Part 8

"Nay, my son," interrupted Father Ambrose gently, "beware how you pass unjust sentence on a man whom my soul telleth me is innocent. Nay, frown not, but listen to the warning of an old man, who from early youth hath learnt to read men's hearts. Have I not but now listened to the confessions of one about to pass to the judgment of One with Whom no deception is possible? and in the face of eternity itself would he look back upon his fellow-men with lies upon his lips? I tell thee, no, Sieur de Mereac, no, a hundred times! And so I tell thee, that having read the secrets of this man's soul, I find him innocent of the crime whereof he is accused."

"Nay, my father," interrupted de Coray with a sneer, "you speak well, but, bethink you, it was _I_ who saw this man strike the very blow which he so glibly denies; _I_ who saw him creep so treacherously behind my poor kinsman--the noble young Yvon--and cleave him from brow to chin ere he could turn to see his foe; _I_----"

"Liar!"

The single word rang down the hall like the challenging blast of a trumpet, as all turned to see standing there against the tapestry the tall, gaunt figure of a man.

*CHAPTER X*

For a few minutes there reigned a breathless silence. All eyes seemed indeed riveted on that strange, emaciated figure, which half leant, as if for support, against Gwennola's slender form as she stood beside him, her pale face flushed now rosy red with joy and triumph, as she glanced from the bound, helpless figure between the soldiers towards her father.

The Sieur de Mereac had risen, and was standing, one trembling hand clutching the back of his chair, the other shading his eyes, as if the flickering torchlight blinded his sight, as he gazed in mute wonder towards the speaker. Then, as the blue eyes met the black with an up-leaping light of recognition, another cry, more faltering, yet trembling with a very wonderment of joy, rang out in the silence--

"Yvon! Yvon! my boy! my boy!"

For the time all were forgotten: prisoners, accusers, false and true; to the old man striding forwards with outstretched arms, the world, for the moment, contained nothing but that haggard, dishevelled figure, and the blue eyes of his long-lost, long-mourned son.

"Father," cried Yvon with a sob, as he staggered forward to meet him. "Father, at last!"

De Coray had sprung to his feet with an oath, half fury, half dismay, as Yvon de Mereac sent down his challenge through the hall.

Little as he had dreamt that his blow had not been fatal in that dark wood of St Aubin du Cormier, he was sufficiently keen-witted to vaguely guess the sequel, his conclusion being more easily drawn from the fact of the unexplained presence of his old comrade and late enemy, Francois Kerden. Without giving himself time or trouble to fit into its place every piece of the puzzle, he grasped the meaning of the whole, and realized that it was indeed Yvon de Mereac who stood before him, and also that his own position was one of imminent danger.

These calculations passed like lightning through his ready mind as he looked eagerly round for means of escape. None noticed him or his movements, all attention being fixed on the two central figures of the little drama. All indeed but one, for, as he turned, he encountered the sympathetic and comprehensive gaze of Pierre the fool. That the strange, dwarfed jester had evinced an unaccountable devotion for him had puzzled de Coray more than once, little used as he had ever been to be loved for his own sake, and he was more than half inclined to treat the little fellow's overtures with suspicion. But in the present crisis it would be well to have even a fool for a friend rather than an enemy, and de Coray, obeying Pierre's obvious signs, crept unseen behind the tapestry.

"Quick, monsieur!" whispered the boy in his ear. "You are as yet unperceived, but we must not delay. To your right, monsieur, so--there is a passage there which leadeth to the chapel. Methinks few know it but I myself. The outer postern is unguarded; we can escape to the forest."

Not unwilling to be guided by so ready an ally, de Coray followed, his hand, however, on his sword, ready to draw it should he have cause to suspect treachery. But Pierre had apparently no such intention, and ere many minutes had elapsed they had both reached the shelter of the forest.

Scarcely knowing whither he went, de Coray hurried along by the boy's side, black rage in his heart as he recalled how swiftly the tables had been turned upon him by the girl whom he had intended to force into marriage with him, and how complete had been her triumph. Only five minutes more, and at least one witness against him would have been removed from his path, the only witness indeed that he need have feared, trusting to his ready wit to weave some fresh fiction to account for his error in supposing Yvon de Mereac dead. Now, he felt, even in the moment of flight, that by so escaping he was severing the last possibility of deceiving his uncle into disbelief of the Frenchman's word, coupled as it was by Yvon's reappearance. Yet he dared not stay, for behind all lay the risk of Kerden's discovery and subsequent confession, which might well damn him beyond hope of redress, and perchance bring him within reach of the noose which he had hoped to see tightening round the neck of an innocent man.

Well might de Coray feel blank despair clutching him as he began the more clearly to realize the hopelessness of his position were he captured--and yet such capture was imminent. Once persuaded of his treachery, he was assured that de Mereac would leave no stone unturned to find and bring him to justice, and that such persuasion would be easy he doubted not, seeing that his own flight sealed his guilt.

"Fool," he cried angrily, as he suddenly halted on the forest path which they were treading, "where dost thou lead me? I tell thee that there will be pursuit, and I, wandering on foot here, alone, must needs be captured without hope of escape." And in his fury he turned on the dwarfed lad, who stood looking up at him with a face on which cunning and fear were mingled with a strange, half-comic expression of dog-like devotion.

"Nay, monsieur," said Pierre deprecatingly, as he spread forth his hands as if to arrest the movement which de Coray made to draw his sword. "Fool though I be, monsieur shall find that I have yet some wisdom in this thick skull of mine." And he nodded his head gravely as he tapped his forehead. "Yes," he said thoughtfully, "Pierre the fool has eyes, also ears, and he says to monsieur, 'Hasten, quickly, for there is safety only in flight.'"

"Safety!" echoed de Coray bitterly; "ay, fool's safety, I trow, such as I merit for entrusting myself to thy guidance. How, forsooth, Sir Wise Fool, wouldst have me escape de Mereac's fleet steeds and keen blades? Thinkest thou that he and his retainers are as dull of wit and sight as thou art, thou ape of iniquity?"

The lad shrank back as if struck by a lash, putting up his thin hands as though to protect himself from a blow.

"Ah, monsieur, listen," he moaned, "and be not angry with one who would die for you. Nay!" he added eagerly, stung by de Coray's sneer, "monsieur _shall_ believe. See, far in the depths of the forest is a hut, small but well sheltered; it is there that my sister Gabrielle dwells, who blesses monsieur's name nightly in her prayers for the money which saved us from misery when the hunger-wolf knocked loudly at the door but a few days since. In this hut monsieur will be safely hidden for, perchance, a few hours only, whilst Pierre the fool watcheth to see whither his enemies ride; then, when danger lies with her back to him, monsieur will mount and ride to where he will be in safety."

De Coray's brow cleared, though he looked doubtfully into the puckered, upturned face, as if still suspicious.

"If thou betrayest me thou shalt die, boy," he said menacingly; then, in a kinder tone, "nevertheless, if all goes as thou sayest, and I escape, Guillaume de Coray shall be found neither an ungenerous nor forgetful master."

With a shrewd smile the jester stooped to kiss the hand outstretched to him, then, drawing himself up, said, with the simple dignity of his race, be they noble or peasant--

"Monsieur, I too am a Breton."

"Lead on," said de Coray peremptorily---"for the rest, we shall see."

The wolves, which still howled dismally in distant parts of the forest, did not molest the two travellers as they hurried on their way, though from time to time de Coray started with all the nervousness of a guilty man as a bough or twig snapped under their feet or a night bird brushed their faces in the darkness with her wings.

Dawn was already faintly tinging the sky in the far east when Pierre halted before the door of a hut so quaintly built against an overhanging crag of rock as to be easily passed by unobserved.

"See, monsieur," he said thoughtfully, "it will not be well to enter now; it may be that ere long the enemies of monsieur will think of the hut of Pierre the fool, for there are those who know not only of it, but of the love I bear you; therefore it were best to seek shelter till day arrives in a secure hiding-place. Tenez, monsieur, behold such an one as will mock those who pursue!" And with pride the boy showed a deep fissure in the crag close by, so carefully concealed that a man might lie in perfect safety between the two high boulders without fear of detection. "Monsieur will rest here till danger has passed," observed Pierre, waving a lean hand towards the fissure of rock with the air of a host who invites his guest to partake of his sumptuous hospitality, "and afterwards the little Gabrielle will keep watch, as also she will tend to the needs of monsieur."

"And for yourself?" demanded de Coray sharply, even now distrustful.

The jester shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands with a gesture of self-importance.

"For myself, monsieur, I return to the chateau, for it were not well that I should be missed. Be assured, monsieur, that my ears and eyes will be open, so that in the evening when I return there may be news which will guide you on your journey."

"Journey!" exclaimed de Coray bitterly; "a long and safe journey, I trow, with neither horse nor provision for the way; 'twill be a journey into the arms of my good uncle, I ween, and, by the beard of St Gildas, I trow his embrace will be scarce to my liking."

But Pierre shook his head with an air of superior wisdom.

"Monsieur misjudges me," he said reproachfully. "Pierre the fool is surely less fool than the words of monsieur imply. This evening when I return I will bring a horse fleet and sure-footed, also news of the pursuit of monsieur's enemies; the rest, if monsieur rides with caution, will be altogether easy."

The lad's words were reassuring, his manner simple and straightforward, and, in spite of the inward misgivings, which must ever haunt a man whose own ways are crooked when they are fain to entrust themselves to the honour of another, de Coray was forced, for very necessity, to accept Pierre's apparently honest promises of assistance. Yet, shut up in his gloomy hiding-place, the traitor felt the inward qualms and fears growing rapidly, coupled as they were with the dread of capture. A swift review of his broken schemes showed him how small a hope of mercy there must needs be did he fall into his outraged kinsman's hands.

The tissue of lies which he had woven around d'Estrailles and Gwennola de Mereac would now wing themselves against him and prove fresh voices of accusation as his true motives and own deadly deeds were brought to view. As he thought of all he could not but glance with some vague dread on that shrouded past of his. Little did any guess the traitor's way he had trodden so blithely since youth. With a shame which was yet half-mocking pride at his own shrewdness and cunning, he recalled how he, a noble of Brittany, had been content to become a tool in the hands of the infamous Landais, and yet, whilst earning a rich reward for his services, had escaped sharing his low-born master's fate, when an outraged and too long-suffering people had taken the law into their own hands and hanged the tyrant in defiance of their Sovereign Duke. Then he recalled, lying there looking back over the past, how he had bethought him of his kinsfolk of Mereac, and, riding westward, had come, like some ill-omened bird, to prey on an inheritance which he found well to his liking. The treacherous death of the young heir had seemed to him a master stroke of cunning, and no sooner had he deemed it safely accomplished than he set to work to ingratiate himself with the old Sieur and his daughter.

But Gwennola had proved a stumbling-block to his ambitions, and conceiving that her father, who was devoted to this sole surviving child, would be likely to leave her whatever fortune it was possible to divide from the inheritance of his lands, he decided to wed her--not that he loved her; but, bah! what did that matter? Neither did it concern him that the maiden took no pains to conceal her hatred of him. It pleased the inherent cruelty of his nature to cause pain, and it delighted him to watch the shudder that shook her when he alluded, with mock devotion, to their union. For the scorn he endured at her hands he promised himself a charming and protracted revenge when she was his wife. Now, to his chagrin, his dreams were in an instant shattered, and, instead of the presumptive heir and honoured guest, he found himself a hunted murderer, condemned already without trial, and all, he bitterly told himself, through the machinations of a puling girl and her lover--a lover whom he had been on the brink of consigning to a felon's grave as reward for his inopportune presence at Mereac.

Thus pondering, de Coray fell into a heavy slumber, out-wearied by the events of a long and unpleasantly exciting day, nor did he awake till the warm rays of the sun struck downwards, sending long, bright shafts of light almost to the heart of the dark shadows of his hiding-place.

Consumed with hunger and thirst, still it was some time before he could summons up sufficient courage to creep forth from his lair. It was a day of dazzling sunshine, which illuminated even the depths of that grey and gloomy forest, and for a moment de Coray stood there, blinking, like some suddenly disturbed owl, before his sight grew accustomed to the brilliant glare. Presently, however, he became aware of a girl's slim figure seated in the doorway of the hut, beside her spinning wheel. A pretty enough picture was thus formed--the dark background of forest, the quaint and dilapidated woodland hut, and stray rays of golden glory lighting up the figure in the foreground, in its picturesque dress and cap of a Breton peasant girl, a dress which set off to perfection the beauty of the face bent low over the humming wheel. It was in fact the face rather of a Madonna than a mere peasant, for the beauty lay not only, or chiefly, in the delicate oval of her cheeks, the regularity of her features, or the glossy luxuriance of the long plaits of black hair which fell over her shoulders, but in the soft and tender expression of her lips and dark eyes, which were swiftly raised to meet de Coray's curious gaze.

A sudden flush of joy, rather than maidenly bashfulness, crimsoned the girl's cheeks as she rose hastily, and with a deep curtsy welcomed her visitor.

To his surprise, de Coray found himself treated with a respect and gratitude wholly unlocked for. It was evident that her brother had breathed no word of his patron's true character or the reason of his present difficulties, but instead had sung such praises into his simple sister's ears that she looked upon de Coray in the light of some poor, persecuted saint.

If is a strange experience thus to be taken for what one is too obviously not, and de Coray listened, half amused, half pleased, to her shy, faltering words of gratitude.

The suspicions which had lurked around his heart as to the trustworthiness of his little ally faded away before the clear truth of his sister's dark eyes, and involuntarily he made an effort to assume the role which she had given him so innocently. It was the wolf in sheep's clothing once more, but this time the wolf was more anxious to hide his own dark skin than to devour the trusting lamb.

So, after the meal was over, they sat there together, those two ill-assorted companions, whilst in still shy but more confiding sentences Gabrielle related to her visitor the simple story of her life. It was so simple, so humble, yet, as he sat there by her side, watching the innocent beauty of her face and listening to her murmured words, interrupted as they were by an occasional burst of bird song from the whispering woodlands around, it seemed a very idyll of beauty.

The glamour of an entirely new experience had crept over the cruel, scheming man of many crimes as he sat there waiting for the twilight to fall, the glamour which hangs around the days of early childhood and innocence, and seems to whisper of things holy and beautiful. It thrilled him with a new sense of what life might be, and made him shrink back appalled from what his had already been.

It was shame, and yet not without its sweetness, to see himself mirrored in this peasant girl's eyes as a noble knight whose goodness and untarnished honour had been already the theme of her girlish thoughts, and he almost shivered as he pictured how the light of reverence and admiration would fade from her sweet face did she know the truth.

"Ah, monsieur," murmured Gabrielle as she paused in her busy work to look across to where he was sitting, "my heart aches to think of the cruelty of those who seek to do you harm, nor can I conceive how one so good and noble as the Sieur de Mereac could be so deceived by lying tongues."

De Coray shrugged his shoulders. "Nay, mademoiselle," he said carelessly, "doubtless in time the noble Sieur will find out his error and regret his hasty judgment; for the rest, if I can but ride in safety to my own chateau at Pontivy, I shall not forget the succour which you and your brother have bestowed."

"Nay," cried the girl softly, "monsieur must not speak of reward for what it has been our joy to give; monsieur has already saved us from want, for, see, I was sick--I could do but little spinning--and my brother had but small money to bestow on me, until monsieur, in the generosity of his heart, gave him much silver, for which may our Lady and all the saints for ever bless you, monsieur, and deliver you from the hands of cruel men."

"Nay," said de Coray gallantly, "methinks, fair maid, one of the sweetest saints hath already undertaken my deliverance."

She looked at him innocently, not comprehending the compliment he intended to convey, seeing that her thoughts were not of herself, but for him.

And so they sat there, talking softly, as the spell and glamour of the moment bade them, and she told him with the simplicity of a child how she lived here alone in the forest hut, all alone, spinning for the most part, for she was lame and could walk but little, and how her brother Pierre would come often to see her, when it was possible. And at Pierre's name her eyes grew tender, for her love for him was great. Ah! the poor little Pierre!--he who would have been so gallant a soldier had it not been for his affliction. The poor Pierre! It had been long ago that the Sieur de Mereac, hunting in his forests, had passed the little hut where Francois Laurent lived with his wife and two children, and alas! the little Pierre, playing out there in the sunshine, had paused to gaze at the gay trappings of the cavalcade rather than run to the safe shelter of his mother's arms, so that one of the horses had struck him down underfoot and injured his spine.

That was the story of poor Pierre; that was why instead of a strong-limbed, gallant man, he must shuffle through life as the crooked, puny Pierre the fool. It is true the Sieur de Mereac regretted what had happened, and when Pierre was old enough he had taken him into his service, and finding the sharp-faced lad had a wit of his own, had made him jester, with Petit Pierre the ape for company.

But for herself? de Coray asked. Had she no fear dwelling alone in so desolate a hut, with nothing but the howlings of wolves and the wailings of the wind to keep her company?

The little Gabrielle smiled. Surely not! How could she fear, when the Blessed Mother of God and all the holy saints were near to protect her from evil? So simple, childish innocence argued with guilt and crime, which go ever hand in hand with fear and terror; and again, de Coray, looking into her great, dark eyes, felt a thrill of joy that she did not know him for what he was; for truly, had he spent that long day of secret fears and suspense with an angel from heaven, no softer or more purifying hand could have been lain on the hardened blackness of his heart, causing it to leap with a sudden vague, yet momentary yearning towards what was pure, noble, and good.

So the twilight fell, and neither Pierre nor his enemies had come; but as the dim, mysterious time of shadows passed into the darkness of night, the two watchers saw through the trees the approaching figure of a boy leading a horse by its bridle.

"It is Pierre!" cried Gabrielle joyfully, and rose from her work, though she waited still in the doorway till her brother came towards her, smiling his welcome first into her flushed, glad face, before he turned to de Coray.

"Monsieur," he said, bowing low with a sweep of his tall fool's cap, which seemed more mockery than deference, though perchance he meant it not--"monsieur, all is well. The enemies of monsieur ride towards Nantes and Angers; it is evident that they have forgotten so humble an abode as that of Pierre the fool. Moreover, methinks they scarce suspect me of assisting you, seeing that I was found sleeping this morning between the good hounds Gloire and Reine."

"And the forest?" questioned de Coray eagerly.

"That also they have searched, monsieur, though it is evident not yet with sufficient care; my lord indeed hath commanded that every corner of Brittany be searched till you are found, and hath offered a goodly reward for your capture, but for the present he himself is too much occupied with attending upon Monsieur Yvon to direct the search in person."

De Coray smiled, casting a side glance towards Gabrielle, who had entered the hut to prepare supper, as he added in a lower key--

"Heardst aught, my friend, of one Kerden? In their search for me did they light, perchance, on a man who bears that name, who methinks might even now be haunting yon woods?"

Pierre glanced up to meet his patron's inquiry with a look as shrewd as de Coray's own.

"Monsieur," he said simply, "it appears that this Kerden will no longer haunt the forest of Arteze in the flesh, and if all be true of which men talk at the chateau, the devil will have been too swift in bearing off his spirit to its own place to leave it chance of roaming yonder at nightfall."

"Dead?" echoed de Coray, with a long-drawn sigh of relief. "Thou art sure of it?"

"Verily," retorted Pierre, "if the word of mademoiselle, and the bloody jaws of Gloire are sufficiently to be trusted. The hound killed him, so 'tis said, out yonder on the heath, where the courils dance on moonlit nights; but monsieur will be wise to delay no longer. See, the horse is a good one, and fresh too; there are also provisions for a journey, though methinks they were prepared for other jaws to consume than those of monsieur, but they will taste none the less sweet for that." And the strange lad chuckled gleefully over his jest.