Part 14

Marcille groaned. "Alas, monsieur!" he said. "Mademoiselle has the courage of a man. She stood there, in the darkness, so that we who were near could scarce see her face; but her voice was steady and calm as she replied that, though she thanked the good Job with all her heart, her place was there, in the hall of the Chateau, to prove her innocence of the foul crime of which she had been so maliciously accused, and if possible to save her brother from the cruel clutches of his false friends. In vain Marie entreated her, whilst I also could not refrain from showing the many dangers to which she might be exposed; but she would not be shaken from her purpose by tears or warnings, protesting that a maid's innocence and honour were dearer to her than life itself, and that she would uphold them before the bitterest foes, knowing that God would not forsake her cause. Nevertheless, monsieur, she did not forget you, but bade me conceal myself in safety and return with the first streak of light to bid you escape before the cunning of your enemies discovered you; for well did she guess that soft-footed treachery must have long crept in her shadow. Also did she strive to persuade Marie to seek safety in flight with Job; for if the charge of witchcraft were truly brought against her, there might be much danger for her too, seeing that such fiends would be little likely to spare the torture they were at liberty to inflict in the hopes of wringing a false confession from lips which writhed in agony till twisted to their will. But the brave Marie was also firm, declaring that if her mistress were to die she would die with her, for it would be impossible that she should forsake her; but, as at length we went forward, she bade me wait close there by the river side, and that before dawn she would contrive to bring or send me news of her lady's case and her own. Therefore, monsieur, in much fear I waited, for it is little to an honest man's liking to thus skulk in safety behind trees when perchance the maid he loves is in danger of her life; but I knew it was no work then for muscles, but for wisdom, and so with sore heart I lay watching for dawn; and in due time from the shadow of the Chateau walls there stole forth a man who came swiftly to where I waited, and I perceived that it was once more the good friend Job, though by his distraught appearance I augured ill even before he spake. And ill it was, such ill that methought hell itself must be already yawning for the plotters of such villainy; for it appeared that they were clever, these devils, so clever that the plight of mademoiselle and the little Marie was terrible indeed. It was already rumoured throughout the Chateau that Monsieur de Mereac was dead; and whether that were the case or not, Monsieur de Coray assumed very speedily his place, whilst the false demoiselle his sister, with the black-browed wench her maiden, and Pierre the fool, whose neck should long since have been wrung, told their lying tale. Ah! how he wept, the poor Job, monsieur, as he repeated it! Such a ring of evil, cruel faces, said he, full of Satan's own malice, and opposite them the Demoiselle de Mereac, beautiful, calm, innocent as an angel, looking at these her accusers with the proud scorn of a noble lady who sees the canaille howling execrations at her from below. And yet, calm and innocent as she was, even she blanched to hear the foul lies with which these slanderers blackened her fair name, and to see with what skill they had plotted for her life. It was the lying wench Jeanne Dubois who brought the first false statements against her, speaking of voices she had heard talking at midnight in mademoiselle's closet, of weird laughter and chantings and such-like foolishness, till even de Coray himself cut her short, seeing the discontent on the faces of the men around, who looked, Job said, little pleased to see their young mistress in such a plight, and on such slender grounds. But the next to speak was the devil's imp Pierre the fool; and when he told of the Brown Friar with whom the lady talked and walked at midnight by the chapel, there were many who looked askance and crossed themselves. But no word spoke mademoiselle herself, only standing there in all the purity and pride of her innocence, facing her accusers with contempt. But it was now the turn of Mademoiselle de Coray herself, and, as she spoke to those gathered around, even the heart of Job himself sank, for the very tones of her voice possessed the fascination which engenders belief. In mournful tones she dwelt on the love she had possessed not only for Monsieur de Mereac, but for his sister also; of how sorrow had filled her heart at the sudden and mysterious sickness which had laid so low the one to whom she was already betrothed; of Mademoiselle Gwennola's strange behaviour; of her own suspicions; of her scorn, however, of Jeanne's allegations and the story of Pierre the fool until she had proved the truth for herself. In a few vivid words she pictured the meeting of mademoiselle with you, monsieur, declaring you to be the agent of evil by whose aid she worked her hideous spells; the horror of her lover at discovering also for himself the infamous dealings of his sister; his fierce denunciation of her, and command that she should be brought to death, ere a fresh seizure robbed him of speech and, she feared, of life. Finally, amidst the murmured execrations from those around, she produced a small waxen figure, bearing a vague resemblance to Monsieur de Mereac, which had apparently been partly melted before a fire, and which she declared had been discovered in the accused's own chamber. Yet in spite of the loud murmurs of horror and loathing which now rilled the hall, Mademoiselle Gwennola flinched not at all. 'I am innocent,' she said once, loudly and clearly. 'May our Lord and Lady forgive you, Diane and Guillaume de Coray, for the false tale you have brought against me.' But Mademoiselle Diane only laughed, pointing to the black hood and cloak which were damp with night dews. 'A lie!' she cried in mockery, so that Job would fain have struck her down as she stood there, mouthing and grinning. 'A lie, sayest thou?--witch and murderess that thou art. Whence comest thou, then, honest maiden, with the dews of night around thee, instead of from thy slumbers? Thy chamber was empty when they went to search for thee, and anon thou comest to us fresh from thy unholy revels, and darest thus to upbraid me with a lie! Nay! thou canst not thus hope to hoodwink justice, girl, with the signs of thy guilt clinging around thee, or turn outraged love from its righteous vengeance!' But mademoiselle replied not at all, only drawing her cloak more closely around her, as if to guard her secret the safer; and truly, as Job said, the words of Mademoiselle de Coray savoured of truth to those who knew not the sequel."

"Alas! alas!" cried d'Estrailles passionately, "why was I not there to proclaim that truth? Better a hundred deaths than that one breath of such shame should soil the purity of such a maiden's honour! But it is not too late,--fool that I was to delay! Let us hasten then, quickly, Jean, and tell to these foolish ones the truth."

"Nay, master," said Marcille, laying a detaining hand on his master's arm; "methinks 'twould little benefit the lady to run your head into a sure and certain noose. Moreover, even so the charge would still stand good, so craftily have they contrived it. Besides, already are the poor demoiselle and the pretty Marie on their way to Martigue under the escort of Monsieur de Coray himself, who declared that ere dawn they should be delivered to justice."

"To justice?" echoed d'Estrailles, whilst his eyes stared in horror before him, as if he were indeed viewing already the dread picture which the significant words brought before him. "To justice?"

"Ay," groaned Marcille with a sob; "they would fain burn her as a witch, my master; and alas! perchance also the little Marie beside her,--devils that they are!"

But Henri d'Estrailles had as yet scarcely grasped the full import of the stunning blow which had fallen so swiftly upon the sweetness of love's dream. As vaguely as Yvon de Mereac himself he repeated the words to himself, "Gwennola a witch!--to be burnt as a witch!--She!" His voice choked in a sudden wild rush of emotion and fury, as his imagination conjured up the terrible picture of his beloved standing alone and helpless amongst her enemies. He could see her, ah! so vividly, with her proud, girlish figure drawn to the utmost of its slender height, and the great, blue eyes challenging haughtily her false accusers,--those eyes which had so short a time ago looked with love and tenderness into his, and which--Holy Mother of God shield him from the thought!--might ere long be staring in the agony of death from amidst the smoke and flames of the cruel stake.

But, though his blood leapt madly in his veins to ride in all the strength of his love and anger and wrench her single-handed from her enemies' hands, he knew the thought was too hopeless, such a scheme so impossible that it would but seal afresh her doom. Yes!--doom! For full well he knew how inexorably it was written already; well he knew that with such evidence to hand there would be short shrift for the noblest or the fairest, more especially with the powerful hand of the new Sieur de Mereac behind to push his victim forwards to the flames awaiting her. The situation was indeed desperate. So closely were the threads of the web woven that there was no breaking them. Did he come forward and reveal the identity of the Brown Friar, there would still be the deadly evidence of the waxen image and the unaccountable and mysterious death of Yvon de Mereac. Clear as the plot of de Coray was to him, its very boldness rendered the plotter's position impregnable, and all d'Estrailles might expect to gain by attempting to disclose his rival's perfidy and murderous schemes was the death of a French spy caught wandering in disguise within the borders of Brittany.

Only one last desperate hope there seemed, and to this hope he turned with the energy of despair. He would ride to Rennes with all speed, where, close to the city, lay the passive armies of the King of France. Seeking his master, the Count Dunois, he would pray to be allowed to take a body of French troops wherewith to ride to Martigue in the hopes that by threats, backed with military power, he might induce the authorities to deliver up their prisoners. A wild hope, so wild that he dared not glance too closely at its shadowy outline; yet the only one to which he might cling in his extremity.

"Farewell, Marcille," he cried, as, doffing robe and cowl, he sprang into his saddle. "Nay, my friend, I will not take thee, and short time I ween is there for instructions. All I can bid thee is to watch, and should immediate peril threaten thy lady, ride with loose rein towards Rennes. Thou shalt find me on the road, I warrant; and can I not beg a company from Dunois, I will e'en steal one, for, by the faith of a French knight, I swear to save her!"

But there were tears in the eyes of Jean Marcille as he watched his impetuous young master's retreating form, as with spurs struck deep into his horse's sides Henri d'Estrailles galloped madly away, over the heath where the morning mists still hung heavily.

"Alas!" he sighed, as he turned back towards the forest, "it is of no avail; and not only mademoiselle, but also the little Marie will perish; and for me there will be nothing left but revenge."

*CHAPTER XX*

The wizard Lefroi lived alone in his little hut in the forest of Arteze. It was very lonely, that hut, and within it had an appearance altogether execrable. But that was the purpose of his trade; for, what! you would not go to inquire into mysteries from the grave, or seek means of conveying your enemies to the latter, in a parlour clean and bright and orderly, with the pure sunshine of heaven pouring in through the windows, and perchance flowers of purity and innocence blooming within? No! the abode of sorcery and evil must necessarily be dim and gloomy, with the usual accessories of the trade surrounding one. The hut of old Lefroi was not lacking in this way. The light of a taper burnt low and dim indeed that wild November night, as the wizard bent, absorbed, over his nocturnal incantations. He was wise, this old man, with the wisdom of many ages, learnt, some said, from his master the devil, and others that he had been taught by some of those wandering Bohemians and sorcerers who were so often to be met with at that time in France. These sons of Egypt had been kindly treated in the little forest hut, and for reward they had imparted to the owner, it was affirmed, not only knowledge of the stars, but the secrets of many wonderful and deadly drugs which were found often so useful by old Lefroi's customers, and did not always partake of the nature of love-philtres. Perhaps he was even now decocting some of his noxious draughts as he bent over his crucible, for his wizened old face was drawn together into a twisted mockery of a smile, which gave it still more the appearance of crinkled parchment. His costume was effective, being a long, loose wrapper embellished with numerous quaint cabalistic signs and hieroglyphics. On his head he wore the usual skull-cap; whilst by his side perched the familiar black cat, whose purrings played a suitable accompaniment to the bubbling of the pot into which a huge black raven peered with curious eyes from her master's shoulder. Altogether the picture was a familiar one, such as might have been seen in any abode of those jugglers and quacks of the age who practised the occult science and grew rich on the superstitions of the ignorant.

A tap at the wooden door roused the old man from his absorbing occupation, and with a muttered curse he hobbled across to withdraw the bolt and peer out into the darkness.

The visitor, however, waited for no invitation to enter, but pushed in almost rudely, as if fearing that the owner of the hut might wish to refuse admittance. It was a woman, who lost no time in flinging back her hood and facing her companion.

"I am Diane de Coray," she said briefly, "and have been sent in haste by my brother, whom you know, old man, to ask of you the antidote for the poison you gave to him some time since."

Lefroi peered curiously into the pale, beautiful face which looked down so anxiously into his. Then he nodded.

"It is very well," he observed shrewdly, "it is very well; but how am I to know, fair mistress, that you are indeed she whose name you give, for in truth you resemble monsieur, your noble brother, not at all?"

"Fool!" she cried impatiently, "I swear to you I am Diane de Coray--is that sufficient? Give me the antidote quickly, else it will be too late."

Still he eyed her furtively, hesitating to do her will.

"Indeed, I know not of what you speak, mistress," he whined at length. "Poison? I know of no poison. A love-philtre, mistress--a love-philtre or the prediction of the horoscope now----"

"Have done!" she cried angrily, and he noted the gleam of despair in her eyes. "Have done, old foolish one; I have no time to lose, and well thou knowest of what I speak: the poison that was to be administered drop by drop, which was so slowly yet so surely to do its work. What! should I know all this were I not indeed the sister of the man to whom you gave it?"

"But wherefore," he questioned, half convinced and yet still doubtful, "wherefore doth the noble lord require an antidote? Was the draught too slow, or too quick? did it not fulfil its purpose as I predicted?"

"Ay! but too surely," cried the girl, with a shudder. "But there is yet time, old man; quick, give me the antidote, and thou shalt have gold--yes, gold."

She drew forth a bag as she spoke, and in the dim light the wizard's keen eyes sparkled as he caught the gleam of the glittering coins. Yet still he held back another instant.

"Gold cannot purchase the secrets of life," he muttered with a grin.

"Can it not?" she pleaded, and in a moment was kneeling on the grimy floor pouring forth a stream of golden coins on to the seat near her.

The temptation was strong, yet its very strength made him hesitate again.

"But wherefore dost thou need the antidote?" he persisted. "And how know I that it is thy brother who sent thee? If there be a trick in this, he will have his revenge upon me, who am but a poor, innocent old man who----"

"Innocent!" she cried, rising to her feet; then changing her scornful tones, she turned a pleading face towards her companion.

"I swear to thee that there is no trick, I swear by all the saints in heaven, or"--she added bitterly as she noted the suspicion in his eye--"by all the devils of hell, if that be an oath more in keeping with this abode."

He laughed softly, turning a tender eye on the gold, then on the face above it, finally on the closed door.

As if divining a menace in the glance, the girl placed her hand within her dress, and the ominous glitter of steel warned the man that this was no occasion for foul play, did he meditate such.

"Nay," he said, as if suddenly yielding to the temptation which lay glittering before him, "I will trust thee, maiden; thou shalt have the phial. But the price is high."

He repeated the last words softly, glancing again from her face to the pile of gold.

"Gold!" she cried, flinging the word from her in scorn; "yes, you shall have gold--see, more gold than this,--much more; I have it here,--only hasten, hasten, else it will be too late."

He watched her with greedy eyes as she poured forth more money upon the already goodly pile. No leather money this, the impoverished coin of an impoverished land--but good gold,--French gold, warm-hued and glittering.

"And so he still liveth," quoth the wizard slowly, as he bent once more over his crucible. "I had heard--nay, what matter what I heard? The wind singeth strange songs in yon sere branches, and the night owls bring many a false tale. And so he lives?--and you, fair lady, are glad that death hath not yet taken him from your warm embrace? Ah! it is good to love in youth. See, once also I was young too, and I remember; that is why I prepare here my love-charms for the young and joyous, although for me the branches of the forest bear no green leaves and my arms are empty."

But Diane de Coray made no reply to the mocking words, only standing there, pale and fear-stricken, yet with a defiance in her dark eyes which seemed to challenge death itself to mortal combat.

"Love and hate," maundered the old man, half to himself, as he stirred the drugs he held in a tiny crystal bowl; "love and hate, love and hate, they are strong masters, mistress, strong masters, and lead by strange paths. It is I who know--aha! who so well? There have been secrets whispered in these ears--have they not, my Pedro? Yes, such secrets as might well blanch those fair cheeks yonder; but she shall not hear--no, no, for secrets have their price. Yes, a goodly price!"

The raven croaked dismally, as if in reply to its master's words, and rubbed its beak against the skull-cap in weird caress; whilst the cat, as though jealous, rose, purring, to push her sleek body against his legs. But Diane's eyes were fixed only on the dark drops of liquid which, with steady hand, were being slowly poured into the phial.

"It is ready," said Lefroi, as he handed it to her. "Tell thy noble brother that I send it with my most humble salutations. Also, if later thou requirest a love-potion for thine own use, sweet maiden, thou wilt not forget Henri Lefroi, the magician."

"Forget," muttered the girl hysterically. "Forget!" She said no more, but seizing the phial eagerly, drew her cloak around her, quitting the hut with no further word of thanks or farewell.

*CHAPTER XXI*

"He lives?" whispered a soft voice, which trembled nevertheless with fear.

Father Ambrose raised a grave, anxious face, looking with some surprise into the pale one bent close beside him. But Diane de Coray's eyes were looking not at him for answer, but at the drawn, white face which lay back amongst the cushions of the great bed. There were ominous blue lines round the closed mouth and under the sunken eyes, whilst one burning spot of colour on each cheek but intensified their pallor. It was the face of a man who hovers on the brink of death, and already the curls which lay thick on the white forehead were damp with the death sweat, whilst the thin hands which strayed aimlessly over the coverlet plucked at it from time to time, as if some spasm contracted them.

"He lives," replied the Benedictine mournfully; "but already, daughter, is his soul winged for flight. Leave him in peace, so that, if consciousness return ere the last, his thoughts may be fixed rather on the confession of his sins and the eternal love to which he goes forth than to the perishing flame of human passion."

But Diane shrank back no whit at the reproof, or the priest's cold manner.

"Nay," she cried piteously, "he shall not die, father; see, I,--I have prayed to the holy saints, and it shall be that they will save him."

"Hush, my daughter," said Father Ambrose, in a sterner tone. "Rebel not at the Divine Will, nor bring in opposition to it thine own unavailing and perishing love. Yvon de Mereac is dying, and no power of thine shall prevail to drag him back from the grave to which he hastens."

"Will it not?" she cried softly, and the light of challenge and defiance which had shone in her eyes in the wizard's hut brightened them again, as they met the rebukeful glance of the priest. Then, changing her tone to one of gentle pleading, "Father," she cried, "forgive one who is mad belike for very grief; and yet I pray thee not to say that Yvon shall die by the will of Heaven; for, see, he shall live in answer to my prayers. I----" her voice faltered--"I,--I have here a draught given me by a skilled and learned leech--a very elixir of life, father;--give it to him now,--now, ere it be too late, and truly thou shalt prove the truth of my words."

The old man took the tiny phial, gazing suspiciously the while from it to the pale, agonized face near his own. "Daughter," he said solemnly, "what meaneth this? Whence came this phial?"

"Nay, ask me not," she cried passionately, "but give it to him, now,--now! See, his eyes unclose, he knows me! Yvon! Yvon!"

The blue eyes of the sick man shone faintly with the light of recognition; then, even as she sank on her knees beside the bed, closed heavily again.

"Delay not, delay not, father!" cried the girl imploringly, "or it will be too late. See, he gasps for breath! he,--nay, he _shall_ have it," and snatching the phial from the Benedictine's fingers, she raised Yvon's head and poured a few drops of the contents down his throat. Then, with a sigh, she let the sick man sink back amongst the supporting cushions, and turned with flushed face to meet the priest's stern look.

"Daughter," he said slowly, "what hast thou done?"

The accusing note rang out sharply in the quiet chamber, and involuntarily Diane glanced towards the bed; but the sufferer stirred not--even the restless fingers were still, his breathing came already more easily.

"He will live!" cried Diane, clasping her hands; "he will live, father!"