I will be honest with you, I had not
appreciated the full extent of the lady's humor."

With something like a salute, deference to the prisoner's courage, the
jailer departed, and the key grated harshly in the lock as the bolts
shot home.

High up near the roof there was a deep-set window through which the
moonlight came. The tower could not be shut in by high walls,
therefore, and probably was one of the outer towers of the castle.
From that window possibly a prisoner might look into a free world,
reach it, perhaps, if age had worn the bars loose in their stone
sockets. A moment later Herrick felt certain that only this single
wall held him from freedom, for the music of the carillon burst upon
his ears. His fancy made the moonbeams the path along which the music
travelled. But the window was unattainable. The rounded walls were
almost as smooth as if the surface had been polished, and the cell was
bare of everything but the heap of straw in the comer.

"My first night in Vayenne," he muttered, and some of the bravery with
which he had addressed the jailer was wanting. The moonlight was upon
his face as he spoke, a serious face just now, although neither
hopelessness nor despair was in it. It could hardly be called a
handsome face, yet it was one to remember. They were good, steady
eyes, and if the nose and mouth were not an artist's ideals of beauty,
in the whole face the artist would have found attraction. It was
strong, forceful, fashioned in an uncommon mould; it was a face apart
rather than one of a type, a strong family possession which to
strangers had often marked him for a Herrick.

"My first night in Vayenne," he repeated as he began to pace his
narrow cell slowly. How long ago it seemed since he had first seen the
city from the brow of the hills. How much had happened in the few
short hours since then, and yet one incident stood out more clearly
than all the rest, the woman leaning from her horse to look into the
face of a spy. Even now her contempt hurt him. It was hateful to
appear mean in her eyes. All else that had happened to him seemed of
little account beside this. The moment his eyes had rested upon her
there had sprung a desire in his soul to serve her. In that service he
felt himself capable of much, yet she despised him. A little touch of
sympathy had shown in her face for a moment when he handed her the
whip, but it had no power to obliterate the contempt. That was her
true feeling toward him, the other was but the passing pity which a
woman may have even for a coward.

The carillon had sounded several times, and the direction of the moon
ray had changed, leaving the floor of the cell in darkness; but buried
in thought Herrick took no notice of the little rushes of music, nor
was he conscious of the deepening gloom around him until a sudden
shadow seemed to flit through the chamber, and a new stealthy sound
startled him. Instinctively he drew back to the wall, that whatever
enemy might be near should have to face him and not be able to take
him unawares. Once to-night already he had been seized from behind.

Standing on the outside ledge of the window, holding on to the bars
and peering into the cell, was a figure that might well startle the
bravest. The opening could not be more than four feet in height, yet
it was sufficient to allow this figure to stand upright. Head, feet,
and hands were at least normal in size, those of a full-grown and
powerful man, the body was that of a child, though its curiously
twisted form might have abnormal strength in it. His hair was long,
and a thick, stubbly beard and whiskers completely surrounded his
face. He was ugly in the extreme, and even Herrick was pleased to
think that solid bars were between them.

For full five minutes the dwarf stood there, uttering no sound, but
moving his head from side to side, trying to pierce the darkness, and
once or twice he leant backward at arm's length to look down on the
outside below him. Then he took hold of one bar with both hands, and,
lifting it out of its socket, laid it carefully along the
window-ledge. From the breast of the loose smock-like garment he wore
he took a length of rope, knotted one end round one of the bars, and
let the other end fall into the cell. For a moment he waited and
listened; then, with the agility of a gorilla, he swung himself down,
and stood on the floor of the cell, the rope still in his hand, as
though he were prepared to spring upward to safety again at the first
sign of danger.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" said Herrick suddenly.

The dwarf turned quickly toward him.

"Hush! It's only friend Jean."

"I have no such friend."

"You do not know it, but yes, from this moment you have. See here, my
knife; watch, I fling it across the floor! Take it, it is for your
protection--to show my good faith. I have no other weapon. Now, let's
come close and look at each other."

The knife, a formidable blade, came skimming across the stone flags to
Herrick's feet. He picked it up, and walked into the centre of the
cell to meet his strange visitor.

"You must bend down to let me be sure that you are the man," said the
dwarf.

"You have seen me before, then?"

"To-night when she rode across the court-yard to look at you. Ah, yes,
you are the man. You were so quiet I thought they had put you
elsewhere. Did I frighten you?"

"Well, you startled me, friend Jean."

The dwarf laughed a little, low chuckle, and, silently clapping his
hands, stood on one foot and scratched the calf of his leg with the
other.

"Ah! So I startled you, friend Spy."

"Stop! Not that word."

"I must needs call you by some name. Give me another."

"Roger Herrick."

"Friend Roger, good. It comes to my tongue easily. Let's sit, and I'll
tell you who I am." And doubling his legs under him he sank
cross-legged onto the floor.

"I will lean by the wall, Jean, I find it easier," said Herrick.

"Ah, there are compensations, after all, for a man like me. To know
Vayenne is to know me; you can't help it. They call me an innocent;
you know what that means?"

"Yes."

"But not all it means, I warrant," chuckled the dwarf. "I get pity; I
am not supposed to do things like other men. Who cares where I
go? In the castle, in the church, in a house where there's
feasting--anywhere--I don't count. Who cares if I listen? It's only
Jean; in at one ear, out at the other. No one looks to me for work,
they'd sooner pay me for playing the fool, and I let 'em, I let 'em."
And somewhere in his strange, loose garments he made the coins jingle.
"So I go in and out as I will. If I curled up to sleep on the rug at
the Duke's door they'd hardly trouble to disturb me, I count for such
a little. Generally I sleep in the church."

"In the church?"

"Ay; in the porch. They call me the dwarf of St. Etienne. Listen!
there's its music." And he remained silent with uplifted finger until
the ripple of the carillon had died away into the night. "I'm a little
fellow to have so large a church to myself, as I often do at nights;
and, friend Roger, I see things in St. Etienne when the moonlight
sends faint, colored beams through the painted windows. There are
legends and superstitions about St. Etienne, and people are
superstitious about me, too. They believe I know things, and so I do,
but not of the sort they fancy."

A strange little madman, Herrick thought, yet one with a method
surely, as the unbarred window showed.

"An innocent, that's what they call me," the dwarf went on, as though
he answered his companion's thought, "and though I am no more one than
you are, it suits my purpose. My wisdom would get any other man into
trouble."

"That loose bar, for instance," said Herrick, pointing to the window.

"Yes; but I never thought of the use I should one day put it to. It is
well to have more than one hole to creep into, and few would expect to
find a man lodging in the South Tower of his own free will."

"I hear it has an evil reputation," said Herrick.

"Ay; the grave's anteroom. So I chose it as a hiding-place. There are
times when I like to sleep here, to be alone and think of all I hear
and see. I was many nights loosening that bar."

"And why have you come to-night--to sleep here?"

"No; to plot with friend Roger," the dwarf answered promptly. "The
Duke died to-night; you know that? Out of his death will come trouble
for many--for the woman you saw in the court-yard a little while
since. Ah! That moves you. She is beautiful, friend Roger."

"Who is she?"

"Mademoiselle Christine de Liancourt, and might be ruler in
Montvilliers, but that the law denies it to a woman. There are many
who would overthrow that law if she would let them, but she will make
no sign. The Duke is dead; his son must reign in his stead. This son
is a poor sort of fellow, a lover of books instead of a man of
affairs."

"The pale scholar of Passey," said Herrick.

"How learnt you that catch phrase?" asked the dwarf sharply.

"I overheard it to-night."

"Yes; they call him that," Jean went on slowly, "and in truth he may
make us a poor Duke, but Mademoiselle de Liancourt thinks otherwise.
Count Felix--maybe you overheard him mentioned to-night?"

"I did. He would be Duke, and the old Duke wished it so."

"You have great knowledge for a casual traveller in Vayenne, friend
Roger," said the dwarf with some suspicion, "but you shall explain it
to me presently. Count Felix would be Duke; more, would wed with
Christine de Liancourt, and she loves not either of these ideas.
To-night she rides to Passey to carry news of the Duke's death to his
son, and to bring him to Vayenne."

"A strange office for a woman to perform; stranger still that Count
Felix should let her go and jeopardize his schemes," Herrick said.

"She has influence with the scholar, who has no desire to be a Duke,
that is why she was determined to go. Count Felix thought it wise not
to thwart her, since he would stand well in her favor, but he has
arranged that an accident shall prevent the scholar ever reaching
Vayenne. The escort will be attacked, and it is arranged shall be
beaten, and no effort will suffice to save the life of the scholar. It
is cleverly conceived, eh, friend Roger? A man who can plot so
prettily will go far toward success."

"But you could have warned her," Herrick exclaimed. "Why didn't you?"

"I am an innocent. Who would believe me?"

Herrick glanced at the window.

"Of what think you, friend Roger?"

"That Mademoiselle sorely needs a swift messenger to-night."

The dwarf sprang to his feet.

"Truly, by the way one man gets in another may well leave. But stay."
And he put his hand on Herrick's arm. "I took you not for a spy when I
saw you in the court-yard to-night, but how came you by your knowledge
of the scholar of Passey?"

"As I dined to-night at the Croix Verte I heard a priest talk of him."

"A narrow, hatchet-faced priest, with never a smile, and eyes that
look into you without blinking?"

"The same."

"Ah, Father Bertrand has his plot, too. When he talks, friend Roger,
remember how easy it is for a man to lie. Come, you shall be the swift
messenger Mademoiselle needs. That is why I came to-night. See, I have
brought what shall pass you easily through the streets." And he
produced a priest's cassock and cloak with a hood, which he had deftly
fastened round him under the folds of his smock. "I borrowed them from
St. Etienne." And then, as Herrick arrayed himself in the garments, he
silently clapped his hands. "You are more like a priest than most of
the real ones I know," he chuckled.

"I do not know how I am to travel to Passey, but, at least, I trust
you, and there's the proof of it," said Herrick, handing the dwarf his
knife.

"A little while ago you didn't know that the bar was loose in that
window," said Jean, taking the weapon, "and you didn't know me.
To-morrow is as far off as next year for all a man knows of it."

"That's true."

"There are those who would wed to-morrow, yet die to-night," the dwarf
went on. "It's a world of minutes for us all. You come to understand
these things when you roam through St. Etienne at nights. I'll set you
on your way to Passey within an hour unless 'twixt now and then time
ends for me. If so, you must needs shift for yourself."

He caught hold of the rope as he spoke, and swung himself to the
window-ledge with the agility of an ape. Impeded by his unaccustomed
garments, Herrick found it a more difficult matter; but he was strong
and athletic, and in a few moments was crouching on his knees beside
the dwarf.

The bars were placed midway in the thickness of the wall, so that on
either side there was room for them both.

"We'll shut our door," whispered the dwarf when they had crawled
through the opening, and he replaced the movable bar and drew up the
rope. The next instant he had gripped his companion's arm to compel
him to silence and to keep him motionless. Below was the sound of a
heavy step, which came to a halt immediately beneath them, and from
within the cell came a grating noise. It was the great key being
thrust into the lock.




CHAPTER IV

THE ROAD TO PASSEY


That intricate calculations occupied Father Bertrand's mind as he
slowly paced his room from end to end was apparent in his face.
Ascetic in appearance, wont to present a calm exterior under the most
trying circumstances, the fact of his restlessness proved that he had
reached some crisis, that some part of his scheme was on the point of
settlement. Father Bertrand was a power in Vayenne. Not greatly
beloved, perhaps--he was too stern and unbending for that--his
priestly office, nevertheless, appealed strongly to a people naturally
superstitious, while his learning and political acumen made him
forceful with those who ruled. He held no office; but even the late
Duke, strong as he was, had sometimes been guided by his opinion, and
Count Felix recognized long ago, that, in his claim to the Dukedom,
the support of Father Bertrand would be of very real value.

If he is a weak man who cannot refrain from speaking his thoughts, the
priest was a very strong man, for to no one had he betrayed himself.
Count Felix felt confident of his support; Mademoiselle de Liancourt
believed that he heartily shared her ideas of right and justice;
while, as a priest, he spoke with authority to the great mass of the
people, who believed his policy based entirely upon his religion. A
few who fondly believed themselves in his confidence, but were in
reality little more than his tools, knew at least that other schemes
were working in his mind, and that, as a member of a secret order,
his information was invariably correct and reached him long before it
was known in the castle. In a peculiar sense he was all things to all
men, yet really known by none. Such a man must needs walk warily, for
his path is beset with snares.

Father Bertrand, moreover, was a man of wealth. His charity was known
in Vayenne, yet he fared simply himself, it was whispered; and there
were those who could tell of the mean, poor room he occupied in his
house in the Rue St. Romain, a room little removed as regards comfort
from that of the ordinary toiler of the city. But there were other
rooms in the house in the Rue St. Romain, and there was no lack of
luxury in the large chamber on the upper floor which the priest paced
slowly from end to end to-night. It was evidence not only of wealth,
but of taste, too, and had they known of it, many in Vayenne would
probably have formed a different estimate of Father Bertrand's
character.

Absorbed as he was in his calculations, the priest was keenly alive to
every new sound in the street or in the house. Several times he paused
to listen, and once drew aside the heavy window curtains to look down
into the street below. The Rue St. Romain lay along the north side of
the Church of St. Etienne, and was little frequented after nightfall.
Any excitement resulting from the death of the Duke would hardly
penetrate here.

There was a knocking at the door at last, and Father Bertrand
immediately took his seat at a large writing-table, and, drawing some
of the papers with which it was covered toward him, began to study
them carefully. No matter how agitated he might be in thought, his
visitor would only see him calm and self-possessed, and doubtless be
more impressed than ever with the priest's strength of character.

A man entered and closed the door behind him.

"We have failed, father."

"Only a weak man admits that, Monsieur Mercier. Where is Nicolas
Pigou?"

"At death's door. He is still unconscious, and the surgeon I got to
him declares that half of his ribs at least must be broken."

The priest did not speak, but by a gesture asked the reason of this
catastrophe.

"Our opportunity came when the stranger had passed through the arch of
the great clock into the dark street beyond," said Mercier. "We had
approached close behind him when he suddenly turned, coming into
collision with us. We had planned to take him quickly, place him in a
carriage which had followed us, and bring him here, but his unexpected
action thwarted this. Pigou passed on, and to gain time I began to
apologize. Then Pigou seized him from behind, and I immediately closed
with the man. Pigou is strong, as you are aware, but he was a babe in
the hands of this stranger, who, with a heave of his body threw him
over his head into the roadway. I should have fared no better had I
not slipped to the ground and, holding his legs, shouted 'Spy!' The
street was alive in a minute; but I have bruises about me which will
last for many a day to come."

"And then?" said the priest quietly.

"The crowd hustled him to the end of the street, and would have hanged
him there, probably, but it seems they were met by a company of
soldiers, and the stranger is now a prisoner in the castle."

"You saw the soldiers take him?"

"No; I heard that later," Mercier answered. "I slipped from the crowd,
and went to look after poor Pigou. There might have been awkward
questions asked had he been found in the street."

"I am sorry for Nicolas Pigou," said Father Bertrand, "but if a broken
rib or two is all the payment, our enterprise is cheaply won. Why do
you talk of failure, Monsieur Mercier?"

"Is it not failure then?"

"Surely not. There are more ways of reaching a place than by the high
road. This stranger is no spy. I shall prove that to Count Felix, and
we gain our end. Indeed, circumstances have favored us. The stranger
will look upon me as his deliverer, and will be the more ready to be
advised. I doubt not we shall have him in this house within a few
hours. Were you recognized by the crowd to-night?"

"No. I am known to few in Vayenne."

"Then, my dear Monsieur Mercier, two desperate villains set upon this
poor stranger in the streets; one is like to die, it is said--the
other has succeeded in escaping. This is my story--a good and
plausible one, eh?" said Father Bertrand, with a smile; "and since
justice done quickly has the greater mercy in it, I will go to the
castle at once."

"And Gaspard Lemasle?" said Mercier as the priest rose.

"He will dance to our piping, but we shall keep him always on the
chain. Untrammelled he might be dangerous."

"Is the chain forged that will hold him?"

"My son, I never confide in a man of whom I am ignorant. My friends
may rest assured that I treasure some knowledge of them, some episode,
perhaps, which they have forgotten, but which in an emergency will
compel them to remain my friends." And while he laid one hand on his
companion's arm, he touched his own forehead significantly with the
other. "Come with me into another room. My servant shall set before
you wine of such a vintage that you shall forget your bruises. And do
not leave, Monsieur Mercier, until you are rested. Indeed, if I find
you asleep in your chair when I return, I will not quarrel with you."

As he followed the priest, Mercier's estimate of his companion
possibly took a wider scope than it had done before, and he wondered
which of the many episodes in his life which he was unlikely to talk
of the priest knew most about.

It was conclusive proof of Father Bertrand's power with the late Duke
and Count Felix that he was admitted to the castle without question at
so late an hour; and that the soldiers bowed to his authority was
apparent when his suggestion that he should see the spy before he saw
the Count met with no opposition.

"Lodged in the South Tower?" he said as he followed the jailer.

"Ay, father; it's the safest cage we have."

"Too safe for an innocent bird, master jailer."

"Well, I know naught of his innocence," said the jailer as he thrust
the great key into the lock, "but I'm not regretting that he should
cheat death. There's no fear about him, and there's none too many
brave men in the world that we should want to hurry them out of it."

The jailer had a torch, and he preceded the priest down the narrow
passage in the thickness of the walls.

"Asleep, prisoner?" he called out. "Here's a reverend father to see
you, and he comes as a friend."

There was no answer, and priest and jailer looked slowly round the
cell, then at each other, and then at the barred window. No ray of
moonlight came through it now, but the moonlit sky was clear without,
and there was no one crouching on the ledge!

The measured tread halting suddenly below, and the sound of the
grating key within, had had a paralyzing effect upon both fugitive and
guide for a moment. Although prepared to make a fight for it, the
position appeared hopeless to Herrick; but the dwarf, who had perhaps
foreseen that they would have the sentry to deal with, was quick to
grasp the situation and see the way out of the difficulty. The
terrace, which was considerably above the level of the floor of the
cell, was only some twelve or fourteen feet below them. It was
comparatively narrow and bounded by a low, battlemented wall.

"That's our road," whispered the dwarf, pointing to a certain point in
this wall a little to their right. "Jump, and make for it."

As he spoke he whipped out his knife, and tucking his legs under him
suddenly let himself drop upon the sentry. The thud of the fall and a
feeble, stifled groan were all Herrick heard as he, too, jumped from
the ledge, and, trusting implicitly to his companion, ran to the spot
he had indicated. As he looked back, the dwarf rose and came quickly
after him, but the sentry lay under the window and did not move.

"You have killed him!" Herrick exclaimed.

"Sharp, after me," the dwarf said, springing onto the wall, and then,
as Herrick followed him, he threw himself on his stomach, twisted
himself round, and holding onto the rough stonework let his legs hang
down on the outside of the wall. "That's it, do the same. There's a
rope here. Go steady! I'll go first. Now let me catch hold of your
feet, and get the rope between them. The stones are rough enough to
lower yourself by until you get a grasp on the rope with your hands."

This was the outer wall of the castle, and in the angle formed by a
buttress a stout rope had been fixed.

Herrick found it no easy matter to follow the dwarf's instructions,
and had he paused to consider, might have declined to make the
perilous descent at all. But with Jean's help from below he managed to
get the rope between his knees, and the rest was comparatively easy.

Some distance below was the roof of a house which clung to the castle
wall like a mussel to a rock. The dwarf caught Herrick to steady him
as he landed on the roof, for it sloped at a sharp angle, and was
dilapidated.

"Sit, and put your hand on my shoulder, and shuffle down after me," he
said. "Now carefully. Catch hold of this rafter. Let yourself swing,
and drop lightly. It's barely four feet fall for your length of body."

Herrick did as he was told, and dropped into a dark attic, followed by
the dwarf.

"You please me, friend Roger," said Jean, chuckling quietly. "My
private road is not an easy one to travel in a hurry, and the man who
takes it is not likely to wear a scared face and feel his knees
tremble when danger comes."

"I like not murder, friend Jean."

"You'd like being murdered less, I warrant," was the prompt answer.
"Besides it wasn't murder, for two reasons. Killing a man in
self-defence is not murder, and you're likely to do it yourself before
many hours have passed if you would serve Mademoiselle; and secondly,
the sentry yonder isn't dead. I had to let his strength out of an
artificial hole lest it should come through his mouth in a shout which
would have betrayed us. He will be well on his way to recovery before
a new moon, and, if not, there are plenty more sentries in the castle
to take his place. Come, you are not out of Vayenne yet, and you must
be on your way to Passey before the dawn."

The dwarf led the way down two flights of broken stairs, and through
the door of the house, and passed into a narrow, deserted street.

"We'll go quickly," he whispered. "No one will suspect you in those
garments. We shall meet few, and they will think that some one dying
has need of a priest, and that I have fetched you. I have done it
often before."

They passed through a perfect labyrinth of narrow streets in silence,
and the two or three night wanderers they met took no notice of them.

Vayenne was asleep under the pale moon; that temporary death called
sleep was in every habitation. The dead Duke in his chamber in the
castle was hardly less silent than the sleeping thousands he had
ruled.

Presently the dwarf stopped before the door of a house at the end of a
blind alley.

"We go in here, friend Roger," he said, "but by a window. The door is
locked, because they who own the place still hope for a tenant, which
is a forlorn hope. The house grows more rotten every day, water rats
make a retreat of it, and some mischievous person has said it is
haunted by a horrible ghost."

"You are that mischievous person, I suppose."

"Why think so ill of me?" chuckled the dwarf. "When I don't wish to
leave the city by the gates, this is the way I go."

He led the way to a room at the top of the house.

"From the roof we scramble onto the city wall, which is low here, and
rough, for the river washes its base. Sometimes, I just drop into the
water, and swim, but under a low arch there is an old boat, which we
will use to-night. Have you money in your purse, friend Roger?"

"A little."

"You may want more. I came provided. Here is gold," he said, taking a
small leathern bag from the folds of his blouse. "Put it away
carefully. You can repay me another time. Remain a priest, it may
serve you to get audience with Mademoiselle more easily, but although
priest without, you must be soldier within."

The dwarf went to a corner of the room, and, wrenching up a board,
knelt down, and thrust his long arm into the opening, from which he
drew out a sword and a revolver.

"Strap this under your robe," he said, handing Herrick the sword, "and
put the revolver where you may come at it easily. And listen, friend
Roger. You must come at Mademoiselle de Liancourt as your wits serve
you; tell her what I have told you. She will not easily believe the
tale, but you must convince her; and for the rest, circumstances must
guide you."

"Do you not come with me then?"

"A little way to show you the road, then I return to plot in the city.
Were I a straight man as you are, I might not have come for you
to-night. That's a dark saying--I wonder if you can read its meaning?"

"I cannot, friend Jean."

"Well, you'll want all your wits for your enterprise; it's a pity to
waste them on riddles. But remember this, friend Roger: when I was
made in this queer shape, an ordinary heart was put into me, and
there was no strange twist given to my feelings. We are not so very
different, you and I, after all. Come, we waste precious time."

There was no great difficulty in scrambling onto the wall from the
roof of the house, and, bidding Herrick wait, the dwarf climbed down
the face of the wall almost as easily as the rough stones of it had
been steps. Working his way along a narrow stone course, or ledge,
which was near the bottom, he reached an iron ring let into the wall,
and, supporting himself by this, managed to drag out a small,
flat-bottomed boat from beneath a nearly submerged archway.

Having carefully watched the descent of his companion, Herrick
attempted to make as little of the matter as he had done. The descent
ended in a sudden and rather unsteady jump, which almost sank the
rickety old craft, and Herrick would certainly have fallen sideways
into the water had not his companion caught him.

A fairly strong stream was running, and they were carried down some
two hundred yards in the process of crossing. A belt of trees in a
thick undergrowth screened the landing-place.

"I have a friend here," said the dwarf. "We will not wake him
to-night, but we will borrow his horse. I will explain to-morrow."

There was a small house nestling under a clump of trees, and on the
opposite side of a roadway a shed at the corner of a field. To this
the dwarf went, and it was evident that he knew every corner of it
intimately, for in a few moments he had saddled the horse there and
led it out.

"We don't want to wake the good man, so we'll walk the animal along
the grass for a little way," he said. "There is a gate higher up. You
follow this road, friend Roger; it runs without interruption for many
miles. At a wayside Calvary it forks; take the right-hand road. Five
miles will bring you to a deep wood, and I have heard of thieves
there, so it would be well to have your revolver ready. Once out of
the wood keep the lefthand road, and to your left you will presently
see the Chateau of Passey on high ground. Perhaps it would be well to
let your horse go free then, and enter the village on foot. A mounted
priest might cause wonder, and the horse may find his way home. Here
is the gate. Mount, friend Roger. Use your horse well, and you will be
in Passey before noon."

"I may overtake Mademoiselle and her escort."

"You will be clever if you do, since they have gone by a different and
a shorter road, one which might not be safe for you to travel. They
will be in Passey by dawn."

"And how shall I let you know how I fare and where fortune may take
me?"

"Success or failure, I shall hear soon enough," the dwarf answered.
"Remember only that you serve Mademoiselle de Liancourt, and that all
prison windows have not bars which may be lifted out. Farewell!" And
without another word, he turned, and hurried back to the river-bank,
where his boat lay.

So it happened that as Father Bertrand went back to the Rue St.
Romain, and the alarm given by the jailer presently resulted in the
finding of the wounded sentry, Roger Herrick was galloping through the
night toward Passey and the woman he was destined to serve.




CHAPTER V

THE SCHOLAR


The village of Passey, nestling in the shadow of its chateau, looked
secure, had indeed been well protected in past times, but to-day
little real resistance could have been offered to a determined enemy.
The outer wall of the chateau had crumbled and fallen in pieces, no
vigilant eyes kept ward and watch from its battlements, and the
serving-men in its old guard-rooms and courts were not of the kind out
of which stout soldiers are made. It had been in the hands of the
Dupres for three centuries or more, given originally to an ancestor in
return for good service, for the family had bred many a gallant
warrior in the past; but in recent years misfortune and poverty had
come, and the Dupres were too proud to make petitions in the Castle of
Vayenne. Nothing is easier to forget than past service if there is no
present need of favors, and the Dukes of Montvilliers had practically
forgotten their once powerful subject of Passey. More and more the
family had lived a retired life, and the last two heads of it had been
confirmed invalids. The present owner was a man of weak physique also,
barred from a life in the open and all manly sports. Thrown in upon
himself he had found consolation in books and in study, and had little
care how the world went so it left him in peace. The late Duke, a man
of warlike character and iron will, had thoroughly despised the old
man at Passey, and when his son evinced a love for dreaming over
books, his father sent him to Viscount Dupre. The chateau would serve
as a convenient place of isolation, the Duke argued, and the old fool
might well be made useful as a jailer to the young one.

"I hold you responsible for him," the Duke had said to Dupre. "Teach
him to hate the books you love and I will find means to thank you; let
him become such a one as yourself, and rest assured the reins of
government will never fall into his hands when they drop from mine.
The good of Montvilliers is far more to me than any son."

The Duke rode away, hoping perhaps that banishment from Vayenne would
cure his son, but the lad had been at Passey ever since. How far the
old Viscount attempted to turn the boy from his studies, who can say?
The fact remained that he did not succeed, and Maurice de Broux--now a
youth of eighteen--had found peace and contentment in the crumbling
old chateau and was as little concerned about the world as old Dupre
himself.

To-day the quiet life had suddenly been broken in upon. With early
dawn a company of horsemen, a woman riding in their midst, had
clattered through the village street and in at the chateau gates. "The
Duke is dead," one serving-man presently told another, and the news
spread rapidly through the village, and out into the fields beyond,
where bent-backed men and women hoed. One old man there looked toward
the chateau, and pulling off a ragged cap cried feebly, "Long live the
Duke!"

In a room in the chateau, a room of books and students' comforts, such
a room as could not have been found in the length and breadth of the
Castle of Vayenne, Maurice and Mademoiselle de Liancourt had been
closeted for hours. There was no more important person in Montvilliers
that day than the pale scholar of Passey, yet there was no excitement
in his face. That he should mourn for a father who had been little
more than a stranger to him was hardly to be expected. From time to
time he moved restlessly about the room, letting his companion talk,
and now and again her words brought a flush to his cheek. To no one
would he have listened as quietly as he did to her, for, scholar
though he was by nature, he had yet something of his father in him, a
temper that might burst into fury were it pressed too far. No one knew
this better than Christine de Liancourt, and if any words of hers
would sting him into action she would certainly speak them. For this
very purpose had she come in haste to Passey. In old days she had
often stood between Maurice and his father's wrath. She had prophesied
that when the hour came Maurice would rise to the occasion and make a
wise ruler. He was, besides, the heir, nothing could alter that, and
justice, coupled with her half-formed fear of Count Felix, drove her
to espouse the young Duke's cause with all the strength that was in
her.

"My dear Christine, you easily get angry with me," he said presently.
"Try and see the whole matter through my eyes. I am eighteen, and I
have never done a single thing to fit myself for ruling Montvilliers;
more shame to me, you may say, but we are not all born with a desire
to rule. Ever since I came to Passey I have practically been a
prisoner--a happy prisoner. I have easily forgotten how near I stood
to a dukedom, and, I warrant, have been as easily forgotten. Why
remember me now when I only desire to be left in peace? Believe me, as
a duke I should be an utter failure, a breeder of dissension and
revolution, no blessing to the land, but a curse. Let the power fall
as my father wished it. Cousin Felix will make a much better duke than
I."

"Have you no sense of duty?" she asked.

"Truly I think my duty to Montvilliers is to let some one else rule
it," he said, with a smile.

"Duty is not a cloak a man can put off and on as he wills," Christine
answered; "it is part of the man himself. He is called to fulfil
certain conditions of his life, of his birth, and he cannot throw duty
aside by saying he is unfitted to perform it. Are you a coward,
Maurice, as well as a scholar?"

"No; I do not think I am a coward."

"It is only a coward who would not ride to Vayenne and claim his
birthright."

"If we come to such close argument as that, this same birthright may
be found to have little justice in it," he said quickly. "Did my
father become Duke by right of birth? You know he didn't. He was a
strong man, while those who should have ruled were weak. Montvilliers
wanted a strong hand to guide her, and a bloodless revolution raised
my father to power."

"Has Felix any greater right than you?" she asked.

"By birth, no; by capacity, yes. Let him be Duke. I will be the first
to shout for him."

"Coward!" she said.

"Christine, there are bounds which even you must not pass," he said,
turning a stern face to her.

She clapped her hands at his sudden anger, and stepped quickly to his
side.

"There spoke a worthy Duke. I have seen the same anger rush blood-red
into your father's face, and have trembled for his enemies. You cannot
hide your real self; you cannot deny your real personality, even
though you would."

"It lies in peace among these books of mine," he answered. "We have
talked of this enough."

"Not yet. Listen, Maurice. Felix is hated by many, and if he seizes
the crown, there will be bloodshed in the streets of Vayenne."

"He will be strong enough to suppress rebellion," was the answer.

"And wise enough perchance to shed blood in this peaceful Chateau of
Passey," she went on quickly.

"Why here? Passey does not trouble itself with politics. The harvest
of the fields is Passey's concern, and it is of small consequence who
rules in Vayenne."

Christine laid her hand on his arm. "Think you the golden circle of
sovereignty will rest easily on your cousin's brow while you live?
Deny your birthright, Maurice, and then, like a coward, flee your
country for safety, for I warrant you will die a violent death if you
stay in it."

"I cannot think so--so much evil of Felix," he answered.

"I know him far better than you possibly can do," she said. "He let me
come to you only because he is convinced that you will not come to
Vayenne. He despises you, Maurice. He will use your refusal for his
own purposes, and in his own manner. He will easily convince many that
you are a danger to the state and that there is righteousness in
judicial murder."

"Will not a kingdom satisfy him, but he must have my poor life as
well?" Maurice muttered.

"Has it ever satisfied, in any age, in any history? Felix will seek to
make himself secure in every possible way. Since there are many who
love me, he wishes to wed me."

"Perhaps he loves you?"

"It may be," she answered, "but not as he loves himself."

"And you would marry him?"

"For the good of Montvilliers I might be persuaded."

She watched him as he walked slowly across the room. Perhaps there was
a vague, half-formed desire in his heart that she should not marry his
cousin. She would be less his friend if she were Felix's wife.

"Perhaps such a marriage might be good for Montvilliers," he said
after a pause.

"I shall serve my country more directly by persuading you to do your
duty, Maurice," she answered. "It is not only internal strife which is
to be feared, but danger from without. In the past Montvilliers has
fought for, and maintained, her independence, but our neighbors have
not ceased to long for the possession of our fruitful soil, and our
dissensions are their opportunity. Only last night a spy was caught in
the streets and brought to the castle."

Maurice went to the window, and for some time stood looking down at
the peaceful village he had loved so well. Here he had found happiness
and the life he longed for. But beyond were the fruitful fields and
green pastures of his native land, dearer to him than any other land,
though he had no desire to rule it. Did it not rest with him to save
this land from the enemies who had so long sought to lay a conquering
hand upon it? Immediately below him, lounging in the courtyard, were
some of the soldiers of Christine de Liancourt's escort, proof that
there were men armed and ready to fight for their freedom as their
fathers had done. Duty seemed to present itself with a new meaning to
Maurice, and, as though Heaven itself would send him a messenger in
this crisis of his life, just then a cassocked and hooded priest came
slowly in at the gates.

"At least we will see what plots exist," he said presently, turning to
Christine, "and also prove your cousin Felix. To-morrow I will ride
with you to Vayenne. Leave me alone until then. A man does not break
with so peaceful a life as mine has been without sorrow."

In an instant her manner changed. Stepping back she made a low
curtsey. "Long live the Duke," she said quietly, and then left the
room quickly.

She had conquered. He had promised to come to Vayenne. She could not
tell which particular argument had forced him to this decision, she
only knew that it had been far more difficult to persuade him than
even she had expected. What would his answer have been had she told
him that the fact of going to Vayenne was only one step toward
success, and only a small one--if she had explained that he spoke no
more than the truth when he had said that he had been forgotten?
Vayenne was not going to open her arms and shout a welcome to him
until he had proved himself a man. She was thrusting upon him a great
task, would he be able to perform it? She could have wished him
different to what he was, but at least right was his, and opposition
might stir him to great things. Of herself she thought little. For
Felix she had little love, yet, were it for the good of her country,
she would marry him. She was ready to make any sacrifice for the land
she loved.

At the foot of the stairs a soldier saluted, and said that a priest
craved an audience with her.

"What should he want with me?"

"He would say no more than that he had a message of importance. He is
not of Passey, and carries the dust of a long journey upon him."

"I will see him. Bring him to the small room yonder, and see that we
are not disturbed."

Christine turned from the window as the priest entered. Much dust was
upon his cassock and cloak, and the hood, which he did not remove,
partially concealed his face.

"You have travelled far," she said.

"From Vayenne," he answered.

"From Father Bertrand?"

"No, mademoiselle; from one far humbler than Father Bertrand, yet one
who is wiser, perhaps, in your interests."

"He chooses a strange messenger."

"No stranger surely than the messenger chosen to ride to Passey and
bid the young Duke to Vayenne. Besides, a priest may enter where a
soldier would be refused. These are perilous times, mademoiselle, and
I come to tell you so."

"In this matter you can tell me little I do not know," she answered.

"Then you do not ride to Vayenne to-morrow?"

"Yes--with the Duke." And she watched the priest closely to see if he
were astonished at this information.

"With the same escort as came with you to Passey?"

"I think I have sufficiently answered you," she said.

"Mademoiselle, I have travelled all night to serve you. You must not
ride to Vayenne to-morrow. It has been arranged that your party is to
be attacked by a strongly armed party of robbers, and defeated. Your
soldiers will make a show of fight, but for the most part they are
bought men. You will escape, there is no desire to hurt you, but the
Duke will be slain."

"You shall tell this to the captain of our escort."

"One moment, mademoiselle," he said as she moved to the door.

"Ah! you are afraid to let the captain and his men hear your story,"
she said contemptuously.

"They would probably kill me, and that would hardly help you,"
answered the priest quietly. "Count Felix has determined that the
young Duke shall not enter Vayenne. I had the story from one who is
well known to you, mademoiselle--from Jean, the dwarf of St. Etienne."

"A fitting story from such a madman," she laughed. "How came he to
persuade a priest to be his ambassador?"

"I am not a priest." And Herrick threw back the hood from his head.

Christine took one step toward him, and gazed into his face.

"The spy!" she said.

"Mademoiselle, do I look like a spy? Do I act like one? Last night I
was locked in the South Tower, a place of ill omen, as you know. To be
his messenger the dwarf released me by a way known to him alone. I
have ridden hard all night to bring this warning to you. All roads
were open to me; I need not have taken that to Passey were I not
desirous of serving you."

"You shall tell this story to the captain," she answered. "It is for
him to weigh its merit."

"As you will, mademoiselle. Heaven grant he is an honest man."

She went to the door, and, calling a servant, bid him fetch the
captain of the escort; nor did she speak to Herrick until the captain
entered the room.

"Do you know this man, Captain Lemasle?" she asked.

[Illustration: _"The Spy!" she said._]

Gaspard Lemasle was not a very observant man, and the priest's dress
deceived him.

"No, mademoiselle," he answered.

"He comes to Passey with a strange story."

"I have no great love for priests," returned the captain, "and saving
your presence, mademoiselle, have often known them to tell strange
stories."

In as few words as possible, Herrick repeated his tale.

"Do you say that I and the men I command are traitors?" Lemasle burst
out angrily when Herrick had finished.

"I say nothing against Captain Lemasle," said Herrick. "Not many hours
since he toasted Mademoiselle de Liancourt with such enthusiasm at the
Croix Verte, I could not believe him anything but an honest man."

"You are no priest, and there is something in your voice that I
remember."

"No, I am not a priest; you took me for a spy last night."

"I thought you safely caged in the South Tower."

"I was, captain. I am here to try and save the Duke."

"But how could you escape?" said Lemasle in astonishment.

"That I can tell you at another time."

Lemasle was silent for a few moments.

"It is indeed a strange story, mademoiselle," he said presently, "and
truth to tell there are some in our company who would not be in it had
I had the choosing."

"If there is any worth in the story, you must judge," Christine said.
"For myself, I do not believe such tales easily, and at all hazards we
ride to Vayenne to-morrow. It might be well to take this man with us.
Unless he can prove his honesty, the castle can surely hold him though
he has escaped once."

"And from the South Tower," muttered Lemasle.

"I ask nothing better than to strike a blow in your defence,
mademoiselle," said Herrick.

She looked at him curiously for a moment, as even she had looked at
him last night when he had picked up the fallen whip.

"I have no mercy for spies and traitors," she said slowly, "but prove
yourself honest, and I may find a way to reward you."

Herrick did not answer, but stood with bowed head as she passed out of
the room.




CHAPTER VI

AT THE CLEARING IN THE FOREST


As soon as they were alone, Gaspard Lemasle shrugged his great
shoulders and looked at his companion.

"I've always said that ugly little dwarf was not half such a fool as
folk thought him," he remarked. "You're the first man I've ever known
to get out of the South Tower. How did you manage it?"

"You would not have me betray the dwarf?"

"Faith, I'm at a loss to know what I would have you do, and for the
matter of that what to do with you. You don't seem to have made much
impression on Mademoiselle, and it's not often one finds an honest man
masquerading as a priest. How do you call yourself?"

"Roger Herrick."

"Well, Monsieur Herrick, for the life of me I know not whether to
treat you as friend or foe."

"Give me the benefit of the doubt and think me a friend. At least be
friend enough to give me food and drink, for I have touched neither
since I dined at the Croix Verte last night."

"Come with me," Lemasle answered. "I wouldn't starve my worst enemy."

Life without its dangers would have seemed a poor existence to Gaspard
Lemasle, and a man who could make light of danger was a man he was
inclined to take to his heart. Herrick appealed to him. Somehow he had
got out of the South Tower, and he respected him for that. Last night
he had carried himself well, and shown no sign of fear, even when an
infuriated mob was bent on hanging him to the first convenient lamp
bracket. Now he had voluntarily come to Passey to accuse a body of men
of being traitors, knowing that he ran the risk of being delivered up
to their tender mercies, which might reasonably result in a harder
death than hanging would be. He was no common man this, and Gaspard
Lemasle watched his companion anxiously as he ate and drank.

"You will not tell me how you escaped from the castle, will you tell
me what you were doing at the Croix Verte last night?"

"I did nothing but dine, but I intended to sleep there, to stay there,
a peaceful traveller, for some days. Going for a short walk after
dinner I was attacked in the street, for the purpose of robbery I
suppose, but finding the task beyond them, one villain shouted out,
'Spy!' and I was soon in the hands of an infuriated crowd. I believe I
owe you my life, captain, for had you not been at the end of the
street I doubt whether I should have escaped hanging."

"What were the men like who attempted to rob you?"

Herrick tried to give some idea of their appearance, and succeeded in
making Lemasle thoughtful for a time.

"And you heard me get talkative over the wine in the Croix Verte," he
said presently.

"There was only a partition between us, and Father Bertrand's voice,
even when he speaks low, is penetrating. So long as I overheard the
conversation his persuasion did not seem to appeal to you, Captain
Lemasle."

"You left before the end then?"

"I did not return to the room after we all went into the passage to
learn that the Duke was dead."

"You noticed the priest and me, did you take no note of the other
men?"

"No. I judged that in Father Bertrand's eyes you were of most
importance, and truly I thought little of what I had chanced to
overhear until afterward. Being suddenly locked in the South Tower
instead of sleeping in comfort at the Croix Verte is apt to set one
thinking."

"And your conclusion, Monsieur Herrick?"

"We seem friends--need I deceive you?" Herrick answered. "I thought
that Captain Lemasle's duty held him to Count Felix, but that in his
heart he was desirous of serving the scholar of Passey because of
Mademoiselle de Liancourt. His final decision I did not hear, nor do I
know it now, yet Mademoiselle seems to trust him."

"And with reason," Lemasle answered. "I care not much whether we have
Duke Maurice or Duke Felix, neither one nor the other can really fill
the old Duke's place, but I would give my life in the defence of
Christine de Liancourt."

"Then we are comrades, captain. I, too, am willing to die in her
defence."

"In the name of all the gods, why should you be?" Lemasle exclaimed.
"You have seen her twice, and she has scorned you twice. Do men
sacrifice themselves for women who treat them so?"

"Some men, captain; some for love, some because it is in their blood.
For myself, circumstance has forced me into this service. Long ago,
perchance, my fathers were knights-errant, and their spirit lives in
me."

"I'm inclined to think you a friend," said Lemasle slowly.

"Then treat me somewhat as a prisoner to-morrow, and for greater care
keep me near you and Mademoiselle. You spoke of having men in your
company whom you would not have chosen. You shall find me no laggard
when the time for action comes."

"Very well, and I will arm you for that purpose; but mark you, if I
find myself mistaken, if you are a traitor, I shall have no hesitation
in running you through the back."

"Had I found Captain Lemasle a traitor, I should have had as little
compunction. I go armed, you see." And Herrick drew aside his cassock
to show his weapons.

Lemasle looked at him, measuring him with his eye from head to foot
and from shoulder to shoulder.

"There would be a satisfaction in meeting you face to face and trying
strength with you," he said. "For aught I know you may lack my skill,
but I do not doubt your courage; and if your story be true we'll see
what we can accomplish side by side to-morrow. You shall seem like a
prisoner until then."

So that night the key was again turned upon Roger Herrick.

"For form's sake," Lemasle said by way of apology; "to the man who can
escape from the South Tower in Vayenne there is no chamber in the
Chateau of Passey that can really be a prison."

Did ever man find himself in stranger circumstances, Herrick wondered,
as silence fell upon the chateau. A few hours since he had been free
to direct his steps whither he would, even to-day he might have ridden
toward safety, and yet he was here a prisoner, pledged if need be to
draw sword to-morrow in defence of a youth he had never seen, and a
girl who had treated him with contempt. That he, a man of peace, who
had practised sword play merely as a healthy pastime, should draw in
earnest, staking his own life against another's, was strange enough,
yet this aspect of the case he hardly thought of; the reason for the
action was uppermost in his mind, not the action itself. Would he have
entered upon this perilous enterprise for any pale scholar in the
world? What was it to him who ruled in Vayenne? He knew it was because
of the woman that his whole heart and soul were in this venture. She
had looked into his eyes, and in that moment had entered into his life
as no other woman had ever done. It was more than the spirit of the
knight-errant which prompted him, and he knew it, even when he thus
answered Gaspard Lemasle. At some turning in Life's road, Fate waits
for every man. Herrick had reached that turning, and had found his
fate in a beautiful woman who despised him. As he lay down to sleep
her face seemed to watch him out of the darkness, and in his dreams
she seemed to smile.

The woman stood long at her window that night, looking across the
silent, moonlit land which lay below and stretched peacefully away to
the dim haziness of the horizon. She, too, had her dreams. Deep in her
heart, dominating all the other impulses of her life, was the love of
this fair land which lay at her feet. It had suffered invasion, blood
had watered its fields, the wail of misery had been heard in it, but
it had never been wholly conquered. If for a time the invader had
triumphed, some strong hero had risen and brought salvation. Its dukes
to-day were independent rulers. What did it matter if in certain ways
that rule was harsh? What did it matter if something were lacking in
their civilization and manners when compared with other countries and
courts she had visited? Was it not the very lack of certain luxury
that fostered a warlike spirit in the people? To-day the country was
in danger of civil strife, and that would be the opportunity its
enemies waited for. Christine believed that only in the succession of
the rightful duke was real trouble to be averted. In some ways Maurice
was weak, she did not attempt to hide the fact from herself, but the
love of his country was in him; while to Count Felix, love of country
seemed second to his love of power. He was cruel, and had many
enemies, not least among them the Church, and it was easy to believe
that such a rule as his would be might drive the people to rebellion
and to a petition for help from one or other of those states which,
through the centuries, had looked upon Montvilliers with greedy eyes.
To prevent this, should Felix become Duke, she was prepared to marry
him so that the people's love might be strengthened. Of herself she
thought not at all, and little of the prisoner whose dreams she
filled. Had he come honestly to warn her, or was he but a unit in some
great scheme against her hopes and ambitions? If he were an honest
man, he was a brave one, but was he honest? This doubt was her last
thought before she slept.

Morning came with a thin mist hanging over Passey and the low country
around it, which the sun would scatter presently. There had been noise
and clatter in the court-yard from an early hour, for Captain Lemasle
had decided to start sooner than he had at first intended. But it was
a morning of mishaps, first one man and then another finding something
wrong with his horse or its harness, now a shoe loose which the smith
must needs see to, or a saddle-girth which had worn to breaking-point
and must be repaired before a start was made. At first Gaspard Lemasle
cursed these ill chances as he cursed some such small matter every
day, but presently he became suspicious, so piecemeal were the
difficulties sprung upon him, nor did they cease until close upon the
hour originally arranged for the start. This was surely more than mere
coincidence, and Lemasle determined not to bring Herrick into their
company until the last moment. When Christine de Liancourt came from
the chateau ready for the journey Lemasle made an opportunity to speak
to her apart for a moment.

"I fear, mademoiselle, that our friend brought us news which is only
too true," he said.

"Our friend!"

"Indeed, I believe he has earned the name," Lemasle answered. "As I
told you last night, I had intended to make an earlier start."

"True, and have kept us waiting, captain."

"So many little misfortunes have happened to delay us, that I cannot
think they have chanced honestly," he answered. "The men did not
intend to move until the time first named. Have you told the Duke of
Monsieur Herrick's coming and his message?"

"Herrick, is that his name? Yes; I have told him, and, if possible, he
is more incredulous than I am," she answered. "This masquerader goes
with us--where is he?"

"I have thought it best not to let him join us until the last moment,"
said Lemasle. "Some of these fellows will grumble at having a priest
in the company unless I mistake not. I pray, mademoiselle, that you
will let me set the order of this march in my own way, and that you
will pretend a regard for this same priest even if you do not feel it.
I would have him beside me if the worst comes, as I fear it will."

"So be it, Captain Lemasle; you are responsible for our safety. I will
tell the Duke."

"I shall do my best to bring you to Vayenne in safety," he said,
saluting her.

The word to mount was given, and then Lemasle waited with his arm
through his horse's bridle until the Duke and Christine were in their
saddles, waited until they had bid farewell to old Viscount Dupre, who
stood bareheaded upon the steps by the main door, and then he turned
sharply.

"Where is this laggard priest?" he shouted.

"What priest?" said one man.

"We want none in our company," said another.

"That's true, comrades," Lemasle returned, with a pretence of
grumbling with them, but speaking loud enough for Christine to hear.
"Mademoiselle must needs carry a priest with us to Vayenne since we
have not enough there already."

The sudden appearance of Herrick from an inner court-yard, mounted on
a strong horse, prevented further words. His hood was drawn close over
his head, and just raising one hand in a benediction, to emphasize his
office, he rode to the side of Mademoiselle de Liancourt.

At a sign from Lemasle, Christine rode forward, the Duke and Herrick
on either side of her, then vaulting to his saddle he placed himself
at the head of the cavalcade, and followed them through the gates.

The old Viscount cried feebly "Long live the Duke!" and the cry was
taken up by the few serving-men who were in the court-yard.

"Long live the Duke!" cried Lemasle in stentorian tones, and the
company of horseman shouted in so genuine a fashion that Christine
glanced at Herrick to see if this burst of loyalty had any effect
upon him. He did not meet her glance and was apparently unconscious of
it.

Most of the villagers, men and women, had already gone to their daily
work in the fields, but the few who were in the streets also cried
long life to the Duke, and bowed before him as he passed.

"It is a faint promise of what shall soon thunder out through the
streets of Vayenne," Christine said, turning to him.

"It may be, yet my imagination does not seem to catch the sound of
it," he answered. "In Passey they have learned to love me, that is why
they shout, not because I am a Duke."

Once free of the village the pace was quickened, but the same order
was maintained. Christine rode between the Duke and Roger Herrick,
some little distance behind them rode Lemasle alone, the body of
horsemen riding as many paces in the rear. However grave his
suspicions might be, he showed nothing of it to his men.

"I ride 'twixt Church and State, comrades--a perilous position," he
said to them, and he laughed as a man will laugh in a tavern when the
wine flows freely and ribaldry is in the jests. He feigned a careless
attitude that none might think him over-cautious.

It was Christine who really set the pace, and some miles had been
traversed before the sun finally dispersed the mist. They went by the
highroad, not by the way Herrick had travelled, but neither horseman
nor pedestrian had been met. There were few who had business with
Passey, and the road was ever a lonely one. At first it ran a straight
and direct course across low, flat country, where there was no place
for a lurking enemy to hide; then it wound round the foot of low hills
to avoid steep ascents, and here were scattered trees, and
undergrowths which descended to the roadway. Here it was that Lemasle
lessened the distance between himself and the three leaders; and his
eyes glanced sharply from side to side, while his ears were sharp set
to catch any sound above the jingle of the harness of those who rode
with him. Had he trusted a single man of his company, he would have
sent him in front, but there was none he dared to send, nor could he
go himself, since he alone was between the Duke and his companions and
those whom Herrick had declared were traitors. If in truth the death
of the Duke had been determined upon, it might most easily come from
one of the traitors who rode behind him. Lemasle, indeed, feared his
own men more than the robbers who were to attack them.

From underneath his hood, Roger Herrick's eyes kept sharp watch, too.
The road dipped gently for half a mile or so, and then ran darkly into
a deep forest which stretched away on either hand. Herrick glanced
back at Lemasle, and noted that he rode as one ready for emergency. It
was evident that he was prepared to find danger lurking in the forest,
and Herrick made sure that the revolver was ready to his hand and his
sword loose in its scabbard.

Christine saw that backward glance, and noted every movement of her
companion.

"Is this where you would have us believe danger lies?" she asked,
turning to Herrick.

"I know not, but it is a likely place," he answered. "It is well to be
prepared."

It was twilight in the forest, so closely were the branches laced
overhead. Here and there a ray of sunlight struck downward into the
gloomy aisles carpeted with the successive leaves of many winters,
but it only served to make darker the distance beyond. Silence
reigned, too, save for the jingling harness; even the sound of the
horses' hoofs was deadened almost to nothingness at times, so deep was
the road in leaves in many places.

Christine pulled in her horse to a walking pace. She had put her
question to Herrick in a contemptuous tone. She meant him to
understand that she did not trust his story, and yet her sudden action
seemed to indicate that she was not so incredulous as she appeared to
be.

For some time they went forward in silence, and then, as though it
were at the end of a long tunnel, there was a patch of sunlight before
them--not the end of the forest, but a wide clearing in its midst.
When they were within a dozen yards of the opening, Herrick suddenly
made his horse bound forward that he might be the first to come out
into that open space. He could not have explained why he did so. He
saw no more indication of danger here than he had seen at any other
point of the journey, but an overmastering impulse seemed to compel
his action, even while he was conscious that it might be misconstrued
by those he had promised to serve. He had just time to note that
several roads met at this clearing, when a bullet sang past his ear,
cutting a piece of cloth from his hood. In an instant Christine turned
her horse sharply aside as though to throw herself before the Duke,
while Lemasle with a great shout to his men charged into the open.

"Forward!" he cried, for the clearing was now alive with men, some on
horse and some on foot; and then as the troopers thundered after him,
he spurred his horse dexterously to one side and let them rush past
him. The next moment he and Herrick were beside the Duke and
Christine, while the robbers and the escort met in the centre of the
clearing.

"Be ready!" Lemasle whispered a moment later. "You were right,
Herrick. These scoundrels only make a pretence of fighting, and these
are no robbers. This is rank treachery, and, by Heaven, some of them
shall pay the price in full."

No shots were fired; in such a _melee_ that would have been dangerous
among men who had no desire to harm one another, and never a blow was
struck until he who was struck at was ready to parry it. Lemasle
cursed underneath his breath, and Herrick waited, his naked sword in
his hand.

"It is the Duke's life you defend," whispered a voice behind him.

"I know, mademoiselle," he answered, without turning his head.

"Ready!" shouted Lemasle.

The troopers were beaten down, some sorely hurt to all seeming, while
others fled into the woods. The robbers sprang forward toward the Duke
and his companions, yet still they did not fire.

"Back, Christine--behind us!" the Duke cried. "We three may yet teach
these scoundrels a lesson." And he struck the first earnest blow that
had been dealt that day, and the foremost man who rushed upon them
fell with scarce a groan.

"How long have you turned a thief on the highway?" shouted Lemasle as
a horseman came at him. "You looked more honest when I last saw you in
your soldiers' dress in the Castle of Vayenne than in this disguise,
and, faith! I didn't love you even then."

The joy of fighting was upon Gaspard Lemasle, and he laughed as he
furiously struck this man from his saddle.

For one instant Herrick hesitated as the rush came. The first man who
jumped at him to drag him from his horse, he struck at with his sword
hilt, even as though his hand held no sword--struck, as an Englishman
will strike, with his fist. For a moment there was a reluctance to
shed blood, but only for a moment. Not far below the surface lies the
fighting instinct in every man, the greedy lust for it, once the blood
is up. This first adversary fell back stunned, but would rise again;
the next fell with his head nearly severed from his body. How long he
struck, now to right, now to left, hearing Lemasle's panting laugh as
he got breathless with his work, and answering with laughter just as
savage, he did not know; but suddenly there was a cry behind him--a
cry, a shot, and an oath cut short in its utterance.

Some of their enemies had crept round to take them in the rear. One
man had fallen on his knee, taking deliberate aim at the Duke, and
even as his finger moved to pull the trigger, Christine saw him, and
fired at him. The smoking revolver in her hand told the story.

"A dash for it and we may yet win through," said Lemasle in a hoarse
whisper. "It's our one chance," and seizing Christine's bridle he
spurred toward the road which lay opposite him.

The Duke and Roger Herrick spurred forward too, but a moment later,
and in that moment the robbers managed to cut them off.

"The road to the right," Herrick whispered, wheeling his horse round
sharply.

The man[oe]uvre was unexpected by the robbers, and Herrick and the
Duke found the road clear before them, and dashed along it. Then a
shot rang out, and the Duke's sword fell from his hand.

"Are you hit, sir?" Herrick said.

"Yes. It's nothing," but even as he spoke he swayed in his saddle.

Herrick had caught his arm to hold him steady, when there was a second
shot and the Duke's horse stumbled.

"Go on, and save yourself," Maurice said faintly.

The sound of galloping horses was now on the road behind them, the
Duke's horse stumbled again, nearly to its knees. It was evident that
it could go no farther. There was not a moment to lose. Slipping his
arm round the wounded man, Herrick drew him from his saddle, and
managed to lift him in front of him onto his own.

"We'll cheat them yet!" he cried as, in spite of its double burden,
the good horse galloped forward.




CHAPTER VII

THE END OF A RACE FOR LIFE


The wounded man had fainted, and lay a dead weight in Herrick's arms.
It was no easy task to hold him securely in his place and at the same
time urge the horse forward at its topmost speed. Herrick knew that
this must be a race for life, yet his heart leaped with excitement as
the splendidly powerful animal he rode made light of its double
burden, and with neck outstretched went on at a swinging gallop. To
Herrick's surprise and relief no further shots were fired. The men who
followed had only revolvers, probably, and the distance was too great
for them to be effective. On they went, the trees by the wayside
literally flashing past them, the long road before them with never a
turning to right or left. Glancing back, Herrick saw that at least
half a dozen men followed, all well mounted, and riding as though
prepared for a long stern chase. For some time the distance between
hunted and hunters did not seem to lessen at all. This was something,
but it was not enough. There was no shortening in his horse's stride
as yet, but the double burden would certainly tell its tale presently.
How long was the race to last, and where was the goal of safety? Since
they were upon a road at right angles to the one by which the
cavalcade had entered the forest, Herrick knew that they might have
many miles to traverse before they reached the open country. When they
had entered the forest he had noted how it stretched away on either
side, and that the chase should happen here instead of in the open
had its advantages. If he could distance his pursuers sufficiently, he
might chance upon some deep green glade down which safety might be
found. In the open, it was true, some town, or village, or other place
of refuge might present itself, but who could say that, for the young
Duke, escape from one enemy might only mean falling into the hands of
another? Though no fatalist, Roger Herrick had a creed that what was,
was best; that come life or death, the circumstances mattered little
so that honor was clean. Fear touches such a man with difficulty, and
he is ever good friend or dangerous enemy, as the chance may be. And
where there is no hampering fear, no vain longing for different
circumstances and thought of what might be done in them, a man's
resourcefulness has full play. This race was on a forest road,
therefore Herrick's whole mind was concentrated on how this fact might
be used to advantage. There was a turn in the road in the far distance
that might be in his favor, since for a few moments, at least, he
would be out of sight of his pursuers. Round such a bend in the road
it might be possible to plunge suddenly into the depths of the forest.
By the roadside, too, there was now a strip of turf, another point in
his favor, for the sound of the beating hoofs of his horse would be
deadened to those behind.

As Herrick turned his horse on to the turf he glanced back. It would
seem that his pursuers were conscious that he had a chance of escape,
for they were riding hard now, and the distance between hunters and
hunted had lessened materially. One man, indeed, mounted upon a speedy
animal, was overhauling him rapidly. In a few moments he would be
close enough to fire. Such a risk must be avoided at all hazards.
Herrick shifted the position of the unconscious man a little, so that
he could have his right arm free, but the movement had the effect of
slackening his horse's pace for an instant. The man behind noticed
this and shouted to his companions in a triumph which was short-lived,
for Herrick had turned and fired at the horse, which reared up
suddenly, beating the air with its forelegs for a moment, and then
rolled over with his rider. The shot startled his own horse, and he
plunged forward, sweeping round the bend of the road with as gallant a
stride as that with which he had begun the race. The road turned again
to the left, then sharply around to the right to avoid a sudden
shoulder of rising ground, and beyond there was a dip in the forest, a
narrow, winding way going down into thick undergrowth. It was not a
path Herrick would have chosen, but the winding road might lead the
pursuers to suppose their quarry was still in front of them, and he
could feel that the double weight was beginning to tell upon his
horse. His stride had quickly shortened after the sudden burst on
being startled by the revolver shot.

As Herrick plunged deeper into the undergrowth, he heard his pursuers
gallop past. There was no knowing for how long they would be deceived.
Two hundred yards of straight road would betray his subterfuge at
once, and how near that piece of straight road might be Herrick did
not know. He rode his horse deeply into the thicket, and then turned
along a narrow green glade which ran back parallel with the way they
had come. For some while he followed this path, scheming as he went.
When the disappointed hunters returned they would almost certainly
discover this way. How could he deceive them? He urged his horse into
a gallop again.

"We will win now, my gallant beauty," he whispered. He checked him
presently, and turned sharply from the path in the direction of the
road, letting the horse walk carefully among the fallen leaves. When
he saw the road, Herrick halted and listened. Save for the murmur of
wind in the trees there was no sound. He walked the horse to the edge
of the road, and looked to right and left. There was no one in sight,
so he crossed it and plunged quickly among the trees on the opposite
side.

All this while, so far as he could tell, the wounded man had neither
uttered a sound nor made a voluntary movement. Herrick now began to
wonder whether he had been carrying a dead man before him. The roadway
was left far behind them, for a time at least they were safe; and
coming to a small opening, across which a little brook ran its narrow,
bubbling course, Herrick dismounted, and, laying the young Duke on the
grass, began to examine him. The bullet had passed through his arm and
torn an ugly wound in his side. It had bled freely, and Herrick did
not think the bullet had lodged in the body. He had laid him down upon
the bank of the brook, and made shift to cleanse the wound as best he
could, with naught to hold water but his hands, held cupwise. He
bathed his face, too, and contrived to get a little trickle of water
between his lips.

With a sigh Maurice opened his eyes presently, but did not speak. He
looked at Herrick without any recognition in his look, and then he
closed his eyes again. The horse had gone to a little distance, where
a break in the bank enabled him to get at the water and drink; now he
came back, and nosed the prostrate man, perhaps looking for a caress
for his part in the day's work. The touch roused Maurice again.

"Where's Christine?" he murmured.

"Safe with Gaspard Lemasle."

"Who are you?"

"Roger Herrick."

"I don't seem to remember," he answered feebly.

"You have been wounded," Herrick answered. "I will dress it as best I
can, and then----"

"Yes; then call Christine."

Herrick tore out the sleeve from his own shirt. He could bind up the
wound after a fashion, but what was he to do then? It was evident that
his companion was not in a state to be carried farther on horseback,
and where was he to get succor? They could hardly hope to remain there
long undiscovered, and which way to go for help Herrick did not know.
They had no food, either, of any sort. Even if the wounded man became
conscious enough to know the dire straits they were in, it was
doubtful whether he knew anything about the forest roads. Had he not
been a virtual prisoner at Passey for years?

As he was binding the linen round the wounded arm he glanced at
Maurice to see if he winced with pain. His eyes were open, staring not
at him, but beyond him, in that uncanny fashion which compels one to
turn and see upon what such a look is fixed. Herrick was turning when
his arms were suddenly seized from behind and a cord drawn tightly
round them, while rough hands grasped his shoulders and pulled him on
to his back.

"Tie his feet, too," said a man, suddenly springing across the brook.
"Whom have we here?"

"A wounded man," said Herrick, without attempting to struggle. He
might want all his strength for that presently.

"Ay; and for a priest you're a poor hand with a wounded man," was the
answer.

For a moment Herrick thought they had fallen into the hands of their
pursuers after all, but as a score of men surrounded them he saw they
were not those who had attacked them at the clearing. This surely was
a band of real robbers.

The man who had stooped down to look steadily into Maurice's face
suddenly stood upright.

"Quick! Fetch the old mother," he said excitedly to a youth near him;
and then looking down at Herrick he said, "Who is he?"

"A wounded man. I never saw him before to-day."

"How came he thus and how did you come into his company?"

"An attack in the forest, and I helped him to escape. It was a small
affair; but if you have skill in such matters, pray bind up his wounds
without delay. He is weak from loss of blood."

The youth returned, hurrying forward an old woman with bent form, and
chin and nose which nearly met, as they seemed to peck at each other
continually.

"Mother, look into this man's face," said the man who seemed chief of
this forest band.

"Ay, sore hurt he is," said the old hag, bending over him, "but I have
salves--I have salves."

"But his face, mother; who is he?"

    "A wounded man
      In a forest lay,
    Who the fates decree
      Shall be Duke one day,"

chanted the old woman in a piping key. "I saw it all as the flame died
out of my fire last night. I have salves; let me fetch them. There is
money, much money in this."

"Mother, is it not he of Passey?"

    "Who the fates decree
      Shall be Duke one day.

"Let me go. Would you have him die when there is so much money in the
air?"

The robbers were evidently half afraid of this old beldame, who
probably found her pretended witchcraft and doggerel rhymes
profitable.

"The mother speaks truly," said Herrick. "It is he of Passey. Duke
even now, and there is much money for those who help him."

"You said you never saw him before to-day."

"I spoke truly also."

The man turned away, and, beckoning the other men round him, talked
eagerly for a few moments, and with many gesticulations. When the old
woman returned, some of the men went quickly into the wood, and the
chief turned to her.

"Quickly, mother, and so that he may travel."

"Whither?"

The man stretched out his arm.

"Cannot you see the money in that direction?"

"Ay, if you can reach it, plenty of it; but that is not the road to
Vayenne, and there is money that way, too," said the woman, bending
over her work.

"As much?" queried the man.

"Why ask? Is it not the Vayenne road he must take so that he may be
Duke one day?"

"Make up another riddle against that time, mother, and read my fate."

"It would put the fear of God in thee, Simon; thou art best in
ignorance."

The man turned away with an uneasy laugh. He, too, feared the old
woman, although he would not have it appear so. He stopped to look
down at Herrick.

"What can we do with the priest?" he murmured to himself, but not so
softly that another behind him did not hear.

"Why not knife him?"

"Ay; why not?"

"The mother loves not such," urged the man, "and alive he will be
dangerous."

"I like not knifing a man when the blood is cold in me," Simon
answered.

"I'll do it, I have no such sentiment."

"Time enough," Simon said. "Besides, since he helps this scholar of
Passey, he's no friend to him of Vayenne." And then, turning to
Herrick, he went on: "I marked you when you came to the brook; you
rode not like a priest."

"What matter how I rode so we have fallen among friends?" said
Herrick.

"Friends? Hardly that; but at least we would not let the wounded man
die. Dead he is but carrion as any other man; alive he is worth much
gold. There are those beyond Montvilliers who will pay handsomely for
him."

"Beyond Montvilliers! You would sell him into the hands of his
country's enemies? That were traitor's work indeed!"

"The country's rulers would hang me to the first tree if they caught
me. To-day the game is mine; to-morrow----" And he snapped his fingers
and laughed.

He walked away, and soon afterward the men who had gone into the woods
returned with a rough litter. Into this the young Duke was carefully
lifted, and whether he were conscious or not Herrick could not tell.
These traitors would keep him alive if they could; at least there was
more hope with them than with those others who were bent on slaying
him, and Herrick found what consolation he could in the thought.

Lifting his head to watch what was happening about the litter, he had
not heard any one approach him until he found the old hag bending over
him. Behind her stood the man who wished to knife him. They had come
upon him stealthily, so that Simon should not stay their crime,
Herrick supposed, and he gave himself up for lost. Indeed, he saw the
knife in the man's hand.

"This one has no hurt," said the old woman, bending over him.

"Not yet, mother. Is he to live to tell of what we do?"

"Give me a moment, my son," she answered, and closed her eyes.

"Quickly, mother, or Simon will save him. He likes not the deed, but
he will be glad enough when it is done."

Herrick was conscious that a shout might save him; yet he did not
utter it. The face of the hag seemed to fascinate him with its closed
eyes, so hollow that they were almost like empty sockets, and its
mumbling mouth and pecking nose and chin.

"Quick, mother!" said the man impatiently.

"I cannot see him dead, my son, yet cannot I follow his course. Put up
the knife. He must be left to chance."

"Curse the fates that mock you," said the man in a rage.

"Mock me!" screamed the hag, striking him across the face with her
bony hand. "Mock me--me! Get you gone, or I'll set the finger of death
on you or ever the year is out. Simon, I say, Simon! This sham priest
must be left to the will of Fate. I have said it."

Simon, who had mounted Herrick's horse, made a sign and three men
carried Herrick to a tree at the edge of the open. To this they bound
him in an upright position, winding and knotting the rope tightly from
his feet upward--so tightly that he could not move an inch either way.
The end of the rope they wound round his throat but loosely.

"Fate must set you free if she will," said the hag.

Simon did not look at him. It seemed to Herrick that he would not
willingly have treated him thus, but that fear of the old woman
compelled him. He set the man who had wished to use the knife to be
one of the litter-bearers, that he might have no chance of returning
and doing the captive harm.

"March!" he said, and placing himself at the head of the band he led
them through the trees, following no path but in the direction he had
pointed, the way where much money lay, and which did not lead to
Vayenne.

The hag stood by the brook watching them go, stood there for some time
after the last of them had disappeared among the trees; then she
entered the forest in the opposite direction, mumbling and
gesticulating as she went.

Save for the wind in the trees there was no sound, and even the wind
sank presently into silence. Twilight came, then darkness. A numbness
crept through Herrick's frame, and there was a strange singing in his
head. His throat was parched, for in ministering to his wounded
comrade he had forgotten to drink himself. Then came intervals of
forgetfulness, then clear consciousness again, and a feeble effort to
free himself. In the little patch of night sky overhead shone a star,
the North Star surely. That way lay England--home--and in a moment all
his life seemed to flash past him. Was it his throat that swelled, or
was it that the rope was tightening? Then came oblivion!




CHAPTER VIII

INTO DEATH'S JAWS AGAIN


Into Herrick's oblivion there crept dreams presently. No longer was
the rope tightening round his throat; his limbs began to lose their
numbness, and a grateful sensation of warmth ran through them. There
was movement about him; hands, gentle hands, touched him; and eyes
looked steadily at him--not the eyes of one who was ready to strike
with a knife, not the eyes of an old hag. These were beautiful eyes,
with kindness in them, the eyes of a woman who had compassion. They
were surely a woman's fingers, too, which had gently eased the rope
tightening at his throat.

"His is more a weary sleep than exhaustion now."

The voice came suddenly to the dreamer's ears out of the darkness.
Then for an instant there was light about him, dancing flames full of
life, and huge, distorted shadows moving over him. Contentment was
here, and sleep--sleep with no more dreams in it.

When he opened his eyes again, they fell upon a small square patch of
daylight; then, turning his head, he saw a red glow a few paces from
him, and the fragrance of burning peat was in his nostrils. He did not
seem to be dreaming now, yet he knew not where he was, nor how he had
come there. He remembered riding hard. Where? Why? Some run over
difficult country with the hounds in full cry! He had been leading the
field; that he recollected, and then--a rope at his throat. In a flash
it came back to him--the escape, the recapture, the wounded man, the
threatening knife, the bound, aching limbs, the star above him in the
night sky. What had happened since? Where was he?

He raised himself on his elbow, and the movement disturbed a figure
sitting near the peat fire.

"So you are awake at last?"

"Lemasle!" said Herrick as the man bent over him.

"Ay, the same; ready for another fight against odds, if need be, but
sore weary of watching a sick man. The gods gave me not the gift of
nursing."

"Is it the dawn coming in at the window yonder?" Herrick asked.

"Yes; and a plaguey wet dawn, too. You can hear the rain on the roof,
hear it hissing as it falls down the chimney onto the peat. It rained
all night and all yesterday."

"Yesterday? There was sunlight when we came upon the clearing,
and----"

"That was the day before," Lemasle answered. "'Twixt fainting and
sleeping you've lost full twice round the clock."

"Tell me," said Herrick.

"Have you all your wits?" Lemasle asked.

"Yes; and strength returning slowly. Let me lie here and listen."

"You remember how we dashed forward when the scoundrels began to creep
up behind us?"

"Yes; and we were stopped from following you."

"For a time we were unconscious of that," said Lemasle. "There were
galloping horses behind us, and without looking back I shouted to
encourage you. When I did glance behind, I saw that we were pursued,
but of you I saw nothing. I bade Mademoiselle ride on, and then I
turned, firing upon those that followed. Faith, playing the traitor
breeds cowardice in a man. There were four of them, yet they halted.
If they wanted to make an end of me, now was their opportunity, I
cried, and they hung back like curs from the challenge. One man I hit,
his hand went suddenly to his face, where I think the bullet struck
him, and he pitched into the ditch by the roadside, what soul he was
possessed of going quickly to its judgment. The rest turned and
galloped back the way they had come. Perchance they had no firearms,
perhaps they saw that the Duke was not with me, but the laughter I
sent after them should have made them fight had they been men. I did
not know the country reared such curs as these. So I rode on to
Mademoiselle. I would have taken her to safety ere I returned to look
for you, since I hold that a man's first duty is toward the woman he
has in his keeping, but she would not. Faith, Herrick, I think she
still believed you half a traitor, and I did you justice arguing your
cause for full an hour as we went carefully among the trees in search
of you. But I talk. It is you who should tell me your tale first."

"Finish, captain. I have wit enough to listen, but hardly to talk much
yet."

"Is the Duke safe?" asked Lemasle.

"Wounded, but not to the death; and I saw his hurt attended to. Finish
your tale, captain."

"We had to go carefully," Lemasle went on, "for the scoundrels were
still searching in the forest. More than once we only just escaped
their notice. Mademoiselle took courage from this, for she argued that
they had not got the Duke. For none other of us would they have
troubled to look so long. Toward evening we came upon a hag gathering
sticks, and questioned her whether she had seen or heard aught. The
old beldame muttered that her eyes were bad and her hearing worse and
all she could see and hear were things that should happen in the
future. She held out her dirty palm for silver that we might have our
fortunes told, and I was minded to let her tell them, for love would
certainly have been in them and perchance set Mademoiselle thinking in
my direction. Mademoiselle would have none of it, however, and we got
a shower of curses instead of a blessing. It was growing dark when we
chanced upon the hut of a charcoal burner, this place where we now
are. It was empty, but the peat was smouldering in the corner, so we
waited, stabling our horses in the shed without. The man would return
shortly, and he might have news. There were two men, and when they
came they made us welcome, but of news they had none. They had been at
a distance that day, had neither seen any armed men nor heard the
sound of strife. But when I mentioned the hag, they immediately agreed
that robbers had been in the neighborhood, for they knew this same old
woman as being of their company, a sort of mother witch among them,
and, more, knew the spot where they would most likely have camped. One
of the men stayed with the horses lest in our absence they should be
stolen, the other took a lantern and led us to the place. There had
been a recent encampment, but we found nothing to help us, and were
returning across a little clearing when the feeble light of the
lantern fell upon a tree beside us, and there was a man tied--dead, we
thought. Your head had fallen forward, Herrick, so that the rope,
though loose about your neck, pressed on your throat. Had we not found
you, I warrant you would have been past help before morning. They were
tender hands that lifted your head and deft fingers that undid the
rope about your neck. Faith, I was jealous of an unconscious man, and
would fain have been in his place to have received such service. I
quickly cut the cords that bound you, and the charcoal-burner and I
carried you here; since when you have been faint and sleeping hour
after hour till I wondered whether you would ever be yourself again."

Herrick got up slowly, stretched himself, and walked toward the fire.

"Is mademoiselle still here?" he asked.

Lemasle pointed to a rough door.

"There is a second room there."

As he spoke the door opened, and Christine entered.

"I rejoice to see you nearly yourself again. You have been most foully
used."

Her face just then was like the face that had looked at him in his
dreams. Herrick bowed somewhat stiffly and unsteadily over the hand
she held out to him, for the ache was still in his limbs.

"Truly, mademoiselle, my service had come near to ending before it was
well begun. Death has been hunting me more busily than I care for."

"What of the Duke?"

"He is alive," Herrick answered. "Mine is a tale you may well find
difficult to believe."

"For unbelief, circumstances must be my excuse," she answered after a
moment's pause. "There is yet time for repentance. Sit on this
stool--you are still weak, I see--and tell us the story."

Herrick told what had happened from the moment Lemasle had made his
dash across the clearing, repeated even the old hag's doggerel rhyme,
and his own last consciousness of a star above him which pointed
toward home.

"These thieves did not say to whom they would take him?" Christine
asked him when he had finished.

"To the enemy who would pay highest. These robbers were in no doubt
which direction to go. That a big reward would be paid for the Duke's
person seemed well known to them. Have none been sent to spy in the
enemies' borders, since it would appear spies are so frequent in
Montvilliers?"

"We have ever fought our foe openly," she said, turning sharply from
the fire by which she was standing.

"One must meet craft with craft," Herrick answered.

"Have you no word of advice, Captain Lemasle?" she asked.

The soldier shrugged his great shoulders, and walking to the fire,
kicked back a piece of smouldering peat which had fallen from its
place.

"Advice doesn't trip easily to my tongue at any time, and here there
are so many considerations. Had the Duke fallen into the hands of
those who attacked us, he would have been a dead man by now. I take it
that our present position is an improvement upon that."

"They will certainly keep him alive," said Herrick.

"And therefore must travel slowly," said Christine. "We may overtake
them."

"We are but two men, mademoiselle," Lemasle remarked. "To attempt the
impossible is to court disaster. Besides, they have had many hours'
start, and there is no certainty where they have gone."

Christine looked at Herrick, evidently asking his opinion.

"I should not shirk another desperate venture, mademoiselle," he said,
"but there is wisdom in what Captain Lemasle says. To speak frankly, I
do not know the real situation in Montvilliers well enough to give an
opinion."

"And having heard it, you might have difficulty in understanding it,"
Lemasle muttered.

"At least you know that Count Felix has plotted the death of the young
Duke," said Christine.

"That was the story which sent me to warn you," said Herrick.

"I have not believed that tale, I hardly credit it now," she went on,
"but we know that the Duke's life has been attempted. Maurice dead,
Felix becomes Duke. Montvilliers cannot be long without a ruler.
Maurice in the hands of France or Germany is powerless; therefore this
way Felix becomes Duke."

"Would not the people strike a blow for their rightful ruler?" Herrick
asked.

"In their present mind they are more likely to listen to Count Felix.
He is a strong man and has plenty of honeyed words when they fit in
with his purpose. In Vayenne they hardly know Maurice, and the crowd
likes a leader it can see; that is why I was so set on bringing him to
the city."

"As the Duke is not dead, the Count may fear to move in this matter,"
said Herrick.

"You do not know him," Lemasle said.

"Even now some of these traitors have ridden back to Vayenne," said
Christine. "While we talk, preparations may be going forward for
Felix's crowning. Would I were a man!"

"What would you do, mademoiselle?" asked Herrick.

"Do! I would ride to Vayenne, throw this treachery in Felix's teeth,
demand the Duke's rescue, set all the wheels of diplomacy turning,
and, if need be, cry revolution in the streets."

"Mademoiselle might set the law aside that forbids women to mount the
throne, and do all this herself," said Lemasle.

"I am no breaker of laws, captain; and even if I were, the citizens of
Vayenne would not easily shout for me. A few--oh yes, there would be a
few, but they would be of the rabble chiefly. I have no soul for such
an enterprise."

"Yet you might go to the Count," urged Lemasle, "and demand justice
for the Duke."

"And every courtier would urge my marriage with Count Felix," she
said. "That way will they welcome me as Duchess, who would not draw a
sword to place me on the throne. Such a marriage might bring peace.
Were the Duke dead, I might be tempted to make it for my country's
sake. As it is----"

"You hate such a marriage?" said Herrick.

"Yes; hate it. Only to save Montvilliers would I make it."

"Mademoiselle, if you bid me, I will go to Vayenne."

"You!"

"Think what you will of me, but at least have I not proved myself a
man?" said Herrick.

"There was no mean thought in my mind," she answered. "But what would
you do in Vayenne?"

"Why, even cast this treachery in the Count's teeth; let the city know
that its honor is at stake, since the Duke is a prisoner; if need be,
boast loudly of what I have done to save him, and perhaps ride at the
head of that rabble you talk of."

"You would go to your death."

"If I care not, who is there to hinder me on that score?"

"It might be done," said Lemasle; "indeed it might, mademoiselle. You
and I could follow to the city. They will not harm you, and you would
not go to the castle, where at present you might be unwelcome."

"I might go to the Countess Elisabeth, and----"

"And from thence let it be known that you were for Duke Maurice,"
cried Lemasle. "Faith, I see the Count 'twixt devil and deep sea
already."

"We talk folly," said Christine.

"You must lend me a horse, Lemasle," said Herrick. "I must be there
without delay. You must come slower, at mademoiselle's stirrup, unless
you chance on a mount on the forest road."

"I'll see to it at once."

"No; it is folly," said Christine; but Lemasle had already gone.

"Won't you accept my service, mademoiselle?" said Herrick.

"You go to certain death."

"The death of a man has won a cause before this."

"But what part have you in the quarrels of Montvilliers," she
asked--"you, a stranger? Why should you adventure yourself in such a
cause?"

"Men are driven forward by all sorts of reasons," he answered
carelessly. "The spirit of the wanderer brought me here; fate drew me
into this quarrel, against my will, it is true, but I have a mind to
see the end of it."

"You do not count the cost," she said eagerly.

"I do not think of it, mademoiselle."

"But you must. You shall not go!"

"You refuse my service?"

"Yes, because it is folly; there is no reason in it. Against your will
you have played a part; they are your own words. Take one of the
horses. Ride to the frontier. I will not have your death on my hands."

"It was against my will, mademoiselle, but it is so no longer. Would
you have another reason for my service? A woman thought me a spy. I
would prove her wrong."

"Believe me, I have already repented that such a thought was in my
mind. Forgive me, and seek your own safety."

"Any other woman in the world may think or say what she will of me,
and I shall not care," Herrick whispered.

Slowly she raised her eyes to his.

"So you looked at me, mademoiselle, in the Castle of Vayenne the other
night, so you have looked at me in dreams since then. I would serve
you to the death."

Lemasle burst suddenly into the hut. Talk of action excited him, and
there were dangers ahead to appeal to him to the full.

"The horse is ready, Herrick--my horse. There is not a scratch upon
him, for all the blows that were struck at him in the clearing. These
good fellows, the charcoal-burners, have already a kettle bubbling
over a fire in the shed without; you may scent the appetizing smell
from here. Breakfast, and then----"

"But you are weak still," said Christine. "At least delay a day."

"I grow stronger every moment, mademoiselle. You have only to say you
accept my service."

"I accept it for the Duke's sake," she answered, stretching out her
hand; "for his sake and for my own."

There was a gentleness in her last words which made Lemasle glance
quickly at them, but Herrick did not notice the look as he raised
Christine's hand to his lips.

In less than an hour Herrick was in the saddle.

"By good providence we shall meet in Vayenne," he said as the horse
bounded forward down the narrow forest path.

"There goes a brave man," said Lemasle.

Christine did not answer. She stood at the door of the hut for some
time after the horseman had disappeared among the trees, and there was
color in her cheeks and tears in her eyes.




CHAPTER IX

COUNT FELIX


For the great of the earth who die there is often less real mourning
than for him who is of small account. To a throne there is always an
heir ready, perhaps eager, to rule; but who shall step into the void
of a sorrowing heart? The Duke lay dead in a darkened chamber in the
Castle of Vayenne. Yesterday his word was law, to-day it was nothing.
The very frown which had caused men to tremble, Death's fingers had
smoothed out; and since love had played small part in the Duke's
scheme of life, where should one find hearts that ached for him now?
They would bury him presently with great pomp and ceremony in the
Church of St. Etienne, where lay the dust of other Dukes, but to-day
there was other business in hand. Outside the closed door two sentries
stood, and there was silence in the corridor; but in every other part
of the castle there was busy hurrying to and fro. To-day the new Duke
must be welcomed. Count Felix had been issuing orders all the morning.
From an early hour soldiers had been busy in the court-yards, and at
intervals troops of horsemen and footmen had passed out of the great
gate to take their appointed places in the city, there to wait long
hours, and to grumble as men will who wait. In the great hall of the
castle, where generations of fighters and feasters had quarrelled or
made merry, a crowd of servants were making ready a great banquet;
while courtiers, officers, and messengers passed to and from the
suite of rooms which lay to one side of the hall. There was an air of
expectancy about them all, anxiety and uncertainty in most faces. In
one room sat Count Felix, at present the centre of this busy hive. To
many it seemed only natural that he should sit in the place of the
dead Duke, and they were careful that their manner should show what
was in their minds. But there were others who made it clear that they
looked on his commands as temporary, carrying authority only until the
Duke came. Felix noted the attitude of every man, but to all his
manner was the same. He was courteous, smooth-tongued, a little
depreciatory of himself, and laid some stress upon the temporary
nature of his position. He was a tall, dark man, dark eyes, dark hair,
dark complexion; a strong and purposeful man with confidence in
himself. The affairs of the state were at his fingers' ends; long ago
he had gauged the character of every man, ay, and woman too, at the
court; he knew both his friends and his enemies, and flattered them
both, knowing well that such friends become slavish, while flattery
may disarm the bitterest of foes. Very few had succeeded in reading
the Count's character; he had been careful to conceal it from both
friends and foes.

So he had done all that could be done to prepare a fitting welcome for
the young Duke. If among the citizens there was no great enthusiasm
for Duke Maurice, as some of his friends were careful to inform him,
that was no fault of his; and neither by look nor gesture did he show
whether he were pleased or not at this apathy on the people's part.
His face was a mask, and only when he was alone for a moment did the
anxiety and the excitement that were in him show themselves. His hands
suddenly clenched, he took two or three rapid strides across the
room, then sat down again, his eyes fixed on vacancy, deep in thought.

"Well! well!" he said as an officer came into the room.

"The sentry who was wounded last night is conscious, sir."

"I had forgotten. For the moment I thought you had come about another
matter. Yes; I will come and see him. And the jailer, has he said
anything?"

"Maintains that wings or a rope was necessary to reach the window, and
therefore the prisoner must have had help from without. He declares
there was no rope in the cell, and says he didn't notice wings on the
spy. Those are his own words."

"It pleases him to be humorous over a serious matter," said the Count.

He had forgotten all about the escaped spy; now he remembered him, and
began to speculate. Last night he had heard nothing of the arrest
until they had come to tell him of the escape. Then he had been
chiefly interested in the fact that a man had broken out of the South
Tower. Examination had shown that one of the window bars was loose,
but until the sentry could tell his tale, there was no certainty that
the prisoner had escaped that way. Then the Count regretted the
escape, because it robbed him of an opportunity of pleasing the people
of Vayenne, whose hatred of spies was hereditary. It would have
pleased him to gratify them by hanging this man high above the great
gate. That would certainly have been his fate before ever he had
chance to speak a word in his own defence. In the pressure of other
thoughts the matter had slipped from his mind until the officer's
entrance, and as is ever the case with an anxious schemer, he sought
to fit this spy into the intricate design of his thoughts.

As the Count crossed the small court-yard toward the quarters where
the sentry lay, he saw Father Bertrand, and ambling by his side was
the dwarf of St. Etienne.

"Are we on the same errand, father?" said the Count.

"I am going to see the wounded sentry."

"Who is now conscious. We may learn something of this spy."

"Conscious!" exclaimed Jean. "Heaven be praised for that!"

"Why, what is it to you, fool?"

Jean looked at the Count with blinking eyes for a moment, and then
said slowly:

"Much, truly. I am troubled this morning when I hear that a spy has
half killed a sentry. I say to myself, 'That is one man less in the
castle to defend it against its enemies.'"

The Count laughed at the dwarf's attitude and his air of wisdom.

"Ah, you say, 'What is one man?'" he went on. "The whole world is made
up of one man after another. They all count. Why, to-day I'm worth
more than the dead Duke yonder."

"There's truth in that," said the priest.

"And then when I come to the castle to see the poor soldiers, I---"

"Poor! Why poor?"

"Because they have to do what they're told and go where they're led,
and God made men for better things than that. This wounded sentry, I
find, is a particular friend of mine. He doesn't know it, but he is.
That's the way of the world; we seldom do know our best friends. I've
never spoken to him nor he to me, but I always look out for him,
because his coat fits so badly. He's a poor figure of a man, your
Grace, and an ill-fitting coat suits him. I will go with you and see
how he does."

"Better run away, Jean, before I have you whipped."

"Whipped? For what, Lord Duke?"

"Silence, fool!"

"It may be, Count, that clearer insight is given to those the world
calls fools," whispered Father Bertrand.

"That's a poor excuse for treason," said the Count; and then, turning
to the dwarf, he went on: "The Duke comes to Vayenne to-day, Jean.
Have you not seen the soldiers in the streets ready to welcome him?"

"Ah! what a fool am I!" laughed the dwarf. "I thought they were there
to keep out any one else who might fancy himself Duke. I'll go and
await his coming. But first, I pray you, let me see my ill-made
friend. Nature has made such a mess of him, I doubt whether even the
spy can have made him much worse."

"The fellow is an amusing fool, father. I've heard wise men talk more
folly. Come if you will, Jean."

The sentry was conscious, but for all the Count's questions there was
little to be got from him. He was standing with his back toward the
wall when something fell on him and crushed him. He had no breath to
cry out, and remembered nothing after the first thrust of the steel.

"Poor soldier!" muttered Jean.

"You saw no one run along the terrace?"

"No one," the man answered.

"And you heard nothing when you stopped beneath the South Tower?"
asked the Count.

"No, sir," said the man faintly. He was weak, and the Count turned
away, followed by Father Bertrand and Jean.

"He is not such an ill-made fellow," the Count said, turning to Jean.

"Ah! but you and I see with different eyes," was the dwarf's quick
answer. "You would call me ill-made."

"Strangely made," said the Count.

"Just so. Now I like twisted limbs, they're less common. Mark you, in
a crowd there will be more turn to look at me than at you."

"And more will laugh at you," said the Count.

"Well, laughter's a good tonic," said the dwarf, and then sidling
close to the Count, he went on: "Men such as I am see more than men
such as you. I see ghosts in St. Etienne. I warrant you never saw
them."

"Nor want to," Felix answered.

"See and hear them, eh, Father Bertrand?" Jean chuckled. "All the dead
dukes who lie there, straight or with their feet crossed, have secrets
to tell, and I listen. In the night St. Etienne is peopled with
ghosts, and the great organ sings low to them, brave music, telling of
great deeds done long ago, and of love that flowers and ripens into
fruit beyond this world's time. Some day you'll hear it, only you'll
have to lie under a stone effigy first, and maybe you'll tell me all
your secrets then. I'll go and watch for the Duke, who is strangely
late in coming."

The dwarf waddled across the court-yard, and presently passed out of
the little postern beside the great gates. The soldiers laughed at him
often, but none questioned his goings and comings. There was an old
wife's tale among them that the presence of an innocent was lucky, and
Jean had wit enough to be of service sometimes. He had carried a love
message before now, and sometimes demanded that payment should take
the form of a kiss from the maid. It amused him to see how reluctantly
the debt was liquidated.

Outside the castle he went at a slower pace.

"One," he said, holding up a finger--"one, the poor sentry saw
nothing, therefore I am still free to come and go. Two, the Count is
clever making all this show for a Duke he never expects to arrive.
Three," and he held up another finger for each number--"three, he's a
fool because he thinks I'm a fool. Four, my uncanny talk of ghosts
makes him shiver, so there's something of the coward in him somewhere.
Five, the Duke is long in coming; has friend Roger failed, I wonder?
I'll go and see what the crowd thinks of the new Duke. Truly he is
coming to no rosebed, if the Count is to have a hand in the making of
it."

The Count watched him as he went across the court-yard.

"Think you he is as great a fool as he seems, father?" he asked,
turning to the priest.

"The crooked body may hold some wisdom which is beyond us. He may have
visions."

"Even straight-limbed men have," was the answer. "Tell me, why did you
come to visit the prisoner last night?"

"To make certain he was a spy. I know the breed, Count," said the
priest.

"I would he were swinging over the gate yonder," said Felix.

"Ay; spy or no spy, it would have pleased the populace," said
Bertrand.

"And served as a warning," returned the Count. "We shall have all
sorts of wastrels begging favors of the new Duke."

"That depends."

"On what?" asked Felix.

"On the new Duke."

"True. He may be made of sterner stuff than we imagine." And the Count
re-entered the castle.

"I trust not," muttered Father Bertrand as he went back to the lodging
of the wounded sentry. "Pliability will suit us best just now, and a
character which lacks resolution. Then----" His lips moved, but no
uttered words came. He walked slowly, with eyes on the ground.
Perchance he prayed silently.

Count Felix went back to his room, and sat there waiting. His attitude
was expectant, and he listened for the shouting that might come in the
city streets, for footsteps at the door which would surely come soon.
He looked for a long time at a paper on his table--a list of names. He
read each name carefully, calling to memory the man as he read it.

"Cut-throats all," he muttered, and then he laughed a little. "Why,
the making carrion of them will bring me thanks. Gaspard Lemasle--he
is different. He is ambitious. I must find a place for Gaspard Lemasle
where he will easily make enemies. They shall destroy him."

Time passed slowly. The Duke was certainly late.

"Perhaps he refused to come," Felix murmured. "No; Christine would see
to that. They cannot have failed; it was so easy a task."

The hours wore on toward dusk--long hours for those in the streets,
for those in the castle, for Count Felix. The courtiers wondered and
speculated. The Count's face was imperturbable. He had a dozen reasons
to give for the delay. He gave them to friend and foe alike. No one
hurried along the corridors, there was no need; all that could be done
had been done. They could only wait and listen.

Lights were in the castle, and the Count was alone when hurried steps
which he expected came to the door. A man entered, a swaggering giant
at most times, but now travel-stained, with torn coat, and a streak of
dried blood upon his forehead.

"Well, Barbier!" Felix cried, starting from his chair.

"Escaped."

"What!"

"They were ready," said the man. "We must have been betrayed. All fell
out as we had planned, but Lemasle, and the Duke, and a priest----"

"Priest! What priest?"

"Some one Mademoiselle would bring to Vayenne," answered Barbier. "So
Lemasle told us; but I warrant he lied, for this same priest was a
fearless horseman, and wielded a sword that took its full toll of
blood. We had surrounded them when Lemasle and Mademoiselle dashed
through us, and we let them go, closing upon the Duke and this priest.
In a moment they had turned, and were fleeing along the forest road. A
shot wounded the Duke, another stopped his horse, but as it fell this
priest lifted the wounded man before him on to his animal. We
followed, but he outwitted us. He was no priest, I'll swear to that."

"A thousand curses on your blundering," said Felix. "He was wounded,
you say?"

"Yes."

"To the death?"

"That I cannot tell," Barbier answered.

"I will tell you," said Felix. "He was. Do you understand? He was. He
died in the forest."

"We searched. I have left them searching. We found nothing."

"Fool, you must find something. Is a man killed in conflict always
recognizable? Mar the face of some dead comrade, mar it effectually,
and then come with your story to Vayenne. Trust me, it shall find easy
credence. I will prepare Vayenne for it. Do you understand?"

"But this priest?"

"Curse him," said Felix. "Whatever may chance, I shall know that
Barbier was one of the bravest in this forest fight. Having gone thus
far, think you I shall turn back now? Here's to show you what a man
may expect who is prompt in my service." And he placed a bag of coins
in his hand. "Ride back. Answer no questions. Say 'The Count knows,
ask him.' Do you understand, Barbier?"

"We shall find the body and bring it ere morning," the man answered.

"To horse, Barbier, Captain of the Duke's Guard. There is no time to
lose."

The man saluted, and went quickly from the room.

For a moment the Count stood with clenched hands, and underlip tightly
held between his teeth. Then he went out to meet the eager questions
of those that waited.

That night there were again running feet through the streets of
Vayenne, and men shouted as they ran: "The Duke is dead! The young
Duke is dead!" And some were sad, while others rejoiced and spake no
more of Count Felix, but openly called him Duke, and thought of the
honors and rewards that should speedily fall to them. There were many
who found no sleep that night in Vayenne.




CHAPTER X

THE SUPERSTITION OF COUNT FELIX


Among those who found no sleep that night was Count Felix himself. A
bold schemer of unbounded ambition, determined to allow no obstacle to
stand in his way, he was at the same time both subtle and farsighted.
For years he had been preparing for this hour. He had ingratiated
himself with the old Duke, who by word had virtually appointed him his
successor. He had sought to draw to him all those who were prominent
and powerful in the state. He had steadily besieged the affections of
Christine de Liancourt. Had she been his wife, or had she even
promised to marry him, he would at once have seized the throne, and
any rising in favor of the scholar of Passey would have had poor
chance of success. She was so well loved that she would have bound to
him most of those who were at present his enemies. Christine, however,
had persistently supported the claim of the Duke's son, in which Felix
had applauded her; and when the time came, had urged that she should
go to Passey herself to bring Maurice to Vayenne, since it was almost
certain that he would refuse the crown unless strong pressure were
brought to bear upon him. Such pressure Christine was certain to use,
and not for an instant did Felix doubt that it would be used
successfully. By supporting her in this way, Felix disarmed any
suspicion she might have, and felt convinced that presently she would
consent to marry him. In the meanwhile Maurice must not be allowed to
enter Vayenne. To aid him in this set purpose Felix had found a tool
ready to his hand in Barbier, an adventurer who had enough crimes to
his credit to hang him ten times over, and possessed of the doubtful
virtue of loyalty to his employer, no matter how great a scoundrel
that employer might be. It was Barbier who had chosen the men who
should form the band of pretended robbers and those who should form
Mademoiselle de Liancourt's escort. It was his own scheme, he declared
to these men, but, as he explained to them, the Count would easily
forgive such an affair, and the reward, if not openly given, would be
ample. Some of the men may have had their suspicion that the Count
knew of the plot, but it is certain that no one of them had a particle
of evidence to justify any statement of the kind; nor had they any
knowledge that their names figured on the list which Count Felix so
carefully preserved.

To kill the young Duke on his journey from Passey to Vayenne seemed
the simplest matter possible. That Christine had insisted on Gaspard
Lemasle accompanying her as captain of the escort was a pity; but what
could one man do against such a combination of enemies? Felix ranked
Lemasle among his friends rather than his foes, and should the captain
recognize any of his adversaries it would be easy to hang such
traitors. It would not be difficult quietly to compass the death of
Barbier himself if necessary.

So the Count saw no flaw in his plans. He felt secure, felt certain of
grasping his ambition. Now the hour had come, and the unexpected had
happened. Lemasle and this priest had succeeded in defending the young
Duke. True, Maurice had been wounded, might indeed be dead, but there
was no certainty. A body, marred past recognition, might convince the
people, and the court, who had seen little or nothing of Maurice; it
would be harder to convince Lemasle and Christine, but surely not
impossible. This priest was the difficulty; he knew what had become of
the Duke. Barbier had declared he was no priest. Who was he? Who was
there who could have betrayed this secret to Maurice, or Lemasle, or
to Christine? What tale had been told them? Certainly not the true
one; only Barbier knew that. Count Felix still felt secure, but had he
grasped his ambition? His fingers seemed to touch it, yet could they
not grip it. Such success as this was worse than failure.

It was no time for hesitation. The news that the young Duke was dead
was even now running through Vayenne like flame among dry sticks. In a
few hours the people would have recognized fully that he, Felix, was
Duke. The coming hours were precious, and no doubt of the truth of the
news must be allowed to transpire. Lemasle and Christine would
speedily return, and Lemasle had been captain of the escort and
responsible for the young Duke's safety. Prompt orders were issued,
therefore, that Captain Lemasle was to be arrested the moment he
entered Vayenne, and orders were also given to arrest any priest
entering the city, whether he came alone or in Lemasle's company.

Early in the morning Father Bertrand came to the castle to protest
against this second order.

"Many priests may enter Vayenne, coming and going about their duty,"
he said; "are they all to be arrested?"

"Yes, father, all," the Count answered. "They will easily clear
themselves; but there is reason to believe that some miscreant--not a
priest, probably, but arrayed as one--has had a hand in the young
Duke's death."

Father Bertrand continued to protest, but the Count was firm yet
courteous, and the priest returned thoughtfully to the Rue St.
Romain. He, too, was a man of action, and the Count had raised his
curiosity.

Soon afterward Count Felix left the castle on foot, and walked quickly
to the Place Beauvoisin, which lay beyond the castle toward the North
Gate. Here in times past the nobles had lived, but in these days the
old houses there had meaner tenants--Jews who were accounted rich, and
shopkeepers who either had made or were making money. There was an air
of prosperity in the Place Beauvoisin except in one corner of it,
where a faded house stood sideways behind a high wall. The Count
entered the square by a narrow way near this house, which was his
destination. His summons at a small door in the wall was quickly
answered, and he entered without a word to the porter. Every one in
the square knew that the beautiful Countess Elisabeth lived at the
faded house in the corner, but probably no one knew that Count Felix
was a constant visitor there.

The Countess rose from her seat to welcome him, and turned hastily to
a young girl with whom she had been talking and laughing the moment
before, telling her to go.

"I will send for you presently, Lucille," she said. Then when the door
had closed she held out her hands to the Count. "I have been expecting
you."

Felix bent over her hand for a moment.

"I come to you with all my joys and sorrows," he said, "with all my
ambitions, my successes, and my failures."

"Yes; and I am glad. You know that, Felix," she answered. "To-day you
touch your ambition."

"You have heard the news then? I sometimes wonder how news, bad news,
can come into this sweet retreat."

"Bad news, Felix?"

"Is it not bad, since Maurice is dead?"

The woman looked at him for a moment, and then turned away.

"Why attempt to deceive me?" she said.

By common consent the Countess Elisabeth was pronounced beautiful. As
a rule the beauty of really beautiful women is so marked in certain
particulars that it excites criticism, and opinions will differ
concerning it. But there is another kind of beauty, not so perfect,
not comparable with any recognized standard, which nevertheless has
something in it which appeals to all opinions. Countess Elisabeth was
such a woman. She was fair, delicate-looking, and her coloring was
wonderful; yet there was strength behind this seemingly fragile
beauty--strength of purpose, strength of endurance. No one considered
her of much importance in Vayenne. She seemed to live a retired life
in the faded house in the Place Beauvoisin, her chief companion being
a young girl, a distant relative, usually spoken of as Mademoiselle
Lucille. Those who were inclined to be romantic gave the Countess a
lover, some one in the past who had died or perchance proved
faithless. They might have remodelled their ideas of her romance had
they seen the color in her cheeks as she spoke to Felix.

"Does not the news spell fortune for you?" she went on after a pause.
"All obstacles are removed by it."

"Yes. It seems so."

"Seems! What difficulty can remain?" And then she said suddenly, "You
had no hand in his death, Felix?"

"No," he answered; "and yet your very question should show you
something of the difficulty which still surrounds me. Others in
Vayenne will ask that question, too, since the death occurs so
opportunely for me."

"Why manufacture troubles?" she said. "Did ever a man yet step to a
place of power without making enemies? I have always held that Maurice
was not the man to reign in Montvilliers. His own father delivered the
kingdom to you. Have I not urged you to take it when the time came,
and chance a rising in Maurice's favor? It would never have come.
Vayenne has looked upon you as the old Duke's successor too long."

"The way has always seemed easy when you have pointed it out to me,"
said Felix.

"Yes. I have been strangely generous," the Countess answered. "For
your sake I have made no complaint when prudence suggested your
marriage with Christine de Liancourt."

"You know, Elisabeth, that it is prudence alone which suggests it."

"Yes; I have vanity enough to believe that." And there was the
suspicion of a long sigh in her answer.

"Advise me, my dearest lady," he said, leaning toward her. "You are my
strength, my living talisman. Shall I strike now or delay?"

"Delay! For what?"

"I have not seen Maurice dead. He may have escaped. There is always
the possibility. If he were to return now, he would come wearing a
halo of romance. Shall I strike or wait?"

"Strike, Felix."

"And Christine?"

"Is it necessary--now?" she asked.

"I fear so."

"Still I say strike, Felix."

"You give me courage," he said. "You give me hope. So it has ever
been. An hour ago I was beset with doubts. They are gone. Love mocks
at them."

He held out his arms to her, but she only gave him her hand.

"Nothing more at such a moment?" he said.

"It is a moment that there can be nothing more," she answered.
"Remember, I do not urge your marriage with Christine now."

"It is necessary; believe me, I would not marry her if I could help
it."

"So we come to the parting ways."

"But you have always known that such a marriage was inevitable if I
would possess the throne in peace."

"Circumstances are changed, Felix; I do not know it now. My Lord Duke
has chosen his Duchess. He may come to me for advice if he will; he
must go to her for love."

"It is sacrifice. My love is here with you."

"Think so if it helps you, but it is my hand only, Felix."

"And for the first time in my life I find it hard and cruel," he
answered, raising it to his lips.

She laughed, an unexpected laugh, as one may laugh at a grim jest
which cuts deep into the very soul.

"I do not understand you," he said.

"Did ever a man understand a woman yet? Let it suffice that I have
deeper learning, and understand you perfectly. Go, Felix. This is no
time for such riddles as trying to understand a woman. Your strong
hand is wanted at the helm of affairs now."

"Good advice again, but nothing more."

"Can a man have everything for the asking?" she answered, and,
laughing again, she passed from the room.

Felix went back to the castle, her advice ringing in his ears, all
else forgotten for the moment. There was a subtle affinity between
this woman and himself; he felt it, recognized it, bowed to it. She
understood him, perhaps, better than any one else did. He felt better
in her company, yet while he told her of his ambitions, there was much
in his scheming which he dared not tell her. She was a good woman, and
he had perception enough to think it strange that she should love him.
Beyond that, his thoughts concerning her touched chaos, touched all
that was most selfish in himself. He called it love, but there were
moments when he understood himself well enough to know that such love
as his, could she fully know it, might breed hate in her; and he would
almost as soon have lost the crown as her good-will. Something of
superstition there may have been in this; he had called her his living
talisman, and the term had real meaning for him; perhaps deep down in
his nature there were good inspirations which had never been granted
an opportunity of rising to the surface.

To-day it was her advice that filled his thoughts. She, too, had
called him my Lord Duke, even as Jean the dwarf had done. Was the
spirit of prophecy in them both? Why had the dwarf called him so?
Truly he was a fool, but might there not be method in such folly? He
would see the dwarf and question him. So as soon as he returned to the
castle, he gave orders that Jean was to be found without delay and
brought to him.

The dwarf was sought for in the castle, in the Church of St. Etienne,
and in the streets, but was nowhere to be found. He had been seen in
the city during the morning, but no one could tell where he had gone.
He was quite a public character in Vayenne, everybody knew him, but
how he lived, or where he was to be found at any given moment, nobody
knew. It was agreed, however, that there were times when he was not
seen at all for days together. The failure to find him now only made
the Count more eager to see him, and a diligent search went on
throughout the day.

And all the while Jean sat in the corner of a room in the empty house
by the wall, his legs doubled under him, his arms folded in his loose
tunic, his head dropped forward upon his breast. He was as motionless
as a squatting idol, and any one who had ever seen him thus might well
believe that there was something mysterious about him. Jean was not
hiding from the Count, he had no idea that he was being looked for; he
had a problem to consider, and he had come into this solitude to solve
it. He had heard of the death of the young Duke, had seen Barbier as
he rode to and from the castle yesterday. He had heard of the Count's
orders to arrest Captain Lemasle and any priest who entered Vayenne.
Was the Duke really dead? How was friend Roger to be warned? The
problem was evidently a difficult one to solve, for the dwarf sat for
hours in the corner, never changing his position, scarcely making a
movement the whole time.

Toward dusk, when the lights had begun to blink from windows, and the
taverns and cafes were filling with men eager to discuss the news, he
climbed to the roof, and clambered down the face of the wall to his
boat hidden in the sunken archway. With a few vigorous strokes he sent
it out into the stream, landing presently at the same spot where he
had landed Herrick. He made fast the boat, and went quickly to the
house among the trees.

"Farmer Jacques at home?" he said as he pushed open the door.

"'Tis the limb of Satan," the farmer cried. "Come in. Art hungry?
Here's provender."

"You call me a devil and give me the welcome of an angel," said Jean.
"There are great things afoot, Farmer Jacques."

"To dreamers like thou art there always are."

"And the river yonder separates you from the world," said Jean. "When
were you in the city last?"

"A week ago."

"That's an eternity when things are afoot," said the dwarf.

"True. I was minded to go the other day," said Jacques, "for things
have happened on this side of the river too. My horse was stolen in
the night."

"Stolen!"

"Ay; saddle and all; and next day, toward evening, came trotting home
again. What he'd done with the thief I know not."

"I'm glad he came back," said the dwarf thoughtfully.

"He'd been ridden hard, I could tell that," said the farmer.

"And not by a thief, perhaps," said Jean. "The young Duke, they say,
is dead, Farmer Jacques."

"What, the Passey scholar?"

"So they say yonder." And the dwarf nodded his head in the direction
of the city. "It is said that some tried to rescue him and failed; and
there are some who would arrest these men if they could. That's news
for you, farmer."

"Bad news, Jean."

"It's good news to hear you call it so," said the dwarf, leaning
toward his companion. "One of these rescuers was a priest, who will
perchance come again to Vayenne. He might pass this way. If he does,
Farmer Jacques, stop him, and say: 'All priests entering Vayenne are
to be arrested.'"

"I'll do it. I don't hold with hangings over the castle gates. Would
they hang a priest, think you?"

"This one they would; and for that matter all priests have necks as
other men have," the dwarf returned.

"That's ribald talk," said Jacques, who was a religious man and had no
liking for jests concerning priests.

"Crooked as my limbs, but a fact for all that, just as they are. I
meant no jest. I've said what I came to say, and I'll get back. They
watch the gate carefully to-night, and were I too late they might
question me."

Jean's friendship with the farmer was not one of full confidence.
Jacques knew nothing of the flat-bottomed boat and the dwarf's private
entrance into Vayenne. So Jean started briskly along the road, and not
until he was well out of sight did he turn aside and make his way back
to his hidden landing-place. There he waited until near the dawn,
listening for footsteps, or the beating hoofs of a horse, in the
silence of the night.

They came some hours afterward, but Jean had recrossed the river then.
Herrick drew up in the shelter of the trees by the landing-place, and
looked across the river toward the city. He was bare-headed, and no
longer wore the priest's robe. He had thrown that aside before he
emerged from the forest. It would mark him to those he had fought with
there, some of whom had doubtless returned to Vayenne. How was he to
enter the city? The sound of a heavy wagon crunching its way slowly
along the road gave him inspiration. Dismounting quickly, he led his
horse round to the back of the shed Jean had plundered the other
night. There was no one about, and he fastened the bridle to a staple
in the woodwork.

"You're as good an animal as the one we stole, so that debt is paid,"
he said; and then he hastened after the wagon going in the direction
of Vayenne.




CHAPTER XI

THE LAW OF THE LAND


The driver pulled up his horses when Herrick hailed him.

"Are you going into the city?"

"Ay."

"Care to take a passenger?"

"Ay."

"A paying passenger?" said Herrick.

"Ay; they're the sort I care most about."

Herrick climbed up on to the wagon, which was loaded with straw.

"There's for fare," he said, putting money into the driver's hand as
the horses moved slowly on again.

The man looked at it.

"I'll take you in and bring you out for this, if you like, and you've
a mind to wait while I unload the straw."

"I don't want to come out again," said Herrick. "It's the getting in
that's the difficulty. I'm for the new Duke, and there are some who
plot against him. I might be stopped at the gate. I propose to lie
buried in this straw, and once in the city, I will drop out of the
wagon. Will you do me the service?"

The man looked at Herrick doubtfully and then at the money.

"But if there's trouble at the gate and they find you?" he said.

"Then I have climbed up into the wagon as you came along, and you
didn't know it. I warrant you've often given an unconscious lift to a
free passenger that way."

"Ay; that's true. I'll do it," the driver answered, putting the money
in his pocket. "Get you down in the straw."

They lumbered presently over the bridge, and were passing through the
gate when the wagon stopped.

"Where from?" a voice asked.

"Farmer Jacques."

"That's a road that goes toward Passey, isn't it?"

"Ay."

"Met any soldier on the road this morning?"

"No."

"Nor a priest?"

"No. If you want a priest there's one up the street yonder."

"Only straw in your wagon?"

"Ay. Taking it to a man in the Place Beauvoisin. I go there with a
load every month."

Then the wagon began to move again and to jolt over rough, cobbled
streets. For some time Herrick did not move, but presently lifted his
head cautiously to see where they were going, and to choose a moment
when he might drop from the wagon without attracting undue attention.
To do so unseen would be impossible, for at this hour of the day there
were many people in the streets. Herrick chose a busy corner. There
was nothing really remarkable in a man leaving a wagon as it lumbered
slowly along. The chief risk was that some one had had his suspicions
aroused at the gate, and had followed. Herrick dropped carelessly into
the roadway close to an alley that led out of the main street, and
which he immediately made for. He wanted to take his bearings; he
also wanted a hat. The sooner he could lose himself in the life of the
streets the better. Fortunately he was well provided with money,
thanks to the dwarf, and he decided to take a lodging at some
third-rate cafe. He had formed no plans as yet beyond the
determination to get into the castle, and into the presence of Count
Felix somehow. Friend Jean might certainly help him so far, and
presently he would go to St. Etienne and look for him. What was to
happen when he did succeed in seeing Count Felix he had not thought
about. So far fortune had favored him, and to fortune he trusted the
future.

The alley ran between a row of dilapidated dwellings, into which one
stepped down by two deep steps, and a blank wall. A few dirty children
were playing in the doorways, but took no notice of him. He had nearly
reached the farther end, which opened into another busy street, when a
hand was suddenly laid upon his shoulder. Herrick turned sharply,
ready to fight for his liberty if need be.

The man he faced smiled.

"I am a friend," he said, "who knows you are in danger in Vayenne."

"What do you know of me?"

"I was looking for a priest who was with Mademoiselle de Liancourt's
escort. Wisely you are a priest no longer. There is an order to arrest
all priests entering Vayenne."

"Well, sir, and what then?"

"Some of these children are watching us," was the answer. "There is
anger in your face, and they hope to see fighting between us. We are
friends, let us walk on."

"I have no proof of your friendship," said Herrick, walking on with
the man.

"You would serve Mademoiselle de Liancourt, surely that is why you
have returned to Vayenne. I would serve her also. I pray you trust me
sufficiently to bear me company. If you are minded, as I believe you
are, to strike a blow at Count Felix, who already makes preparations
for his coronation, I have power to help you."

Herrick walked on for a few moments in silence. At the best this could
only be an attempt to allure him into some plot against the Duke,
which was probably more one of secret clamor than open action; yet he
might learn something of the support a rising against the Count could
depend on. At the worst--he pressed his hand to his side, and felt the
revolver there.

"First help me to a new hat; I draw attention by going bare-headed,"
he said.

"That is easy; and afterward?"

"My good friend, I do not enter Vayenne in this fashion without having
friends in the city. I warrant any hurt to me would be amply paid for.
I will go with you, and treat you as a friend until I know that you
are otherwise; then----"

"Ah! leave all threatening for your enemies," the man answered. "You
will find plenty of them."

The hat purchased, a soft one that he could draw down to conceal his
face a little, Herrick went with his companion, carefully noting the
way they took. For the most part it was by by-streets, and not the
shortest way to their destination; but presently they came out close
to the Church of St. Etienne. The carillon burst forth as they crossed
by the great west doors set deep in a very lacework of stone, and
ceased as they passed into the Rue St. Romain. Herrick's guide
stopped and knocked at a small postern there, which was opened
immediately by a man in a cassock, who, without a word, stood back to
let them enter, and then closed the door.

"Will you wait here a moment, monsieur?" said his companion, leading
Herrick into a small, barely furnished room. "I will return
immediately."

He left the door open, as though he would emphasize his perfect
confidence, but Herrick noted that the man in the cassock who had
admitted them remained in the passage. A sudden movement Herrick made
caused him to glance round quickly. He was evidently there by design
to watch, and Herrick pressed his hand upon his revolver again.

In a few minutes his guide returned, and led him along the passage and
up a flight of stairs. He paused before a door there, knocked, and,
after waiting for a moment, opened it and motioned Herrick to enter.
He did not enter with him, but closed the door, and was immediately
joined by the man in the cassock. With a nod of comprehension to each
other they took up their positions on either side of the door, an
alertness in their attitude which argued ill for Herrick should he
attempt to leave that room against their will.

Herrick walked boldly into the room, unconscious that his companion
was not following him. His attention was immediately arrested by the
man who rose from his seat at the table and came to meet him.

"I welcome a brave man," he said.

"This is not our first meeting," Herrick answered. "You were at the
Croix Verte on the night I arrived in Vayenne. You are Father
Bertrand."

"I am," said the priest, motioning his visitor to a seat. "You can
hardly know much concerning me beyond my identity."

"Very little more," said Herrick. "Subsequent events have made me
remember a few words overheard at the Croix Verte that night which I
took little notice of at the time."

"That is natural," the priest answered. "And you have assumed that we
are both bent in helping the same cause."

"Captain Lemasle was at the Croix Verte with you. I saw him again at
Passey. I found him honest, and I judge a man's companions are of his
own choosing and after his own heart."

"I hope to prove myself a suitable comrade for so worthy a captain."
And it was difficult to tell whether there was contempt in the
priest's tone or whether he spoke in his usual manner. "Rumor has been
busy with both of you in the last few hours, if, as I suppose, you
were the 'priest' who fought beside Captain Lemasle."

"Rumor often finds it difficult to substantiate her tales," said
Herrick, who was not inclined to admit anything until he understood
his position more exactly.

"You are both to be arrested, and this I take to mean a short shrift
and speedy closing of accounts. Justice in Montvilliers is inclined to
be barbarous."

"Justice!" said Herrick.

"I am not considering the point of view," said the priest, with a
smile. "Yours is the greater danger, for Lemasle has friends. You were
received as a spy at the outset, and have no friends in Vayenne."

"I understood that I was brought here to find some," Herrick answered.
"Besides, I have friends in this city."

"You mean those who helped you to escape from the South Tower?"

"That was a simple matter," said Herrick carelessly.

"Yes, Monsieur Herrick?" said the priest inquiringly after a short
pause.

"Naturally I do not betray my friends," was the answer.

Father Bertrand smiled again, perhaps to hide his annoyance that his
visitor would not speak more openly. He had so constantly found his
suave manner a key to open hearts and loosen tongues, that he might
well be disappointed now.

"Something more than your name is known to me, Monsieur Herrick--that,
of course, was easy to ascertain--but first let me ask you one or two
questions."

"I cannot promise to answer them."

"Where is the young Duke Maurice?"

"I do not know."

"Is he dead?"

"That I do not know."

"And Mademoiselle de Liancourt and this Captain Lemasle?"

"I last saw them in the forest which lies on the main road to Passey,"
Herrick answered.

"You do not look like a man who would lie," said the priest, regarding
him intently.

Herrick inclined his head at the compliment. His answers were strictly
true; he did not feel himself called upon to enter into explanations.

"Tell me, what made you come to Vayenne--originally, I mean?" said the
priest after another pause.

"I came as any traveller might. From childhood Vayenne has always had
a fascination for me. Long ago I determined to visit it some day, and
truly it has treated me very scurvily thus far."

"Why this fascination?"

"Indeed, I cannot tell, but I do know it is being speedily cured,"
Herrick answered.

"And why have you returned to Vayenne now?"

"I hardly know," laughed Herrick. "The whim of an Englishman to see
the game to the end. I might have been wiser to ride to the frontier
while I had the chance."

"Perhaps; yet who shall say? Providence, or circumstance, call it what
you will, determines these matters. I, too, have schemed, my son,
schemed to bring about this very meeting, and after all it comes in a
strange manner. It was I who on the night of your arrival arranged to
have you captured--no, not as a spy, I never thought of that. I only
wanted you brought here."

"Why not have invited me to come?" asked Herrick, who, although
astonished at the priest's admission, would not show it.

"I did not know why you had come to Vayenne. I had reasons to be
suspicious."

"I cannot congratulate you on your method," said Herrick. "Your
fellows nearly succeeded in getting me hanged on the nearest lamp."

"You put such wholesome fear in them that they acted foolishly. One is
still in his bed getting his bones mended, the other----"

"Faith, I'll give him some mending to do if he but gives me the
chance."

"Poor Mercier," said Father Bertrand; "and you seem to have treated
him in friendly fashion to-day."

"Was that he? The man who brought me here?"

"You may be anxious to thank him presently. That night," the priest
went on, "I went to the castle, to your cell. I should have proved you
were no spy, but you had gone. For the second time this interview was
delayed."

"And this third time?" queried Herrick.

"Circumstances have changed. Duke Maurice is reported dead, is
believed to be dead; you have said yourself that you do not know
whether he is dead or alive. At such a time events happen quickly.
Preparation is already active. Felix will be Duke, and once
crowned----"

"That shall not be," said Herrick.

"How will you prevent it?"

Father Bertrand snapped out the question, and leaned forward, waiting
for the answer. His whole attitude had changed. There was a tenseness
about him that seemed subtly to convey itself into Herrick's blood.

"Show me the way," he said, leaning forward in his turn as eagerly as
the priest had done.

"There is a mirror yonder, Monsieur Herrick," said the priest, rising
suddenly. "If you have forgotten what manner of man you are, look in
it."

Herrick had risen as the priest rose, and almost unconsciously turned
to look at his own reflection. While he did so, he heard the rattle of
a curtain being sharply drawn aside, and turned to see the priest
pointing to a picture which the curtain had concealed until now.

"Do you know that face?" he asked.

"Surely, my grandmother--my mother's mother," said Herrick in
astonishment.

"The likeness of the face in the mirror to this face leaves no doubt
of close relationship. It is a distinctive face, as sometimes happens
in families; it cannot be hidden. I recognized it in an instant when
I saw you at the Croix Verte. That lady, your grandmother, was sister
to Robert VI. of Montvilliers. You did not know that?"

"No. I only knew that she was a foreigner, a lady of rank, who was
content to become the wife of an English country gentleman."

"Were it not for the law of this land, which forbids the throne to
descendants of the female line, your grandmother, or, failing her,
your mother, would have been Duchess of Montvilliers. There have been
times when the people have been inclined to do away with this law.
There are some now who would do away with it in favor of Christine de
Liancourt. I have been tempted to wish it done away with. Her
determination is fixed, however; she will keep to the very letter of
the law, and lest she should loom too prominently in this matter, it
is her whim to use none of her many titles, but to be called simply
Mademoiselle de Liancourt."

"You mean that you would plot to do away with this law now?" asked
Herrick after a pause.

"The breaking of a law which has been long established, and has worked
for the general good, is not wise, my son," answered Father Bertrand,
going to the table and unfolding a rough pedigree chart there. "This
will show my meaning clearer. Here, you see, is Robert IV., dying
without issue; Charles, his brother, who predeceased him; and Marie,
his sister, your grandmother. On the death of Robert the crown went to
Philip I., his cousin, and at his death to his son, a dissolute man,
who was deposed in favor of Robert VII., the old Duke who lies waiting
burial in the castle yonder. The deposed Duke, Philip II., died
suddenly in the South Tower. He had no friends to assist him to
escape, and plenty of enemies to help him to his death. Robert's elder
brother Charles died before Robert seized the throne, leaving one
child, Christine de Liancourt. A younger brother, Conrad, died a few
years since. Felix is his son."

"Had Duke Robert no claim to the throne?" asked Herrick.

"You can trace it here," said Father Bertrand, pointing the descent
with his finger; "through the male line all along you note until we
come to Robert II., who had many children, of whom only the eldest and
youngest survived--the eldest being the ancestor of your mother, the
youngest of Duke Robert. This was the Duke's claim, and putting aside
the deposition of Philip II., for which the people had no quarrel with
him, a righteous claim but for one fact. You see what this youngest
son was called."

"Called The Bastard," Herrick read from the chart.

"Nicknamed so in his own day," said the priest. "His father's love for
a young girl in his old age has entered into the regions of romance in
this country. You may find ballads which it has inspired. No one has
ever doubted the story until it pleased the people to forget it when
they made Robert Duke. Do you understand how the matter stands?"

"The story goes back so far, it may well be forgotten," Herrick
answered.

"If Maurice came to the throne, yes; but not if Felix is the heir. The
law which forbids women to reign in Montvilliers, and under ordinary
conditions excludes even their male descendants, has one important
provision which is this: that failing a direct male heir, the son
through the female line shall inherit."

"Then?"

Father Bertrand glanced at the picture from which the curtain had been
withdrawn, and then looked again at his visitor.

"Have I made it quite clear to Roger Herrick, the real Duke of
Montvilliers?" he said slowly.




CHAPTER XII

HOW JEAN LOST HIS ENEMIES


Herrick looked from the priest to the picture, and then again at the
chart lying on the table. He bent over it, his finger travelling from
name to name as though he were carefully tracing the descent once more
to satisfy himself that the priest was right. It was a ruse to gain
time, to collect his thoughts, for they had leaped back to his mother,
his youth, and his dreams. Now he understood why Vayenne had always
had such a fascination for him. He was of it, a part of its life. The
source of the blood that tingled in his veins lay far back in history.
They were his ancestors who had kept Montvilliers inviolate as it was
to-day, his fathers who had fought in the forefront of the battle,
thrusting back their foes at the sword's point. Herrick did not
remember his grandmother, and had only a faint recollection of his
mother, who had died when he was young; but there certainly was a lady
who came into his boyhood's life at intervals, and whom he remembered
well. Perhaps she was a friend of his mother's or grandmother's, and
he had often sat on her knee while she told him stories which stirred
him, stories of Vayenne, so that the name of the city figured in his
games of soldiers and doughty deeds, and sank deep down into his
heart. One day he would go to Vayenne had been his determination as he
dreamed lad's dreams of life and the future. That day had come. His
finger had unconsciously travelled down the chart until it rested on
his grandmother's name.

"There is no flaw," said Father Bertrand, and his voice made Herrick
start, so lost was he in his thoughts. "This chart is no secret; it is
copied from one which is common property, open to all who choose to
study it, and in which every date is fully given. I am no maker and
unmaker of dukes, no mere plotter for place and power. The late Duke,
with all his harshness, was a just man in the main. Under his rule the
country was at peace, and there was prosperity. His son, were he
alive, would make but a poor ruler. Count Felix would assuredly prove
a bad one. Is it not right that the reign of the usurping house should
end here and now? I have only to bring this chart to date thus." And
the priest took a pencil, and under the name of Herrick's grandmother
drew a little vertical line, then paused, and said: "What was your
mother's name?"

"Mary."

"Mary, daughter of Marie, and then Mary's son, Roger Herrick." And,
perhaps unconsciously, he wrote the name more firmly and a little
larger.

"And your plans, Father Bertrand?" said Herrick shortly.

"They are a tangled skein. How could they be otherwise until you came
to help in the unravelling? But there are loose ends to catch hold of,
and after the first few knots are unfastened, the skein is likely to
fall easily apart. The Count moves swiftly; we must work swiftly too.
Duke Robert is to be buried without delay. Courtiers and men of
account have already been summoned from the country; and they come not
only to a funeral, but to a coronation. Once Felix is crowned, it will
be harder to foster a rising against him. Among those who will come to
Vayenne is one Gerard de Bornais, a man of wealth, whose friendship I
have. He will bring a certain retinue with him, and you shall join
yourself to his company. Events must decide our actions. For the
rest----"

There was a single, sharp knock upon the door, given by the same man,
Herrick thought, who had brought him hither. It was evidently an
understood sign, for the priest did not answer.

"For the present you must be my guest," said Father Bertrand, drawing
back the curtain from another door.

"I have friends in Vayenne. I must see them," said Herrick.

"My son, there is danger for you in the streets."

"Am I virtually a prisoner then?"

"If you would oppose Count Felix by the means I have shown you, yes,
for yours is too tell-tale a face to be seen at present. If you decide
not to claim your rights, yonder is the door you entered by, and you
are free to go."

"I will stay," said Herrick after a moment's reflection. "One friend I
have whose worth I know, and who may be of value to us among the
people. Will you find and bring here Jean who is called the dwarf of
St. Etienne?"

"Would you put your trust in a fool!" exclaimed Father Bertrand.

"There is more wisdom, strength, and cunning in that crooked body than
lies in most of your straight-limbed men. I know. He is a hater of the
Count besides."

"I should advise----"

"Either he comes, or I go," said Herrick.

"You quickly learn the part you are to play. You command, I obey. Jean
shall be found." And the priest smiled, and led the way into another
room. "I will return to you as soon as possible. In the meanwhile
Mercier shall attend to your wants. You have forgiven him for
attacking you in the Rue de la Grosse Horloge?"

"Indeed, I have not."

"I petition that you do," said Father Bertrand. "I know him. He will
be useful to us. A duke should grant so humble a petition when it is
the first made to him."

"Send this Mercier. I will not harm him," said Herrick. "If I can
mount the throne as easily as I grant the petition, we have no very
thorny path to travel."

The dwarf, however, was not to be found that day, although Father
Bertrand looked for him in St. Etienne and Mercier sought him at all
the haunts he knew of. Jean remained in the house by the wall, and
that night again crossed the river to make inquiry of the farmer. A
wagoner was at the farm that night, and chancing to hear that he had
been to Vayenne that day, Jean questioned him.

"Ay; sure they were on the lookout at the gate," he answered, "but I
had seen no soldier or priest, as I told them."

He was an honest fellow, and remembering the coins in his pocket, held
his tongue.

It was toward dusk the next day that Jean entered St. Etienne. Lights
were burning dimly in one of the chapels where vespers were being
said, and as he stood in the shadows of one of the great pillars,
Father Bertrand, who was about to leave the church, saw him.

"Jean, there is a friend of yours at my house who wishes to see you."

"What friend? I have hundreds in Vayenne."

"The one who broke from the South Tower."

"What does he in your house, father?"

"For the present he hides, and waits for you. Go to him at once."

The dwarf shuffled down the long aisle. In the porch he paused, half
expecting the priest to follow him. Was this a trap? Had Jean known of
any way in which his capture could help Father Bertrand, he certainly
would not have gone; and as it was, he stood before the small door in
the Rue St. Romain for some time before he knocked. The door was
opened almost immediately, and the man in the cassock stood back to
let him enter, which Jean did, one hand upon his knife under the folds
of his loose tunic.

The man closed the door, and bade the dwarf follow him. He led him
upstairs, and at the end of a passage knocked at a door. The dwarf
entered the room, and waited until the man had closed the door again
and the sound of his retreating footsteps had ceased. Then he looked
at Herrick, who had risen from his chair.

"They don't lock you in?" he said in astonishment.

"No."

"Why stay then?"

"I asked them to bring you here that I might tell you what has
happened," said Herrick.

"Strange happenings, surely, to bring you to this place, friend
Roger!" And as Herrick sat down again, Jean doubled his legs under him
and squatted on the floor.

Herrick told him all that had occurred to the time Mercier had met him
and brought him to the Rue St. Romain.

"Then the pale scholar is not dead," said Jean. "In Vayenne they
believe he is."

"He was not dead when the robbers carried him away, and they would
certainly do their best to keep him alive. How he will fare with those
to whom he is sold I cannot say."

Jean expressed no opinion.

"And now, friend Roger, what happens now? You have come to tell the
truth to the Count, and have fallen into the fox's hole on the way."

"Wait, Jean; let us consider the position for a moment. Had I gone
boldly to the castle, what would my fate have been, do you suppose?"

"A dangle at the end of a rope over the great gate as likely as not,"
the dwarf answered.

"Exactly--and perhaps without a chance of seeing Count Felix at all,"
said Herrick. "Now Father Bertrand has promised to get me into the
castle in the suite of one De Bornais, who comes to the Duke's
funeral. In this way I shall attract no attention, and shall be ready
when the moment for action arrives."

"What action?"

"That must depend on circumstances; but it shall be some action that
shall prevent Count Felix being crowned Duke of Montvilliers."

"Friend Roger, you have proved yourself a brave man, but here is a
task that would make a body of giants ponder and turn pale."

"Since we parted across the river yonder, I have learned strange
things, Jean; so strange that I dare not speak of them yet. They will
stir the very heart of Vayenne, and the Count himself shall be
afraid."

"From whence heard you these things? From Father Bertrand?"

"Partly."

Jean shook his head.

"The fox enters the poultry run with a smile on his face and an air of
harmlessness, but he brings death and destruction all the same."

"Listen, Jean. I am not trusting Father Bertrand without knowing that
what he says is true," said Herrick earnestly. "Now I want to know who
are my friends, whom I can trust; so I sent for you."

"The only friend you have in Vayenne," said Jean.

"You forget Mademoiselle de Liancourt and Captain Lemasle."

"Who are not in Vayenne, friend Roger, however friendly they may be.
There are orders to arrest Captain Lemasle."

"Treachery must be met with cunning, and the time is short," said
Herrick. "By this they are no doubt safe within the city. I will tell
you the whole story soon, but there is no time now; there is work to
do to-night."

Jean shook his head, one eye shut the while.

"Cannot you trust me?" Herrick asked.

"Not your wisdom. You talk of using cunning, but many as wise a man as
you are has thought himself cunning, and been the victim all the time.
I have no relish for pulling an oar in the same boat with Father
Bertrand. I've been in Vayenne longer than you have, friend Roger, and
know him better than you do."

"Listen, Jean. It is Father Bertrand who has told things to me, not I
to him," said Herrick. "He does not know the whole story of the attack
in the forest as I have told it to you; he does not know what has
happened to Duke Maurice, nor of Mademoiselle, nor of Captain Lemasle.
He knows nothing of what I want you to do to-night."

The dwarf was on his feet in an instant.

"Good, friend Roger, good! I see the smile of the fox on your face
now. What is the work? I am content to hear the rest of your story
another time."

"Do you know the house of the Countess Elisabeth?" asked Herrick.

"The outside of it."

"You must get in on some pretext, and see Mademoiselle de Liancourt."

"Faith! She has chosen as strange a hiding-place as you have."

"It was of her own choosing," said Herrick. "See her. Say you come
from me. Say that she must remain in hiding until I send to her again;
that Count Felix must be allowed to believe that Duke Maurice is dead.
Tell her that since leaving her in the forest I have learned that
which makes me certain that Count Felix will never be crowned. Can you
remember the message?"

Jean repeated it, marking each item off on his fingers.

"And what have I to say to Captain Lemasle?" he asked.

"Tell him to wait for a message from me," said Herrick.

"You must have impressed him greatly, friend Roger, to command him in
this fashion. He's a man more easily led than driven."

"And one thing more," said Herrick, who was too busy thinking of all
it was necessary to tell to notice the dwarf's comment. "You will not
say where I am. They do not know what has happened since I left them.
They might not understand my being in Father Bertrand's house."

"Then we are all in the dark until it pleases friend Roger to open the
door," said Jean. "Well, since you undertake giants' work, it is
hardly strange you should set about it in queer fashion. For all our
sakes I pray your wisdom is as great as your courage."

At Herrick's summons the man in the cassock came and took Jean to the
street door again, closing it gently behind him without a word.

It was quite dark now, and the dim lamps at intervals only served to
cast deep, gloomy shadows across the Rue St. Romain. The dwarf stood
still for some moments, looking up and down the street, and his sharp
eyes searched the shadows. He was not certain, but one particular spot
did not satisfy him; he thought a man stood there. He expected to be
watched and followed, for he had little faith in Father Bertrand. Jean
was even surprised with himself for believing Roger Herrick so easily,
for he placed small reliance on any man's disinterestedness. He moved
away slowly, and was soon aware that he had not been mistaken, that he
was being followed.

"He must know Vayenne well if he hopes to keep me in sight," chuckled
the dwarf to himself as he turned sharply into a narrow alley and
began the task of losing his enemy. For half an hour he dodged round
corners, up dark alleys, and across small streets, returning at the
end of that time to a spot close to the Rue St. Romain; and he
chuckled to think of the dance he had led his follower.

Mercier did know Vayenne well, however, he was perhaps the very last
man in the city to be deceived by such tactics, and no sooner had the
dwarf set out on a more direct route, than he came from a turning and
went after him.

Jean was crossing one of the larger streets, which was well lighted,
on his way to the Place Beauvoisin, when half a dozen soldiers
suddenly caught sight of him.

"Well met, Jean," cried one, grasping his arm. "Where have you been
roosting? The Count has been sending everywhere to find you to-day and
y

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