CHAPTER XXV.

THE UNEXPECTED

Lying on his couch--if the bare floor and the rug upon which he found himself could be called such--Andrew began to perceive that whatever hurt he might have taken in the affray of the hall was leaving him. He had long since, in the passage of one weary hour after another, discovered that the wound which had rendered him insensible was not serious, and that the blow had not proceeded from the pistol which had been fired in his face. On the contrary, it was certain that he had been struck down from behind, at the moment that weapon exploded, by either some bludgeon or sword wielded by one of the servitors, and that, beyond this, he had received little harm. As for the pain in his shoulder--that did, indeed, proceed from the pistol bullet which had grazed his collar-bone, but had done no further injury.

And, now, in spite of his hard bed and poor nourishment--for nothing beyond the jug of water and the platter of bread was ever given him--he still found himself returning to strength and health. His mind had cleared also, as he perceived when he was able to so work upon the feelings of the maddened woman who had visited him--he felt he was ready to resist his doom in whatever form it might approach him. Nay, more, that he was ready to combat and avoid that doom should any opportunity arise of doing so.

Yet, he asked himself again and again as he lay there, how was the resistance to be offered! How? He was chained, and at the top of the house. There was no exit that way. Doubtless, those who had carried him up to this garret while he was insensible remembered that; calculated also that, even though the chain had not been about his leg and securely rivetted to the floor, he had no chance of escape. The chasm was impassable and there was no other mode of egress, since, never again, would he be allowed to reach the lower part of the house unobserved.

The woman had come no more by the time that he supposed a day and a night must have passed since she visited him, or, if she had come, he had not known it. Yet he had found the water replenished again in the vase by his side, and the empty platter filled with bread.

Therefore he knew this must have been done when he slept, and, doubtless, done in the dark. Otherwise he would have been awakened by the glare of the light!

But now, having discovered that this had happened, he resolved that it should not do so again. It was contrary to all his military ideas to be thus surprised without knowing it; repugnant also to him to be thus visited by some enemy, or some creature of his particular enemy. It should not be repeated, he vowed.

To prevent any such further unknown visitation, he raised himself into a sitting posture and stretched out his hand for the stone pitcher which stood by his side, when, grasping it round the neck, he drew it towards him. He meant to sleep when next slumber came to him with his hand around it, and to place the platter beneath his arms. Thereby, unless they were left untouched and fresh supplies put in their place, it would be impossible for his food and drink to be replenished without his knowing it, as well as being awakened. And, should it be the woman who thus replenished them, it might happen that he could wile her into conversation, might, indeed, by working upon her feelings, induce her to say something that should give him a clue as to what fate was before him.

Thinking this, he drew the vessel towards him, when, to his amazement, he found that it struck against and moved something lying on the floor; something that, when he had previously raised the jug to his lips directly from the floor, he had not observed. Something long and thin that slid on the boards with a scraping sound.

To his further intense astonishment as he grasped the object, he found it was a sword in its scabbard. A moment later he knew it was his own sword.

There was no doubt about it. He could recognize his own long curled quillon amongst a thousand, knew the particular shape of the steel hook by which he fastened his leather-slashed "carriage," or _porte épée_, to his belt; knew also the feel and grip of the handle. It was his own sword, the one that, below, had dropped from his numbed hand as the bludgeon, or other weapon, had struck him down at the same time that the flash from the pistol had blinded him.

"What does it mean?" he whispered to himself, as, lovingly, he ran his finger along the keen, sharp blade. "What? That I am to have a chance for life even though against tremendous odds; even though outnumbered. Ha! well, no matter! Better that, with this true friend to my hand, than poison or a swift fall down that hellish shaft to regions unknown. Far better that, with you in my grasp," and he thrust the blade back into its scabbard. Yet, cheered as he was by discovering this good servant by his side once more, a moment's reflection told him how, even now, it was of little use to him. Rivetted to the floor was one end of the accursed chain that held him fast--with that about his ankle what could he do even though armed?

"Kill one or two, 'tis true," he mused, "even as they come at me. Kill them, run them through, as once I saw a Turk at Choczim kill four men, while he lay on the ground with both his legs torn off beneath the knee by one of Sobieski's cannonballs. Well! even so, 'tis best. Best to die fighting, causing as many as I can to travel the same dark road I go upon. Far best." And, hugging his sword to him, he lay back and pondered on who could have done him so fair a service as this.

"The woman, without doubt," he thought. "The poor mad, distracted thing. It may be that she deems I shall be the instrument of vengeance on the son of the man who threw her off, and so provided me the wherewithal."

Still thinking over all this, and musing, as he had mused more than once in the long lonely hours spent in the darkness, on what could have caused Laurent to either cut, or permit to be cut, the rope which would have saved him and Marion Wyatt--would have opened the door to their freedom--wondering, also, if he had been suddenly attacked from behind--perhaps slain--Andrew dropped off once more into a gentle slumber. Though now, with the sword to one hand, and with the other round the pitcher's neck, while the bread platter lay beneath his arm.

Dropped off into a slumber from which he was awakened by hearing a step upon the ladder, and by the room becoming suddenly lit up by the rays of an approaching lanthorn. The lanthorn carried by the woman whom he deemed distraught.

Because he thought that, after all, she might not be the one who, in her mercy, had placed his weapon by his side, he pushed it beneath his body so that, if such were the case, it might be possible she would not observe it; then he leant over towards where she was advancing to him and regarded her fixedly, looking straight into her full, wandering eyes.

"So, madame," he said, "you visit me again. Is't on some errand of pity that you come--or to tell me my fate?"

For a moment she answered nothing--standing motionless before, and gazing down fixedly upon, him, though he perceived that those strange eyes were searching the floor as though in quest of something. Doubtless the sword! Then she said--

"What fate do you expect--at his hands?"

"God only knows! Yet, if you should know also, tell me."

Again she paused--the eyes still sweeping the floor, so that now he felt sure 'twas she who had restored his weapon to him--when a moment later she said, speaking in a harsh, emotionless voice--

"You are to be taken from here to Nancy, where the Duke is for the winter period. There you will be tried on various charges--attempted murder, abduction--he will swear she is his wife! You will be condemned. Nothing can save you; he has given in his adherence to the Duke now; he will obtain his desire--to see you broken on the wheel."

"So! A brave scheme! When is it to be put in practice?"

"When you are recovered."

"I am recovered now. See!" and he sat up on the rug stretched over the floor. "Observe! I am not so weak but that I can stand if I desire to do so. Will you tell the Vicomte there is no hurt to prevent me setting out at once to see this Duke, to make acquaintance with the wheel."

"My God!" the woman muttered, stirred out of herself. "Can this be real? Are you, in truth, so careless of fate?"

"Bah!" He replied. "What you prophesy is child's play--child's talk! The fellow whom you serve," and at the word "serve" she started, "dares no more haul me before the Duke than he dare haul me before the Duke's own master, Louis; the Duke's better in war, Turenne. 'Tis to them the Duke has himself to account. Babe's prattle, I tell you, woman! If I am to perish, it will be here in this house, down that well, by poison in my food or drink, or dagger-thrust through my heart when I lie sleeping. The wheel is an open death for all to see, set up at cross-roads or in market places--such things are not for De Bois-Vallée. Go, give him my service, and say so!"

"You wish me to repeat that?"

"Ay, repeat it. Repeat also this. That, though I lie here with a chain round my leg like an ox at the shambles; though I am here in his topmost garret a prisoner, I shall ere long be free again. I know it--feel it. Tell him, also, that Andrew Vause was never born to die at his hands--but, instead, to slay him--as I will! And, if he dares to come to this garret--fail not to tell him this!--and stand before me within the reach of this chain at my ankle, I will throttle the life out of him as I would out of a savage dog. Will never lose my hold till his tongue is a foot out of his mouth. Begone, and fail not to repeat my words!"

The woman said no more--yet cast one long searching glance at him as though wondering what manner of man this was--then went to the head of the steps, or ladder, leading from below, and brought back still another fresh jug of water and a platter, both of which she had left there on entering.

"Here is food and drink for you," she said. Then added: "There is no poison in it!"

"'Tis well. But, remember what I say. If your master compasses my death 'twill come that way--or in some other equally subtle. Yet it will not pass unknown. His cousin, Debrasques, knows him for the unscrupulous villain he is; knows I have come here. If he recovers, as every chirurgeon who saw him believed he would do, he will denounce this man. Therefore, I care not what he does. Now go."

"Debrasques!" the woman repeated, turning sharply on him. "Valentin Debrasques! He knows you and you know him? You say that?" and he saw that her astonishment was great.

"Ay, he is my friend!"

"Debrasques," she whispered. "Debrasques. And your friend!" Then she muttered to herself, though not so low but that he heard her. "And his enemy; as his kinswoman, Fleurange, was mine. 'Twill come. 'Twill surely come."

She stooped down now to lift up the empty water-pitcher and the platter and to put in their place those which she had just brought, and, having done this, again prepared to depart from the garret, walking slowly towards the ladder head. But as, once before, she had turned to cast that evil glance at him over her shoulder, so she turned again. Only her face was different now from what it had been on the occasion of her first visit--there was no evil, demoniacal smile upon her features nor devil's light glancing from her piercing eyes. Instead, a softer look shone from them, a look such as one might cast upon another with whom they were at peace.

"All men's fate is in their own hands," she whispered, as though half to him, half to herself, then turned swiftly and was gone, leaving him alone again with the darkness and his thoughts.

"Fore gad!" he said to himself, feeling strangely exhilarated by this woman's visit--he knew not why!--though, perhaps, 'twas her last words had cheered him thus! "I do think the lady desires I should escape. Yet, if so, why in heaven's name not help me even more than she has done? My sword is useless while I am bound thus to this accursed floor; if my foot were free from that 'twould not be long ere once more the weapon was at his throat. Oh! De Bois-Vallée, the moment must arrive at last. It must! It must! It must!"

For something told him that this garret was not to be only one last step to his doom; he felt, he knew, as certainly as though an angel had spoken to him trumpet-tongued, that the wheel at Nancy would never be his fate. It was not thus that Philip's shade was to be mulcted of its revenge!

Once more he slept, thanking God each time that he awoke for His mercy in permitting him to so forget his captivity for long periods at a time, and then, when he again returned to wakefulness, he put out his hand for the sparse meal the woman had brought him.

"Though I would," he murmured, "that I might find such another boon as I found in my good sword. With my pistols, now, and they well charged, I could do much when they come for me--if they ever come--could slay one or two more ere the chain should be taken from my leg and I dragged forth--not to the Duke of whom she speaks--that is impossible!--but to some ignoble death."

He did not find his pistols; yet, even as he muttered those last words, his hand touched something that was not there before, something which caused him to utter so loud an exclamation that, a second after he had done so, he could have cursed himself for his folly in making a noise which might have been heard by anyone happening to be below the garret.

He had found that which was worth to him a thousand pistols fully charged and primed! He had found something which would do more than ever they could have done! Would give him his liberty from this garret; enable him to once more search the lower part of the mansion--to once more make a bold bid for escape.

His hand had touched a file!

"Heaven bless her!" he muttered. "Mad or sane, Heaven bless her! For this is no trap, no _guet-apens_, no lure to set me loose from where I am, only to plunge me into a state worse than my present; I shall be free and out of this house with Marion Wyatt ere many hours are passed. Free--since she, this heaven-sent friend, will doubtless aid me--will, it may be, set open the door which leads to that freedom. She must have placed this file here when she changed the food and water; therefore, again I say, Heaven bless her. Even though it may be but a portion of a deep-laid snare, 'tis a good portion. It gives me one more chance."

Wasting no further time in thought or meditation, he set to work to obtain his, now near, release. Set to work to--as silently as might be--file through the shackle-bolt that encircled his ankle. Worked hard at it, with the sweat dropping from his face as he bent over his foot in a terribly cramped position; yet never faltered, and only stopped to change sometimes his hands.

Worked hard in the dark, paying no heed to anything but that into which he had now thrown his whole heart and soul; worked until, at last, the chain was off his leg and he was free. Free to stand up, to hook on his sword once more to his belt, to make his way from out that prison. To find and save Marion Wyatt and himself, or perish in the attempt.

As he did thus stand up and feel his feet once more unbound, and moved towards where the ladder-head was--avoiding, for sure, the deadly shaft so near at hand--a woman who, unknown to him, had been crouching for the last two hours on that ladder in the darkness, rose and went swiftly away from it towards the room to which Marion Wyatt had been taken back after the fight below.

A woman who had sat crouched upon that ladder for so long, listening eagerly to the harsh grating of the file, and who, as she listened, had held her breath and stared with wild eyes into the darkness all around.