CHAPTER IX.

THE FURY OF DESPAIR.

He went swiftly towards the end of the glade, bent on finding some assistance for his enemy ere night was full upon him--for now there was little daylight left. Yet, as he did so, he paused in the great strides he was taking--paused, and looked back.

In that glade, at the end furthest from where he had quitted it, he heard voices and a confused jumble of sounds--coarse voices speaking in the Rhenish _patois_. And, thinking that here might be the aid he sought, he turned back once more to where he had left the Vicomte.

Yet, swiftly as he returned, he hurried his steps still further, bursting indeed into a run, and lugging forth his rapier once again as he did so, on observing what was now taking place in the opening. For, surrounding De Bois-Vallée were three or four rough-looking peasants, one of whom had already wrenched the coat of the prostrate man from off his body, while another was rapidly stripping him of his remaining clothes, and still another stood with the Vicomte's weapon in his hand, and with its point in murderous proximity to his throat.

Bursting in amongst them--for he recognized that, in the power of those maddened natives who had suffered so much at the hands of the invaders, his fallen foe's life was not worth a moment's purchase after they had despoiled him of his clothes and valuables--he proceeded at once to summarily prevent them from carrying out their intentions. The man holding the sword he dealt with first, by striking him such a buffet as sent him reeling backwards until, his foot catching in one of the tussocks, he fell heavily to the ground, after which Andrew administered some sound kicks to two of the others, while the fourth of the party ran roaring away. Nor, indeed, was it extremely surprising that he should do so, since the appearance of Andrew Vause, large, fierce, and terrible, and with a drawn weapon in his hand, was enough to scare any German boor. Yet he recognized that he had still a task before him, and that the rapier with which, but half an hour before, he had sought his enemy's life, would now have to stand him in good stead to protect both that life and his own. For, from the outskirts of the glade, he could hear the man who had run away, bawling in his Rhineland _patois_ to others who were undoubtedly in the neighbourhood, and yelling, "the English. The English are here. _Zur Hülfe! Zur Hülfe! Zur Hülfe!_" and presently the assistance he sought for came.

"Oh! that this vagabond, whose life I am doomed to save as well as take, could be of some assistance," thought Andrew, as he gazed down on De Bois-Vallée, who lay quite unconscious of what was passing above him. "But that is hopeless. So be it; I must trust to myself or to the patrol being out. Ha! here they come!"

This last exclamation referred unhappily, however, to the succour which the peasant had shrieked for, and not to the patrol, for at that moment there burst into the opening four or five more men, some of whom bore torches, and the others weapons--one of them being armed with what looked like a pole-axe.

And now Andrew knew that the task before him was a terrible one, and that he alone, and with only a duelling rapier to his hand, had to face nearly a dozen men, all of whom were almost insane with the wrongs and cruelties they had suffered. But at that moment he could not think of this; his own life was at stake; he must defend it. And, fiercely as some wounded tiger at bay, he set about doing so.

"You cravens," he called to them in German--for Andrew's roving life had taught him more than one tongue beside his own--"you cravens, come on! Here lies a dying man, also one living for you to attack. Come on, I say, come on!" and in a moment he was amongst them all, his rapier flashing like lightning in and out and under the guard of the rude weapons they carried.

But, unequal as the combat was in point of numbers, it was more than balanced by the skill of Andrew, who saw that he had but one opponent to really fear--the man with the pole-axe, which weapon he was already swinging ominously. Twice, indeed, that pole-axe had descended, yet each time it had missed its mark, burying itself in the ground once and once alighting on the shoulder of one of its owner's countrymen, who, at the moment it fell, had been thrust under it by Andrew. But he knew that such luck as this could not last; it would be swung on high again, and then--or the next time--it would not miss; his skull would be cracked like a walnut shell.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, as another peasant now seized his rapier with a view to holding him while the wielder of the axe despatched him. "Ha! so! Look to your fingers, my friend," and, as again that wielder prepared to swing his weapon on high, the long sharp blade was drawn swiftly from between those fingers, tearing them to ribbons in its passage. And then, while the wounded peasant fled shrieking in agony, with his mutilated hands held in horror before him, the rapier was rapidly raised to guard its owner's head from the downward crash of the huge hatchet. But it was a well-calculated blow that was now dealt by its owner, so well calculated, indeed, that, had Andrew not been able to free his sword at the moment he did, his brains would have been dashed out by the axe as certainly as had been the brains of countless slaughtered oxen previously. Yet, the sword was released in time from the other's clutching fingers; in time to meet the falling blow--though not in time to entirely prevent its effect. For, under that stroke, the rapier was shattered like crystal, the hilt and an inch or two of the blade alone remaining in Andrew's hand, while the force of the axe's descent, as the handle struck him heavily, bore him to the ground and on to one knee.

With a roar the owner of that fearful weapon raised and swung it again, this time to end his work effectively--yet that work was never accomplished!

Upward, with a rush like a wild cat springing at its prey, leaped Andrew, half paralyzed as his shoulder was with the concussion, the hilt and jagged broken blade in his uninjured hand, and full at the other's face he plunged, dashing into it with all his remaining force the broken weapon. And as he did so he knew he had won this fight. Down on to the grass with a thud fell the pole-axe--with a terrible cry its owner buried his wounded and disfigured face in his hands, and then, moaning feebly, staggered away after the others who had already fled as they saw their champion vanquished. And as he disappeared, Andrew, staggering too, let himself drop on to the earth near where De Bois-Vallée lay still unconscious, his features lit up by the light of a smouldering torch which one of the peasants had thrown down in his flight.

For some moments he could not think nor collect his thoughts; could, indeed, only sit on the grass, his head between his knees, his breath coming in labouring gasps from his lungs, his left side feeling numb and dead. But, as the cool night wind blew on his cheeks and forehead and revived him somewhat, he put his uninjured right hand to the earth, and, raising himself, tottered to his feet again.

"I have won two fights to-night," he muttered, "two fights, but--God!--this last one has been a terrible encounter. Yet--yet--they are won! Enough!"

Not without pain he moved towards the torch, picked it up and went over to where De Bois-Vallée lay, and looked at him, seeing that his wound had long ceased bleeding, and feeling that his pulse was beating strongly. Also, he seemed now to be asleep and free from pain, no moan coming from his lips.

"After all," he thought, looking down at his enemy, "this night--as it begins--must end our feud. Spent here, as you will spend it, wounded, and with the cold of the early hours of morning to strike to that wound, you will soon be dead--though, in the hands of the surgeon and in a warm bed, you would recover in a week. Yet, what to do? I can scarce drag myself back to my tent--and, all said, you are a villain. So be it, lie there and die--there is nought else for you. Still," he added, "I would save you an I could. An I could. I must have vengeance for Philip; must see you dead. Yet it should be at my hands, not thus like a maimed dog."

But, knowing there was no hope of removing De Bois-Vallée, he turned away, after once more covering him with his coat. To the last he was merciful to his prostrate foe!

The events of the night were not yet over, however, for even as Andrew turned his footsteps towards where "the Royal English Regiment" was cantoned he heard afar off the sound of three guns fired, and he understood well enough their import. They were the signal that all in Turenne's army were to be ready to march at a moment's notice, as six guns were to be the signal from Maulevrier at Philipsburg that the enemy had recrossed the river, and four the signal that they were known to be advancing. And, a moment later, he heard something else, as familiar to his ears as any sound in the world. The tramp of a vast number of hoofs on the road a hundred yards away, the jangle of bridles and chains, of sabres and accoutrements.

"They are marching," he cried, "marching! And I am here!" and as fast as his stiffness and bruises would permit he made his way through the brushwood to the road.

Then he knew at once what was taking place, that the Baron de Montclar's five hundred dragoons were on their way to Rhinzabern. Where, then, was the infantry to support them?--where was his own regiment?

"Has," he asked of a troop-sergeant who rode on the side of the road where he was, "'the Royal English Regiment' got the order to march? Tell me at once; I am attached to it."

The man, a swarthy Burgundian, looked down at him, and then answered, "To-morrow morning, Monsieur, at daybreak. But Monsieur seems unwell," he added, seeing some blood on Andrew's hand.

"Ay," he replied, "yet, 'tis nothing. I have been attacked again by the peasants." While, seeing the glittering of some more corselets coming on farther behind, he asked, "Who are these who come now? Your baggage guard?"

"Nay, sir. 'Tis the patrol--formed to-night from Listenai's."

"So! Who is the officer in charge? Do you know?"

"No, sir." Then, with an apology and a salute, and also a muttered word that he must not fall out from the ranks, the sergeant rode on with his regiment, while Andrew stood in the road to stop the patrol. "De Bois-Vallée is saved," he said to himself, "they will remove him to shelter."

"Who goes there?" a clear voice rang out a few moments later, and as he heard it Andrew's heart leapt within him. The voice that greeted his ears was Debrasques'; he it was who headed the patrol, and, a moment later, he rode up to the other.

"Andrew Vause," was the answer to him as he came forward, followed immediately by the words, "Send your men into yonder opening. De Bois-Vallée lies there."

"Dead?" asked the Marquis, bending down low over his horse's mane, as though to peer into Andrew's face. "Dead? Have you slain him?"

"Nay. Not yet! But--I have been attacked by the peasants--you will see--fetch him forth and convey him to his quarters."

"Stay here," said Debrasques, "I will go myself." And, calling to some of his men he plunged into the glade, while the remaining soldiers of the patrol sat their horses as still as statues, wondering whether they were to keep the great Englishman before them under their eyes or not.

Presently, those who had followed the Marquis came back--following him still--but now four of them were dismounted, and between them they bore the wounded man, while the others, who had gone also, led their horses for them.

"Return to quarters with this gentleman," Debrasques ordered them, "and carry him as gently as possible, while, if you can find a door, make use of it. Thus, 'twill be easier for him and you. And carry him to the Marshal's quarters--he is of the _garde du corps_. He and this other officer have been attacked by peasants."

"A brave weapon this to be attacked with," said one of the dragoons, showing the pole-axe, which he had brought away by Debrasques' orders, to his comrades. "A fair weapon, is't not? Yet," and he lowered his voice and glanced at Andrew as he spoke, "it was not with this that the other was wounded--but a clear, clean thrust from a sword."

"Away!" exclaimed Debrasques, interrupting his whisperings, "and lose no time. March!"

Then he took Andrew by the arm, wondering why he winced as he did so, and led him some distance off from where the rest of the patrol were halted.

"I understand," he said; "understand very well. You overcame him ere you were attacked by the countrymen, then you stayed by to protect him. Is it not so?" And without waiting for an answer, he said, glancing up at his great friend, "I think you are very noble. Too noble for him to cross swords with. Captain Vause, he is my cousin, but, alas!--I must say it--he is unworthy to be your foe."

"Nay," said Andrew, "make no mistake. If I did not let him lie here to die of the night air, or be murdered by those unhappy men, 'twas from no feeling of mercy. Debrasques, he is mine, I have vowed it. Mine, unless the Imperialists rob me of him. And afterwards----"

"Yes, afterwards?" seeing that the other paused.

"Afterwards--the woman."

"The woman," exclaimed the lad, recoiling a little from him, as Andrew could see in the starlight. "The woman! Does your vengeance claim her, too?"

"Ay"

"But how? How? You cannot kill her."

"No. I cannot kill her. But----" and again he paused.

"Yes--but?" and there was a quiver in the young man's voice as he spoke.

"There are other things than death." After which enigmatical answer Andrew refused to say another word, but, changing the subject, asked Debrasques if he knew that he marched to-morrow to Rhinzabern.

"Yes," he said, "I know. And we remain with the main army!"

"No matter, we shall meet again. Meanwhile, grant me one request. On no account let your cousin know that I stayed by to--to protect him. I will not have him know that."

"You mean that it is war to the death, that----"

"Yes, I mean that."