CHAPTER XXVI.

A TRAPPED WOLF

His first idea was to remove his boots, which had been on his feet when he recovered consciousness and had remained there since; but, after a moment's reflection, he decided to still keep them on. It was impossible, he thought, that he could quit the house without another encounter taking place; therefore, it was best to be booted. Also, if he did by good fortune so quit it, and could get well outside, they would be necessary, since otherwise he could scarcely reach Remiremont, not to consider Plombières.

Then, having decided this, he made his way at once to the room where he had previously found Marion Wyatt, and tapped lightly on the door.

It was opened--to his astonishment--not by her, but by the woman he deemed mad!

"So," she said, "you are free." Then laughed under her breath, and as low as she had spoken--laughed a weird, witchlike laugh. Adding a second later: "So far!"

"So far at present, thanks be to God and to you," and as he spoke he touched her hand with his--noticing, however, even as he did so, that she drew back shuddering from the touch. "Now, where is the lady?"

"Here!" whereon Marion Wyatt came through the hangings that fell before the square embrasure in front of the window.

If it were possible that she could have been whiter, more ghastly pale than when he had first seen her, she was so now; her face being absolutely devoid of colour. Yet it seemed almost as if some tinge came to it as, swiftly, she advanced across the room to him, while, grasping both hands, she whispered:

"You are free again. Free! Oh God in His mercy be thanked. Yet--yet--I know--she, Clemence, said it should be so," and she gazed at the fateful woman standing by. "It is heaven's grace that has turned her heart to us!"

That woman's eyes, deep, mysterious, unfathomable as ever--puzzling Andrew as they had done before; irritating him, almost, in his desire to know what lay behind them and what thoughts they concealed--blazed forth from their sombre depths; yet she answered nothing. Only, standing there before them, her bosom heaved, her mouth became drawn downwards with some spasm that seemed to express the deepest misery, and a gust of breath that was more than a sigh came from her lips.

"It is by heaven's grace," Andrew re-echoed. "Yet, much as we owe her, now is no fitting time to pay our thanks." Then, turning to her whom Marion had called Clemence, he said:

"Madame, being, so far free, enable us, I beseech you in your goodness, to finish our task. Put us in the way to quit this accursed house, without bloodshed if possible, yet--no matter how--to quit it."

She repeated the words, "this accursed house," twice, letting her left hand fall heavily to her side as she spoke; then a moment later she quivered, drew herself up, and said: "It shall be so, if possible. I will go down and unbar the door. Yet you say 'without bloodshed.' What"--and now she stood so tall and erect that, almost, her height equalled that of the great man before her--"What are you then in this accursed house for? Why hangs that once more upon your thigh?" and she pointed to the long scabbard of his sword. "Are you not come here from your own land to shed his, Camille De Bois-Vallée's, blood?"

"To shed it--yes!" Andrew replied, wondering why his words came hoarse and raucous from his throat; "yet not to-night, if it may be prevented. Nor in his own house; on his own hearth! But, afterwards, in fair open fight; to right a deep wrong to one unable to right himself."

"I go," she said, "to open the door, if may be. Follow me later--in five minutes hence. Yet--yet remember; I deem it a vow, a sacred pledge: you slay him when the time comes. Swear that, or I do no more."

And all amazed, almost appalled, Andrew muttered: "When the time comes. I have said it."

An instant later she was gone, had passed through the door into the darkness of the house, gliding out as some dark spectre might have glided from light to shadow, and those two were alone.

"In five minutes, she said," Andrew whispered in Marion's ear. "In five minutes. Yet, what means it? Is she in truth mad? I thought she loved him; had loved his father. Was his faithful slave and worshipped him. Yet, now, she inclines to us."

From the white lips of the woman by his side there came the answer, the words falling quick and rapid from those lips; she knowing how few were the moments in which to tell the meaning of Clemence's manner.

"It was so," she answered, "once. She loved him, worshipped him, until--until--her madness growing on her, she began to hate him. For he, in his turn, loved and worshipped the memory of his mother--it is the one pure thing remaining to him--his love for me was never pure, was engendered in desire; is turned now to hate and fear of my escape. And his love for that mother and that memory for her whom Clemence hates, even though she has long lain in her grave, explains all. Because she hates the woman who was his mother, also she now hates him. Hopes, prays, you will kill him. Said to me to-night that, when he lies dead below from your thrust, she will stamp upon the features that are so like what hers were."

As she told him thus rapidly the meaning of the woman's frenzy, and as she concluded her story, she saw Andrew's face change. Saw, too, a stare come into his eyes; his attitude denoting that of one who listened intently.

"You hear?" he asked.

"What?"

Yet, even as she spoke, she heard, too. Heard a distant hum--a something indefinite on the night air--a murmur that, all intangible as it was at present, resolved itself in another moment into something else that she understood. It was the hum of human voices--the voices of a great crowd somewhere in the vicinity--of a crowd that drew nearer and nearer every moment.

"You hear--you understand?" he asked, grasping her arm.

"God help me! No. What is it?"

"As I hope, as I think, a rescue. It may be that those in this neighbourhood have risen against him at last; that our path to safety is open. Come, Marion, if 'tis as I believe, our freedom is at hand, should we be able to reach them. Yet, be sure, he will bar our exit--and their entrance; we--I--shall have to fight our way out. Come." And swift as lightning his arm was round her waist, while he prepared to lift her to his shoulder, knowing that, ere long, all in the house would hear those sounds--if they had not done so already; would be aroused. Also, he knew--divined in a moment--that their way out would be barred. And, recognizing this, his sword leapt from its scabbard, drawn forth by his right hand.

"Come," he said again. "We must descend. Be brave and fear nothing. I shall be with you always. We escape together, or--or stay here together."

Then, bearing her on his shoulder, he went towards the door.

Yet, ere he reached it, it was flung wide open; once more Clemence stood before them.

"All hope is gone--for you--for all--for him," she said, her lips flecked with foam, her eyes staring with the madness of despair and frenzy, her grey-streaked black hair hanging down below her shoulders. "Undone! Undone! Undone!"

"What mean you?" Andrew asked. "The house is besieged, yet one may struggle out of it. May yet escape. Is the door open?"

"None can escape," she almost shrieked. "It is surrounded. The Lorrainers are here, outside. They swear to burn him in his den; I have heard them--seen the glint of their weapons--they swear to shoot down all who rush forth. The death of Laurent has maddened them."

"The death of Laurent! My God! Is he dead?"

"He is dead. He slew him--he--he--De Bois-Vallée: He found him there watching for you--he never returned home without visiting the chasm to see if all was safe--and ran him through, then hurled his body to the courtyard below. And they have learnt he did it--there was another one who knew the work you and Laurent were upon--they are here. God none can escape. There are more than a hundred of them. See!"

As she spoke, she rushed through the embrasure and flung open the diamond-paned window.

"See," she said again, drawing Andrew to the window. "They are there below. You can perceive their firelocks gleam in the moonlight from here."

Peering forth, glancing out into the night, he saw beneath the rays of the watery moon, as the light breeze blew the clouds from under it, that what the woman said was true. He could observe the beams glancing on musket barrels and other arms--almost, he thought, that sometimes they glistened on upturned eyes!--could perceive men lurking all round the fringe of the copse which bordered the enormous flagged court in front of the mansion.

Moreover, he knew soon enough that they, too, were seen by the midnight foe--also that that foe was ruthless. As the light of the lamp streamed out into the darkness, it being no more veiled by the heavy curtains of the embrasure within, it served to show the besiegers those two faces at the window. An instant later there was the crack of musketry and three balls hurtled against the stone frame, splintering it, and cutting each of their faces with those splinters.

"Come away," Andrew said, dragging her back and noticing that one of the fragments had struck her cheek, from which the blood began to trickle. "Come away. All in this house are deemed enemies. How should they know there is one here who hates its owner as much as they do."

"How should they know that there are _two?_" the woman muttered hoarsely in reply. Then she added: "Doubtless, they deem you dead. Since he slew Laurent they would not think he would spare you."

Her words caused Andrew to start. It was true; they must deem him dead! His own instructions had been that, if he came not back in three days, they were to consider him as fallen--murdered--and with Laurent slain they could suppose nothing else. All in that house were enemies, therefore, since few knew of Marion's existence; all to be exterminated as such.

"There must be a truce to our feud for a time at least," he muttered beneath his moustache, while he smiled grimly; "a truce for a time. No need for De Bois-Vallée and me to be fighting with one another, like rats in a pit, while the dogs are outside ready to tear us to pieces. No need for that! Come," he said, addressing the two women. "Come. We must descend. There is no way out here."

Then, all together, they left the room and, making their way to the head of the stairs, looked down over it into the hall below.

And in a moment he knew--as the women knew, too, that neither was there any exit there.

Below, in that hall, were mustered De Bois-Vallée and some men--Beaujos being absent. Upon the huge table which had stood for unnumbered years within it, were laid all the firearms which they could hastily gather together; muskets and musketoons, fuzils and fuzees, pistols and petronels. Also other arms, halberds, axes, swords--they meant to make a stand for it!

As for De Bois-Vallée himself--his look appalled the women, if not Andrew, as they gazed down on him. His face was white--was it with fear or rage!--as he bent over the table, and, selecting two carbines, loaded them carefully; upon it, as he turned towards the great porte, outside which the murmurs had now increased to a roar, accompanied by heavy knocks and thumps--there was the grin of a devil at bay. Then, suddenly, they saw him point to a spot away down one of the passages leading out of the hall, saw the man Brach disappear, and, a moment or two later, come back, bearing in his arms a long ladder which he placed against the door. While, casting his eyes up over that door, Andrew saw that, above it, was a little window unnoticed hitherto by him--a window a foot square, but covered inside with a close-fitting shutter. And, since a few moments later he saw there was no glass to it, he judged that it was used only to admit air.

As he watched thus the trapped man in his own house, he saw him slowly mount half-way up that ladder, so that, at last, the top of his head was almost level with the lower part of the shutter, and take the carbines from his servitor's hands--then saw him suddenly stop in his upward progress. Stop, clinging to the ladder posts, his face half-turned round to those in the hall, the grin upon that face horribly intensified. For, even as he had thus half-mounted it, the beatings on the door against which the ladder leant had been redoubled.

"Surely," whispered Andrew, "they are using some tree-trunk as battering ram"--and it seemed as if the next moment must see that door fall in from the tremendous blows administered from the outside.

Next, a babel of voices and a shouting arose.

"Is the wolf there?" one called, while even as he did so another answered: "Be very sure he is"; and others were heard shouting: "Bring him forth. Give him to us, and we spare the house. Otherwise all are doomed."

And again the beatings and the buffetings were renewed, while now a part of the door a few feet from the ground was burst in, and through it there protruded the jagged edge of a hastily-chopped-down tree.

Andrew had guessed aright! They were using roughly-improvised battering rams!

For a moment the hunted wretch--the man caught like a rat in a trap--glared round his hall; even in the dim light and gloom Andrew could see his tongue rolling over his lips as though to moisten their feverish burning, then, urged by God knows what desperation--the desperation perhaps of despair, perhaps of tigerish rage and ferocity!--he leapt up the last remaining rungs of the ladder, carrying the carbines in his hand.

Leapt up, as the wild cat leaps up the branches of forest trees, until he was level with the little shutter, flung it open with one hand, and, in an instant, had discharged both carbines into the midst of whatever crowd might be without.

And he shrieked:

"Hounds, _bélîtres_, scum, he is here!" then flung the shutter to again and descended the ladder swiftly.

'Twas well that he did so; 'twas well he wasted no time. Ere he had reached the hall's stone floor that shutter fell in splinters after him, shattered by a score of bullets from without; also at this moment the upper part of the door was beaten in amidst terrible roars and howls and curses from the attackers. Fortunately for those in that hall, there were still some seven feet of the lower part left standing to protect them from the besiegers' shot.

"Save yourselves," cried De Bois-Vallée to his men. "Save yourselves. They may spare you. Me they will never spare. I must find a way."

And, flinging the lamp upon the flames of the fire--so that, after one brief moment of explosive brightness, the hall became all dark but for the remaining flames which glistened amidst the gloom like fiery eyes--he and all below were instantly obscured from the sight of those above.