CHAPTER XXX.

FREE!

Andrew had divined aright. That was what, in truth, it did mean.

Turenne had performed the greatest military feat of Louis' reign, had set the chief seal upon a long career of glory.

Weary of lying inert in winter quarters for weeks after the battle of Entzheim, he had suddenly conceived, and afterwards carefully matured, the achievement which he had now carried through. The whole of his army had left Alsace in three different brigades, and, passing over the Vosges in the depth of a winter remarkable for its inclemency and particularly for the amount of rain which fell--progressing through roads and mountain paths rendered almost impassable by the mud and water with which they were soaked--had reached Lorraine. There remained nothing now but to fall upon the unsuspecting Imperialists at Belfort, Mühlhausen, and elsewhere, to hunt them from Lorraine and, once more and finally, to make Louis master of that much disputed province. How this was done countless other pens have told.

Of those three brigades which had so wondrously and rapidly crossed the mountains, the one that had met the eyes of Clemence first and of Andrew afterwards, on this winter morning and after that night of horror, was led by the great captain himself--it taking possession of Remiremont ere many more hours had passed. Amongst those who had been detached towards the still burning house, the moment that the flames were seen, were some that formed the brigade of cavalry under the Count de Lusignan, with also several of the English and Scotch auxiliaries, under the command for the moment of the Marquis De La Fare.

They rode into that great courtyard half an hour after the Lorrainers had deserted the place, and, used though they were--God knows the devastation of the Palatinate had made them so!--to the sight of burning houses, even of burning towns and cities, they could not but stare in amazement at what met their eyes.

For, still, from the south wing of that great house the flames poured forth in fury--that side of it having now caught well alight; upon the roof of the west wing they saw, clear against the threatening sky, the form of a great man standing looking down upon them, his arms folded.

Then, from the midst of those rescuers, there rode forward one who was, undoubtedly, in command of them--the rich justaucorps with its gold gallooning and _flammes d'or_ showing that he who wore it belonged to the nobility--who called up to Andrew standing above.

"Sir, are you the owner of this unfortunate house?" while, as he spoke, he raised his hand to his thick, three-cornered felt hat.

"Nay, sir. Yet am I the last man left alive in it. But if you will, or can, rescue us from our perilous position, for there are two women here as well as I----"

But, as he spoke, he noticed that his questioner's attention had been withdrawn from him by several of his followers, all of whom appeared to be speaking earnestly to their leader, while at the same time they directed their eyes up to Andrew, as did that leader also a moment later. Then the latter said, or rather called up to him again:

"Sir, my men here tell me strange news. I cannot think but that they are mistaken. Yet they aver it is not so, and you can soon decide. They say that you are of our army, of the English auxiliary force, and fought for us recently."

"'Tis true, sir. I was of the English Regiment under Colonel Churchill, and am on leave of absence. And," pointing to where some of the English and Scotch were now making their way towards the house, "there are some who should know me, seeing that we fought side by side. But, monsieur, the fire gains rapidly, if the wind shifts a point it will soon reach here; I beseech you lose no time in effecting our rescue. We have had a terrible night of it, and--once I am with you--I have a marvellous story to tell."

The rescue was not effected for still some two hours, while, during the passage of that time, the fire in the south wing crept ever nearer and nearer towards the one on which Andrew and the two others were. At last, however, it was accomplished. And thus it was done.

Leaving Marion in the charge of Clemence, and observing that she seemed somewhat easier now, though all that she had gone through during the night, the excitement of the past few days, the terror of the burning house, and the exposure to the cold of the early morning, had undoubtedly brought her very near her end, he descended once more to the garret and, through it, to the floor below. This was still untouched by the fire, and it seemed indeed as though, should the flames from the south wing be prevented from spreading, or should they by any chance become extinguished, that portion of the house would not be destroyed. Then he went on farther down, reaching at last the top of the first floor, and standing over the gulf left yawning by the falling in of the great oak stairs.

It was here that his further descent was impeded, though, had the fire not still been smouldering below, he could perhaps have escaped easily enough: could have leaped down on to all the fallen _débris_ that was heaped up a dozen feet beneath him, have attempted a way across it to the open doorway--bereft now of its huge double-door, which had been chopped off its hinges by the besiegers and hurled on as fresh fuel to feed the flames--have possibly forced his way out thus to safety and freedom.

But, now, at this time, no such attempt was wise--not wise, even had he been alone and unencumbered with Marion Wyatt and Clemence.

For, although the fire no longer blazed up from the centre of that hall, although from the vast heap beneath him there rose only the slow-curling, grey smoke that told of what was smouldering beneath, he knew that, to spring into its midst yet, would be to spring into a seething, still burning mass, to hurl himself into a vast heap of charred embers--to be choked, burnt, suffocated beyond any hope of recovery.

The way was not to be found there!

He went, therefore, rapidly along the gallery of that floor on the west side in hopes of finding, perhaps, some other descent, some _escalier de service_, or back stairs, by which escape might be made. But there was none, or, if there had ever been any, it must have existed in the north wing, which was long since entirely destroyed, or in the south, which was on fire--or perhaps the front, which was unreachable.

"There is but one way," he told himself, "one way left. From some window. I must bring the women down here, find somehow the opportunity of lowering them to the ground. Yet 'twill be no easy task. This stone basement is high, was once the whole height of the house--was the house itself. Laurent told me--'tis far to the ground from here."

It was, indeed; the windows of the rooms that opened off the corridor he was now on being fully thirty-five feet from the ground. A height to appal a man who had to lower two almost helpless women--one certainly helpless--from it to the earth; a man who had also not so much as a cord in his possession wherewith to do so. Yet that, he thought, could be overcome, provided for. The cavalry men outside might catch the women in their arms as he lowered them; if they sat close upon their horses and near together under the windows from which he let down Marion and Clemence, at his--and their--full arms' length, the distance would not be so much to fall. But entering the room nearest to him, in which, to his horror, he found Beaujos, the steward, lying dead in a bed--no doubt he had been keeping that bed since the injuries he had received in Andrew's encounter with him when he and Marion made their first attempt to escape, and had been suffocated while lying there forgotten--another obstacle presented itself. Outside the small diamond-paned lattice windows, themselves a strong barrier to any exit, with their leaden framework for the small panes, and with small stone columns dividing each window into three compartments, he noticed at once that they were strongly guarded by iron bars crossed both horizontally and perpendicularly. He tried another room--it was the same, both as regarded bars outside and stone columns within; was indeed a counterpart of the first. They offered no chance.

"Curse these Lorraine wolves," he muttered to himself, as he rushed to a third room, "they protected themselves well. Did indeed mean that none should get into their house, or, being in, should ever get out again."

The third room was as useless as the first for his purpose, and--there was but one more left! If that was the same, God only knew how the escape could ever be made, unless it was back across the chasm, the way he had come. Could that be done, he mused, as now he approached the fourth room. Was that possible? If one, or a dozen, of the men outside should proceed to the brink of the chasm, fasten a rope to the tree as he and Laurent had done--if----

"Ha! the chance is here," he exclaimed, breaking off in his calculations. "Here. Here. It must be."

He had entered the fourth room--in this case he had to burst the door open by hurling himself against its stout oak panels, since it was locked--and, in doing so, found the chance of which he spoke.

The window was of the same form as the others, but it had been subjected to some great violence and was much damaged by the shock; the slim columns were broken quite out of base and socket, the shattered fragments of the stone lay on the floor and, with them, lay, too, the leaden framework of the diamond panes, and most of the panes themselves. The violence had come from outside--later on, Andrew learnt that, during the night attack, a petard carried by the besieging Lorrainers--one of a number brought by them to assist in destroying the house--had been hurled against that window and had blown it in. Yet, when this had been accomplished, their object had failed. The window was too high from the ground to allow of their obtaining entry, and the petard, after bursting it open, had fallen back, doing no further damage.

Still, it had performed a service never dreamt of by the Lorrainers--it had provided a way for the escape of those three prisoners in the burning house.

The cavalry men, who had by now been joined by those belonging to the English and Scotch auxiliaries, were all upon that side of the mansion--since 'twas there, above, that they had first perceived the form of Andrew outlined against the threatening morning clouds--and as his head appeared through the shattered window they hailed him with a shout. Also from those of his own countrymen, as well as from the Scotch, came noisy greetings. Some had stood side by side with him in other campaigns than these; all had seen his prowess at Entzheim and honoured him for it.

"Yet," called up the young Marquis De La Fare, he being the officer in command, "the height is great. How to descend; how bring the ladies you speak of?" While, as he himself spoke, he bade some of the men search the outhouses they observed near by. Perchance some ladder might be there, by which the window could be reached.

"It may happen," said Andrew, "that I can drop the women to you--yet the distance is almost too great--if they should be missed by your soldiers it would be instant death."

"It is impossible," the other replied. "Yet, have patience--my men seek even now for some means to reach you--if a ladder can be found all will be well. Meanwhile, I counsel you, go bring the ladies to the window. By then the way may have been found."

The advice was good, and Andrew lost no time in following it. Ere a quarter of an hour had passed, Clemence and Marion had been brought down from the roof, and were with him in the room. But, almost he feared that ere they should be rescued Marion would be a dead woman. She was nearly helpless now--nay, quite so, and half insensible; it was in those great, untiring arms that she had to be carried from the roof below.

And behind them had followed Clemence, muttering:

"She will die. She will die." While as she so said she wept.

That she would die, Andrew could not doubt; this last shock, following on the long detention she had been subjected to by her deceiver, De Bois-Vallée; following on, too, the agony of mind she must have suffered in musing on what those at home would feel at her disappearance; had brought her to her end. He could not doubt it.

"And still," he murmured to himself, "Philip is unavenged. Soon there will be two victims of his villainy. God! how I have failed. Failed to avenge him, to save her--failed even to learn how the evil was wrought. And if she dies now--to-day--to-night--I shall never know."

Yet, even as he so spoke, there came into his face a look which would have told plainly enough to anyone observing it, that, in one thing, at least, he would not fail. If ever De Bois-Vallée stood face to face with Andrew Vause again, he would escape no more with life--the hour when he did so would be his last. Only--would he ever so stand? Might he not by now have put leagues between them; might he not ere long put the mountains, the seas, between him and the avenger who sought for him!

As Andrew gazed below from the window of the room in which they were now, he learnt that no ladder was to be found, either in outhouse or elsewhere. If there had ever been one it had been removed, probably by the Lorrainers; had possibly been used by them to furnish fresh fuel for the flames inside. But, even as the men who returned from the search told the Marquis De La Fare of their failure, from another group who had wandered further into the woods around the house there came a shout--it seemed of triumph and rejoicing. Then, quickly, one came running back, breathless, and soon the story was told of what they had lit upon.

A shed not far from the mansion, hidden in one of the copses of Bois-le-Vaux; a house used by the woodmen for storing the felled logs of trees--a house piled full of what was, doubtless, the winter store of fuel--doubtless, also, overlooked by and unknown to the besiegers. Otherwise, for sure, all in that but would have gone to swell the flames--the attackers would not have laboured to hew down saplings and branches had they known of that store so near to their hands.

Now, it was to be directed to a vastly different purpose--to save instead of to destroy. By twos and threes, by squads as well, those men who, for nights, had scarce rested during that weary and rough passage of the mountains, set to work once more, bringing one by one, or half a dozen at a time between them, the logs to the spot beneath where those three prisoners were; untiringly they worked. And so they placed them against the window from which Andrew gazed, making first a deep base of the larger billets, edged round and secured by fallen masses of stone and beams from the old house, and then building others above, pyramid-wise, until, at last, the work was done.

Until, at last, the stage was erected on to which those three could step forth to safety and salvation. To which two of them, at least, could step forth, but on to which the other, the dying woman, had to be lifted.