Part 6

"Nay," she replied gaily, "speak not of thanks, my Henri, but rather of our love. What fear have I, my beloved, save for thy safety? Ah," she cried, clasping her hands with a sudden gesture of pain, "every time my father rides forth my heart beats with terror for fear that by some unlucky chance he should discover thy hiding-place, for his heart is still bitter against thee, my Henri, for de Coray still distilleth his poisoned words into his ears; neither will he so much as look on me, his daughter; whilst for the poor Father Ambrose, he hath sworn to send him back to his monastery in disgrace so soon as his sickness is healed."

"Nay, weep not, little one," said d'Estrailles gently, as he drew her into his embrace, "but let us rather dream of the days when all this suffering and wrong be past, and when thou, sweet Gwennola, art my wife, and ridest with me to our chateau on the gay Loire, where I will give thee sunshine and mirth, beauty and laughter instead of these dreary forests and grey gloom, which seem fitting surroundings for traitor hearts and sad forebodings."

"Nay," she said with a sigh, "it is of my Brittany thou speakest, dear heart, and I would not that thou shouldst find it so ill a place, for I love it dearly, ay, so dearly!" she whispered, clinging to him, "though perchance in time thy chateau of sunshine shall be more dear, my Henri, because of thy presence; but I would have thee also to love in some measure the Chateau of Mereac, and in time, it may be, my father, who is good--ah! so good, so noble, so brave!--although now it would seem his ears are closed and his eyes blinded by a treacherous foe."

"Nay," said her lover tenderly, "I was wrong, sweet, to speak of gloom where I found such sunshine as hath before never lighted the fairest spot of fair Touraine. See then, it shall be that which thou lovest, I love, and what thou hatest----"

He broke off to turn swiftly in the direction of the forest, his hand on his sword, as though he had caught a sound other than the constant murmur of cries from bird and beast which arose in plaintive cadences around.

"What is it?" breathed Gwennola, with a little gasp of fear, as she bent forward to gaze in the same direction as that in which his eyes were still turned.

"Methinks 'twas but a fancy," he replied softly; "and yet--see, sweet, what is that which moves yonder? Nay, 'tis naught, but some animal, or----"

But Gwennola's face had grown white with terror, as with horror-stricken eyes she gazed across the open space towards where, in a bright patch of moonlight, sat a small, wizened creature perched on its haunches, the very impersonation of some imp of darkness, which, after pausing one brief instant to mouth at them in seeming mockery, fled nimbly back into the forest with a shrill cry.

"Bah," murmured d'Estrailles, devoutly crossing himself, "'tis verily a spirit of evil, little one, that fled at the glance of thy sweet eyes."

"Nay, rather," faltered Gwennola tremulously, "'twas the ape of Pierre the fool, and verily the spirit of evil was doubtless lurking unseen in the shadows behind," and in a few brief words she told her lover of Marie's tale and the devotion of the fool to Guillaume de Coray.

"Fly, Henri, fly!" she pleaded. "Surely there is yet time; thy wound heals well, and methinks even at some pain 'twere better to fly before discovery overtakes us. Alas, alas, how evil grows our case when it seemed to promise so fairly!"

"Nay," laughed d'Estrailles undauntedly, "'twere better first to strive to teach fools their foolishness," and without awaiting her reply he plunged into the forest, only to emerge some moments later crestfallen and indignant. "Truly the knave is in league with de Coray's own master," he said with a grimace of discomfiture. "Not a trace of him is to be seen. But come, sweet, wear not so troubled a brow; methinks the danger is as little pressing as heretofore, seeing that none know of yon snug chamber, where I may well mock their vigilance for many days."

"Nay, Henri," entreated Gwennola, as she clung afresh to him. "Go, I beseech thee, whilst there is yet time. Oh, what agony shall I endure till thou art in safety!"

But for all her pleading he refused to be turned from his purpose of lingering another day, yet less, perchance, from selfish motives as from fear of what might befall her did the fool's tale move her father's anger more mightily upon her.

"To-morrow eve," he cried, laughing at her fears, as he held her two white hands in his, and kissed her on her quivering lips. "Courage, little one, 'tis but a terror that will pass with the dawn, and if thou fearest the malice of this crooked fool, why, smile upon him with thy sweet eyes, and thou must needs make him thy slave for ever."

So, perforce, seeing he was a man and wilful, she was fain to yield, though her blue eyes still looked into his with wistful foreboding as she entreated him to be careful, and remain in the safe shelter of his hiding-place. So back through the forest they went together till they caught sight of Job Alloadec's broad figure standing stiff and straight by the outer postern of the wall, when they bade each other once more a tender adieu.

"Farewell, little one," whispered d'Estrailles, the more gaily as he felt his cheek wet with a stray teardrop which had fallen from her soft lashes. "Fear not yon impish fool, who dared thus insolently to look within the gates of Paradise; seal his tongue with sweet looks, and perchance a silver piece, and to-morrow----"

"Ah, to-morrow," she sighed. "Alas! to-morrow."

"Ay, alas indeed," he murmured, "since I must needs, it seems, bid farewell to my sweet lady, and yet not farewell, but only au revoir, dear love, for if thy father relents not, nor opens his eyes to treachery and falsehood, I shall very speedily return to steal thee away, since till thy coming there will be no sunshine in the Chateau d'Estrailles, and the hours will go slowly for the very weariness of the waiting."

She smiled sadly back into his face.

"Ah, my Henri," she murmured, "what lies between those days and these? Verily my heart groweth heavy in wondering whether they will ever be."

"Nay," he cried boldly, with all a man's insistence and scorn of danger's shadows, "they must needs be, sweet one, since love demands it."

"Our Lady grant it," said she, and passed on her way towards the gloomy chateau, leaving him to ponder on what lay so dimly and mysteriously before them on the path of life; for verily it seemed that the course of true love was little likely to run smoothly for Breton maid and French noble in those days of bitter enmity and danger.

*CHAPTER VIII*

The next day was at last drawing to a close. All through the long hours Gwennola had sat waiting in torturing suspense for what news Marie might bring her. Still a prisoner in her chamber, she had seen none save her foster-sister and brother since the day of Henri d'Estrailles' mysterious disappearance. Had it not been for de Coray's insistent suggestions of ill, the Sieur de Mereac's heart would long since have softened towards his cherished daughter, and he would, perchance, after the fashion of love, have found some excuse for conduct which his inmost heart told him had some other motive than those maliciously suggested by de Coray's evil tongue; as it was, the latter so successfully kept the warmth of his anger stirred within him that he fiercely shunned any suggestion either of seeing or being reconciled to Gwennola, whilst upon Father Ambrose's innocent head were heaped the bitterest invectives of his fury.

But even the news of her father's unrelenting anger towards her failed to move Gwennola's heart. All thought, all feeling, was for the time being centred on her lover, after the manner of foolish and wayward maidens who, in the awakening of such passion, forget the love which has sheltered them from childhood; and in the case of Gwennola de Mereac such forgetfulness might in some measure be excused, seeing that love had been born with her twin-sister pity for a sick and innocent man, and such pity roused to the depths the finer fibres of her woman's heart. The instinctive feeling of protection towards one who was helpless had, even more than the vague, unnamed whisperings of love, steeled her to her purpose and inspired her courage in defiance of what she felt to be foul injustice to an innocent man. But now pity was forgotten--submerged, as it were, in her passionate love, for Gwennola was a true daughter of Brittany, strong to hate as to love, undaunted, brave with that powerful tenacity of purpose which seems inherent in these people whose whole lives are set, as it were, against the adverse forces of nature, which strive for the mastery of that grey, bleak shore. She had given her love to Henri d'Estrailles, and for that love's sake all ties were swept aside, save only those which upheld her own pure young soul and guarded the honour which must ever be more cherished even than love itself in a noble woman's heart. Yet honour itself seemed to call her now to act the part she had set herself, honour not only her own but her father's, who little knew the part that fate was striving to force upon him.

So it was with a clear conscience that Gwennola knelt in prayer before the little shrine of the Virgin Mother, asking help in her secret enterprise.

"And oh, Blessed Mother of Heaven," she cried with a sob, as she buried her face in her hands, "grant that all may be well, and that the saints may have him in their good keeping till we meet again." But even with the words her heart grew chill as she pondered how that meeting might be, and how, even did he escape present danger, they, whom circumstances had called to enmity rather than love, might hope to meet to plight their troth in happier days. Instead, there uprose before her eyes the mocking, cruel face of Guillaume de Coray, and when she turned with loathing from it, there seemed to meet her only the sunless gloom of grey, convent walls.

"At least," whispered hope and youth, "there is still to-night; once more his arms shall hold thee in his tender embrace, and thou shalt read fresh vows of love in those dark eyes which speak only of faith and constancy; surely it will be that love hereafter shall find another way in the darkness of the future."

So she comforted herself, and listened also to Marie's cheering words of confidence with a smile on her lips; but the smile faded as amongst the dark shadows of the trees gloomy forebodings gathered once more and pressed their weight of sad presentiment on her beating heart as she hurried along the narrow path.

How foolish it was to pause with a fresh throb of fear as from the thicket near the rustle of a scurrying rabbit startled her ear! And why should she tremble so violently when a great white owl almost swept her cheek with its soft wings as it vanished into the darkness with a low melancholy hoot? So overstrung indeed were the poor girl's nerves that she must have fled homewards in sheer terror of she knew not what, did not a stronger emotion impel her forward.

At last, however, the outskirts of the wood were reached; yonder through the trees she caught a glimpse of the grey, ivy-covered walls. How still all seemed! Even for the moment the distant cries of birds and beasts were hushed; the sound of her own footsteps alone broke the silence--a silence which had oppressed her ever since she had left the slumber-bound chateau. Her heart bounded as she hurried forward, looking, with eager eyes, to see the tall figure standing there with outstretched arms and welcoming whispers of love. It was strange that he had not heard her approach and hurried forth to greet her, as he had before, but still----

The wondering thought was suddenly checked as she stepped from the shadow of the trees into the moonlit space surrounding the forest chapel. All was as silent and untenanted as that first night when she and her lover had stood there glancing with half-scared looks towards the weird old ruin.

"Henri," she cried, and in the silence her voice seemed to ring shrill and clear, "Henri!"

A vague note of terror rang in the cry as she hurried with panting breath towards the ruin itself, telling herself that he might perchance have fallen asleep in his hiding-place. But no; no answer was returned to her cries; the chamber under the altar was empty and deserted. For a moment she stood there, paralyzed with fear, yet scarcely realizing what could have happened. It could not be that he was taken? She put the idea from her in agony. No, no, not that! How foolish she was!--how could he have been taken without the knowledge of Job or Marie? All day neither her father nor de Coray had left the castle, not even for their favourite hawking or boar hunting; no whisper of suspicion had been breathed in the hearing of either of her faithful servants; it had seemed, so Marie said, that all thought--if they thought at all--that the French knight had long since ridden away far beyond pursuit. Then a hundred eager suggestions filled her mind: he had gone to meet her as she came, and had missed his way; or perhaps, learning of some new danger, had been forced to fly without awaiting her coming. But a hurried search of the shed close by convinced her at least of the futility of this last idea, for Rollo still stood in his place, turning with a low whinny of inquiry to see if it was his master who had come with his evening meal.

"Alas! alas!" moaned Gwennola, fresh fears assailing her, as she turned once more towards the gloomy ruin, "what hath chanced? Oh, wherefore heeded he not my warning to fly yesternight? Ah, if----" She had stooped, with the last words on her lips, and, with the confirmation of her fears before her, raised from the ground a tiny cap decorated with one tiny bell--it was the cap of Petit Pierre, the fool's ape. "He is taken," whispered the girl to herself in a dull, unrealizing tone; "he is taken."

With dawning comprehension she gazed round with a shiver, picturing the scene which, like the vision of a crystal-gazer, began slowly but clearly to rise before her.

Here he had waited for her, unconscious of danger, with a smile on his lips and the love-light in his eyes, perchance in his folly humming the air of a ballad, as he had yesternight. Then through the trees treachery had stolen upon him, and where he had looked to see love, death himself had stalked grimly on the scene. She shuddered, covering her face with her hands, as if to shut out the sight of some terrible phantom. Yet for all that her restless brain conjured up before her unwilling eyes fresh scenes of terror; her father, stern, implacable, revengeful, as he remembered the fair-haired boy so cruelly done to death in that far-off wood of St Aubin, and beside him the true perpetrator of the deed, smiling, triumphant, full of cruel and evil suggestions and words, with the cunning, vacant face of Pierre the fool, gleeful at the part he had been doubtless paid to play, at his elbow; whilst the background was filled up with grim, curious faces, pitiless, for the most part, save where Job and Marie Alloadec stood fearful, and perchance weeping, yet not for his sake, but for hers. Alas! not one there to pity _him_, to look kindly on _him_; he was alone, surrounded by cruel enemies, with death standing in the shadows beside him--death, in all its hideous garb, without even the golden glamour of glory to hide its mocking features. A resolve to hasten back to the chateau and to stand beside the man she loved overcame the sense of faintness which at first threatened her, but even as she rose, with that aching pain of sorrow, too deep for tears, at her heart, a cold touch on her hand sent the blood throbbing back with a sudden frenzy of fear. The memory of the unrepentant friar who so grimly strolled around the earthly scene of his sins came vividly before her, and as she bent her eyes she fully expected to see them rest upon the shadowy cowl of the chapel's ghostly inhabitant. Instead it was the lean, grey form of the wolf-hound Gloire on which her eyes fell, meeting the beast's dumb, affectionate gaze with the thrill which sympathy in distress ever brings, even if that sympathy is but a dog's--perchance at times a truer and more helpful one than his human master's.

"Gloire," she whispered, bending down with a sudden impulse to kiss the shaggy, faithful head. "Ah, Gloire, how camest thou hither? Was it because thou knewest--wise beast!--that thy mistress was in sore need of a comforter, and alone in this terrible place, with a heart which, I fear me, must break ere dawn?"

The great animal whined as it licked her face, then suddenly drew back with a low, ominous growl as a rustle of branches near caught their ears. In an instant Gloire was transformed from the sympathizer into the outraged guardian, his grey hairs bristling, his teeth gleaming white from drawn-back gums, his whole aspect one of angry antagonism. But the quick footsteps, instead of coming up the path towards them, had turned aside, as if their owner were hastening towards the open heath beyond the forest. But Gloire was not minded to let even an unseen intruder go without his passport of approval, and, breaking loose from the gentle, restraining hand of his mistress, leapt forward, with an angry bay, in pursuit.

"Gloire, Gloire, come back!" cried Gwennola softly, in much alarm, as she hastened forward in the direction which the great hound had taken. "Shame on thee, Gloire! return instantly."

But Gloire was little minded to obey the gentle command, for he had already reached the open, and his quarry was in view.

It was a wild, picturesque scene, with a weird grimness in it which was to remain ever imprinted on Gwennola's memory. The clear moonlight shone over the vast tract of heath with the radiance of day, clumps of broom and gorse here and there casting black shadows in the white light. No sign of habitation was visible, naught seeming to flourish in this desolate region saving only briars and thistles. Here and there piles of stone, almost druidical in shape, lay scattered about, these, the people of the country affirming to be the houses of the Torrigans or Courils, wanton dwarfs, who at night bar your road, and force you to dance with them until you die of fatigue, whilst others declare that they are fairies, who, descending from the mountains, spinning, have brought away these rocks in their aprons. For the most part these shapeless monuments consisted of three or four standing stones with another laid flat on the top, and, seen by moonlight, presented a fantastic appearance, dotted as they were over the barren heath.

From the forest, where Gwennola stood, the ground stretched away in a sharp declivity, to rise again beyond, thus forming a small valley. It was down this valley that the figure of a man was seen flying, it would seem for very life, as indeed he was, though, perchance, scarcely yet aware of the fact, for behind him, swift upon his track, came Gloire, a gaunt, grey figure of doom, seen thus in the moonlight.

For a moment Gwennola stood uncertain, swiftly weighing in her mind what she had best do, but the man's peril decided her, and in imperious tones she called the hound to return. At the sound of her voice both man and dog paused, turning towards her for an instant, and with a throb of alarm the girl recognised in the clear moonlight the features of the man who had so suddenly sprung on to her path the day she returned through the forest from her visit to Mere Fanchonic.

It was not a face to be easily forgotten, with its red, stubbly beard, broad, flat nose, and bold, insolent eyes, and Gwennola, with an instinctive cry, had stepped back towards the shadow of the forest, when Gloire, with a sudden bay of fury, leapt forward, and, before he had time to spring aside or draw his sword, had borne the man backwards upon the ground, with his mighty fangs fixed firmly into his flesh.

Forgetful of herself at sight of the unexpected tragedy which was going forward before her eyes, Gwennola sped down the valley, crying frantically to Gloire to leave his unfortunate victim; but a very demon of rage seemed to have entered the great beast, and he continued furiously to rend his quarry, until, at Gwennola's approach, he crouched with a whine, which was half a growl, crept aside, and lay panting on the heath with gory jaws, and eyes which pleaded almost defiantly the excuse that he had done but his duty in defending her.

Meantime, with a shudder of horror, Gwennola knelt beside the mangled figure, even then her thoughts flying back in agony to that judgment hall at the Chateau de Mereac. But torn as she was with the desire to be beside the man she loved, her womanly pity forbade her to forsake the obviously dying wretch who lay panting out his life before her.

With her dainty kerchief she softly wiped away the froth of blood upon his lips, and hastily fetched water from a pool close by to bathe his brow, for it was evident that, dying as the unfortunate man was, he fought stubbornly to regain power of speech before he passed out into the land of silence and mystery.

It was a terrible sight to the poor girl, scarcely more than a child, to witness this death-struggle of a strong man, brought thus swiftly to his end, and the terror was enhanced by the eeriness of both time and place. But Gwennola was no nervous, timorous woman to start at her own shadow; born of a hardy, undaunted race, in rough and warlike times she did not shrink from the spectacle of death, grim and terrible as it was. The nervous fears of superstition, too, which had haunted her an hour ago, had passed with this awful reality of suffering.

Presently the man's gasping breath became calmer, and though the death sweat stood out thickly on his brow, he appeared to be capable of both thought and speech.

"Mademoiselle?" he gasped with an upward look of inquiry.

"De Mereac," she said gently, raising his head and resting it upon her knee, whilst she, wiped the sweat from his brow. "Is there aught you would tell me, poor fellow? or shall we not rather pray together for your soul, since here is no priest to shrive you?"

"My soul," muttered the man with a groan. "He had that long since--my soul," and he smiled mockingly into the fair face bent over him. "Nay," he continued with another groan; "'tis ill to jest in death's own face, though I have laughed in outwitting him many a time before, but yon devil hath brought me to bay at last, though I'll not go without my revenge."

He muttered the last words over several times, as if trying to recollect something, then continued to speak rapidly and pantingly, as one who, having raced, would fain deliver his message without delay; and, verily, it was a grim race he ran, with death swift on his heels to cut the tale short.