Part 26

Will, who had hitherto held his peace, now exclaimed with unfeigned enthusiasm, “How eagerly Sauterelle will welcome us!”

A grievous frown darkened the champion’s brow. Confronting Will, he thundered: “How dare you boys speak of her in that way?--her, the daughter of one of France’s proudest nobles! When it is necessary to mention her name, speak of her as the Lady de la Chaloupe.”

Henry did not know whether to feel complimented or not. He was slowly forming a very unfavorable opinion of Marmaduke, not knowing that the boy was now in his element, and hardly responsible for his actions. When nothing mysterious occurred to arouse him, Marmaduke was very much like any other boy; but let him stumble upon a mystery, and he was entirely changed.

But Stephen, fearing that Marmaduke did not yet sufficiently realize the magnificence of the duke’s genealogy and title, said excitedly, “That Duke Chalopsky is the descendant of a whole gang of peers, and lords, and such people, just like any other duke; isn’t he Marmaduke?”

Will trembled and whispered, “Hush!”

The deceived knight-errant felt insulted, and asked, haughtily, “What do _you_ know about it, Stephen Goodfellow?”

Stephen quaked, but finally answered meekly, very meekly, “Oh, I’ve studied about dukes that ran back to the Conquest of something or other, and so I thought likely he did.”

The Conquest! Marmaduke’s face brightened; he smiled; he spoke. “O-o-h, Stephen!” he said, “your notions of history are as much a muddle as all your other notions! But I haven’t time to enlighten you now. Now, boys,” he continued, affably, “let us take a lesson from Will and his cousin when they set out to hunt the demon. We must not carry firearms, but we must go armed with pikes and sabres.”

“Where shall we procure ‘pikes and sabres?’” Steve, no longer confused, but smarting and angry, sarcastically asked. “_I_ can’t imagine, unless we carve ’em out of broomsticks and staves, and such ‘pikes and sabres’ don’t amount to much. So, let us go to the rescue armed like the dusty warriors of the forest--with hatchets, and bows, and George’s grandfather’s great knife, and slings, and levers, and catapults, and arrows.”

Steve probably meant _dusky_ warriors. However, either expression is correct.

Marmaduke very properly paid no attention to Steve’s insulting suggestions, but condescended to ask, “How many jailers do you suppose there will be?”

“There were to be three, weren’t there, boys?” Will blunderingly replied to him, and asked of the others.

“Why, how do _you_ know?” Marmaduke asked in surprise. “The letter says nothing about the number of jailers; so, how can _you_ tell? What do you mean, anyway, Will?”

Will looked so disconcerted that Marmaduke, although his faith in Sauterelle was still unshaken, began to suspect that the boys were trying to impose on him in some way.

At this crisis the traitor Jim grinned, and said, “Well, you fellows needn’t make faces at me after this! Will has said worse than I did.”

Let it not be supposed that Jim’s treachery lay in seeking to overthrow the plot. By no means; he rejoiced in it, and spoke as he did only to revenge himself on the others for scowling at him so wickedly, as related in the beginning of this chapter. Such was Jim, who could bear malice for a long time; while the others, although they might be very angry for a few minutes, soon subdued their passions, and _never_ “nursed their wrath.”

And yet these unguarded words nearly made an end of the entire plot. It was now in real danger; again it tottered on its foundation. Only the greatest tact and presence of mind could save it from utter destruction.

Charles was the one to avert such a disaster, and he said jokingly, as though the salvation of the plot did not depend on him: “Here are two extraordinary juveniles; one thinks because a white man in his school-book was captured by Indians and guarded by three jailers, _every_ captive is bound to have just three! The other thinks because a boy makes a face at him he is brewing some great wickedness!”

It was not so much the words he said as the nonchalant way in which he said them. The happy boldness of acknowledging that somebody had “made faces” at Jim disarmed Marmaduke, and for the time, at least, his suspicions were allayed.

Will had too much sense to be offended at being thus ridiculed. If he had answered back sharply, a quarrel would certainly have ensued, and then the plot would as certainly have been blown up. As for Jim, though sulky and wrathful, he also held his peace.

_Chapter XXXVI._

TO THE RESCUE!

The plot was saved; but the plotters saw that a great deal of immoral scheming was required to keep it up, and that, after all, it was a volcano which might at any moment--not exactly “hurl them to destruction,” but tear itself to pieces.

The time and place of meeting were then appointed, and all the boys departed for their respective homes; all excepting Will and Stephen, who lingered to escort Henry.

As soon as the homeward-bound party was out of sight, the latter slid down from his perch, stretched himself with many a groan, and readjusted the knight-errant’s sun-bonnet, as, the plot being now so near completion, he was very anxious to take every precaution.

“Well,” he growled, “it took you a mighty long time to arrange matters; and that tree is the most abominably uncomfortable and hard-hearted tree that I ever saw. Boys,” dolefully, “I don’t like this hiding around in strayed forest trees, and it is a good thing you persuaded him not to wait till next week, for I couldn’t have kept out of his sight so long.”

“Well, what do you think of him!” Will asked eagerly.

“Oh, he is as much like a musket as a boy,” Henry replied indifferently. “But,” with some show of interest, “what did he mean by wanting to sail out on the raft, just to get the bottle?”

“Oh,” said Will, “Marmaduke thinks if it is worth while to do anything, it is worth while to do it with great ceremony. If the raft had been where he supposed it was, and if we had let him alone, he would have spent half an hour floating around after the bottle, and very likely have got as wet as if he had gone in swimming for it with his clothes on!”

After digesting this explanation, Henry proposed that they also should go home. Will and Stephen were agreed, and the trio slunk off towards the village as fearfully as if a minion of the law were in hot pursuit. Now that their plot was an accomplished fact, it would be very unfortunate if they should be caught napping.

After supper Henry was joined by Stephen, and the two archplotters set out for “Nobody’s House” in the most exuberant spirits. Already Henry felt a little tired, (let it be remembered that he had not yet recovered from the effects of the preceding day’s journey,) and he was obliged to get Stephen to carry a mysterious-looking bundle which he had brought away from his aunt’s. This bundle contained the fantastic “disguise” in which Henry was to figure as Sauterelle.

From the tender age of two years, Stephen had been a regular attendant of picnics, where he had imbibed many extravagant notions, and arrived at a very boyish and extremely absurd conclusion respecting lovers. According to his views, a lover is a young man, who, after perfuming his handkerchief and smearing his head with hair-oil, escorts a young lady to a picnic, breaks her parasol, fails to provide ice-cream enough, and finally sees her escorted home under the protection of his hated rival.

“Henry,” he said, as they hurried on, “I saw Marmaduke tricked out for the rescue, and, he didn’t mean me to find it out, but I did; he had put hair-oil on his head, and, as he had no scent, _on his handkerchief, too_! Henry, I was so--so--”

“Demoralized?”

“That’s the word, Henry. I was so demoralized that I said, without thinking: ‘why, Marmaduke,’ said I, ‘you look more like a genuine lover than any boy I ever saw!’”

“And what did he say to that?”

“Nothing; but he looked so insulted and heart-broken that I apologized, and told him he was a bully boy, and I always was a fool, anyway. Well, Henry, when he comes to the rescue, things will be lively, according to that, eh?”

“Well, Steve, I once cured a brave boy of his bravery, and if I don’t cure this fellow of his romance and credulousness, I shall at least make awful fools of us both.”

“How did you cure a boy of being brave?” Stephen asked eagerly, regarding Henry with respect and admiration.

But here the writer remorselessly shifts the scene to the others.

As soon after the departure of Henry and Stephen as was prudent, the “brave men” who were to be the rescuers--Will, Charles, George, Jim, and the heroic “leader,” Marmaduke--assembled and set out for the rendezvous, armed very much as Stephen had suggested.

Visions of figuring on future battle-fields of Europe as Marshal Marmaduke Fitz-Williams flitted through the hero’s brain, and he strove to deport himself with as martial an air as possible. But such an air hardly ever sits easy on a school-boy’s shoulders.

“Comrades,” he began, using, as far as he knew how, the identical phraseology of a French soldier when addressing his companions in arms, “comrades, we are embarking in a hazardous undertaking, but the nobleness of our work will spur us on to deeds of victory. It is a noble deed that we are called on to perform--the release of a daughter of one of the potentates of earth! Let this thought inspire us with enthusiasm! Let us fly to the rescue, fixed in the resolution to win or die! We shall warrior like the doughty knights of old!”

Poor hero! he had yet to learn that _warrior_ is not used in that way. His eloquence, however, was entirely lost on his hearers, it being too grandiloquent for even the Sage to appreciate; and like many another orator, he but “wasted his sweetness on the desert air.”

“Fellow-soldiers,” he continued, “I will use my influence to procure your promotion, and you will all one day be renowned generals of the empire.”

Alas! about the time the speaker took to singing love-songs and reading love-stories that empire was disrupted!

“That about the emperor’s wanting one more general was a good stroke, eh, Will?” Charles whispered.

It would be foreign from the purpose to record all Marmaduke’s bombastic speeches as he and his fellows marched to the field of battle. Let it be taken for granted that in due time they drew up before the fortress.

Marmaduke reconnoitred the grim old building with its grated windows and formidable door, and soon decided that here was the prison, though it was patent to all that he was disappointed, having expected greater things--having, in short, expected to see a structure bearing more or less resemblance to the Bastile itself.

Marmaduke screened himself behind the dilapidated fence, and called out, in commanding tones: “Hist! I call a halt!”

As his troops had already halted, they sat down, thinking that if Henry and Stephen were not yet prepared to receive them this delay would be in their favour.

“Corporal James Horner, do you perceive a sentinel on guard before the prison?” the would-be commander asked.

“Corporal Horner,” who could not see that part of the prison so well as the questioner himself, was struck with awe, and answered timidly, “No, sir, I don’t see nobody.”

“_Sir_ to me! You would do better to call me _General_.”

“Yes, sir,” Jim returned, feeling his terrible chills creeping on.

“Lieutenant Lawrence,” said the young general, “keep order among your forces! Positively, no straggling!”

The newly-made lieutenant executed his superior’s orders promptly and effectually. “If he keeps on at this rate,” he whispered to George, “there will be fun enough to last for a year! Oh, if Henry and Steve were only here to enjoy it!”

“Silence in the ranks!” roared the general. “Commodore Charles Growler, I call a council of war.”

This was too much for the more deeply read George, and he cut short the general’s programme, saying: “A _commodore_ commands a squadron of ships. There are no ships here that I know of--only a _squad_ of boys.”

The general was nonplussed. He even felt inclined to dismiss this arrogant fellow from the service; but fears of encountering a swarm of armed jailers induced him not to dismiss so good a warrior as the Sage was known to be. So, after deliberating a moment, he said, meekly enough, “Boys, we are only losing time here. Let us make a charge, and burst the door open, and then we can fight our way right on.”

Burst open the door! Then indeed the timbers of their raft would be destroyed! But this was no time to reason with Marmaduke, and they consented to the sacrifice cheerfully.

Charles very readily came upon what had once been a pump; and after great and violent efforts the corporals, lieutenants, commodores, generals, etc., succeeded in raising it to their shoulders; and then, with soldier-like disregard for the hideous grubs which nestled on it, they marched, with martial tread, to force an entrance into the prison.

“This will do instead of a genuine ram,” the general observed deprecatingly. “Such people as we are often have to resort to various shifts to do what they wish to do.”

“So do _boys_,” Charles commented sarcastically, but without a smile.

“Charge!” cried the general valiantly, when about thirty feet from the door.

A blind rush was made; but barely five steps had been taken when the general, who of course led, tripped over a stone, and the entire “squad” fell headlong, the “ram” and its grisly inhabitants descending on their backs with a cruel thud.

Of course no bones were broken, gentle reader, for it is impossible to kill a hero, and, as a general rule, impossible to hurt one. And all these were heroes.

Yet much of their enthusiasm escaped with the “ohs!” that started from each pair of lips.

“Such little accidents are disheartening,” the general gasped, as he struggled to his feet; “but we are above letting them deter us from our duty. Charge again! Only, be more careful.”

As he alone was blamable for the mishap, this advice was superfluous.

The ram was shouldered again, somewhat reluctantly; a furious charge was made; and the ram was brought against the “blood-bought” door with considerable force. A peal of thunder ensued, and the nowise strong door was shattered, fatally. Truly, this was effecting an entrance in warlike style.

But a catastrophe might have been the result. Henry was seated in the hall, not aware that the besiegers were at hand, and little dreaming that they intended to force an entrance. When the door was suddenly burst open, he was started into action in an unlooked for manner--the flying timbers striking his crazy chair so forcibly that it gave way, flinging him headlong to the floor.

More startled than hurt, Henry sprang to his feet, and recognizing Will and some of the others, shrieked, in accents unmistakably English: “Saved! Saved!”

The appearance presented by the rescued one was superlatively ridiculous. None of the boys had seen him attired in this disguise, and they were thunder-struck at the metamorphosis. Even Marmaduke stared aghast at the sight he beheld.

In a spirit of mischief Stephen had clothed Henry thus, saying, “Poor Marmaduke; he’ll never know; he’ll think you’re dressed up in the height of fashion. But he _will_ think that Paris fashions, in crossing the seas, lose much of their beauty; and while _your_ costume is all right, _other_ people’s must be all wrong!”

As a hoodlum boy would have put it: _He looked like all possessed!_

_Chapter XXXVII._

MARMADUKE STRUGGLES WITH ROMANCE.

Kings, ghosts, sea-nymphs, heroes, heroines, all beings, are made to act and speak in romance just as the exigencies of the plot demand; and yet it is intimated, in the same breath, that “it is all quite natural, just as it would be in real life!” In this story every one certainly acts as the writer pleases, but, so far as he knows, these boys behave as like boys under similar circumstances would behave. In this chapter, however, there is an exception, where a change from nature is necessary; and without a moment’s hesitation, they are made to throw off all restraint, and talk and act as befits the occasion. In a word, the boys are here no longer boys, but the noble beings of romance.

We do not pretend that any boys would carry on a conversation in their high-swelling strains, the narrative being couched under such strains for a particular and well-meant purpose. The object being, throughout the story, to cast ridicule on all sorts of things, this freedom to write in whatever style is most pertinent to the matter under discussion is our prerogative, and we use it. In short, we act here on the principle, that a writer should be hampered by no conventionalities or restrictions that interfere with the plan of his story.

It seems to be a well-established principle, that love cannot be expressed in romance except in a poetic form. We do not believe this holds good in real life, yet, wishing this story to be accounted a romance, we have thought it well to abide by the rule in this instance. After a short deliberation, we have decided to write their passionate colloquy as though it were only prose; but the intelligent reader can easily read it as verse--in fact, if he chooses, he can set it all to music.

After digesting this preamble in connection with what goes before, the reader of mature years, if not entirely witless, will be able to grasp our meaning and discern our motive--or motives, for in this chapter the aim is to kill several birds with one stone. But the boys--for whom, after all, the story is written principally--had better skip this turgid preamble, because a boy always likes to believe a story is more or less true, and we should be grossly insulted if any one should insinuate that _this_ story is true.

Considered in this light, the chapter appears to be only a piece of foolishness, after all. But, in a measure, it may be considered logically also. For instance, there seems to be a “vein of reason” running through it all, and if the reader is on the watch, he will see that this “vein of reason” crops out frequently. After this preamble it opens _very_ rationally.

“Considered logically,” says the reader, “how could this Henry, a veritable lover, stoop to play the fool, as he did? How could he do this, if he had any respect for his passion, or for the one whom he loved?”

Considered logically, gentle reader, Henry was a _boy_; his heart was sore from fancied slights; he was desperate; it occurred to him that, placed as he was, he might “view the question from the other side!” Furthermore, although he and Stephen had conspired to torment Marmaduke, it is plain that almost everything he said, he said _extempore_.

As for Marmaduke, he had no sisters, was scarcely ever in the society of young ladies, and knew nothing of their ways.

“These are but sorry excuses,” sighs the reader, “unworthy of even a school-boy!”

Very true. But they are the best that we can trump up, and therefore it would be better for you to consider this chapter as founded on the opposite of reason and logic.

Marmaduke was anxious that he alone should be recognized as the liberator, for he wished to receive all the glory of rescuing the captive. With that intent he pressed nearer Sauterelle, directing his followers, by an imperious wave of the hand, to disperse in search of the enemy, and, when found, to give them battle.

Interpreted into language, that command would have run: Hound down the mercenary crew, and spare them not! Their evil deeds have brought this fate upon their heads!

The avenging party understood this, and, thirsting for blood and glory, they hurled themselves out of the apartment, whilst Marmaduke turned his attention to the captive. He saw gratitude, admiration, even reverence, in the two blue eyes that looked at him. No fear of not being acknowledged as the rescuer-in-chief: Henry would acknowledge him, and him only.

“Ah, my deliverer!” he cried, in so-called French; “you have come to rescue me, to restore me to freedom! You have found my appeal for help, and these brave men are your followers?”

Marmaduke tried hard to understand this, but was obliged to ask if the conversation could not be carried on in English.

“Yes, yes, I can speak English,” came the reply. “The good priest has taught me English.”

At that instant a fierce combat was heard in an adjoining room, and horrisonous cries of rage and terror filled the whole building. The hero knew at once that his followers had encountered, and were waging deadly contest with, the wicked jailers, and his heart swelled with emotion.

He was right; his followers had drawn their home-made weapons, and while Charles, Steve, and Jim, personated these wicked jailers, Will and George personated the gallant liberators. Having had a rehearsal a few days previous, they now fought easily and systematically, and with such heroism and fury that victory must inevitably perch upon their standard. But, after all (and in this they were quite right), they fought as much with their lungs as with their arms, so that the din was tremendous. For full five minutes the combat raged without abatement. The gray light coming in through the open doorway cast a greenish and peculiar hue over our hero’s grand face, and he stood stock-still, collected but voiceless; while the other, wholly unprepared for such an uproar, longed to thrust his fingers into his ears, and pitied himself with all his heart as he thought of the racking headache that must soon seize him.

But finally they vanquished the enemy, and all except Stephen, who had not yet turned priest, rushed into the presence of the hero and heroine, shouting wildly: “Routed! Worsted! Slain!”

“All? Are all slain? And is the battle past?”

“All; one and all; and we have won.”

“And so my freedom comes to me again!” cried Sauterelle. “And I am free, free as the birds, for all his evil schemes are baffled now!”

Then, as was right on such an occasion, Sauterelle sank at our hero’s feet, and began in the “bursting heart” style, without which no such scene ought to be drawn: “Oh, my deliverer, accept my thanks! Through you I thus am freed! through you I once again shall see dear France,--dear France, that land of heroes!--Heroes? Ah! all are heroes here, in this, the land of liberty! Oh, gallant men, you have done well!”

“Ah, yes, ’tis for the brave to battle for the fair in every land,” our hero said, as though he, too, had fought.

Sauterelle still kneeled before our hero, expecting to be lifted up. But an immense, pyramidal head-dress, many inches high, which only Steve could construct, towered upwards till almost on a level with our hero’s eyes, bewildering him.

“Noble American, this is a rescue worthy of a prince!” Sauterelle cried, suddenly rising and grasping our hero’s hands in a bear-like grip.

“Your ladyship--”

“No, no! My title here is but an empty sound, so call me simply Sauterelle.”

“Sau-ter-elle Hi-ron-delle. What sweet and pretty names!” our hero murmured softly, as Sauterelle let go his hands.

“What is the name of him who sets me free?”

“Fitz-Williams is my name; my first name, Marmaduke.”

Our hero’s followers, still hot, exhausted, and bruised, but not particularly blood-stained, now rose and stole away, and presently another great uproar was heard from them. They had seized the impostor and were carrying it, or him, roughly along.

“Here is the great chief villain and arch-plotter of them all! Here is Bélître Scélérat himself!” they roared.

“Bélître Scélérat? How comes he here? I understood that he was far away,” our hero said, much puzzled.

They paused in doubt and consternation. Then a flash of reason penetrated to their darkened intellect, and dimly conscious that some one had plotted too much, or not enough, they started into action and pressed tumultuously on with their captive.