CHAPTER XIX.

WHERE IS DE BOIS-VALLÉE?

Andrew thanked God for one thing! He was near the wall, near the spot outside which the horse stood. Down through an opening a little way ahead of him he could see the three trees--the shadow which they cast being directly under them now as the moon rose higher--a hundred feet to the left, and there was the wall and the branches of the tree by which he had descended! But--could he reach them?

The dogs were nearer now--their eyes scintillating less as they approached more closely, but their grunting and soughing as they sniffed the earth more distinct. They would be upon him soon--in another moment or so--and then!

Still, he ran as hard as the thick growth of the trees and the underbrush would allow him; once he stumbled and nearly fell, recovered himself, and, as he did so, saw them--saw their dark forms close behind him! Yet, now, he was near the spot where safety lay. Only--he was too late!

As they rushed at him he sprang behind a tree--it would save him for an instant!--and one of the brutes tore past it ahead of its companion, and went on some paces ere it could stop the impetus it had upon it. The other came full at him.

"Now," he murmured, "now, God give me courage!" and as the beast came he thrust full with his sword at its breast, and just as it reared to drag him down. Then he felt his weapon torn from his grasp, wrenched from out that great brawny hand as no human foe had ever yet had power to wrench it--but it was by the falling body of the hound, pierced through and through. The good sword had entered the animal's breast and come out close by its spine; as the dog fell, with a hideous roar, the weight of its body carried the sword within that body to the earth. Yet, he knew there was no time to waste; in spite of the dying creature's snappings and plungings at him--its ferocity as great in death, if not greater, as in life--he must regain his sword. Otherwise he would have to use the pistol on the second dog, and thereby give a signal to the men, whom the beasts had far outstripped, as to his whereabouts.

By the grace of heaven the dying creature had fallen on its back, the hilt of his sword protruded from its chest; in a moment he had seized it and drawn it forth--never before had Andrew been forced to so exert his strength to release his weapon from the body of a prostrate foe! It seemed as though it were wedged in wood! But, now, he was ready for the other! And, leaping back, he stood on his guard against those monstrous claws and the hideous white fangs that gleamed in what light there was; the body of the convulsive creature between him and the other hound.

Yet there happened that which he could not have hoped for--could never have dreamt of nor anticipated. His wildest expectations, even had he had time to think in those exciting moments, could never have pictured this.

The animal--it was the female--paused in its onward rush astonished--almost, it would appear, dismayed--at the sight of its fallen companion; then walked round it--crawled round it, indeed--sniffing, and lifting its head next, and emitting a loud and long howl. It seemed as if its agony was so great that all else was forgotten--even Andrew, its quarry.

Slowly, therefore, he backed away from it, keeping ever his eye upon the moaning, grief-stricken creature--taking care, too, that his reeking sword was ready for thrusting out at any sudden attack made, and also taking care to have ever some tree in front of him as he retreated, which might ward off for the moment any rapid rush. Yet, moving swiftly backwards all the time, for now he heard other sounds coming near--the sounds of men talking hurriedly to each other and calling the names of the hounds; above all others, the harsh rasping voice of Beaujos, if it were he, being the most distinct.

At last his back was to the wall that bounded the domain. Propelling himself sideways along it, and facing always towards the quarter whence the attack must come if renewed by the stricken beast, he felt the leather of his jacket scraping against the tendrils of the ivy with which the wall was overgrown; a few more seconds and he was by the tree that had helped him to descend. And his horse whinnied as he sent a whispered word over the wall to it--whinnied and moved; he could hear its hoofs striking the earth as though the creature rejoiced at his return.

Another moment and he would be safe. His hands were on the lower branches; he was drawing himself up level with the top of the wall, when there came an awful roar and the crash of the dog's great body tearing through the brush after him, while an instant later it had reached the spot--was close by the escaping man. And the horse, affrighted by these sounds, neighed piteously in its terror.

But Andrew was safe. As the huge jaws clashed together at the same time that the hound sprang at him, and, missing his mark, hurled itself heavily against the wall in its onrush--while, at the same time, it uttered a grunt of pain--he was on the ledge. Another instant, and he was in the saddle. Another, and the bridle chains were clanking and his saddle creaking merrily as he went down the road and left behind him the noise of the yelling and shouting of the five men--caused, doubtless, by the discovery of the dead hound.

He wiped the sweat from off his face and hands as he rode along, while inwardly he sent up a devout prayer of thanksgiving for his preservation.

"Heaven defend me from such another encounter," he muttered. "It is too much! Henceforward, send me only men, not brutes." Yet, because he loved all animals--especially those of the noblest orders--his heart was sore within him, both at the slaying of the first hound and at the pitiable grief of its mate. "I have killed a nobler creature than the master it owned; at least, it faced me, rushed boldly to its fate--but where is that shrinking, unworthy master? May fortune grant that, when next I see him, my sword makes as clean a passage through his breast as through that of his dog."

Where was his foe? He had pondered upon that more than once since the time he had brought his eye to the large and worn keyhole, and had seen through it only that foe's menials. Where? Surely if he had been in his house he must have been aroused by the baying of the dogs and the excitement and noise of his servants--must have joined in the search made by them. Yet, of all the voices, Andrew had not heard his.

"He must be away--for some reason he has not remained here long--what does it mean? Did he fly his post by Turenne's side for other purposes than his fear of me, and of what he imagined I had learnt--does he even dread now to remain in his own fortress--for such it almost is! It must be so. Had he been there to-night the turmoil would surely have roused him--brought him forth--and----" at which thought Andrew smiled. "He could not have suspected I was there, however. Even his men can but have supposed the intruder was some midnight thief, or poacher, creeping about the house."

He passed through Remiremont as it lay sleeping quietly under the moon's rays, and with no light glimmering from any windows except that of the inn--from which, even now, at midnight, came forth the eternal chant of "_Lorraine, Lorraine, ma douce patrie_," and he would have given something considerable for a drink of wine, or even of water, to quench the thirst which his late adventure had created. But he knew he must forego it until he reached Plombières--the road he was upon came only from Bois-le-Vaux; to halt here would be to give a clue as to what kind of man had been within its precincts that night, should inquiry be made the next day.

Instead, therefore, he went quietly by the auberge, riding slowly so as to make no more clatter than necessary, and looking carefully as he passed to see if any face came to the window or any form to the door. But none did; the provincial song drowned the sound of the horse's hoofs, and he went through the village unheeded.

And then, once on the little pass that led from Remiremont to Plombières, he put his animal to the trot again, and so reached the latter place as the church clock tolled one, finding some of De Vaudemont's men still drinking and singing, and some lying about on the settles and benches, their carousals over for that occasion.

In the morning he told Jean--who had spent the night in Plombières at another inn with some acquaintances who were also back from the war for the winter--all that had happened to him, and the latter appeared much struck by the encounter with the hounds. Yet, he shook his head, too, on hearing of the conclusion of the adventure, and muttered a few words as to the effect of its being "a pity."

"What is a pity?" asked Andrew, looking up from his plate. They were alone now, for most of the De Vaudemont men had already set out for the outlying villages to which they belonged, others were not yet risen, and others, still, were wandering about Plombières chatting with friends and acquaintances, and beginning another day of wassailing. Therefore, they had the living-room of the inn to themselves.

"What is a pity?"

"That also you did not slay the second dog, I know the breed, though I knew not that the _scélérat_, De Bois-Vallée, possessed any. They are mountain dogs--old Cantecroix--whose daughter was affianced, if not married, to the Duke--some do say that she was his lawful wife--bred them, up at Gerardmer. One scarce knows, though, what this strain is--the old man would never tell--but they are terribly fierce, as monsieur has learned. Also, their scent is remarkable; they never forget those they have once smelt, and----"

But here he broke off and put a question.

"Monsieur intends to visit Bois-le-Vaux again?"

"Without doubt I do. Only, next time in a different way."

"You should have slain the other. She will remember you."

"_Peste_, man! how could I slay her? I was on the branch--on the wall--as she reached me; my sword is not a mile long, and it would have been folly to shoot. The men were near; the report would have brought them to us--and I was saved. That was enough."

"All the same, 'tis a pity. The dog should be dead ere monsieur goes again. Of a surety she will smell him out if he is in or about the house. And, when she scents him, she will go nigh mad in her desire to reach him; will make noise enough to wake the dead."

"Humph!" said Andrew. "Perhaps 'tis a pity, too, since such is the case. Yet, 'tis too late now. There is nothing to be done."

"Ho, la, la!" exclaimed the other, "'tis not yet too late. She can be made away with. There are more ways than one of killing a dog."

For a minute or so Andrew reflected on the man's words. Reflected, because it was repugnant to him that the creature should be put out of the way--a creature who, although a brute, was a noble one. Yet, must her life stand in the way of what he had to accomplish--must he spare the hound and, thereby, fail in what he had to do, namely, to find his way to Marion Wyatt, to avenge his brother? No! If the animal stood between him and his task, better she perished a hundred times--better a hundred noble animals perished than that he should fail.

"She is certain to remember me--to discover my presence there when I return--you think?" he asked, still touched with regret at the necessity for her fate.

"I do not think. I am sure."

"How to do it, then?"

"Leave that to me, I will do it. To-day, I will go to my cousin--we had best know what they conclude from the affray last night--and then I shall find my chance. To-morrow, or the day after, the dog will have gone to join its mate. When next you visit Bois-le-Vaux you will not have her to contend with for one."

Andrew would not ask him in what way the creature was to be destroyed, though he imagined it was by the simple method of poison; he preferred that he should simply learn later that it was removed from his path. He had seen enough of the alertness of both it and its mate to thoroughly understand how keen their senses were--they had discovered his presence outside on the _place_ when not one of the human sleepers had been disturbed; also, he had had solid proofs of their fierceness. And, if now, to that fierceness and that keenness, was to be added also the certainty that the dog would be doubly alert through its previous knowledge of him, it must be removed. The lives of countless noble hounds must not stand in his way, he thought again.

"So," he said, therefore, "it must be. Let me know ere I go there once more that it is done. Also, bid Laurent meet me here as soon as may be. I have work for him--need his assistance."

"To enter Bois-le-Vaux--the house this time, perhaps?"

"Ay, the house this time."

"You do not count nor dread the risk?"

"I dread nothing. As for counting, it is done. I count my life against the undertaking. One or the other will rise uppermost. Either the undertaking succeeds, or I fail. If I fail, the price of failure will be, must be, death."

"Monsieur is very brave," said Jean, looking at him with eyes full of admiration.

"He is very determined," Andrew answered. "That is all."

"And," the man asked, after a moment's pause, "the instructions are the same? If you come not back soon--in a day or so--we are to be sure you are dead? Then, to take our own way."

"Remembering always the woman's safety."

"That always."

After which Andrew told him there was one other thing he desired to know ere paying his next visit to the house, namely, where De Bois-Vallée was! If that could be discovered it would be useful intelligence to him. Did he think he could find out?

He could try, at least, Jean said. And, though gone, he might be able to find out where the Vicomte was. He could, he thought, discover whether he was at home or not.

"Do that," said Andrew, "and it will suffice."