Part 4

Slowly shaking his head, as if still beset with doubts as to his wisdom in thus yielding to what he considered a wild, if generous whim, Father Ambrose went his way, leaving Gwennola to pace the chapel with eager steps, finally flinging herself down before the great crucifix which stood upon the little altar. But even prayers at that moment were little better than a wild, incoherent cry, so great a turmoil raged in the young girl's heart. Now fears beset her as to the folly of an undertaking as perilous as it was daring; only the thought of de Goray's cruel triumph on the next day goaded her forward to persevere in what had been the impulse of a moment, and even this thought scarcely held her to a purpose which of a sudden seemed to grow impracticable, unmaidenly, almost unseemly. Girt round as the young girls of the period were with a host of restrictions and proprieties, the part she now proposed to play seemed almost impossible; only the daring blood of a Breton maid would have made such a thought conceivable, and now outraged modesty rang a host of warnings in her ears. This stranger knight, what would he think of such a suggestion? What would he deem her, thus boldly to seek an interview, herself unsought? She had been mad to have thought of such a possibility of escape, and now perhaps he would scorn her for her unmaidenly forwardness.

The burning blush which swept over her cheeks had scarce had time to cool when her quick ear caught the sound of footsteps, halting and slow, as if their owner walked with difficulty, and at the sound her woman's pity forgot the false sense of shame which had agonized within her. Ay, and she forgot too to question wherefore she took such interest in a stranger, as he stood before her, and her quick heart throb told her swiftly that it was more than pity and love of justice which had brought her to dare risk so much for his sake.

Only ten minutes, and a life weighing in the balances! Parbleu! was it a time for maiden coyness and false bashfulness? He stood still in the moonlight, looking towards her with an eager, questioning glance in his dark eyes. How handsome he was and noble, and yet how pale! Ah! that unhealed wound in his side--doubtless he suffered much, and yet----

She was at his side now, her hood slipping back from her flushed face; for even at that moment she was a woman, and the ill-omened moonlight had no grudge against the gleaming tresses of her hair.

"Monsieur," she whispered. "Ah, monsieur, think me not unmaidenly, but it was your life that was in danger, which is----"

"Unmaidenly?" he interrupted gently. "Nay, mademoiselle, to me, though, alas! I have known you so short a space, you must always be the embodiment of all that is most fair and lovely in womankind; but," he added, seeing that though the colour on her cheeks deepened, she had too much to say to listen to tender words, "you would fain have speech with me, mademoiselle, on a matter of much gravity, the good father saith?"

Rapidly she told the tale, with every now and then a catch in her breath of sheer excitement, but when she would have gone on to what was deepest in her heart, he checked her with a little imperative gesture of command.

"Nay, mademoiselle," he said firmly, "before aught else let me clear myself of this foul calumny. Ma foi! that this accursed wound prevents me from driving the lie down the dog's throat. Pardon, mademoiselle, but it is hard for a d'Estrailles to listen to so deep an insult and yet wear his sword sheathed; but no--well I understand how matters lie--the word of a Frenchman is naught against that of a Breton whose face hath not yet been unmasked. Nay, mademoiselle, with your father there rests no blame save blindness of sight perhaps in not reading traitor in false eyes; but to you, whose pure heart hath read so truly, it were but right to tell the tale as it stands, though methinks 'tis no easy one to read in all its blackness. Yet at the battle of St Aubin du Cormier I saw that chance of which your kinsman has made so tangled a story; 'tis for you to help me to spell its meaning. The battle was over, and, as yon villain truly saith, the Prince of Orange was taken prisoner in a neighbouring wood, whilst Louis of Orleans was found wounded amongst the slain. It chanced, as we searched for other prisoners of less note, that in this self-same wood I lighted on a man who wore the black cross of Brittany struggling with a soldier of France, but as I came near the Frenchman was overcome, and the Breton knight was about to turn aside, when another, wearing the same black cross as himself, stole swiftly up behind and smote him a foul blow which caused him to fall, methinks a corpse, almost at my feet. Enraged at such treachery, I strove mightily with the murderer, inflicting, however, but a flesh wound on his left arm, and another of less import which clove his lower lip, his vizor being raised; but before I could slay or take him prisoner he dealt me a caitiff's blow which stunned me for a moment, and before I could recover he had fled through the trees."

Gwennola's face had grown white to the lips, as d'Estrailles told his tale, but her blue eyes blazed, as she cried with a sob--

"Monsieur, it is plain, the murderer was de Coray himself. Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! and I might even have married him." Then, drawing her cloak round her, she signed to the young man to follow her. "There is no time for further speech," she whispered softly; "all explanations, monsieur, I must tell you afterwards; for though it is clear to me that your story needs must be true, yon viper with his crooked tongue may well ensnare my father's wit and cruel injustice be done. Yet it shall not be; I, Gwennola de Mereac, will save you, monsieur, because--because I love justice, and will not see foul murder done again by yon false and evil man."

"But, mademoiselle?" said d'Estrailles in surprise. "What is your will? The good father----"

"The good father knoweth not everything," she replied imperiously; "for the rest, monsieur, you may ask questions later, but at present we have but four minutes ere the too anxious father returns to bear you off to confession."

She smiled up at his questioning face, and the beauty of it, seen but dimly from under the now close-drawn hood, set his pulses tingling and his heart throbbing in a way to which even the sense of his present perilous position had failed to stir them.

Silently, however, in obedience to her command, he followed the slender, cloaked figure, though his surprise deepened as the raising of a piece of heavy tapestry disclosed a small postern door.

"Do not speak," whispered Gwennola's soft voice in his ear, "until I bid you, and keep close beside me, monsieur, for your life."

Out into the moonlight they crept as she finished speaking, a waning light now as the great silver orb sank westwards, flinging more fickle shafts of pale glory over the shadowed landscape. Yet treacherous and fickle though she was, the Queen of Night smiled kindly for once on the two fugitives, and sent no searching rays to inquire wherefore those blacker shadows amongst shadows moved so haltingly down the broad terraces and across the little bridge which spanned the river. How still the night was and how beautiful!

So fascinating indeed had Job Alloadec found the contemplation of the starry heavens overhead that he had no eyes for shadows, stationary or otherwise, and so enchanting were the low, weird cries which filled the forest yonder, where bird and beast sought their nightly prey, that the good Job's ears were equally deaf to the sound of stealthy footsteps which passed him by, though, as the tail of one vaguely innocent eye glanced sideways towards the river, Job crossed himself, murmuring: "By our Blessed Lady, it cannot be that it is the little mademoiselle herself?" And thereafter his faithful ears listened the more keenly for any sound other than the distant cries of the wolves and low melancholy note of the owl which rose from time to time from the neighbouring woods.

"Tiens! monsieur," murmured Gwennola, as they paused at last under the safe shelter of the thicket. "Let us pause; your wound--ah, monsieur, it, I fear me, causes you much pain."

"Nay," muttered d'Estrailles with white lips. "'Tis only a passing spasm; but, mademoiselle, the pain is naught compared to my wonderment, my gratitude, yet----" He hesitated, as Gwennola, throwing back her hood, laughed merrily up into his astonished yet doubting face.

"See, monsieur," she cried, the dare-devil light of triumph dancing in her blue eyes. "You doubt! you wonder! You say to yourself, 'She is mad, this demoiselle of Brittany, who brings a sick man into a desolate forest, from whence it is impossible to flee from his enemies'; and yet, monsieur, though doubtless it is mad, this scheme of mine, it is more sensible than it appears. Yonder then is your horse, whom we must approach cautiously, for I would not that he proclaimed his master's presence. 'But,' you say to yourself, 'what use is even my good horse to me in this present plight? for, did I attempt to mount, my wound would give me such pain that I should fall swooning to the ground.' Doubtless monsieur is right. But, see, I do not say, 'Mount, ride, monsieur, it is finished, my scheme.' No, I say instead, 'Let us hasten a little way through this dreary forest, you and I and the good steed, and it will chance that we come in time to a spot more lonely and desolate than any in all the region round; here we shall find shelter--poor and strange it may appear, but the gracious saints will have monsieur in their fair keeping, and so it shall be that he will be safe from his enemies until such time as he is able to mount and ride on his way.'"

"Mademoiselle," stammered d'Estrailles, as he raised her little hand to his lips. "Ah, mademoiselle, I am overwhelmed at such goodness, such generosity! Surely it is an angel in the garb of fairest womanhood whom the Blessed Mother hath sent to aid me from so black a snare!"

"Nay, monsieur," she cried softly, smiling through the tears which filled her soft eyes, "'tis no angel, but only a poor Breton maid who loveth justice and bravery, and who hateth a lie and a false coward. But," she added with a glance half coquettish, half doubtful, "monsieur thanks me too soon; it may be that he will find his refuge less to his liking than his prison, for truly if monsieur hath the fears of many----" She paused, smiling still as she looked at him, hesitating; but as his smile met hers the indecision in her manner passed. "See, monsieur," she said, "I will explain; though let us not delay, lest darkness fall too soon. This refuge to which I take monsieur is but a ruin at best, a ruin of what once was a chapel, very renowned, very beautiful, but for many years, ah! very many, it has ceased to be visited, save by the bats and owls, by reason of a very evil legend, which tells how one of the monks of a monastery hard by committed there a very evil and terrible deed, in punishment of which, seeing he escaped the justice of men, he is condemned to wander for ever in ghostly shape around the chapel where in his days on earth he served as the good God's servant, and so terrible is the sight of the poor brown friar that none dare pass within sight of the chapel walls, nay, not even in the broad light of day, for fear of encountering so dread a spectre; therefore monsieur will be safe if, if----"

"I fear the monk's spectre less than thy kinsman's treachery and thy father's rope," smiled Henri d'Estrailles. "Nay, mademoiselle, how can the sight of so harmless a spirit affright when I wear so sweet an amulet?"

"An amulet?" she questioned, looking with curious eyes into his.

"Ay," he replied softly, "the amulet, mademoiselle, of a brave maiden's aid and the tender memory of sweet eyes."

"Nay," she said hastily, drawing her hood over her hair again, with a shy bashfulness, to hide perchance her blushes, "monsieur must remember that I but aid him, because--because----"

"Ay--because?" he questioned eagerly, as he bent to look into the downcast face. "Because?"

"See, monsieur," she said hastily, pointing towards an opening in the path which they were treading; "yonder is the place. Mary, Mother, protect us!" and she crossed herself rapidly as, with half-scared looks, she pointed to the rugged outline of a half-ruined chapel which stood on the very outskirts of the forest, sheltered only by a thick belt of trees from a wide stretch of moorland which lay, scarcely visible from where they stood, on their left. Behind them, in the rapidly darkening thicket, rose the murmurous cries of the forest creatures; but in the open space around the ruin the flickering rays of the waning moon shone clear. Wild and desolate was the spot, ghostly and weird the hour, yet Henri d'Estrailles smiled as he turned from scanning the refuge thus found to the trembling girl at his side.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "what can I say to tell you of my gratitude? how prove my devotion for one who has at such risk sought to save me from my enemies? Truly, methinks, I may safely abide in such a shelter without fear of too bold intruders; the very presence of monsieur the good priest, my friend, seems to haunt such a fitting dwelling-place. Nay, I do not jest, though I thank the saints I have not the fears which prove so strong a safeguard against my foes, for who could fear, I again demand, with such an amulet as you have given me?"

"Nay," she whispered fearfully, "speak not lightly, monsieur, for though I--I have little fear, seeing that the saints ever have the innocent, Father Ambrose saith, in their keeping, still, 'tis ill speaking thus at midnight of the spirits of the dead, be they good or ill, and, and," she continued, trying to speak more bravely, "I have yet to show you your lodging, monsieur." She stepped forward as she spoke, glancing back for him to follow, with a look in her blue eyes which might well have haunted those of martyr times, so brave yet so fearful it was.

"See," she whispered, as she led the way towards the ruin, "Yvon and I discovered the secret in our childhood's days, and none other know it, I ween, for Yvon, ever fearless of aught, would ofttimes make me play here with him against my will, and so it chanced one day that we lighted on a chamber beneath the ruined altar. 'Tis but a narrow, evil place, monsieur, but at least a safe one."

"And the horse?" questioned d'Estrailles eagerly, for now for the first time hope seemed verily to be opening a way of escape before him.

"Nay," sighed Gwennola, "'tis our chiefest difficulty; but there is beyond the chapel yonder a small shed, monsieur, a shed also ruined, it is true, as the chapel, but 'twill serve as shelter, and, should the poor beast be discovered, still you may well lie hid in safety and security."

The underground chamber, perchance in bygone days the chapel crypt, was, as the girl had said, small and ill lodging, but a man in extremity needs not to lie softly, and to Henri d'Estrailles it was more welcome in his need than a palace chamber might have been. Yet the young man found it difficult with so full a heart to stammer forth his gratitude.

"Nay," smiled Gwennola, her courage returning as he held her hands in his and she met the glance of his dark eyes, "'tis small thanks I need, monsieur, seeing I owed it to my father to save him from a crime of which he wots little; but now, monsieur, I must say farewell, do I desire to return ere the moonlight fades from the forest," and she made a laughing grimace of misgiving as she pointed towards the gloomy path. "To-morrow e'en," she added, "food shall be brought to you, monsieur, if not by my hand, then by that of a faithful servant; till then I fear me your fare must be frugal, for Marie could bring me no more than this," and with an apologetic smile she laid upon the ground a small basket containing bread and a flask of wine, which she had carried beneath her cloak.

"Nay," exclaimed d'Estrailles vehemently, "mademoiselle, I cannot permit that you shall return alone and unattended through yon dark forest. Shame would it be on my knighthood and my honour to allow one who has already dared for me far beyond my deserts to run so terrible a risk."

"Indeed," she pleaded, "I have no fear. Nay, monsieur, I lay my commands upon you not to advance one step; already you faint with the pain of your wound, also it would be impossible that you should retrace your steps to this place. Adieu, monsieur, I shall have reached the chateau ere ten minutes have passed."

"Pardon, mademoiselle," he replied gently, but resolutely, holding her little hand so firmly in his that she could not escape him, "but it may not be; weak though I am, and but poor protection, I have at least my sword; as for finding my way, I have hunted too often in my own woods of d'Estrailles not to be able to follow any trail; for the rest, mademoiselle, I shall accompany you."

The power of his will overcame her, yet her red lips pouted rebelliously under her hood.

"I would fain return alone, monsieur," she reiterated with the persistence of a wilful child. "'Tis but a short distance, and little ill is likely to betide."

"The shorter to return," he replied coolly. "As for ill, there will, I ween, be less likelihood with me beside you, mademoiselle."

She yielded with an ill grace, though glad, as women ever are, to be mastered, for all her rebellion, and so, till they came to the river bank once more, there was silence between them.

"And now perchance it may be your pleasure to let me go forward alone, monsieur," she cried with a toss of her pretty head, as they halted within the shadow of the trees, "seeing that the good Job awaits me yonder by the bridge. Au revoir, therefore, monsieur, though methinks I had better say adieu, for small likelihood is there, I fear, that you will chance to retrace your footsteps in safety through yon black darkness."

"I have no fear, mademoiselle," replied d'Estrailles, bowing low over her hand, "seeing that the light of your eyes would guide a man safely, however gloomy his path. Nay," he said gently, still holding her hand in his, "pardon me, mademoiselle, if I allow the gratitude of an overfull heart too free a speech, or that I speak to the betrothed of another of what should remain for all time the secret of my heart."

"Nay," she said, "monsieur has already spoken too much of gratitude for a service which after all was but a duty; though," she added softly, as she withdrew her hand, "as for being betrothed to Monsieur de Coray, it is a thing no more to be spoken of; a de Mereac mates not with a murderer, monsieur, least of all the murderer of a brother; methinks rather the convent walls shall find shelter for one whose life seems destined to be shrouded in so much of sorrow."

"Nay," said d'Estrailles, still detaining her hand, "fairest lady, speak not of convent walls; too much of sunshine dwells in those tender eyes to be quenched in the gloomy grave of a convent life. Believe me, troubles are but as passing clouds, which come but to make the sun more joyous when it shines again, and methinks that very surely behind the clouds the sunshine of true love awaits one so gracious and beautiful; happy knight is he who shall inspire it: nay, could I but dream that such destiny might be mine for but one instant, it would be verily the opening of the gates of Paradise."

"Nay, monsieur," she laughed softly, a roguish dimple deepening in her cheek, though her eyes grew tender as they looked half shyly into his. "The gates of such a Paradise are ever on the latch for the gallant and the brave." And before he could reply, she had slipped her hand away and was gone, flitting like some dark shadow from out of the forest shade and across the little bridge which led through the orchard to the outer postern of the chateau, where Job still gazed in vague fascination towards the darkening sky with watchful ears and an anxious heart.

*CHAPTER VI*

Again at early morn Mademoiselle de Mereac walked in the chateau gardens with her maiden by her side. It was the same book of hours over which her head was bent in seeming devotion, whilst one hand strayed listlessly over the black rosary she wore; but the devotions were, alas! but in the seeming, the words and illuminations which danced before her eyes conveyed not the slightest intelligence to the reader's mind.

How strange it was that only yesterday she had paced up and down this very path, read the same words, viewed the same flowers, breathed the same air, and yet between that day and this a whole lifetime seemed to yawn!

"Ah, Marie," the girl sighed, as at last, giving up the impossible task, she closed her book and flung herself down on the grassy sward which sloped riverwards, "I cannot read, nor certainly pray, to-day, except to say the same words which run like chariot wheels through my head, and which I fear me will shock poor Father Ambrose when I confess them. But come, let us talk!--sing!--laugh!--do somewhat! for if thou sittest with so grave a face I shall deem--nay, I know not what I shall deem," and, unclasping her hands, Gwennola began picking the pink-tipped daisies from the grass beside her, threading them into a fantastic chaplet with feverish fingers.

Marie Alloadec eyed her mistress with solemn, curious eyes. Of a temperament less excitable and impetuous, the slower train of her mind was seeking vainly to find a clue for this eccentric and wayward mood. Of her mistress's nocturnal adventure she had not ventured a question, though ever since Job's whispered hints concerning the shadow which had flitted by him in the moonlight, she had been devoured with curiosity. But for once Gwennola was reticent, and only gave evidence of the anxious stirrings of her mind by her variable and uncertain moods: now plunged in melancholy, now bursting forth into a wild hilarity which surprised, if it did not shock, her staid handmaiden.

"See!" cried Gwennola, holding up her chain for admiration. "Is it not altogether charming? I must e'en make another. Gather me some more flowerets thou idle wench, seeing that thy tongue seemeth somewhat tied this gay morn."

"Nay," sighed Marie lugubriously, "I thought, my mistress, rather of the fate of the poor knight in yonder turret room than of the sunshine."

"And wherefore shouldst thou think of him?" laughed Gwennola teasingly, as she bent forward, either to gather a more deeply-tinted daisy which caught her fancy, or to hide a sudden wave of colour which flushed her cheeks. "Fie on thee, Marie! heardest thou not that he is a foul traitor and murderer to boot?"

Marie gaped, but ere she could open her mouth for a reply, a shadow falling athwart the grass between them warned her of the reason for her mistress's high-pitched words of virtuous reproof.

"Ah, my cousin, a fair morrow to thee," cried Mademoiselle de Mereac, as she sprang lightly to her feet to face the new-comer. "What! another gloomy brow? 'Tis certain that you and Marie both must have walked on the weed of straying yesternight and seen more unwelcome visions in yonder forest."

De Coray's face grew more sullen than before at her mocking words, as he glanced from one to the other.

"You do ill to jest, mademoiselle," he said sternly, "seeing what hath chanced."

"Chanced?" she echoed innocently, cutting short his speech with a gay little laugh. "Nay, mon ami, naught hath chanced to my knowledge this morn, save that I have made this chaplet of flowers to crown the head of wisdom, justice, and mercy." And she made as though she would have flung him the daisy wreath.

"A truce to such folly," he snarled. "Well enough you know, maiden, of what is in my mind, and dost strive therefore to hide knowledge behind the mask of foolery."