Part 13

"So said I at first," said Diane softly; "yet nevertheless it is truth."

"Gwennola!" he echoed dreamily, as on the instant all the old childish days seemed to surge forward in his memory--"little Gwennola!"

He was seeing her, a tiny, lovely maiden of five innocent summers, being held up in his own strong young arms to kiss the forehead of his horse; and remembering how she turned from loving the black steed to fling a pair of soft, baby arms round his neck and kiss him again and again. Then other pictures stole back to him in the darkening room: pictures of the same child grown into a slim little maiden, beautiful as the flowers which bent their fair heads to the summer breezes; with great blue eyes which were always watching for father and brother, whom she must ever run to greet, if but for the excuse of slipping away from the embroidery frame and her mother's rebukeful eye. But at the last the pictures faded, shrivelling up before a poisoned breath--and Diana's voice rang in his ears, "Gwennola is a witch!"

"No," he cried fiercely, as if to drown the accusing voice; "it is no truth, but a lie--a lie fashioned in the blackest hell!"

But Diane was not to be moved by his harsh words. She was playing for a stake, and knew she must win, though in her heart she was the more angry to find that the love she had hoped to have already destroyed had so strong a root.

"It is for thine own sake I spoke, my Yvon," she pleaded, with a break in her soft voice. "Alas! alas! I have but angered thee, and all to no purpose, seeing thou wilt neither believe nor strive to save thyself from her spells."

"Nay, sweet one, thou must forgive my angry words," said her lover, melting to tenderness as his ear caught the sob in the gentle tones. "Well I know that it is but thy zeal for my welfare which hath led thee astray in believing such false words. But bethink thee, my Diane, what proof can these evil tale-bearers bring? what knowledge have they?"

"Ah, me!" moaned Diana, "I must anger thee again, Yvon; and yet, so cruelly has she deceived and wronged thee, that I will have no pity--no, for so foul a wrong deserves none, and her sin be on her own head!"

"Speak," muttered Yvon hoarsely, as once more the fear crept into his eyes; "speak, Diane."

"When my maid, Jeanne Dubois, told me the tale," said Diane softly, "I bade her be silent; for, for evil tongues there was sharp punishment, and slanderers, to my thinking, should have small mercy. But the wench persisted, and so perforce I listened, merely at first to point to her the danger of such lying falsehoods. Yet the story smacked so vividly of sincerity that I listened at length with more attention, whilst she told me that the Demoiselle de Mereac kept strange company, and that ofttimes passing her chamber door at nightfall she had had reason to cross herself for very fear of the weird chantings and voices she heard within. Yet knowing it was naught of her business, the girl said nothing till, chancing one day to be conversing with Pierre the fool, the knave whispered somewhat in her ear of his own suspicions, and told Jeanne that he could also prove to her how that the young chatelaine not only gathered evil company under the very roof of the chateau, but also went into the heart of the forest at the midnight hour to celebrate terrible orgies with her foul friends, and converse with her dread familiar, who appeareth to her in the garb of a brown friar, who, for his evil deeds on earth, hath been condemned to haunt the shades of a ruined chapel and assist still further those whose sins are as black as those of his own lost soul."

Again Diane looked steadily into Yvon's eyes, and with a thrill of triumph marked the look of dread which had stolen into them.

"I myself," she said sadly, "have already proved the truth of Jeanne's words; it remains with thee, Yvon, to also convince thyself of a guilt which, alas! shineth as clearly as noonday. In very truth, I beg thee thus to prove the words I have dared to speak, for little doubt is there in my mind that in this lost maiden's evil practices lies the secret of thy fatal illness. And because I love thee, Yvon, with all my heart and soul I pray thee strive to save thyself from these cruel spells, and even, if need be, tear from its parent-tree this smitten branch and cast it into the fire."

"Gwennola!--Gwennola!" moaned Yvon; "my father's darling,--his little Gwennola! Is it possible that thou hast so fallen--art become so lost? Diane," he cried, turning almost fiercely upon her, "I accept thy word. Prove to me my sister's guilt, and I will myself light the faggots which shall purify the honour of the house of Mereac. Yet I warn thee that if this tale be false, the very love I bear thee shall shrivel and burn away till nothing be left but the ashes of hatred."

"I will prove it," said Diane, returning his look unflinchingly. "This very night, with thine own eyes shalt thou behold thy sister clasped to the arms of one of hell's foulest shades, and with him plotting for thy destruction."

*CHAPTER XVIII*

It is difficult to realize how tremendous a hold the superstition of witchcraft had upon the minds of our ancestors from the earliest ages. And in the fifteenth century the fear of wizards and witches and belief in their supernatural powers was almost unlimited. Indeed, the repute of madness was not more fatal to dogs than that of witchcraft to human beings.[#] So destructive was it, that there is scarcely a hamlet of ancient date west of the Carpathians wherein crowds of witches have not been massacred during the middle ages. For a considerable period Cologne burnt four hundred of these wretches, Paris three hundred, and a multitude of second-rate towns two hundred a-piece every year. To be stigmatised as a witch was to be condemned, sooner or later, to the stake; and so well was this understood, that the malicious had only to fix that evil name on their victims in order to secure their execution. A list remains of some hundred and fifty witches slain in three years by that insignificant place, Wurzburg; and among the sufferers we find half-a-dozen vagrants, children, and others; a scold, a learned judge, a skilful linguist, several popular preachers, and "Goebel Babelin, the prettiest girl in Wurzburg."

[#] See _Witches and their Craft_.

It was a fundamental axiom of the witch-codes, as explained by Bodin, that no witch might be acquitted unless her innocence shone "as clear as the noontide sun"; and every care was taken to render that impossible. But by far the most powerful means of effecting their conviction--surpassing false witness and torture by an infinite length--was the infamous scrutiny to which the miserable creatures were subjected. The search for devil mark and amulet, as prescribed by the Church, was regarded as worse than death itself, and of the thousands who perished, a vast proportion died self-accused, preferring the deadly search of the flame to that of the monkish inquisitors.

Considering how fearfully and inevitably witches were punished, it seems astonishing that any, much less such myriads, should have professed them of the craft. But, on the other hand, it must be remembered that the acquisition of power to inflict storm and devastation, disease and death, was an irresistible temptation to the savage nature that then predominated in the lower classes. For everybody sought the fraternity. Those who suffered, or apprehended suffering, bought their services equally with those who desired to have suffering inflicted. The latter, however, were by far the more numerous, and the witches had a very singular way of gratifying them. One of the strangest was to fashion an image of the hated individual during the celebration of certain infernal rites. The simulacrum was usually of virgin wax; but when it was meant to make the work of vengeance thoroughly sure, the clay taken from the depth of a well-used grave was generally preferred. The image being moulded according to rule, and baptized by a properly qualified priest, whatever injury was inflicted on the model was believed to have a similar effect on the original. Did they tie up a member of the effigy, paralysis attacked the corresponding limb of the person represented. Intense pain and fearful mutilation were thus assumed to be produced; nor was even death itself beyond the wizard's power. To secure this fatal result there were several approved recipes. Some pierced the heart of the statuette with a new needle; others melted it slowly before a fire; a third set interred it at dead of night in consecrated ground with horrible burlesque of the burial service; and a fourth gathered the hair into the stomach of the model, and concealed it in the chamber--if possible under the pillow--of the intended victim. Such images were prepared by Robert of Artois for the destruction of his enemies. In this way Enguerrand de Marigny was said to have slain Philip the Fair. Thus, too, Eleanor Cobhan, wife of Duke Humphrey, was said to have attempted the life of Henry VI.

Many and varied were the powers and mischievous contrivances of the witches and wizards for every possible purpose. A decoction made of a toad baptized by the name of John, and fed on consecrated wafers, was thrown under a farmer's table by a witch at Soissons, and all who sat round the board died immediately. Every witch possessed her agent, or familiar imp, who on her inauguration into the sisterhood sucked her blood, thus leaving the fatal "devil-mark."

In Brittany, not more than fifty years before the opening of our tale, the far-famed and execrable Gilles de Retz had been led to the stake, there to pay the penalty of his horrible career as wizard, murderer, and devil-worshipper. The crimes of this fiend of iniquity are too many and too terrible to bear repetition. His chief delight, however, was to lure children to his castle by the agency of an old hag named la Meffraie, who went about the country enticing any children she met, with false promises, to her master's abode; and from that moment they were heard of no more. When, after fourteen years, his horrible practices were disclosed and search was made, there was found in the tower of Chantoce a tunnel of calcined bones--of children's bones in such number, that it was supposed there must have been full forty of them.[#] A like quantity was found in the castle of La Suze and in other places; in short, wherever he had been. The number of children destroyed by this exterminating brute was computed to be a hundred and forty, the motive of the destruction of these unfortunate innocents being more horrible than the manner of death. He offered them up to the devil, invoking the demons Barren, Orient, Beelzebub, Satan, and Belial to grant him in return gold, knowledge, and power. He had with him a young priest of Pistoia in Italy, who promised to show him these demons; and an Englishman, who helped to conjure them.[#] It was a difficult matter. One of the means essayed was to chant the service for All Saints' Day, in honour of evil spirits. And yet this blood-stained villain, who revelled in listening to the piteous death-cries of little children and gloated over their suffering, who from worship of demons had himself become more devil than man, commended his evil assistant and magician, who was condemned with him, to the grace of God--Whose living image he had murdered--in the following terms, "Adieu, Francois, my friend; may God grant you patience and knowledge, and rest assured, provided you have patience and hope in God, we shall meet in the joys of Paradise." The horror inspired by this blasphemous wretch still lingered in the hearts of the Bretons, and small wonder was it that wizardry or witchcraft found little mercy at the hands of an ignorant and fanatic people; although often wizards or witches were allowed to practise their craft unmolested for many years, the fear of suffering from their vengeance, even in death, keeping their enemies at bay, whilst they drove a profitable business with those patrons who desired their aid.

[#] _Depositions of Etienne Corillant_.

[#] Michelet's _History of France_.

It will be the more easily understood from these foregoing remarks how skilfully Diane de Coray had woven the web of her plot around her unfortunate victim, who remained in total ignorance of her danger, the retainers of the chateau having been before instructed by the wily Jeanne to breathe no word of their suspicions into the ears of those likely to warn her. Therefore it was with no presentiment of coming ill that Gwennola de Mereac stole forth to her lover's trysting-place once more, full of happy thoughts and a heart the lighter by very contrast with its weary heaviness of so many weeks past. Little did she or her attendants guess what sharp eyes had been watching their movements, or what stealthy feet had already crept after them through the forest shade.

It was the maid Jeanne Dubois who had been the first to discover the identity of the wandering minstrel whose advent had been hailed with so much joy by the young Sieur de Mereac. Hiding in the shadow of the heavy tapestries, she had heard what had passed between Marie Alloadec and her would-be lover, and had hastily carried the news to her mistress. The clue thus given had been carefully followed up, but it was Pierre the fool whose cunning had discovered the fatal rendezvous and pierced the disguise of the cowled figure. So the threads of the web were gathered more surely around the weavers' fingers, and now the time drew near to prove their strength.

A cold wind whistled through the bare trees overhead, but so close grew the undergrowth of the thickets around the ruined chapel as to shelter any watchers not only from the keen blast but from curious or inquiring eyes. But Gwennola's eyes and thoughts were far from suspicion of treachery or evil. She was thinking, as she hurried on her way, of Father Ambrose's kind and tender counsel. He had promised, the good old man, to use his influence to the utmost with Yvon to persuade him either to allow his sister to wed the man she loved, or at least to leave her unmolested by unwelcome suggestions of betrothal till it could more clearly be seen how matters fell out between the two contending countries. If Yvon were still obdurate--well, it might be that Father Ambrose would be willing to risk the anger of his lord for the sake of the little maid he loved so tenderly; but she must be patient--very patient--whilst he prayed that his way might be made clear before his eyes.

So gentle, so loving had the old man been, with such tears of fatherly fondness had he besought her, that Gwennola had listened to his pleadings, and had promised to wait with patience for his further counsel, instead of lending an all too willing ear to her lover's importunity in urging the hasty flight which had appeared in so favourable a light to her eyes as he whispered eloquent reasons to the heart which readily responded to his entreaties. Yet her step grew slower as she neared her trysting-place, as if she found her promise weighing almost too heavily upon her as she pictured the disappointment in the dark eyes which would look down their eager inquiry into hers.

Marie and Jean Marcille lingered behind their mistress as they had done yesternight. They had their own concerns, these two, which perhaps--and who may blame?--dulled their ears and clouded the watchfulness of their eyes. Very certain it is that neither of them saw amidst a clump of trees not far from where they stood, four cloaked figures bending low, as if furtively watching those who already stood in the waning moonlight close by the ivied ruins.

"It is enough," whispered Yvon de Mereac in a low, stifled voice as he raised himself and stood facing the woman at his side. "It is enough."

Yes! he had been convinced where he felt conviction to be impossible, by the evidence of his own eyes; for, stooping there, he had seen, shuddering in horror, the shadowy outline of a tall, monkish figure, and even as he crossed himself in fear, he had seen another figure, slender and hooded, steal from amongst the trees to be clasped in the close embrace of the Brown Friar himself; and, as the feeble moonlight straggled downwards from behind a passing cloud, the hood had slipped back, revealing the red-gold curls and pale face of Gwennola.

Diane de Coray was a skilful conspirator. To linger there might speedily reveal to the agonized brother that his sister's lover was verily in the flesh and no ghostly agent from the unseen world; and so, with murmurs of sympathy, she hastened back with him towards the chateau, followed by her brother and Pierre the fool. But to her whispered words Yvon de Mereac answered not at all; the blow had been so sudden, so overpowering, that his weak spirit reeled under it. To a Breton honour stands even before love itself, the Duchess Anne voicing the sentiments of her people in her chivalrous motto, "Death is preferable to dishonour." And now dishonour in its blackest form was to fall on the fairest flower of his house! No wonder that the poor, weak brother groaned in helpless bewilderment at such a fate. Paralysed with the horror of what he had seen, his failing brain refused at first to realize what his outer senses told him, and he allowed himself to be led back to the chateau by his apparently sympathizing friends; nor, till he sank down once more on his couch and drank from the goblet of wine which the tender Diane raised to his lips, did his mind become sufficiently clear to understand the full meaning of that midnight adventure.

"Gwennola a witch!" he whispered, with a hoarse sob, at length. "The little Gwennola a witch! Holy Mother of God! what shall I do? Alas! what shall I do? The little Gwennola!--the little Gwennola!"

"Nay," said Diane, speaking in a low, clear voice, as she bent over him where he lay moaning out his sister's name again and again, "she deserves no pity, Yvon. She is lost,--ay, lost,--bethink thee of her sins,--of the awful sin against thee, my Yvon. For my sake, since I live but for thee, she must pay the penalty of her crime, so that thou mayest once more be restored to health."

Her beautiful face was close to his; he could feel her warm breath stir his hair, which lay damp with sweat on his forehead; her hazel eyes seemed to burn her very will into his numbed brain and to force him to it as if with magnetic power. Weak and helpless, he was as utterly in her hands as if he had been indeed but a yearling babe; and as his eyes followed hers he slowly repeated her words as if she drew them from him.

"She is a witch, and as a witch she must die--for thy sake, Diane,--for thy sake."

*CHAPTER XIX*

"Thou, Marcille? In the name of the blessed saints, what dost thou here?--and thus!"

The grey dawn of a November day was creeping slowly upwards in the east, but the air was damp and chill with frost and dew, and the men who stood there looked into each other's faces through a vaporous mist. The face of Jean Marcille was blanched with fear, and his dark eyes looked into his master's with an expression of terror and dismay.

"How now, varlet!" cried d'Estrailles anxiously, "hath aught of ill befallen the demoiselle? Why hast thou come thus with such fear in thy looks?"

"Alas, my master!" gasped the man. "Alas! how can I tell you? ill indeed has befallen the noble lady, such ill as men dread to speak of and Marie saith----"

"Peace, fool," cried d'Estrailles angrily, "what care I for the words of Marie or any other; tell me only, and instantly, what ill hath chanced to mademoiselle, or I will go without wasting more words on thee to the chateau."

"It was thus," muttered Marcille, as he stood, still panting for breath, and with head thrust forward, as if he were awaiting a blow. "We journeyed in safety through the forest, but as we neared the chateau, who should come running towards us, with wide eyes and mouth agape, but the honest fool, Job Alloadec, brother to the pretty Marie. 'Nay, mistress,' he cried, barring our progress, 'go no step forwards, for naught but evil awaits thee,' and, so saying, he fell a-sobbing like any foolish maid, so that his sister was fain to upbraid him roundly, and bid him tell his news in brief. But that was more than the good Jobik could essay, and it was some time ere we could gather from his tale what had chanced, and even then 'twas but a tale's shadow. The Sieur de Mereac, it appeared, had been ill at ease all day, but towards nightfall he had seemed calmer and bade all a good night's rest as he retired. But scarcely had the midnight hour struck than the great bell pealed forth a summons for all to assemble, and behold, there, in the hall, stood Monsieur de Coray, dressed and cloaked, with his sister, Pierre the fool, and Jeanne Dubois beside him. His face, the good Job added, was bent in a terrible frown, and as he spake to those around it grew still sterner. But for his words, monsieur, Job saith they were ten thousand times more terrible than his face, for he bade the retainers hear of how their master, whose sickness they had all watched with so much dread, had been seized with a fit, and that Father Ambrose, who was with him, despaired of his very life; then with smooth words and well-simulated horror and indignation, he told of how this sickness was the work of witchcraft, and of how such witchcraft, to the incredible dismay of his sister and himself, had been proved beyond all doubt to have been practised by Gwennola de Mereac, their mistress and chatelaine. And at his words there was a confusion of voices, for some cried this, and some that, and some called for death to the witch who had slain their master, and some that it was false and that the demoiselle was an angel of light and not of darkness. But the answer of Monsieur de Coray--or rather I will say, Monsieur le Diable--was that all should be proved, and bade two of the maidens go with Jeanne Dubois to their mistress's room and fetch thither the lady and her waiting-woman, Marie Alloadec. On hearing which, Job came in haste to tell the news and to warn us of the danger ere we set foot in the chateau."

"And mademoiselle?" muttered d'Estrailles hoarsely.