Part 5

"Nay," she cried again, her blue eyes flashing at him, though she still smiled. "Truly, I forgot my reverence to so illustrious a personage. Marie, my child, thy best curtsy to monsieur, the high chief executioner and hangman of Mereac." And she swept a deep and mocking obeisance, her eyes still on his face.

"Ay," he retorted, scowling at her this time without disguise. "But better the executioner of a foul traitor and murderer than a----"

She checked him with an imperious gesture.

"Have a care, monsieur," she said in a low voice, which trembled nevertheless with anger as she read the insult in his eyes. "Have a care lest I tell my father your words, ay, and not only of words, monsieur, but of deeds done in that dark wood at St Aubin du Cormier."

He laughed aloud, though there was an ugly look in his eyes.

"Your opportunity has already come then, mademoiselle," he replied sneeringly, "for your father hath bidden me summons you to his presence."

Again she swept him a curtsy, but this time with statelier grace, as she turned and walked onwards alone towards the chateau, ignoring altogether his proffered arm. Her face had grown paler, but her blue eyes were bright and undaunted as her spirit rose to the ordeal before her; perhaps it was steeled as she glanced wistfully towards, the forest and stood once more in fancy under yonder oak tree, looking up with swiftly beating heart into dark eyes which told their tale so far more eloquently than their owner's halting words.

The Sieur de Mereac stood erect in the midst of the great hall, his tall form towering there like some giant figure of old as he swept an eagle glance over the little group of retainers who stood, scared and panic-stricken, in the background, and whom he waved aside with an imperious gesture as his daughter, as erect as himself, with her face upraised, pale, but proud, came slowly forward, curtsying silently as she stood before him, but without attempting to embrace or smile at him, as she had ever done before.

Unconsciously the old man sighed as his stern glance met hers. Was this his little Gwennola?--the child with the ruddy curls and laughing eyes, who so short a time since would scramble up on to his knee, and, laying her shining head against his breast, plead with all a spoilt child's boldness for a tale of his battles with the cruel French.

Alas! the child had gone. For the first moment he realized it, and in her place stood this pale, defiant woman, who, he bitterly told himself, had deceived him so cruelly.

Perchance it was the memory of the blue-eyed child running to meet him, hand in hand with that tall, handsome youth, his lost Yvon, which steeled his proud, passionate heart against her; or perhaps it was that he read the reflection of his own indomitable will and dauntless courage in her clear eyes. To him it seemed more meet that womankind should bend, humbly and submissively, to his sovereign will, little dreaming that this slim girl from her cradle had, instead, bent him to hers, till the two imperious tempers had chanced to clash on so dire a field.

"Child," said the old man hoarsely, "what is it that thou hast done? that thou--daughter of mine--hast dared to do? Nay," he cried, his voice breaking in a cry of almost piteous entreaty, "'tis impossible that thou hast done so treacherously, my Gwennola, my little Gwennola! Tell me then, child, and I will believe thy word, though all the angels in heaven, ay, and the devils in hell witness against thee--tell me that thou hast not done this thing; that the escape of this thrice accursed murderer of thy brother is not known to thee; that thou hast had naught to do with so evil a deed."

"Father," cried the girl, clasping her hands, whilst her blue eyes brimmed with tears at the note of pleading anguish in his voice. "My father, listen to me. Verily, I have had naught to do with the escape of my brother's murderer, seeing that he standeth here, yet will I not deny that I, and I alone, aided the escape of a noble and gallant knight, whose life might well have been forfeit to the foul slander of his enemies."

As she spoke she would have drawn nearer to her father's side, have taken the trembling hand which played with the girdle of his long robe, but that he motioned her back with a fierce gesture, half despair, half loathing.

"A noble knight!" he cried furiously. "A noble knight indeed to blacken the honour not only of my daughter, but of his just accuser, for well I can guess the lies with which his viper's tongue hath filled thy foolish ears. Nay, girl, speak no more, but rather go from my presence ere my hand strike down the child who hath stooped so low to save the murderer of her only brother, and a lying traitor."

"Nay, monsieur," murmured de Coray smoothly, as he stepped forward, "surely you would not thus leave so grave a matter, painful as it must be to your noble heart to unveil so black a story; but it may be," he added softly, glancing towards the young girl's bowed figure, "that the righteous wrath of a just parent hath brought remorse to a daughter's heart; perchance her eyes are opened to what may well have been but the foolish impulse of a generous heart, and now that she seeth her act in its true light, she may be able to guide us in our search for the traitor."

At the words, through whose silky softness it were easy for a keen ear to detect the note of bitter mockery, Gwennola flung back her head with a gesture of angry pride; her cheeks were flushed, and her blue eyes sparkled with an indignant fury.

"Liar and traitor!" she cried bitterly, "viper, monsieur, that you are, thus to strive to poison the fame of a noble knight, because, forsooth! he chanced to witness the foul deed whereof you accuse him; but be warned, monsieur, sin wings its homeward way to the heart that brought it forth, and foully shall perish the hand that sought thy kinsman's life, and the tongue that strove to tarnish his sister's name."

"Peace, woman!" snarled de Coray angrily, though his face grew pale as her words rang in the rhythm of a curse; then, turning to de Mereac with a shrug of his shoulders, "Monsieur my uncle sees," he said, his voice trembling with suppressed anger; "verily it would seem as though this Frenchman had bewitched the poor lady; perchance a little solitary confinement would best bring her to see the error of her ways, whilst we, monsieur, strive to undo what at worst might well be a foolish maiden's mad whim, by seeking in yonder forest for the murderer, who doubtless could scarce ride far, if it be true that his wound was so sore."

"Go to thy chamber, girl!" commanded de Mereac of his daughter sternly, "and seek repentance of thy waywardness and sin in prayer; it may be that if thy heart still remaineth obdurate, a convent cell shall be made to cure it."

"Nay," interrupted de Coray with a smile; "methinks 'twere wiser, mon oncle, to give to me the sweet task. When I have the felicity to call mademoiselle my wife, be assured that I shall take good care to teach her how much foolishness there is in such acts which leave even the shadow of reproach upon so fair a fame."

He looked for a tempest of anger or scorn doubtless from the girl beside him; but this time he was mistaken. White to the lips, Gwennola curtsied silently to her father, and without so much as a glance towards de Coray, walked with head erect and proud step down the long hall and up the narrow winding stairway which led to her own apartment. But coldness and pride vanished as, in a tempest of tears, she flung herself into Marie's arms.

"Would I were dead," she sobbed passionately. "Oh, Marie, Marie, such cruel words my father flung at me, and he scorned me, Marie--me, his little Gwennola, till I thought my very heart would break; and oh! the bitterness of it when that foul traitor, my kinsman, stood near, pouring forth his venomous lies into my father's open ears; and he believed him, Marie. Ah! the shame of it, he believed him rather than trusting the fair honour of his daughter."

"Ah, mademoiselle," cried Marie, whose rosy face was pale also with fear, and whose eyelids were swollen with the tears of sympathy she had already shed for her young mistress, "how terrible a mischance is here! But, mademoiselle, 'tis, I warrant me, much the doing of that evil imp, Pierre the fool, for Job hath been telling me what chanced whilst we were out yonder plucking daisies and dreaming little of the ill in store for us."

"Pierre the fool?" echoed Gwennola, drying her tears and looking at her handmaiden in surprise. "Nay, what hath the saucy varlet to do in the brewing of such pickle?"

"He loveth well Monsieur de Coray," said Marie, nodding her head wisely, "and hath as little liking for thee, sweet lady, as he hath for aught that is good and true and unlike his own crooked person and soul; and so it chanced that last night, instead of sleeping beside Reine and Gloire, as any well-ordered Christian fool should have done, he poked and pryed into what concerned him not, and, creeping softly in the darkness down the chapel steps, because, forsooth! he thought to hear voices, he cometh so suddenly upon Father Ambrose--who, for some purpose of which the saints alone wot, was waiting there near the chapel door--that the poor priest fell backwards in his alarm down the two steps that remained, and so cracked his head that he hath lain unconscious ever since, and cannot be questioned, which perchance is well for him, as it may be that my lord's anger against him will have time to cool, as he suspects him of aiding you also, dear lady, seeing that the mischievous Pierre, not content with well-nigh killing the good father, goeth into the chapel, where, failing to find aught to account for voices, he further pryeth till it seemeth he picked up your kerchief on the very steps of the altar, and this with his lying tale he carries to his master at dawn, whereupon Monsieur de Coray laid his accusations upon you for the escape of the French monsieur."

"Nay," said Gwennola quietly. "That were a tale I must needs have told, were it but for the saving of the poor Father Ambrose, of whose sorry plight I grieve to hear. Fain would I to his side, Marie, but that even is forbidden me, for here must I bide a prisoner, whilst, alas! alas! it may be that even now they discover the hiding-place of--of----" She checked herself, meeting Marie's curious eyes. "Nay, wench," she said sharply, "heed not my foolish words; and yet, oh, Marie, Marie! my heart breaks with fears and sorrow. Was ever maid so unhappy as thy poor mistress?"

"Nay, dear lady," said the girl affectionately, laying her hand softly on her mistress's. "Courage! it may yet be that all will be well. See, we will pray to our Blessed Lady, whose protection and aid will most surely be vouchsafed to the persecuted and innocent."

But in her distress and excitement even prayer proved small solace to the impatient spirit of the unhappy maiden. To and fro she paced with all the restless agony of a newly caged, wild creature, now weeping, now crying to Marie to aid her, though in what she neither said nor seemed to know. But presently the paroxysm of her passion passed, and after kneeling for a lengthy space before the carved figure of her patron saint, she rose and smiled more calmly into Marie's anxious face.

"I was distraught," she said simply, "methinks with very weariness as well as grief. Now go, Marie, leave me to compose myself in sleep; last night I rested little and my eyes are heavy for need of slumber. Go then, little one, and glean for me what news thou canst anent the return of my father; 'twill be a fruitless quest, I wot well, on which they ride, seeing that the holy saints have him I love in their keeping."

Her foster-sister, with wide eyes of wonder, not unmingled with dismay, echoed her last words.

Gwennola smiled, and though her colour rose, she replied quietly--

"Nay, Marie, thou art over-bold, wench, and yet, ah! there is none other to whom I may confess it, and by the love we bear each other, my Marie, well I know my secret is safe with thee. Yes," she added softly, whilst a glad light stole into her tired eyes; "yes, it is true, my Marie, I love him, this noble Frenchman, who is a true and noble knight, neither traitor nor murderer, but my faithful servant and lover."

"But," stammered Marie, forgetful of aught in her sheer amazement, "he is a Frenchman, mademoiselle! an enemy! one who would take away liberty from us of Brittany and bend our necks in the yoke of servitude."

"Tush, little foolish one!" replied her mistress severely. "Thou pratest of that of which thou knowest naught. Indeed," she added, with an air of knowledge which sat quaintly on her childish head, "the love of Breton maid to French knight may well be, since men say our Duchess herself would fain have given her heart to the Prince of Orleans, had he not been already wed."

"Nay," murmured Marie, abashed, yet persistent, "but Madame the Duchess is the bride of the noble King of the Romans."

"That goeth not to say that she loveth him," retorted Gwennola wisely; "indeed, poor Duchess! how can she, seeing she hath never seen him? And ill is it to wed without love, be a maid queen or peasant wench; and verily I will have none of it on such terms, though my father command me to take the veil in choice. Ah, Marie!" she cried, stretching out her hands towards the hesitating girl, "thou wilt help me, wilt thou not? For I love him, this poor, persecuted knight, Frenchman though he be--ay, and shall love him and none other for all time: and love is sweet, my Marie, though as yet mayhap thou hast not tasted of its sweetness; but when it cometh----"

"Nay," retorted Marie tossing her head, "small love have I for any man, save only for my father and brother Job, for well I wot, as my mother hath oft told me, that they are but poor creatures at best, and little worth the tears and pains they put us foolish women to. Yet, sweet mistress," she added, laying her hand affectionately on Gwennola's, "I would aid _you_ with my very life, ay, though my lord verily putteth me to the torture for so doing."

"Nay," murmured Gwennola, turning pale, "that my father would never do, as well thou knowest, foolish one."

"As for that," replied Marie with a shrug of her buxom shoulders, "I know little of the kind, for my lord is a terrible man in passion, and for the torture--did not my Lord of Quimperel so do to death one of his wife's maidens who refused to confess her mistress's secrets?"

"Nay," sighed Gwennola with a shudder, "my Lord of Quimperel is a man of bloodthirsty moods and evil repute, ever loving to inflict pain; but my father, changed though he be to his little Gwennola, by the poisoned tongue of lies, would never so forget his honour."

"Be that as it may, sweet mistress," replied Mane, smiling, "I am yours, to do your will, even to the death; command me then, and blithely will I obey!"

"I must e'en think," murmured Gwennola, pressing her hand to her forehead, "for well I can guess that at least my kinsman will leave no unguarded door of escape from his watchful eye. Yet methinks we may outwit even him, my Marie, with caution and daring, if so be that my father's search to-day is fruitless."

"Then monsieur lies yonder?" inquired Marie, eager, now that her scruples and surprise were overcome, to assist in this unexpected romance.

"Hush!" whispered her mistress with raised finger. "Better it were not to speak on such matters, seeing that even walls have ears; but hie thee, Marie, below, and see what news thou canst bring me of how matters go."

Those were days when the romance of love indeed reigned paramount in every woman's heart, from the lady who, from her casement, smiled down at her knight riding by with her favour in his helmet, to the serving wench who watched her swain go from her to the wars with a tear in her eye and a choking pride in her throat at sight of his gallant bearing and the bunch of bright ribbons she had herself pinned to his breast. And, alone now in her chamber, Gwennola was dreaming tenderly of the romance which had been borne so swiftly and unexpectedly into the grey gloom of her young life, flushing it with all the rosy dawn of love and beauty. She told herself, as her heart throbbed gladly to her thoughts, that she had loved him from the moment she had seen him lying all unconscious in the forest. And what wonder, seeing how empty of such dreams her heart had been before?--and yet how hungry for them, with the hunger for such romance as is dear to seventeen summers in any century! And she had found him, her knight, noble, handsome, surrounded with the glamour of strange and thrilling circumstances, chivalrous and devoted. Ah! it could not be that a foul lie and a hempen rope of shame should, rudely terminate so sweet an idyll? Her heart seemed to beat to suffocation as she strove against the thought, listening with anxious ears for the return of Marie.

How long the time seemed, and yet all too short, ere she heard the swift sound of returning feet! Was it possible that even now the news would be that all was over, and that guile had triumphed bloodily over innocence and truth?

"Mother of Help," she moaned, sinking once more on her knees before the little shrine--"Mother of Help, save him!"

"Nay, lady," whispered Marie's voice behind her. "Have no fear, I have no news but what is good to hear, although I fear me that my lord and Monsieur de Coray have returned in no holy frame of mind from their bootless search, and resignation to failure sits not placidly on either brow. I had speech with Jobik, poor fool! who, it seems, would fain have been cursing yon poor French monsieur for killing his young master, and perchance might have spoken evil words of you, had I not twitted him for a moon-faced oaf and told him all the truth."

"Mother of Mercies, I thank thee!" cried Gwennola softly, as she bowed her head in thanksgiving. Then, raising a radiant face to Marie, "Now," she cried softly, "cometh the time for brave hearts and wise heads, my Marie, for we must e'en find some mode of taking to monsieur both food and drink, for starvation were little better than the rope, though perchance more honourable."

"Nay, mademoiselle," said Marie earnestly; "you must leave such work to Jobik or to me. Tell me but where the noble knight lies, and, I warrant me, he shall not die of starvation."

But Gwennola shook her head, laughing and blushing as she replied--

"Nay, Marie, be not too ready with thy offers, for, alas! what would the poor Job say"--she dropped her voice to a whisper--"did I bid him go by moonlight to the Chapel of the Brown Friar?"

"Merciful saints!" gasped Marie, paling as she crossed herself. "Nay, lady, you do but jest; it is not possible that a noble knight could find so fearful a resting-place?"

"I say nothing," smiled Gwennola, "because, little curious one, it is better for thee not to be too wise; but verily it is truth that I must to the forest, this night, alone, to take food and wine to this gallant knight."

Marie hesitated; the thought of her young mistress going alone into the dark and lonely forest was terrible, but honest and steadfast as was the girl's devotion, she would a hundred-fold rather have faced death itself than the grim spectre of the haunted chapel.

"I beseech you, sweet mistress," she murmured through rising tears--"nay, I implore you--it is not possible that you, Mademoiselle de Mereac, should go alone, at midnight, through yon forest, for the sake of--the sake of----"

"One whom I love," whispered Gwennola, half shyly, half defiantly. "Nay, maiden, chide me not; the name of Gwennola de Mereac shall lose none of its honour by so daring; and for cruel tongues, see you, my Marie, there will be none. Fie on thee, child! dost not know yet, or hast listened to minstrel lays in vain, that love hath no fear so long as it reigns in purity and virtue?--and therefore such love shall be my amulet, did the Brown Friar himself strive against me."

Again Marie crossed herself, with pale cheeks and frightened eyes, yet silenced by her mistress's glance more than her words, for well she knew by the compression of those small, rosy lips, and the sparkle in those bright eyes, that there was no resisting the proud young will.

"An this be love," murmured the handmaiden as she turned aside, "may the holy St Catherine protect me from such spells! for verily my lady is distraught with it to dream of so mad an enterprise. The saints preserve us from the wrath of my lord should some evil chance reveal it!"

*CHAPTER VII*

Softly the moonlight stole through the interlacing branches of the trees, like white-robed fairies who come earthward to kiss the sleeping flowers into fresh beauty for the morrow's sun. Darkly against the silver sheen stood out the rugged, ivy-grown walls of the forest chapel. It was a spot sufficiently romantic for the youngest and tenderest of lovers, and yet not without its thrill of that gloom and foreboding which seems to haunt the land of Brittany, where such stern shadows seem indissolubly mingled with the wild beauties of poetry and romance.

But, for the moment at least, shadows had fled into the darkness of the surrounding forest, and romance reigned clear and beautiful as the Queen of Heaven, who shed her silver beams down so softly on the two lovers sitting there amongst the ruins which superstition had clad with such terror and awe.

It was the third night that Gwennola had successfully stolen out from her father's chateau, leaving two faithful hearts to beat in anxious fear for her safety until her return. So little dreamt any of such an undertaking, that the task had been less difficult than she had supposed, and so, night after night Job had watched with gloomy fear the dark, hooded figure slip past him and vanish like some grim shadow into the grimmer blackness of the forest, and there, divided betwixt love and the overpowering fear of superstition, he had been fain to watch for her return, whilst the moments dragged by leaden-footed, till more than once love overcame fear, and he started from his post in search of his young mistress, only to come to a halt midway down the terrace path, whilst the beads of perspiration stood thickly on his brow as he muttered aves and paters, and finally with a groan of terror fled back to his place as he recalled the dread vision which had already looked at him, hollow-eyed and beseeching, from amongst the trees, till his knees knocked together in a perfect frenzy of terror.

But no such fears now troubled Gwennola, for love had bidden such phantom terrors a mocking adieu. Yes, they were lovers now, not bowing and curtsying to each other, with eyes more bold and eloquent than the stiff phrases of their tongues; there was no more speech of gratitude or duty, or the many foolish subterfuges by which love must first hide himself, but instead all the glamour and passion of first love, which exaggerates itself and its dreams of sentiment and finds in itself so sweet a delirium that it forgets all else and mocks gaily at staid middle age, which shakes its head so wisely at such quaint fantasies and preaches truisms against its tender madness which are listened to with deaf ears; for youth must have its way and dream its dreams of love and fair ideals, which clothe it in all its springtide of beauty, little recking of the winter that must perchance disperse all, or sober them down to greyer tints.

"Ah, sweet," whispered d'Estrailles as he bent down to look into the blue eyes raised so happily to his; "what shall I say to prove to thee the devotion with which thou hast inspired me, or thank thee for the tender heroism which brings thee thus to me through such perils?"