Part 16

"What was that dreadful noise?" asked Beatrice anxiously, as Edgar joined them. "It echoed along the passage until we thought giants indeed must be battering at the door."

"Nay, 'tis worse even than that, Beatrice," replied Edgar solemnly. "They have hurled down stones and walled us in."

"Well, is not that good news? They cannot pursue, and if we hasten we shall escape before they can cut off our retreat. Peter telleth me that we are almost through this dreadful passage."

"They have already cut off our retreat, Beatrice," replied Edgar. "Like a fool, I have brought thee into nothing but a trap. De Brin taunted me that the farther end was guarded, and I fear 'tis true. I had hoped that ye would all have been out long ere this. What hath delayed thee, Peter? The little chance that once we had hath, I fear, gone for ever.

"We came upon some obstruction in the passage, Master Edgar," replied Peter earnestly, "and I dared not go on with the ladies in the darkness, not knowing what pitfalls might lie in wait for us. I stopped to light a torch, and my flint and steel work none too fast in this damp and dismal dungeon. But here is the door, and I see no sentinel."

"Was yon great chest the obstruction? Didst open it?"

"Nay, I would not stop. Shall I go batter it in?"

"Nay, let us press on and test the strength of the guard about this end. Perchance, after all, when the good priest heareth the sound of a conflict, he may bring down some of his men and make an attack. We might then break through. Come, hew down that door."

"How stifling is this passage, Edgar!" cried Beatrice appealingly. "The heat is becoming dreadful. Whence cometh it?"

"I cannot understand it," replied Edgar, whose face, in spite of his brave words of hope, had grown grey and pinched. "No such heat was here when last we-- But see!--what is that light that glinteth beneath the door? Give me the axe, Peter! Something is going on beyond that barrier that giveth me fears I never felt before."

Swinging the axe with feverish impatience, he smote the lock with tremendous force. The door instantly flew open, and a glare of light and a wave of hot air burst in upon them, blinding and scorching them so fiercely that, with one impulse, they fled backwards a dozen paces into the shelter or the passage.

"What is this--dreadful fate--thou hast brought us into, Edgar?" cried Beatrice in gasps, as Jeannette sank to the ground by her side in a deep swoon. "Are we, then, to be choked and scorched alive?"

"Reproach me not, Beatrice," replied Edgar in a tremulous voice, almost unmanned by the terrible plight into which he had unwittingly brought the two maidens. "I told thee the hope of escape was faint, but I never dreamed that such a fearful end might be in store for us."

"Forgive me, Edgar," cried Beatrice impulsively, placing her hand gently on the young esquires arm. "I was overhasty in my alarm. I am a warrior's daughter, and I will not play the coward again."

"'Tis nothing. Myself I shall not forgive," muttered Edgar. In his prostration he had sunk back against the wall, his arms resting on the haft of his great axe and his head bowed down upon them. For a few minutes he was silent with the silence of despair. Then he resolutely roused himself from his stupor. "Come," he said, "we are in no immediate danger here, except it be from stifling. Let us retreat back beneath the moat. It will be cooler there."

Headed by Peter with the torch, the little party threaded its way in dumb despair back into the deeper recesses of the tunnel, Edgar bearing the limp form of the insensible Jeannette. On arriving at the spot where the great iron-bound chest half-blocked the passage, Peter halted and proposed that they should seat themselves. Jeannette was laid upon the top of the box and Beatrice took her seat upon it, while Edgar and Peter stood at her side, conversing in low tones upon the hopeless situation in which they found themselves. The spot at which they had halted was, as near as they could judge, beneath the castle moat, and the air was far cooler than at the end towards the fire.

"At least they cannot reach us," said Edgar presently. "The fire which bars our escape equally bars their attack. If they have no desire to encounter us hand to hand beneath the ground, they will have to keep the fires burning night and day."

"That will not be difficult with the woods so close at hand," replied Peter, shaking his head. "They will know that after a day or two we shall be weakened by hunger and thirst."

"But if the priest liveth he will guess the reason of these great fires, and will gather men to harass De Brin. They will find it hard to maintain themselves."

"I fear the Father will be dead. When De Brin and his men swept across the broken drawbridge, doubtless he would head the peasants. Who so likely to be slain?"

"Hark!" exclaimed Beatrice suddenly. "Surely that is the sound of knocking I hear above my head?"

Both men ceased talking and listened intently.

A slow and measured beat could be heard distinctly. Even as they listened it seemed to increase in volume, until it sounded as though someone were striking the roof above their heads with a muffled sledge.

Peter stared at his young master wide-eyed. Stout-hearted and faithful though he was, even he seemed to have been struck with fear at last.

"They are----" he began.

"Hush!" whispered Edgar warningly, turning away and again leaning head and arms on the haft of his great axe.

"What is it, Edgar?" asked Beatrice softly, placing her hand gently on the young man's shoulder. "Hide it not from me. Thou wilt, I hope, find that I can show fortitude when need be."

"I doubt it not," replied Edgar in a breaking voice. "But can I bring thee to such a pass and see thee perish unmoved?"

"But what is it?" reiterated Beatrice appealingly. "What meaneth this knocking which grows louder every moment? Look! The very wall seems to shake beneath these mysterious blows."

"Aye. It meaneth, Beatrice, that Black Eustace or blacker De Maupas is driving in the tunnel where it passes beneath the moat. Doubtless they are using an iron bar or a baulk of wood. Their unknightly and shameful plot is to drown us like rats, or to compel us to run the gauntlet of their fires. A few minutes and one or other fate is ours."

Horror-struck, Beatrice gazed at the roof of the passage, now perceptibly quivering beneath the blows from above. Already the water was trickling in between the widening cracks of the masonry and running in tiny streams down the wall to their feet. Once a block of stone had been driven in, an onrush of water must ensue that would quickly fill the tunnel. Though the dam that had held up the waters of the moat had been broken down, the stream water still flowed in volume sufficient to fill the tunnel a hundred times over.

"I must return to the mouth of the tunnel and seek speech with De Brin," cried Edgar, suddenly starting to his feet after contemplating the widening cracks in gloomy silence. "Better that thou shouldst wed De Maupas, evil fate though it be, than that thou shouldst perish thus miserably here."

"Nay, Edgar," replied Beatrice firmly. "Thou shalt do no such thing. 'Tis for me to say which fate is the better, and I elect to perish here among friends rather than to live elsewhere among enemies. Calm thyself and fret not at this mischance. _I_ reproach thee not."

In spite of his agitation, Edgar could not help gazing in sheer admiration at his companion. She seemed the calmest and most unconcerned of the three. His attention was then caught by Peter's movements.

The lad had, half-absentmindedly, prized open with his dagger a loose board near the top of the great chest. He had then plunged in his hand and taken out a handful of its contents, which seemed to be merely black dry earth. Holding the substance close to the torch, he examined it in some perplexity.

"What hast thou there, Peter?" eagerly asked Edgar, in whose mind a suspicion of the truth had already begun to dawn.

"I know not. 'Tis a handful of black grains, of which the chest seems full."

"Ha!" ejaculated Edgar with a gasp of excitement, reaching out and drawing Peter's hand to him. "'Tis that mysterious new powder of which we have heard of late. It possesseth a strange and mighty power which some think will bring great changes. I have heard it said[#] that it showeth promise of becoming a force to be reckoned with in warfare, even by knights clad in full armour."

[#] Gunpowder was used at Crecy shortly afterwards. It had, of course, been used in battle by the Venetians years before.

"What doth it here?" asked Peter, glancing at the chest with sudden awe.

"'Twas not here when last we came this way, and perchance Black Eustace, hearing of the unrest among his vassals, thought to overawe them by this strange and wellnigh supernatural force. Our sudden attack, and the rapid blows we never ceased to strike, have given him no opportunity to make use of his dread possession. Lift down the maid, Peter, and let us prize open the lid."

Peter obeyed, and in a moment the great chest lay open before them. It was full almost to the brim with the little black grains.

"A way of escape is opening before us!" cried Edgar, in a voice which vibrated with a new and mighty hope. "Beatrice, wilt thou permit us to leave thee and thy maid while we make a last attempt to carve a way to freedom? The risk is great, and it may well prove that we shall burst in the gates of death rather than wedge open those of life. But to remain here is to abandon hope."

For a moment Beatrice hesitated. The thought of being left alone with the insensible Jeannette in the gloomy tunnel evidently terrified her. In a moment or two, however, she answered bravely: "I will stay, Edgar."

"Then follow to the far end. We will leave thee a torch. Come, Peter, not an instant is to be lost--see how the water begins to gush through in streams!"

Rapidly Beatrice and Jeannette were conveyed to the castle end of the passage. Then the two young men sped quickly back to the great chest, replaced the lid, and lifted and carried it along in the opposite direction. Soon they reached the place where the door stood open, admitting the glare and heat of the great fires burning fiercely above.

"Set this down for a moment," cried Edgar, dragging the door to. He then seized his axe and attacked the hinges which held it in position. A dozen heavy blows rained down with the fierce rapidity of one fighting for his life, and the door fell outwards with a crash, letting in again the fierce glare which had been momentarily shut out.

As the door fell, the sound of cheers, followed by loud laughter, became audible. Evidently the thunder of the axe strokes had reached the ears of the men above, and had been received by them as evidence that the fugitives, driven frantic by the fear of an inrush of water, had thoughts of making an effort to break through the ring of fire.

"Wilt yield thee now, braggart esquire?" rang out the stentorian voice of De Brin, high above the crackling of the fires.

"Doubtless--an he gets the chance," answered De Maupas with a loud laugh of derision.

The sally was received with a roar of laughter from the assembled men-at-arms, whose enjoyment of the anticipated proceedings seemed great. At last they were obtaining some return for the alarms and defeats inflicted upon them by the despised peasantry.

"We shall see," muttered Edgar to himself as he darted out into the blazing heat about the steps, lifted the door, and bore it back into the tunnel. Then he again darted out, and with quick swings of the foot scattered the heap of burning brands at the foot of the steps until a space was cleared. The heat was great--wellnigh insupportable.

"Now, Peter," he gasped, once more bounding back into the partial shelter of the passage, "aid me to carry the chest to the foot of the steps. 'Tis our last and only hope."

Livid with superstition and fear, Peter obeyed. The box was quickly lifted to the foot of the steps and there set down. Then Peter darted back into the tunnel and Edgar followed, grasping the door as he passed and carrying it along with him.

The peril was tremendous, for at any moment the burning brands which dropped and rolled down the steps with every puff of wind might set light to the box and explode its contents. Knowing this, Edgar strained every nerve to put as much space between himself and the fires as possible. Half the length of the passage was traversed in safety, and then, with the thought of Beatrice in his mind, he called Peter back and raised the door upright so that it nearly closed the tunnel.

"Aid me to hold it thus, Peter. Set all thy weight against it. Perchance we may then keep the flame from penetrating to our charges. I know not much of this powder, but I fear the explosion will be terrible."

For nearly half a minute the two young men waited, holding the massive door in position. Then with a mighty roar and flash the explosion came. The noise was terrific, and the shock made the very earth tremble. The door was blown back flat, dashing the two young men to the ground like straws, and a rush of hot air sped over them like a hurricane. Jumping to their feet the instant it had passed, they lifted the door back into position and held it there, choking and gasping with the thick fumes and smoke of the fiery blast.

For a moment there was a calm, followed by the ominous sound of falling objects as the rocks, flung into the air by the explosion, dropped heavily back to the ground. Then all was still again.

"Prop this in position while we go back and see how fared the lady Beatrice," gasped Edgar. "If all is well with her, I believe we may yet win through to safety."

Back through the passage beneath the moat, now knee-deep in water, the young men pressed. The torch had been blown out by the rush of air, and all was pitchy dark.

"Beatrice! Beatrice!" shouted Edgar loudly.

"Here--I am safe--but in sore distress," came the reply, and with a cry of triumph Edgar sprang to her side.

Half-choked by the smoke and fumes, with torch blown out and knee-deep in water, Beatrice's heart had almost failed her, not knowing how her friends had fared exposed to the nearer shock of the dread explosion. Had they perished, her plight and that of poor Jeannette, whom she bore in her arms, would have been mournful indeed.

Burning with a desire to see the last of the passage which had almost become their tomb, Edgar lifted Jeannette without a word, grasped Beatrice by the hand, and stumbled back along the tunnel, Peter going on ahead. A faint light could be seen gleaming in the distance, and full of hope that the way lay open to the sky, they pressed on faster and faster.

Two-thirds of the length of the passage had been traversed when they encountered great heaps of fallen earth and masonry, over the top of which the gleam of daylight dimly struggled. Crawling and scrambling on all-fours as best they could, they made their way onward still, until at last they emerged into the open air in the midst of a great pit torn in the earth by the force of the explosion.

The air was still sultry with the heat of the fires, burning embers and blackened branches lay strewn about in all directions, and a thin veil of smoke lay over all. But not a sign of life was there, save upon the walls of the castle, where one or two figures could be seen peeping fearfully over the battlements.

Clambering up the side of the pit, the little party plunged hurriedly into the woods. The fate of the soldiery who had revelled about the fires they knew not, but they had no mind to be recaptured after all the terrors and privations they had endured. Even when well within the shelter of the woods, they still pressed breathlessly onward until they met a party of the peasants approaching the scene of the strange explosion with slow and timid steps. At the sight of Edgar's party they stopped and made as though to flee.

"Where is Father Armand?" cried Edgar quickly. "Fear not--we are flesh and blood. Take us to Father Armand--if he still lives."

With their fear changed into amazement the peasants clustered about the fugitives with every manifestation of joy and gladness. Then, at Edgar's repeated request, they led the way for a few hundred yards through the woods to where a larger number of the peasantry were gathered, doubtless awaiting the report of their scouts before venturing to approach the scene of the explosion. In their midst, supporting himself against the trunk of a tree, was Father Armand. At the sight of Edgar and his companions he gave a cry of pleasure, and, wounded as he was, made shift to stumble towards them with hands eagerly outstretched.

"All hope had I given up of seeing you again," he cried in a voice trembling with emotion. "I feared that you had stayed to fight on, and had been beaten down at last. Thank God you are safe!"

"Thank God indeed!" replied Edgar reverently, "for were it not for a strange discovery at the last moment we must have met a dreadful fate. Almost we were spent."

"That dread noise and quaking of the earth was it then thy doing?"

"Aye, Father; but of that I will tell thee later. Canst now have these maidens taken to a place of calm and safety, where some of the peasant women may minister to them? They have been through a trial this day that might well shake the courage of men used to facing death in many forms."

"They shall be taken to the cave, and there treated with loving care and hospitality," cried the priest; and calling two of his men he sent them off running to the village. Soon they were back with two women, who took charge of the maidens, and set out with them for the shelter of the cave.

With the departure of the ladies, Edgar's thoughts turned again to the task still remaining unaccomplished. Their enemies had no doubt been thrown into a panic by the strange and unexpected explosion, and, though exhausted and nerve-shaken, he felt reluctant to lose an opportunity of subduing them before they had had time to recover. So he proposed to Father Armand that he should lead those among the peasantry whose courage was still unbroken to the attack of the castle once more. The spirits of the depressed peasants had risen considerably at the appearance of the second of their leaders, and when the priest called for volunteers to follow Edgar nearly all responded.

Without a moment's delay, and straight forward to the gates of the castle, Edgar led the men. Crossing the filled-in moat, the band pressed through the gateway, and found their way barred by the merest handful of the defenders of the castle. At the first attack these, dumbfounded and dispirited, threw down their arms and surrendered.

Directing several men to take charge of the prisoners and to treat them well, Edgar next made for the door of the keep. This again was weakly defended, and he realized that almost without a stroke the castle had been won. What, then, could have become of De Brin and De Maupas? Could they have perished in the explosion?

Questioning the prisoners, Edgar found that only a bare half-dozen of burnt and panic-stricken men had succeeded in making their way back into the castle from the circle of fires in the woods. From none of these could news be obtained of their leaders, and it could only be concluded that they had been blown to pieces in company with the major part of their followers.

Desirous of avoiding the giving-up of the castle to promiscuous plunder, Edgar posted a guard at the gates, and withdrew with the rest of the band to the woods. Amid the rapturous cheers of the peasantry he reported their success to Father Armand. The good priest was indeed overjoyed to hear that the power of the oppressors of his flock was broken at last, and that no more bloodshed need be incurred.

With Edgar's desire to prevent indiscriminate plundering he heartily agreed, and a plan was quickly arranged by which all that was useful and valuable in the castle might be saved and used for the common good, and the building then be razed to the ground.

This arrangement was carried out to the letter, and in a day or two the site which had been disgraced by the grim Castle of Ruthenes bore nothing but a heap of tumbled ruins. No more could the mercenaries of the castle sally out and burn and destroy without let or hindrance, and no more need the poor villagers live in hourly dread of violence and extortion.

The survivors of the garrison were given the choice of settling down in the neighbourhood, where they could be kept under observation, or of being conducted over the mountains into Spain, well out of harm's way. Most elected to take the former offer, and were soon living on good terms with their erstwhile enemies.

As Father Armand and Edgar well knew, such summary justice might in ordinary times have brought a fresh body of soldiery to the spot, intent to rivet a yoke, perchance every whit as irksome, afresh upon their necks. But the confusion caused by the invasion of the English was so great that they had hopes that it might pass unnoticed.

Indeed, the invasion of the English was followed closely by the fearful depredations of the Free Companies and the general insurrection of the peasantry. Convulsed by these successive blows, France had little time or energy to spare for internal affairs, and if the news of the capture of Ruthenes ever reached the ears of the authorities, they were too much occupied to take any action, and the matter was allowed to fade into the obscurity of the past.

*CHAPTER XXII*

*The Last of Ruthenes*

The shock and strain of their trying ordeal beneath the castle moat was so great that it was some days before the lady Beatrice and her maid were sufficiently recovered to leave the shelter of their quiet retreat on the slopes of the mountains. They were tended devotedly by the kindly women-folk of the peasantry, and regularly visited by Edgar and Peter; but even so, it was nearly a week before Beatrice, eager to be gone though she was, could pronounce herself fit to travel on horseback.

When the news of their approaching departure was told to Father Armand he showed much concern.

"Deeply sorry shall I be to lose thee," he said to Edgar in a voice in which there was more than a trace of sadness. "I know that thy path and mine must diverge widely and that I shall never see thee more. We have been comrades, and stood shoulder to shoulder for a brief space, and it wrings my heart that it must be so no more. But come, 'tis useless to dwell upon our sorrows; the last act in the story of the freeing of Ruthenes is about to commence, and at least thou wilt stay to witness it?"

"What act is that, Father? The castle is now razed to the ground, and all seemeth already over."

"Nay, there is still one thing more to be done. Ye men of war think that once the citadel is captured all is done that is worth doing. Stay with us for a few short hours and then all will be ready."

Edgar assented gladly enough, for the thoughts of a final parting from the brave old priest were far from pleasing. The time was occupied in preparations for the departure, and when a summons came from Father Armand to meet him before the castle ruins all was in readiness for the journey.