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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 49284
   :PG.Title: A Maid of Brittany
   :PG.Released: 2015-06-25
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :MARCREL.ill: \H. \M. Brock
   :DC.Creator: May Wynne
   :DC.Title: A Maid of Brittany
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1909
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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A MAID OF BRITTANY
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   [Transcriber's note: Chapters 22, 23, and 24 are somewhat
   confusing.  In 22, Guillaume de Coray is thrown from his
   horse and injured, but in 23 he's OK, then in 24 he's
   dying.  I don't have access to another edition to see
   if perhaps there's something wrong with the source edition
   for this etext.]

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      Cover art

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      :alt: "Do your work knave, and quickly." (p. 282)

      "Do your work knave, and quickly." (p. `282`_)

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      A MAID OF BRITTANY

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      A Romance

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      BY

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      MAY WYNNE

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      AUTHOR OF
      "HENRY OF NAVARRE," "WHEN TERROR RULED," ETC.

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      *POPULAR EDITION
      with
      FRONTISPIECE BY \H. \M. BROCK*

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      LONDON
      GREENING & CO., LTD.
      1909

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      (*All rights reserved*)

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      Dedicated
      TO
      MY MOTHER

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.. _`CHAPTER I`:

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   MAID OF BRITTANY

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   CHAPTER I

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"A spy—a French spy! tiens, monsieur! but it is
assured."  The speaker, a man of about thirty years
of age, dressed in hunting costume, was standing by
his horse's side, looking down, with flushed face and
knitted brows, upon a figure which lay stretched on
the ground before him, the figure of a man also
young, but even in unconsciousness of far more
prepossessing appearance than he who stood frowning
over him.  Gathered at a short distance and watching
the scene with keen interest stood a hawking party,
fresh from their chase, and consisting of a
broad-shouldered, handsome old man of some seventy
summers, a young girl, whose beautiful face wore a
compassionate look as she bent forward on her palfrey
to catch a glimpse at the unconscious stranger, and
several attendants bearing trophies of the chase, and
carrying hooded falcons on their wrists.

"Nay, then, Guillaume," interposed the girl, before
her father could reply, "but wherefore such assurance?
Surely he is no spy, for see, the golden spurs
upon his heels proclaim his knighthood."

"Ay," replied her cousin mockingly, as he pointed
to a horse standing with bent head and distended
nostrils by the prostrate man's side.  "As plainly,
fair cousin, as yonder steed's docked ears and mane
proclaim him Brittany's enemy."[#]

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[#] It was the fashion at the time for French knights to cut off
their horse's ears and manes, as also never to ride mares.

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There was a sparkle of indignation in the girl's
eyes as she turned to her father.

"At least," she urged, as if pleading against some
unspoken verdict, "we judge no man unheard.
See, my father, there may be many explanations
of his presence here; it is surely so, for assured I
am that he is no spy.  Nay, cousin, your wits are
too keen in this case, for a spy would not thus
proclaim his nationality, if a horse's mane speaks so
plainly."

"Tush, Gwennola!" reproved her father with a
smile.  "This is no matter for woman's interference
that thou shouldst argue like a wandering scholar.
Still, there is fairness in what thou sayest, and I would
lief tender mercy with justice even to a Frenchman,
though, if he be a spy, by the bones of St Yves, he
shall hang as fast as any acorn to the nearest oak."

So saying, and in spite of his kinsman's obvious
disapproval, he ordered two of his servants to
dismount and raise the unconscious object of their
argument.

It was clear that a fall from his horse had stunned
the stranger, and the cause was not far to seek in the
twisted roots of the trees partly concealed by grass
and fern, which might well prove dangerous to an
unwary rider.

As they raised him the young man moaned, half
opening his dark eyes, then closing them again in
a fresh swoon.

"He is hurt," said Gwennola compassionately.
"See, he groans again: be careful how thou liftest
him, Job.  Yes—on thy shoulders—so, and bid them
prepare the eastern room for his reception: I will
myself attend to his hurts when I return."

"A good Samaritan, fair mistress," observed her
cousin with a sneer, as he vaulted again into his
saddle.  "Yet, be warned, lest the hand that nourishes
it is bitten by the viper of treachery."

"Nay," said her father, with a smile towards his
daughter, "Gwennola is right, though over-forward
for a maid, due, I fear me, to her old father's spoiling.
Is it not so, my Nola?  Methinks the stranger were
best left to Father Ambrose's ministrations, so there
shall be the less fear of the truth of Guillaume's
ill prophecies."

Gwennola allowed her palfrey to draw even closer
to her father's steed as she raised a smiling face to his.

"Nay, my father," she said tenderly.  "'Tis but
that I love justice as thou dost, and, moreover, my
heart tells me that yon poor knight, even if he be a
Frenchman, is no spy."

"Nevertheless," said her father sternly, "a Frenchman
is the enemy of the Breton; he comes not by
chance to the forest of Arteze, my child, and, though
I fail not in hospitality to a sick man, yet scant
welcome will the servant of the King of France find
under the roof of a soldier of the Duchess Anne."

"Better the welcome of the halter for the spy,
without more ado," said Guillaume de Coray with a
malicious smile.  "Remember St Aubin du Cormier,
monsieur, and be warned by one who tells you that
yonder false caitiff is a spy, for all his golden spurs
and fair looks," he added, with another meaning look
towards his cousin, "which have gone so far to soften
the heart of my sweet mistress here."

"Nay," said the old man sternly, "I will abide by
what I have said.  The Frenchman shall have justice,
but no more—the nearest tree for the spy, and short
shrift too, if he cannot bring good account of his
presence here."

Gwennola sighed.  "He is no spy," she whispered to
herself, but to her father she dared return no answer,
but bent low over the beautiful bird attached to her
wrist by a slender golden chain, to hide perchance the
tears in her blue eyes rather than from any desire to
gaze at her pet's bright plumage, or count the tiny
golden bells on its hood.  So in silence they rode
through the forest glades and up through the long
avenue of whispering oaks where the sunshine of a
June evening shed slanting rays of golden glory
through the rustling foliage overhead.

The Château de Mereac stood on the outskirts of
the forest of Arteze, not many leagues distant from
the little Breton town of Martigue.  The country on
this side of Rennes had from time immemorial been
the debatable land between Brittany and her overweening
sister France; countless feuds raged constantly
between the peoples, such as were fought in the Middle
Ages, and even later, along our own Scottish border,
and every Breton eyed his French neighbour as a
natural and implacable enemy.  But, in the year
1491, this natural animosity had grown from a
smouldering antagonism into active flame of bitter
hatred; for some years past the red angel of war had
stood between the two countries with a blood-stained
sword in her hand.  Ever since the accession of
Charles VIII., the rich prize of Brittany had been
coveted by his ambitious sister and gouvernante,
Anne of Beaujeu, now Duchesse de Bourbon, in all
but name mistress of France.  French armies had
from time to time devastated the domain, but still
Brittany, stubborn, gallant, untameable, had resisted
the greedy hand outstretched to seize her.  With
enthusiastic loyalty the Bretons had rallied round
their little Duchess, left an orphan at the age of
thirteen, to face the perils of her exalted position
alone.  Her beauty, her helplessness, but above all
her courage, appealed to the love and chivalry of her
indomitable people.  It is true that amongst the great
nobles there were traitors to her cause, waverers who
proffered allegiance first to one side then the other,
disappointed suitors, who, like the Comte d'Albret,
vented his spleen at a child's scorn by betraying his
country; yet amongst the vast majority of her subjects
Anne was worshipped, and her name inspired deeds
of chivalry and devotion which had hitherto kept the
all too greedy foe at bay.  But her case was desperate,
and well every Breton knew it; the armies of France
might sweep across their borders at any moment,
bringing destruction and devastation with them.  What
wonder that a Frenchman's name was poison to a
Breton's ear?  What wonder if those dwelling, as it
were, under the shadow of the great and powerful
enemy meted out scant mercy to their foes when
opportunity arose?

Yet for the moment a lull had fallen on the strife;
the attitude of France seemed, for the present, to be
quiescent, if not friendly.  It was rumoured that the
Count Dunois, cousin to the French King, and friend
of the Duchess Anne's, as he had been of her father,
was striving to unite the two countries in bonds of
peace.  Already he had succeeded in bringing about
the release of his friend Louis of Orleans, the bitter
enemy of the Duchess of Bourbon, and some said the
lover of the Duchess of Brittany, for all her tender
years, and the fact that he was already the husband
of Yeanne, the deformed younger daughter of Louis
XI., whom her royal father had forced him to marry.

The air was, in fact, thick with rumours and
intrigues, with the ominous thunder of war growling
threateningly in the distance.  It was said that the
bond Dunois proposed was the holy one of matrimony
between France's King and Brittany's Duchess, yet
the rumour ran vaguely and doubtfully, and was
scarcely credited by those who remembered that
Anne was already married by proxy to the King of
the Romans, whose little daughter was also affianced,
at the tender age of two, to Charles VIII.

It was a time, therefore, when men went warily,
mistrustfully, with eyes glancing to right and left
for fear of enemies, and ears open to listen to the
breath of treachery.  Above all, on the borders of
Brittany was such watchfulness needed.  What wonder
then if the Sieur de Mereac, riding homewards from
the chase with his daughter and kinsman beside him,
pondered first on the counsel of one and then of
the other, finally deciding that the Frenchman's fate
must be tempered with justice, but small mercy, and
that the rope end was the best meed for the enemy
of the Duchess Anne?





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.. _`CHAPTER II`:

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   CHAPTER II

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With the vague wonderment of returning consciousness,
Henri d'Estrailles lay striving, at first feebly,
then with growing clearness, to recall the events
which had preceded his fall.  From out of the mists
of elusive shadows, which seemed to paralyse his
brain, he remembered how he had set out for Rennes
in the train of the Count Dunois, who went on an
embassy to the young Duchess from the King of
France; of how he had lost his way on the preceding
day, wandering aimlessly over vast heaths and landes,
through valleys and forests, till the stumbling of his
good horse Rollo brought a blank to his train of
thought.  Then, as the mists cleared still more from
his weary brain, came the further wonderment of his
present situation.  He was lying on no mossy sward,
with Rollo nozzling his face with dumb endearments,
but instead, in a bed of which the fine linen and
rich hangings bespoke a seigneur's castle rather than
a peasant's hut, whilst, as the pain in his side caught
his laboured breath, he became aware that he had
been bandaged by no unskilled hand.  Too weak
to rise, he lay, still vaguely conning over those last
hours of consciousness, and striving in vain to fit
them in to the present, till at last, outwearied, he
closed his eyes and would have slept, had he not
been aroused by the soft withdrawal of the heavy
curtain at the foot of the bed, and his eyes, in opening,
fell, he told himself, on the fairest vision they had ever
beheld.  It was the figure of a young maiden, slim
and tall; the high, heart-shaped headdress, with its
long dependent veil, framing a beautiful, childish face,
for the bloom of early youth was on the soft colouring
of her cheeks and rosy lips, and a look of innocent
bashfulness in the great blue eyes which looked down,
half smiling, into his wondering brown ones; the red
gold of the curls which peeped beneath the stiff
headdress contrasting with the dark green of her
tight-fitting bodice and long hanging sleeves.  For
full a minute the sick man gazed with all the boldness
of one whose brain had yet scarcely realised whether
it were vision or substance that he saw, and as the
blue eyes met his eager glance they drooped, the
colour rose in a wave of soft crimson to the girl's
cheeks, and the curtain was allowed to slip to its
place.

He was alone once more, but no longer did Henri
d'Estrailles desire sleep; his pulses still beat with the
emotions created by the vision; more than ever he
desired to know where fate had led him.  'Twas no
unkindly destiny, he told himself, but verily the star
of Venus herself which had so unwittingly guided
him.  His restless excitement boded ill for his hurts,
as he tossed from side to side, and his face was
already flushed with fever, when again the curtain
was drawn aside, and he caught back his breath with
disappointment, as this time, instead of the beautiful
face of his dreams, there appeared the wrinkled,
kindly face of a priest in the black robe of a
Benedictine.

"Ah, my son," he murmured gently, as he drew
back the curtain by the side of the patient's bed and
seated himself by his side, "it is well.  I see that you
have already benefited by my salves and ointments,
and perchance"—he paused, smiling, as he read the
hundred questions in the eager face turned to
him—"you are doubtless as anxious, my son," he added
kindly, "to know under whose roof you are resting,
as we are to inquire what brought a stranger to
wander unattended in our forest of Arteze?"

There was no hiding the anxiety in the old man's
eyes as he awaited the answer to his question, and the
sick man smiled as he replied—

"Perchance you had e'en taken me for a spy of the
King of France?  No, no, father, the d'Estrailles of
d'Estrailles have never yet stooped to so vile a task,
and, by our Lady's help, will never so soil one of the
proudest scutcheons in France; my errand here in
Brittany was the Count Dunois' business, for I rode
in his train to Rennes on an embassy to your Duchess
from my master, but losing my way in this so dreary
and perilous country, I had nearly met my fate at the
hand of an unruly tree stump, had it not been, I
ween, for the unknown benefactor who has played the
good Samaritan."

Father Ambrose drew a sigh of relief.  "'Twill be
good news to my lord," he said heartily, "as also to
the fair Demoiselle de Mereac, who pleaded so prettily
with her father that you were no spy, that he was fain
to spare you from the hanging which Monsieur de
Coray deemed your fittest end."

A flush of anger deepened on the young man's cheek.

"Parbleu!" he cried softly, "Breton justice indeed,
to hang an unconscious man because, forsooth! he
rides unattended and cannot speak for himself!  This
monsieur——"

"Nay," interrupted the priest, laying a soothing
hand upon the other's clenched fist.  "Calm yourself,
my son, or I fear you will suffer ill from fever to
your hurts.  Be patient, and I will tell you how it
chanced, as the demoiselle herself told me," he added,
smiling.

"And the demoiselle?" questioned d'Estrailles
eagerly, as the priest concluded his tale of the brief
episode which had been so near to terminating his
career.  "She is without doubt the angel who anon
looked down upon me as I lay a-wondering, and who
did so far entangle my thoughts that I deemed I
must have reached Paradise itself?"

"She is a good maid and a beautiful," said the old
priest, with a touch of asperity in his tones.
"Moreover," he added, with a smiling glance askance at
his interrogator, "she is betrothed to her kinsman,
Monsieur Guillaume de Coray."

"De Coray?" echoed the young Frenchman with
scorn.  "What! the hound who would have strung me
to the first tree because, parbleu! I had not the honour
of his acquaintance?  Nay, father, so sweet and gentle
a maid would ill mate with so unknightly a spouse!"

Father Ambrose sighed.  "It is the will of her
father, monsieur," he said, "and therefore it is a thing
that must be—though from small choice, I ween, on
the part of the Lady Gwennola."

"Gwennola," murmured d'Estrailles, lingering
tenderly over the syllables.  "It is a name altogether
suited to one so beautiful—Gwennola.  Ah, my father,
although I have but seen her for a moment, my heart
grows bitter when I think of her betrothed to one
whose knightly instincts can well be no higher than
a butcher's scullion; but tell me, if you can indeed
spare the time to a stranger such as I, hath this
Sieur de Mereac no other child but this fair maid?"

The priest shook his head, sighing heavily.  "Alas!"
he replied, "none now, monsieur; although scarce
three years since he rejoiced in the possession of as
gallant a son as father might desire; handsome,
noble-minded and brave, it seemed impossible but that Yvon
de Mereac should become a great knight whose name
should resound throughout Brittany; but, alas! alas! the
holy saints had not so willed it—he fell, monsieur,
this gallant youth, scarce twenty years of age, in the
bloody battle of St Aubin du Cormier, and the hopes
which had gathered so fondly round the budding
promise of his noble manhood were quenched in the
darkness of the grave; not even was it possible to
recover his body, though long and terrible search was
made amongst the mangled slain on the battle-field,
and since that day when Guillaume de Coray brought
news of his death, the Sieur de Mereac has been an
old and heart-broken man, ever cherishing his anger
in wrath and bitterness against the French who thus
worked the ruin of his hopes."

"'Tis a sad tale," said d'Estrailles.  "Yet, my father,
after all, 'tis the risk all soldiers must run; some are
born to fight a hundred battles and come scathless
through all, whilst another, like yon poor boy, perishes
ere he had dyed his maiden sword in the blood of his
enemies.  Such is Fate, and we must fain abye it.
For the rest, it appears to me that this Monsieur de
Mereac might well mourn his living heir rather than
his dead son, if he is to be succeeded by this poltroon
knave who would hang noble knights in cold blood."

"Yes," sighed the priest, "the inheritance falls
indeed to this same Guillaume de Coray, and therefore
it becomes plain to you, my son, that of necessity he
marries Gwennola de Mereac; so the old inheritance
comes back again to the child of her father, and in
their turn his grandsons may yet rule over the lands
of Mereac."

But to this d'Estrailles replied not, seeing that to
him it was a thing impossible to dream of, that
poltroon lips should touch those rosy ones that had
smiled down so short a while since into his heart.
The very thought kept him tossing feverishly upon
his bed long after the old priest had left him and he
lay in darkness.

"Gwennola," he whispered to himself, "Gwennola,"
and fell to wondering when he might see the vision of
her beauty once more.





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.. _`CHAPTER III`:

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   CHAPTER III

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The Château de Mereac stood on a slight elevation,
overlooking, on one side, the forest of Arteze, whilst
far away on the other stretched vast heaths and landes
covered with patches of gorse and whin, briars and
thistles, whilst here and there huge boulders of rock
lay scattered about.  A very land of desolation this,
yet grand and even beautiful in its rugged, mournful
way, for there is a vein of poetry which runs throughout
Brittany, even in its loneliest and most desolate
parts, a poetry which finds its expression in the
history of its people, set as it is to the music of its
wild winds, waves, and rugged moorlands, music in a
minor key wailing across wastes and through valleys
and forests, music which sings of love and passion,
the free untamable spirit of the Celt, with all its
romance and love of the supernatural.  Like their
Scottish brethren, they revel, these people, in legend,
folklore, and hero-worship, over which for ever reign
King Arthur and his fairy Morgana to inspire
chivalry, passion, and love ideals.  The keen air and
salt spray of their shores act, too, as an inspiration
to these great-hearted men and women, bracing them
up to deeds of heroism and glory—glory such as
their ancestors fought for and won in the olden days.

A river ran in front of the old Château de Mereac,
with orchards and gardens sloping down to the water's
edge, and it was here that, that June morning, walked
the Demoiselle de Mereac with an attendant maiden,
both, it would seem, intent on their devotions, seeing
that they raised not their heads from their livres
d'heures even when a man's shadow crossed the
path of the young châtelaine.  But when the shadow
became stationary substance, she was fain to look up,
though with a frown on her smooth white brow, and a
most decidedly unfriendly glance in her blue eyes.
The accompanying maiden discreetly withdrew to
the distance as the cavalier made his obeisance
before the lady.

"I crave thy pardon, sweet mistress," he observed,
smiling, "for disturbing thy devotions.  Methought I
heard the very rustle of angels' wings on the air as I
approached."

The Demoiselle de Mereac drew herself up stiffly,
facing him with flashing eyes.

"You do well, monsieur," she retorted coldly, "to
observe that they departed on your arrival."

Guillaume de Coray shrugged his shoulders.

"Nay, sweet," he observed coolly, "I came not to
discourse on angels, though I ventured to intrude
upon one, but rather because I would fain speak with
you anent the stranger who lies so sorely sick yonder,"
and he pointed towards the château.

"My father, monsieur," replied Gwennola haughtily,
"would, methinks, best reply to any questions
concerning Monsieur d'Estrailles.  Doubtless he has
already informed you," she added scornfully, "that
he is satisfied that he is no spy, this French knight,
but a noble gentleman of the train of the Count
Dunois."

"So I have heard," retorted her kinsman.  "But it
is also my habit, sweet mistress, to believe little that
is not proved.  Moreover, I am well assured that this
fellow has less right than you dream of to your
father's mercy.  Were I," he added in a low, menacing
tone, "to tell him all I knew, the nearest branch and
short shrift would be the hospitality extended to him
by the Sieur de Mereac."

"Indeed, monsieur," replied the girl, her face
flushing crimson with anger, "you are very wise;
but wherefore spare to strike so crushing a blow?—not
for love, I trow, of the poor knight who lies sick
yonder."

"Nay," he returned, trying to soften his tones, till
they resembled the angry purr of a cat, "but rather
for love of thee, sweet Gwennola, for well I know
how grieved thy tender heart would be to see yon
miscreant meet his just doom."

"Just doom!" she retorted, the crimson once more
dyeing her cheeks.  "Nay, monsieur, surely it
comports not with knightly honour to hint at what
it is difficult to assert or prove—nay, I will hear no
more of your base insinuations against a brave man.
Begone, monsieur, and leave me to my devotions."

"Nay," he snarled, "surely, sweet, 'tis no time for
devotions when the star of Venus is on high; let us
walk together, and, since it pleases thee not to talk of
sick traitors and spies, let us converse on sweeter
themes: of our love, fair lady, and of the day when
thou shalt be my bride."

She shuddered and drew back from his proffered
arm as if he had stung her.

"No, monsieur," she replied, "have done with
mockery; you know well my will with regard to our
betrothal—as for marriage——"

She checked herself, startled by a sudden change of
expression on his face; instead of the suave, mocking
smile it had grown grave and hard, whilst the cruel
mouth tightened over his gums till his teeth showed
white below them, but into the eyes had crept an
unmistakable look of fear, as he gazed across the river
towards the forest beyond; then, with a quick side
glance at her and her maiden, he murmured some
excuse for leaving them to their prayers, and with a
hurried bow turned and walked swiftly towards the
castle.

"What can it be?  Saw you aught, Marie?" asked
Gwennola, as her maiden, seeing her alone, hastened
towards her.  "What was it that so startled Monsieur
de Coray?—he turned as pale as if he had seen a spirit
from the other world."

Both girls crossed themselves, Marie adding that
she fancied she had seen a man's figure amongst the
trees, but it had disappeared so swiftly that she could
not be sure.

"At least it has rid us of an unwelcome intruder,"
smiled Gwennola.  "See, Marie, let us gather some
violets and then return to Mass; I would fain demand
of the good father how his patient is this morning.
Last night he feared fever from the wound in his side
where the poor knight's own sword pierced him; only
a hair's-breadth more and it would have entered his
lung.  I must in truth offer three candles at the shrine
of our Blessed Lady for sparing so gallant a knight.
Think then, my Marie, a hair's-breadth and he had
been no more!"

The maid smiled slyly.  "The saints be praised,
mistress," she replied, adding beneath her breath that
the hair's-breadth might well have been passed had
the accident befallen *some* knights, whereat both
laughed and fell to picking the violets with light
hearts.

It was indeed a fair dawn, and the fragrance and
sweetness of it seemed to have entered the turret
room where Henri d'Estrailles lay, with the presence
of the young châtelaine of the castle..  No fleeting
vision this morning, but verily a living presence,
stately, smiling, beautiful as she stood by his side,
inquiring of Father Ambrose how his patient fared.

In spite of her childish appearance—she was scarce
seventeen summers—Gwennola bore herself with all
the stately airs befitting to the lady of a great house,
for, since her mother's death, she had filled the post
of châtelaine at Mereac, and had grown, it must be
confessed, from a spoilt child to a wilful maiden,
whose self-importance sat so sweetly upon her that
her father could find no word of chiding for his
oft-times wayward darling.  Only, alas! in one matter
had he proved firm, and that concerned her betrothal
to her kinsman, and even Gwennola, indulged as she
was beyond the custom of those stern days of parental
authority, dared not oppose herself against the decree,
though, with all the strenuous force of her womanhood,
she would fain have striven against it, had she dared,
ever more too as the months showed her a lover so
contrary to all her maiden dreams.  How well she
knew that for all his empty phrases and mocking
vows this kinsman of hers had no love in his heart
for her; his very endearments were an insult against
which her hot, impetuous young nature revolted.
Bitter were the tears shed in secret, and none to see
or comfort her but Father Ambrose and her maiden,
Marie Alloadec, her trusted friend and companion.
And, after all, it was surprising how ill they
comprehended, these two.  The good father would strive
to comfort her with a homily on the necessity of
obedience and submission to Heaven, and would only
shake his head gravely when she replied, weeping, that
Heaven could have no share in breaking a maiden's
heart, or else suggest, half hesitatingly, that perhaps
her father might listen to her entreaties to enter the
cloister.  But this latter suggestion found small favour
in the eyes of one whose warm young life shrank back
appalled from the cold vocation of a nun's monotonous
existence.  Surely, she told herself, there was some
other way, some other loophole of escape from the
fate in store for her.  Marie Alloadec's consolations
were more congenial than the worthy father's, but
even they fell short of Gwennola's need; sympathy
was all her foster sister held out to her, hope there
seemed none.  With all the tragedy of youth and all
the young girl's exaggerations of woe, Gwennola
saw herself condemned to an early grave or broken
heart.  But somehow, as she stood there, glancing
shyly from time to time towards the sick man, the
rosy finger of hope seemed busy at the locked door
of her heart, which beat swiftly at the messenger's
knock, for all her outward calm.  And so it came
that she lingered in the turret-room, passing from
questions of his wound to talk, hesitatingly at first,
but with growing curiosity, of that distant home of
his in fair Touraine, sunny, laughing Touraine, with
its langorous breezes and fair meadows, its fruits and
flowers, and the dancing waters of the Loire, so
different to their own grey Vilaine.  Then, as if half
ashamed of her eagerness, or because the brown eyes
that looked up into hers brought the blushes to her
cheeks and a sudden inexplicable thrill to her beating
heart, or because she had caught a grave reproof in
Father Ambrose's face which seemed to warn her of
unmaidenliness, she became of a sudden the quaintly-stiff
little châtelaine once more, speaking to the priest
instead of to the patient concerning salves and
ointments and such like with the air of a matron of
fifty.

"The wound heals favourably," said Father Ambrose,
and for all his reverent estate there was a twinkle of
amusement, or perhaps sympathy, in his kind old eyes
as he glanced from the flushed, childish face, with its
framing of red-gold curls and white headdress, to the
eager one on the bed, which looked up with such an
admiring gaze at the now averted face of his fair
visitor.  "Monsieur will doubtless be able to continue
his journey in a week's time, but he must be careful,
for the reopening of an old wound is ever more
dangerous than a new one."

"Except the new one be at the heart," smiled
d'Estrailles slyly.

Gwennola turned, answering the smile half shyly,
half coquettishly, as she replied: "But Monsieur's heart
is unscathed?  The sword——"

"Truly, mademoiselle is right; the sword spared
my heart, but nathless I fear it has not gone
unscathed, for what is a sword point compared to a
maiden's eyes—if," he added softly, "those eyes be
cold?"

Gwennola's face flushed again, and the blue eyes in
question drooped, to hide perchance a tell-tale light
which shone in them, but Father Ambrose's gentle
voice interrupted the conversation.

"Nay, nay, monsieur," he urged reprovingly, "French
compliments suit ill to a Breton maiden's ears; for
the rest, it is not well that you should talk too long,
lest the threatened fever of last night overcome you;
if you would be again in the saddle before a week
has passed you must e'en be obedient."

"Verily," sighed Henri d'Estrailles with a faint
grimace, "your words are doubtless golden, my
father, though scarcely sweet to the ear, yet I must
e'en obey, seeing that I do ill to grasp too greedily
at hospitality which must needs be more pain than
pleasure to bestow."

"Nay, monsieur," interrupted Gwennola gently, "we
of Mereac grudge no man our hospitality, but——"

"Ay, the but," replied d'Estrailles wistfully.
"Mademoiselle, believe me, my gratitude is unbounded,
yet I cannot but comprehend how distasteful is the
presence of a Frenchman to a family bereaved as
the good father here has told me, nor would I linger
one moment longer than it is necessary to my hurt;
though," he added softly, "I must needs leave behind
me for ever somewhat that I had dreamed to keep
my own for all time."

She did not reply, only met his pleading glance
with one which was half wonder, half glad comprehension,
the look of a child who sees before it joys
hitherto undreamt of, yet gazes, doubting whether they
be for him.  The look lingered in her eyes even when
she had left the sick man's chamber, and gone slowly
down the winding stairway into the great hall.

"Ah, my Nola, so there thou art.  Comest thou
not with thy old father to-day a-hawking?"

The Sieur de Mereac stood by the long table booted
and spurred, his falcon on his wrist, his cloak flung
over his shoulder, a gallant figure, in brave attire, his
kindly, keen grey eyes fixed questioningly on his
daughter.  She ran to him, curtsying and smiling,
and slipped one slim arm round his caressingly.

"I knew not that it was your pleasure, monsieur
my father," she replied, smiling up at him with loving
eyes.  He stroked back her ruddy curls fondly as
he looked down into the beautiful face.

"Thy father always wants thee, little one," he said
tenderly, "as thou knowest very well, spoilt child as
thou art.  And so thou dost not want to come and see
me try my new gerfalcon!  Donna Maria? tiens! look
then how beautiful a bird she is!"

"She is altogether perfect," murmured Gwennola,
stroking the bird's soft plumage, "and to-morrow
thou shalt again take her hawking, my father, and I
will accompany thee on my little Croisette.  Say, is it
not so?"

"But why not to-day, little bird?" he asked, half
impatiently.  "See, the sun shines, and the air is
glorious.  Fie, then! is it because Guillaume is not
here?"

A shadow fell across the bright face, and she drew
back with a sigh.

"No, my father," she said in a low voice; "that
thou knowest very well,—oh, father!"—and once again
she clung to him with a sudden, new-born tenderness—"thou
knowest that I want none but thee,—only
thee for always."

"Nay, child," he replied, patting her cheek kindly
"that would never do; but see, when thou art married
to Guillaume we shall still be together; there will
come no stranger lord to carry my little sunbeam
away from Mereac, leaving it cold and grey for ever.
Say then, little one, is that not well?—thou and
Guillaume, and the old father here?  Tiens! give
me a kiss, my Gwennola, for her Spanish Majesty
waxes as impatient as my good Barbe without.  Adieu,
petite, and be kind to the poor Guillaume when he
returns."

But Gwennola did not reply; perhaps her voice was
too choked with tears just then to make answer to
her father's words, but, if so, she quickly dashed the
bright drops from her eyes as she met the curious
gaze of a youth who sat perched on a stool by the
side of the empty hearth: a narrow-faced, undersized
lad clad in a fool's motley, his quick beady eyes
roving restlessly from his young mistress to watch
the gambols of a small ape, which, dressed in quaint
imitation of his master, chattered and clambered
about, first over the rush-strewn floor, then up the dark
tapestries, finally alighting between the outstretched
forms of two wolf-hounds, which lay dreaming doubtless
of the chase, for, as the impudent little jester
sprang to their side, they raised their heads with
an ominous growl, and might in sleepy anger have
terminated a mischievous career, had not the little
creature with an agile bound sprung over their bodies
on to the knee of his master, where he sat gibbering
and chattering like some mocking imp of darkness,
whilst the fool rocked himself backwards and forwards
on his stool, chuckling shrilly.

"Silence, Pierre!" commanded Gwennola, the more
sharply because she had with difficulty regained her
composure; "and go quickly, bid Marie and Job
Alloadec come hither; tell them that I would have
them accompany me to Mereac to see old Mère
Fanchonic.  And bid Marie bring the warm wrap I
promised the old woman."

Pierre obeyed sullenly enough, for it displeased him
to have his sport thus interrupted, but Gwennola paid
no heed to his frowns, but stood awaiting her
attendants with a little smile hovering around her lips,
though why she smiled she could not have told, unless
it were that she recalled to mind Father Ambrose's
shocked face when the Frenchman spoke of maidens'
eyes.  Tiens! what harm then was it?  It was true,—so
she supposed,—but could it also be true that her
eyes——?  She broke off, blushing crimson at the
unmaidenly thought, then sighed as, instead of Henri
d'Estrailles' handsome face, she recalled another face
which had looked so mockingly into hers that very
morn, yonder on the terrace, a cruel, evil face, with
sallow cheeks and pale, cold eyes, the recollection of
which started another train of thought.  What had it
been that had so startled Guillaume de Coray?  Why
had he been absent since that moment when he had
parted from her so suddenly?  She was still wondering
vaguely when the entrance of Marie and Job Alloadec
broke in on her meditations.

"Come," she said, a little impatiently, "I have been
awaiting thee this long time, my Marie; it grows late,
and I would fain be home before the twilight deepens;
but, ma foi, what ails the good Jobik?"

It certainly appeared as if somewhat greatly ailed
the poor retainer; his usually ruddy cheeks were flabby
and pale, and his blue eyes glanced from side to side,
with the nervous stare of one who has been badly
frightened.  Marie crossed herself, paling too as she
replied—

"Ah, mademoiselle, pardon, it is true that I delayed,
but poor Job was at first so fear-stricken that I deemed
he would verily have become crazed outright."

Gwennola stamped her foot impatiently.  "Foolish
one!" she cried, though there was a ripple of laughter
mingled with the anger in her tones.  "Say then what
has befallen? has the poor Jobik seen the same vision
that affrighted Monsieur de Coray this morning?"

"Truly, I know not," replied Marie in a whisper.
"But he says—nay, lady, he says—tiens, Job! tell the
Lady Gwennola what thou sawest yonder in the forest."

For reply the poor Breton poured forth a mumbled
string of vows and prayers, from amongst which
Gwennola at last extracted the startling fact that, as
he stood by the river bank, he had seen amongst the
trees, on the other side, a vision of Yvon de Mereac,
his young lord, who had perished on the bloody field
of St Aubin du Cormier nearly three years since.

Even Gwennola grew pale as she devoutly crossed
herself, murmuring a prayer to her patron saint before
she faltered out an inquiry as to the manner of the
vision.  It was this, it appeared, which had so puzzled
the faithful Jobik, who had worshipped his young
master with all a Breton's devotion: he had not stood
before him clad in armour as he had fallen, but in
ragged and poor attire, with wasted cheeks and eyes
at once haunting and terrible, as if, so Job averred, the
tortured spirit were in some great peril, from which it
pleaded with Job to release it.

In vain Gwennola strove to convince the poor
fellow that the vision could be naught but some
phantasy of the brain, or that the figure seen was that
of some wandering madman who bore a likeness to
her dead brother.  Job clung to his tale, at last
breaking down utterly in his terror and perplexity,
and sobbing out prayers to every saint in the calendar
to enlighten him as to what the vision would have
him do.

It was some time before all were sufficiently calm
to set out on their expedition, an expedition from
which Marie in vain strove to dissuade her mistress.
The thought of so immediately entering the now
horror-haunted forest was agony to the poor waiting woman;
but in spite of her own inward qualms, Gwennola was
firm in her purpose.  Truth to tell, the young mistress
was inclined to be of an obstinate and tenacious
disposition, and, having decided on her plan of action,
carried it through in spite of opposition, so that Marie,
knowing well her wilful temper, was fain to yield
to her wishes, and strive, if vainly, to conquer her
fears.

Gwennola, on the contrary, gave no outward sign
of her misgivings; some strange elation seemed
suddenly to have over-mastered them, and her merry
laugh rang cheerily through the sunlit glades as she
challenged Marie to a race.

Mère Fanchonic's humble dwelling was reached at
last, and the young châtelaine's gracious sympathy
and kindly words brought many a blessing down
on her head from the old woman ere they departed
once more on their homeward way, Mère Fanchonic
herself hobbling slowly to the door to scream shrill
injunctions to Job to guard well his young mistress,
for, though the way was short, there were perils on all
sides.

That such was the case in those lawless times
Gwennola knew only too well, but she possessed the
daring spirit of her race, and her father had ever
yielded to her more licence than was deemed fitting
for a young girl in those days.  Therefore Gwennola
had been accustomed from childhood to wander in
the woods around Mereac, accompanied only by the
faithful Job and Marie, or perchance by her father,
or brother.  The thought of that brother, so dear and
so long mourned, brought a sadness afresh to her
bright face as she turned her steps towards the
château.  The thrill of elation had gone, and a sudden
gloom seemed to have plunged her from unaccountable
mirth to melancholy; neither could she altogether
explain what oppressed her, unless indeed it could be
Job Alloadec's strange vision.

Twilight was creeping with stealthy footsteps upon
them, in spite of their haste, as they passed swiftly
along the narrow woodland path, and Marie had
shrunk closer to her mistress's side, when a sudden
crackling of boughs in a thicket close by caused both
girls to scream aloud in fear, as a man leapt out from
the wood on to the path in front of them.  Flesh and
blood without doubt was the intruder, no hollow-eyed
apparition of the dead, such as they had half dreaded:
a man, short, thick-set, with a red stubbly beard and
hard, reckless eyes, which stared now into theirs with
a fierce, yet frightened defiance.

"Monsieur de Coray?" he gasped, and looked
eagerly behind the girls towards Job, who had hurried
up to his young mistress's side.

"De Coray?" questioned Gwennola, who was the
first of the three to regain her self-possession, signing
at the same time to Job to keep by her side.  "Is
it then Monsieur de Coray with whom you desire
speech?"

"Yes—no," stammered the man, glancing from
right to left.  "Pardon, mademoiselle, I
feared—nay—methought——"  And then, with the gasp of one
who sees safety but in flight, he sprang once more into
the brushwood, and disappeared, as suddenly as he
had come, amongst the trees.

"Nay," said Gwennola de Mereac gently, as Job,
with a suspicious grunt, made as though he would
set off in pursuit, "there was no harm; the poor man
is half crazed with fear or something worse.  Besides,"
she added with a smile, "thou wouldest not leave us
alone, good Job, to find our way home through these
twilight woods.  Parbleu! it was well that yon poor,
frightened rogue had no business with us, for he wore
an ugly look, and it is possible that he hath friends,
beside Monsieur de Coray, in yon dark forest.  Come,
my Marie, tremble not now danger is past, but let us
return the more quickly, seeing that perchance my
father even now grows anxious."

"'Twas a strange knave," muttered Job as he
followed his sister and her mistress on their way.
"But, by the beard of the holy St Gildas!  I had liefer
meet two such than——"  And the gallant Job crossed
himself devoutly, though he did not complete his
sentence.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER IV`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV

.. vspace:: 2

The shadows fell heavily in the great hall of the
Château de Mereac.  In one corner the fool Pierre had
lain himself down on the rushes to sleep, clasping his
smaller namesake to his narrow chest.  By the empty
hearth Gaspard de Mereac leant back in his great
chair, half dozing after his hawking, the gay
gerfalcon perched on the back of the seat, preening
herself with stately grace, as one who would say,
"See one who has proved her worth and won the
praises of all who beheld her prowess."  At their
master's feet lay the wolf-hounds, Gloire and Reine,
the former raising his stately head from time to time
to softly lick the hand which hung over the oaken
chair.  A step coming hastily across the hall roused
the lord of the castle into a sudden, irritated wakefulness,
for well he knew it was not the gentle tread of
his little Gwennola, but instead, as one sleepy glance
told him, his nephew Guillaume de Coray.  Something
however, in the latter's disordered dress and pale face
roused him from his dreams of gallant hawks and
screaming herons to demand abruptly what had
chanced.

"Chanced?" echoed de Coray vaguely.  "Chanced,
monsieur my uncle?  Nay, naught hath chanced,
but——"  He paused, as if striving to collect a train of
wandering thoughts, leaning his chin on his hand as
he sat down on a bench opposite to his interrogator.

"Where hast been all day?" demanded de
Mereac, stretching out his legs with a sleepy yawn
and pausing to pat Gloire's faithful head as he raised
himself in his seat.  "Verily thou hast missed as fair
a day's sport as I have had for many a day.  De
Plöernic rated not his fair Spaniard too highly after
all.  Seldom have I seen so straight a flight; but
thou shalt judge for thyself on the morrow, for I have
promised to take the little Gwennola with me, and
thou, too, Guillaume, wilt doubtless accompany us?"

"Doubtless," replied the younger man, but his listless
tone and moody face drew fresh inquiries from his
uncle as to his day's doings.  De Coray replied
evasively, still preserving the same gloomy manner,
whilst his knitted brow seemed to speak of perplexity
and indecision.

"What ails thee, man?" cried de Mereac heartily,
"thou art as gloomy as any fat abbot on a fast day.
Say then, has my lady been flouting thee?  A plague
on the little rogue, she hath scarce been near me this
day!"

De Coray glanced sideways towards his uncle, then
downwards, whilst a sinister smile played round his
mouth.

"Perchance the French knight's wounds have
needed too much of my fair mistress's care," he said
maliciously, noting with satisfaction how the shaft
went home, from the old man's sudden start and
angry frown.  Then, dropping his hesitating manner,
he leant forward, speaking slowly but emphatically.
"Monsieur," he said softly, "it is in my mind that
I should tell you clearly that which I alone have
knowledge of; perchance you will blame me for not
having spoken sooner, but knightly honour forbade
me.  Now, however, the necessity seemeth to me
greater even than any false sense of magnanimity,
seeing that we cross not swords with the viper, but
rather crush him under heel before he does us mortal
ill, and so——"  He paused, to give perhaps greater
weight to his words, narrowly watching the stern, set
face opposite him, which seemed to have stiffened
into an iron mask.

"Speak thy mind, man," demanded the old noble
curtly.  "If there is ill to tell, tell it me—the saints
know I have borne such before—but cease to prate of
that which is beside the purpose, as is the way with
women and fools—not men."

"Nay," said de Coray, flushing under the reproof,
"there is that to tell which will be hard for you to
hear, monsieur, and I would but prepare you for
the tale; as you may well guess, it concerneth this
Frenchman whom fate, by strange trickery, cast at
your gates."

De Mereac's jaw closed with a snap.

"He hath satisfied me that he is no spy," he replied
sternly.  "I have accepted his knightly word, and
though it be bitter for me to extend hospitality to
the enemy of my country and one of my son's slayers,
still, by all the laws of knighthood and chivalry he
goes free as soon as he is fit to travel."

"So," said de Coray, "he hath satisfied you,
monsieur?  That may well be, since he knew not the
name of his victim, and yet I may well wonder how
he trains his tongue to speak smooth words in a Breton's
ear when he remembereth St Aubin du Cormier."

The old man's face paled.  "St Aubin du Cormier?"
he murmured.

"Yes, St Aubin du Cormier," repeated de Coray,
moving a little nearer, as if he feared his words might
be overheard.  "Listen, monsieur, and you will
understand why, at sight of yon dog lying under the
greenwood, I cried to you to yield him no mercy, but to
mete out to him the dog's death he deserved."

"Speak," said de Mereac hoarsely, "I can ill brook
such preamble."

"The battle was a bloody one, as you may well
remember," began de Coray.  "We of Brittany fought
gallantly, as we ever do, and the English archers of
Lord Woodville yielded only to the French with their
lives; for myself, I had escaped throughout the fight,
and towards evening found myself driven back, close
to a wood, by the side of the Prince of Orange, who,
seeing the chances of the day had gone against us,
tore from his breast the black cross of Brittany, urging
us, his followers, to do the same, for that nothing
remained to us but flight.  His words were true,
but, for all that, no true Breton amongst us tore
the cross from his tunic, though we sought flight
readily enough amongst the trees, and in so doing it
chanced that I became separated from the rest, and,
wandering alone through the wood, came suddenly in
sight of a man clad in the armour of a Frenchman,
who walked stealthily; for an instant I paused, and,
alas! monsieur, before I could conceive the meaning
of the situation, it was too late.  A Breton knight,
whom I recognised on the instant as my cousin Yvon,
was standing spent and weary by his horse's side,
whilst the animal drank greedily of the water from
a brook which ran hard by.  Yvon's vizor was up, and
I could see he was pale with excitement and
exhaustion, though methinks unwounded.  His back was
turned towards his enemy, and before I could cry a
word of warning, the cowardly traitor had sprung
forward and cloven him from brow to chin, so that
he fell dead by his horse's side.  I sprang forward
also, with a cry, but the Frenchman was true to his
colours; for one instant he looked at me, then, fearing
doubtless that friends of mine and the dead man's
might be near, he drove fiercely at me with his sword,
and fled, so that in the twilight I missed him, though,
so thirsty grew my own good blade for his blood, that
I searched till darkness fell and all hope of finding
him was gone."

"And?" groaned de Mereac.

De Coray smiled pensively.  "Monsieur," he added,
"the French traitor's vizor was also raised, so that I
read well the features which I saw not again till I
beheld them yonder in the forest."

With a bitter curse the old man sprang to his feet
with such vigour that Gloire and Reine raised their
great heads with a short bark of excitement.

"He?" cried de Mereac, his voice quivering with
fury, "he?—the man whose life I spared? the man
who has partaken of my hospitality and eaten my
salt?  He? the base murderer of my Yvon?—my
boy—my boy!"  In spite of his anger his voice broke
over the last words; then a fresh tempest seized him.
"Fool!" he cried, gripping de Coray by the shoulder,
"wherefore didst thou not tell me this when we found
him yonder? wherefore prolong by an hour the life
of so foul a thing?"

"Nay," faltered de Coray, paling before the storm he
had evoked.  "Methought—the Lady Gwennola——"

"Gwennola!" shouted the old man.  "Thrice double
fool! thinkest thou there would be one throb of pity
in her pure maiden's heart for such an one as the
murderer of her brother?  Ay, murderer he is, and
as such shall die.  Hie thee, varlet, bid come hither
on the instant Job and Henri.  Ay! and bid them
drag down yon foul thing from the chamber where he
lieth so softly, and he shall learn what Breton justice
is.  Bah! the rope that should hang him would be for
ever a thing dishonoured; rather would I give him to
my good hounds yonder to tear limb from limb;
though, by the bones of St Yves, such death even
were too gentle and easy a thing for him."

Pierre the fool, thus roughly roused from slumber
to be sent in search of Job and his comrade, stood
gaping and gasping before his master's anger, whilst
the ape from his shoulder grinned and gibbered in
mocking imitation of its lord's wrath; but before de
Mereac's fury could burst forth again upon the head
of his witless retainer, a voice beside him turned the
swift current of his thoughts into another channel.
It was his daughter Gwennola who stood before him,
pale but resolute, with no look of fear in her blue eyes
as they met his stormy frown, but rather returning
look for look, boldly and bravely.

"My father," she said steadily, laying one white
hand upon the sleeve of his long furred gown, "I
have heard what"—her voice trembled—"what
Monsieur de Coray has been saying, and," she added,
turning a blazing face of indignation towards the
younger man, who stood leaning against the tapestry
near, "I call him coward and liar to his face!"

There was an instant's pause, de Mereac's brows
drawn ominously down as he glanced from his
daughter to de Coray, whose mocking smile seemed
to sting the girl to fresh anger.

"Liar and coward!" she cried, stamping her little
foot, her blue eyes still ablaze.  "Ah, monsieur my
father, it is incredible that you believe him."

"Incredible?" said the old man slowly, "and
wherefore, child?  More incredible to me that my
daughter should take the part of a foul murderer, an
enemy to her country and house, rather than the
word of her betrothed husband."

De Coray's smile deepened.  "Monsieur," he said,
with a mocking bow, "you asked me why I told a
traitor's secret now rather than yesterday—perhaps
monsieur is answered."

De Mereac's eyes sought his daughter's face sternly,
but again she met them with a glance almost defiant,
then softening, as she read a dumb agony behind the
anger, till her own blue eyes brimmed with tears.

"Oh, my father!" she cried, drawing nearer to his
side with outstretched hands, "in the name of justice
listen to me, and heed not the words of yon cruel
man.  See, my father, if Monsieur d'Estrailles has
done this thing, willingly would my hands tie the
knot which bound the rope round his coward's throat,
but, my father, is it justice? is it a thing of honour to
strike like the adder in the dark?  I, yes, I, Gwennola
de Mereac, challenge you, Guillaume de Coray, to
repeat your lying tale before the man you accuse, and
let my father judge between true knight and false."

De Coray's smile faded as he met her fearless gaze,
then glanced sideways towards de Mereac, who stood
hesitating, eagerly, it seemed, awaiting his answer.

"So be it, my fairest law-giver," he said at last,
with a forced smile.  "To-morrow will be as good a
hanging day as to-night, and perchance, as you
suggest, the office shall fall to your own fair hands."

She did not reply, but turned, curtsying gravely to
her father as she quitted the hall.

Not another word was spoken between the two
men left standing there amongst the shadows.  De
Mereac, whose transport of rage seemed to have
died down, since his daughter's interference, into a
sullen moodiness, soon strode away, leaving Guillaume
alone.  The young man's meditations seemed
perchance to be scarcely of a soothing nature, for,
till darkness fell, he continued pacing up and down
the hall, lost in thought, till a hand touching his
roused him with a startled curse, and, looking down,
he saw to his surprise the thin, shrewd face of Pierre
the fool looking wistfully up into his.

"Monsieur," said the boy softly, "I am monsieur's
slave; if I may be allowed to serve monsieur,
perchance I can do much."

Guillaume de Coray looked thoughtfully down into
the oblique, uncanny eyes, then he smiled.  "A
friend," he quoth lightly, "is at times a necessity, and
should not be refused, mon Pierre, even when the
friend is but a fool.  Yes, I will accept, and," he
added, drawing a piece of money from his pocket,
and placing it in the lad's outstretched palm, "I will
pay the price of true friendship, mon ami.  See, there
is already a service you can render me."  He drew
Pierre as he spoke into a recess, dropping his voice,
as if fearing that the pictured figures on the tapestry
had ears to hear.  "Yonder in the forest," he said
softly, "there wanders a man whom I would fain
have speech with, a man, short, thick-set, with a red
beard and black eyes; tell him," he added, speaking
slowly and impressively, with both hands on Pierre's
shoulders, "that his *friend*, his *friend*, mark you, boy,
Guillaume de Coray, would have speech with him;
that there is naught to fear and much to gain, and
that to any rendezvous he may appoint I will come alone."

Pierre's black eyes shone as he looked up into de
Coray's pale face, nodding slowly.  "Pierre understands,"
he muttered.  "Monsieur has trusted to Pierre
the fool, who is now the friend of monsieur, and
therefore it is understood that the man with the red
beard shall be found.  Is it not so, mon choux?" he
added, caressing the ape, which he still carried in his
arms.  "Tiens! it is clear that Pierre the fool will
soon be rich and great, and the little Gabrielle far
away in the forest shall no more weep for hunger."  And
as he turned away, the boy looked lovingly
down at the piece of leather money with its small
centre of silver which de Coray had given him.
"Without doubt monsieur has a great heart," he
murmured softly.  "As for the Lady Gwennola, I
have no love for her, though she be fair as the dawn,
for she has no love for monsieur, and none also for
petit Pierre.  Is it not so, mon petit?  Bah! we shall be
great soon, thou and I, mon Pierrot, very great."





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.. _`CHAPTER V`:

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   CHAPTER V

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"Ah, Marie, Marie, what shall I do?  Tiens! petite,
canst say no word to comfort me?  Bah! with thy
great eyes thou hast no more sense than the owls
which cry all night in the forest yonder.
Nay! forgive me, Marie, and comfort me, because,
because——"

"Nay, lady," sighed the waiting-maid, "I fear me
there is little to be said, for see, you tell me that on
the morrow Monsieur de Mereac——"

"Ah, listen then, Marie, and I will explain all to
thee," said Gwennola, clasping her hands as she
looked piteously across into Marie's sympathetic face.

"Monsieur de Coray, viper that he is, has for some
reason I know not conceived a hatred for Monsieur
d'Estrailles, therefore he has told to monsieur my
father many false lies, saying that Monsieur
d'Estrailles foully murdered the poor Yvon, whose
soul rest in peace, at the battle of St Aubin du
Cormier, three years since; but Marie, it is false
Monsieur d'Estrailles could do no such unknightly
deed—nay, I am assured of it."

"But wherefore, mistress?" demanded Marie
stolidly.  "We know nothing of this French monsieur;
it may be that his tongue is no smoother than his
heart false.  Jobik hath ofttimes bid me beware if a
Frenchman cross my path, for they are altogether
children of the devil in their deceitful ways."

"Jobik is a fool!" declared his young mistress
tartly, "and thou also art lacking in all sense, my
Marie, to listen to him.  See then how many noble
Frenchmen have been true friends to Brittany; think
of Monsieur d'Orléans and Monsieur the Count
Dunois, who even now seeks to aid our sweet
Duchess; but all such talk is foolishness.  Be assured,
Marie, that I, thy mistress, am convinced that
Monsieur d'Estrailles is a good and true knight, and
yet, alas! alas! to-morrow morn it may well chance
that he will hang as if he were some cowardly traitor
or foul murderer—for see then, Marie, it is the word
of a Frenchman against a Breton, and though the
latter be thrice times a traitor knave, yet well I know
he hath the trick of lying with as smooth a brow as
any guileless babe, and so—and so—my father will
believe him.  Alas! alas!" and the young girl broke
down into a flood of tears.

Marie stood watching her mistress's distress, tears
brimming in her own brown eyes, although in her
heart was still some doubting of the Frenchman's
honour.  But, after all, what maid of any age is proof
against romance? and the fact that Gwennola was
deeply interested in the handsome stranger was
apparent enough to the waiting-woman's eyes.  And
what wonder, seeing that fate had hitherto offered
naught but so sorry a lover as Monsieur de Coray?
There was no love for the latter in Marie's heart,
which went the farther in his rival's favour.

"Alas! my lady," she murmured, with a sob, "'tis
grievous to think of, and that he should die, this poor
monsieur, at dawn, on the word of such an one as
Monsieur de Coray!  If it had been that he were not
injured, we might even have helped him to escape, but
alas——"

"Alas!" sobbed Gwennola, "with such a wound
'twere death to attempt it.  No, Marie, he will die, and
I, it may be, will find shelter in a convent, as Father
Ambrose hath ofttimes suggested, for well I wot I
would marry no murderer, liar and coward, such as
Guillaume de Coray."

The passion of her hatred against her betrothed
husband for the moment had roused Gwennola from
her grief.  Now she dried her tears, and, rising, began
slowly to pace the room, her head thrown back, and a
light gradually dawning in her blue eyes.  The wild
untamable spirit of daring which had raced so madly
through the veins of countless generations of ancestors
had lifted her from the weak and unavailing grief of
womanhood.

"I will save him," she said slowly, as she
faced Marie Alloadec; "yes, it is possible.  See,
little one," she added, pointing reverently to a small
figure of the Madonna placed on a table near, "it
is the Holy Mother herself who has shown me how
to do it; but go, my Marie, for there is little time
to lose, even in prayers, go, tell Father Ambrose
that I would see him now, quickly, if may be, in
the chapel."

Marie stared.  "But, mademoiselle!" she gasped.

Gwennola laid both hands firmly on the other's
shoulders, looking down kindly but commandingly
into the frightened brown eyes upraised to hers.

"Listen, Marie," she said quietly; "thou must obey
without questioning.  A noble knight's life hangs
perchance in the issue, therefore 'tis no time for
woman's fears or weakness; but what I purpose doing
I tell neither to thee nor any other, seeing that it were
ill for any save myself alone to refuse to answer when
my father commands; only this thing I ask thee:
go, tell Father Ambrose that I await him in the
chapel, see that he fails me not, and, for the rest, be
silent.  Nay," she added, as tears rose in the girl's
eyes, "'tis not that I doubt thy faithfulness, child, but
that I would spare thee pain, ay, and myself too,
though one thing more there is I would ask of thee
which I had well-nigh forgotten.  Bid Job lead the
stranger's horse from the stables in an hour's time
and tether him within the wood close by the river's
bank; let none see him do it, neither let him speak of
what he does.  Also, should he fancy he seeth a
figure pass him by whilst he standeth on guard at the
outer postern, let him cross himself and deem 'tis a
spirit, such as he already dreamt to see to-day, and
take heed that he goeth not to inquire too closely as
to whether there is aught of flesh and blood about it,
for to-morrow mayhap it will have been well for him
to have been somewhat blind and deaf."

Marie curtsied, not daring to reply, as she saw
the determination in her mistress's face.  Nevertheless,
as she sped on her errand, she muttered many an ave
to her patron saint, knowing well what the fury of the
lord of the château would be did his daughter succeed
in her daring intention.

It may have been that even Gwennola's heart half
failed her as she sank on her knees in the dimly
lighted chapel of the castle.  Wrapped in a long
hooded cloak, she might well have passed for a
shadow amongst the shadows which the moonlight
flung around.  Involuntarily the young girl crossed
herself as she watched the cold, clear beams which fell
long and pale across the altar, streaming down in
flickering waves of light towards where she knelt in
one of the stalls; for, high-born as she was, the
superstitions of the day ran riot in her mind, and well
she knew the baneful influence of the moon on the
destiny of the Breton, and yet—as she argued to
herself—the evil omen of the ghostly light might be
averted, seeing that he whom she would fain succour
was no Breton; and with the thought came others,
more mocking and bewildering.  Why did she thus
dare brave her father's anger, and outrage her maiden
modesty for the sake of a stranger and an enemy?
The burning blushes which overspread her cheeks at
the thought of the plan she had conceived might have
convinced her, but the mad whirl of her mind refused
to be analysed too closely.  In vain she argued with
herself that it was but her own keen sense of justice,
so certain was she that the tale of Guillaume de Coray
was false.  But why should it be false?  That she
could not reply to, except by the illogical, but
all-convincing, sense of her woman's intuition.  A false
quantity that in a hall of justice.  Gwennola shuddered
as she felt the frailty of such an argument, shuddered
as she saw how fast the net of fate had immeshed this
stranger.  There was a little sob in her throat as she
bowed her head in her hands, a sob which, like her
deeper thoughts, she refused to analyse.  Surely it
was but a note of pity for an innocent man whom
jealous hatred or some passion she could not divine
was condemning to death?  A hand laid on her
shoulder roused her, and with a little frightened cry
she sprang to her feet, but it was only Father
Ambrose, that good father who had known and loved
her ever since she had first lisped out baby confessions
of infantine sin and wickedness at his knee.  Yes, it
had been a happy thought to send for him, though
for his own good she must deceive him as to her
intentions.

"The hour is late, my daughter," said the old priest
gently.  "What wouldest thou with me, child?  Surely
'tis no time," he added with a smile, "even for
confessions?"

"Nay, my father," she said softly, "'tis no
confession, but perchance more of pity for one unjustly
condemned to death that moves me to crave thy help."

"To death?" he echoed, glancing keenly at her.
"Nay, daughter, but what hath chanced? and who in
the château of thy gallant father may dare to
condemn unjustly?"

"Nay," she replied, "listen, my father, and thou
shalt judge for thyself," and in a few hurried sentences
she told her tale.

Father Ambrose listened with bent brows, narrowly
watching the fair face of the narrator as she spoke.

"Yes," he said gently, when she had finished, "I
too am of thy opinion, my child, for I have watched
by this sick man's side for many hours, and methinks
truly he is a brave and loyal knight, with no such
cruel smirch of treachery lying at his heart; but for all
that, daughter, we have scarce known him for two
days, and it may well be that we are deceived, for
wherefore should Guillaume de Coray conceive so
terrible a tale in falseness?"

"Nay, that I know not," replied Gwennola, sighing,
"except that he is false, father, false to the heart's
core, and speaketh lies as easily as he who is the
father of them.  Nay, father, reprove me not, for never
husband of mine shall he be, by the grace of St
Enora herself I swear it; rather would I die, far, far
rather bury myself behind convent walls than marry
a traitor and coward."

"Nay, daughter," rebuked Father Ambrose, "talk
not so wildly, though in the life of the convent there
be much peace and happiness for those who find little
without; but thou, my child," he added with a shrewd
smile, "wert no more born to be a nun than to be the
wife of a traitor.  But see, the night grows apace, and
methinks we do little good in speaking ill of thy
kinsman; better it were to pray for the soul of this
poor gentleman who dies with the morrow's sun, or
rather, that if it please the holy saints to alter so sad
a destiny, to send succour to one whom we, at least,
do look upon as innocent of this black crime whereof
he is accused."

"Pray for his soul?" murmured Gwennola with a
sigh; then a half smile parted her lips.  "Nay, father,"
she murmured, "surely 'twill be a fairer division
between us if thou prayest for his soul and I for his
body.  But nay, look not reprovingly, dear father, but
listen to the prayer of thy little Gwennola, who called
thee hither to crave a favour, besides telling thee of
this sad work of the morrow."

"And that, my daughter?" questioned the old
priest with a whimsical smile, well knowing the
coaxing tones with which she pleaded.

"That," she whispered, whilst the colour surged
back into her pale cheeks, "is to bring hither Monsieur
d'Estrailles, that I myself may tell him of his danger
and—and bid him farewell, for I will not be present
on the morrow to see a noble knight suffer such cruel
injustice."

For a moment Father Ambrose was silent, eyeing
her gravely and thoughtfully.

"Child," he said at last, "this knight is but a
stranger who scarcely knoweth thee.  Deemest thou
it be seemly or maidenly on thy part thus to crave
audience with such an one, alone, at night?"

With crimson cheeks but undaunted eyes Gwennola
faced the old man.

"Nay, father," she said steadily, "deem me not
unmaidenly.  Hast ever found thy little Gwennola
aught but discreet and jealous of her honour?  Nay,
father, had I known this poor knight better, I could
not have craved such an interview, but seeing he is
but a stranger whom—whom I pity, surely there were
no harm!"

"But wherein the good?" questioned the priest.
"Surely it were best for me to seek Monsieur
d'Estrailles' chamber and tell him all; then, when I
have shriven him, we may well pass the night in
prayer for his soul, and that the saints may give him
fortitude for the morrow."

"Nay, father," whispered Gwennola pleadingly, "I
too am praying for the good knight's body, as thou
didst agree, and I would fain give him one word
anent the preserving of it, which can be but for
his ears alone.  Nay, dear father, thy little
Gwennola pleads with thee not to deny so trifling a boon.
What ill can befall?  A few simple words of
comfort and farewell to a poor stranger who to-morrow
must die, and then for the rest of the night thou
mayest wrestle alone with him in needful prayer for
his soul."

"Nay, child, but 'tis scarce seemly," sighed Father
Ambrose.  "And didst thy father hear of it, methinks
my office of confessor would be held but a brief space.
Still——"

"Still," urged Gwennola softly, "thou wilt not deny
me so small a boon—but ten minutes, my father, and
then thou and he may spend the hours that remain in
making peace with Heaven."

"I fear me," sighed the priest heavily, "that thou
hast inherited the spirit of our first mother, my
daughter, and temptest man with fair words as she
did with pleasant fruit.  Yet—well I wot thou art
discreet, child, and thy heart is soft and warm with
pity, doubtless,—nay, there can be no warmer feeling
in thy breast for this poor knight.  'Twere impossible
that love can find an entrance in so brief a space."  He
looked curiously into the flushed, smiling face as
he spoke.

"Nay, father," laughed Gwennola softly.  "Fie on
thee!  Am I not betrothed to my cousin?"

Father Ambrose sighed as his keen ear caught the
ring of defiance in the last words.

"I pray our Blessed Lady that I do no harm," he
murmured, crossing himself devoutly.  "Methinks there
can be little ill in so kind a thought of pity, and it may
be that the poor monsieur will regard more thy words
than mine.  Mary, Mother, have pity on his soul!"

"And his body," whispered Gwennola.  "See,
father, we say amen to both petitions; and now,
haste thee quickly, for the time, as thou sayest, draws
on apace."

Slowly shaking his head, as if still beset with
doubts as to his wisdom in thus yielding to what he
considered a wild, if generous whim, Father Ambrose
went his way, leaving Gwennola to pace the chapel
with eager steps, finally flinging herself down before
the great crucifix which stood upon the little altar.
But even prayers at that moment were little better
than a wild, incoherent cry, so great a turmoil raged
in the young girl's heart.  Now fears beset her as
to the folly of an undertaking as perilous as it was
daring; only the thought of de Goray's cruel triumph
on the next day goaded her forward to persevere in
what had been the impulse of a moment, and even
this thought scarcely held her to a purpose which of
a sudden seemed to grow impracticable, unmaidenly,
almost unseemly.  Girt round as the young girls of
the period were with a host of restrictions and
proprieties, the part she now proposed to play seemed
almost impossible; only the daring blood of a Breton
maid would have made such a thought conceivable,
and now outraged modesty rang a host of warnings
in her ears.  This stranger knight, what would he
think of such a suggestion?  What would he deem
her, thus boldly to seek an interview, herself
unsought?  She had been mad to have thought of such
a possibility of escape, and now perhaps he would
scorn her for her unmaidenly forwardness.

The burning blush which swept over her cheeks
had scarce had time to cool when her quick ear
caught the sound of footsteps, halting and slow, as
if their owner walked with difficulty, and at the
sound her woman's pity forgot the false sense of
shame which had agonized within her.  Ay, and
she forgot too to question wherefore she took such
interest in a stranger, as he stood before her, and
her quick heart throb told her swiftly that it was
more than pity and love of justice which had brought
her to dare risk so much for his sake.

Only ten minutes, and a life weighing in the
balances!  Parbleu! was it a time for maiden coyness
and false bashfulness?  He stood still in the
moonlight, looking towards her with an eager, questioning
glance in his dark eyes.  How handsome he was and
noble, and yet how pale!  Ah! that unhealed wound
in his side—doubtless he suffered much, and yet——

She was at his side now, her hood slipping back
from her flushed face; for even at that moment she
was a woman, and the ill-omened moonlight had no
grudge against the gleaming tresses of her hair.

"Monsieur," she whispered.  "Ah, monsieur, think
me not unmaidenly, but it was your life that was in
danger, which is——"

"Unmaidenly?" he interrupted gently.  "Nay,
mademoiselle, to me, though, alas! I have known you
so short a space, you must always be the embodiment
of all that is most fair and lovely in womankind;
but," he added, seeing that though the colour on her
cheeks deepened, she had too much to say to listen
to tender words, "you would fain have speech with
me, mademoiselle, on a matter of much gravity, the
good father saith?"

Rapidly she told the tale, with every now and
then a catch in her breath of sheer excitement, but
when she would have gone on to what was deepest
in her heart, he checked her with a little imperative
gesture of command.

"Nay, mademoiselle," he said firmly, "before aught
else let me clear myself of this foul calumny.  Ma
foi! that this accursed wound prevents me from
driving the lie down the dog's throat.  Pardon,
mademoiselle, but it is hard for a d'Estrailles to listen
to so deep an insult and yet wear his sword sheathed;
but no—well I understand how matters lie—the
word of a Frenchman is naught against that of a
Breton whose face hath not yet been unmasked.
Nay, mademoiselle, with your father there rests no
blame save blindness of sight perhaps in not reading
traitor in false eyes; but to you, whose pure heart hath
read so truly, it were but right to tell the tale as it
stands, though methinks 'tis no easy one to read in
all its blackness.  Yet at the battle of St Aubin du
Cormier I saw that chance of which your kinsman
has made so tangled a story; 'tis for you to help me
to spell its meaning.  The battle was over, and, as
yon villain truly saith, the Prince of Orange was
taken prisoner in a neighbouring wood, whilst Louis
of Orleans was found wounded amongst the slain.
It chanced, as we searched for other prisoners of less
note, that in this self-same wood I lighted on a man
who wore the black cross of Brittany struggling with
a soldier of France, but as I came near the Frenchman
was overcome, and the Breton knight was about
to turn aside, when another, wearing the same black
cross as himself, stole swiftly up behind and smote
him a foul blow which caused him to fall, methinks
a corpse, almost at my feet.  Enraged at such
treachery, I strove mightily with the murderer,
inflicting, however, but a flesh wound on his left arm,
and another of less import which clove his lower
lip, his vizor being raised; but before I could slay
or take him prisoner he dealt me a caitiff's blow
which stunned me for a moment, and before I could
recover he had fled through the trees."

Gwennola's face had grown white to the lips, as
d'Estrailles told his tale, but her blue eyes blazed, as
she cried with a sob—

"Monsieur, it is plain, the murderer was de Coray
himself.  Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! and I might even
have married him."  Then, drawing her cloak round
her, she signed to the young man to follow her.  "There
is no time for further speech," she whispered
softly; "all explanations, monsieur, I must tell you
afterwards; for though it is clear to me that your story
needs must be true, yon viper with his crooked tongue
may well ensnare my father's wit and cruel injustice
be done.  Yet it shall not be; I, Gwennola de Mereac,
will save you, monsieur, because—because I love
justice, and will not see foul murder done again by
yon false and evil man."

"But, mademoiselle?" said d'Estrailles in surprise.
"What is your will?  The good father——"

"The good father knoweth not everything," she
replied imperiously; "for the rest, monsieur, you may
ask questions later, but at present we have but four
minutes ere the too anxious father returns to bear you
off to confession."

She smiled up at his questioning face, and the
beauty of it, seen but dimly from under the now
close-drawn hood, set his pulses tingling and his heart
throbbing in a way to which even the sense of his
present perilous position had failed to stir them.

Silently, however, in obedience to her command,
he followed the slender, cloaked figure, though his
surprise deepened as the raising of a piece of heavy
tapestry disclosed a small postern door.

"Do not speak," whispered Gwennola's soft voice in
his ear, "until I bid you, and keep close beside me,
monsieur, for your life."

Out into the moonlight they crept as she finished
speaking, a waning light now as the great silver orb
sank westwards, flinging more fickle shafts of pale
glory over the shadowed landscape.  Yet treacherous
and fickle though she was, the Queen of Night smiled
kindly for once on the two fugitives, and sent no
searching rays to inquire wherefore those blacker
shadows amongst shadows moved so haltingly down
the broad terraces and across the little bridge which
spanned the river.  How still the night was and how
beautiful!

So fascinating indeed had Job Alloadec found the
contemplation of the starry heavens overhead that he
had no eyes for shadows, stationary or otherwise, and
so enchanting were the low, weird cries which filled
the forest yonder, where bird and beast sought their
nightly prey, that the good Job's ears were equally
deaf to the sound of stealthy footsteps which passed
him by, though, as the tail of one vaguely innocent
eye glanced sideways towards the river, Job crossed
himself, murmuring: "By our Blessed Lady, it cannot
be that it is the little mademoiselle herself?"  And
thereafter his faithful ears listened the more keenly for
any sound other than the distant cries of the wolves
and low melancholy note of the owl which rose from
time to time from the neighbouring woods.

"Tiens! monsieur," murmured Gwennola, as they
paused at last under the safe shelter of the thicket.
"Let us pause; your wound—ah, monsieur, it, I fear
me, causes you much pain."

"Nay," muttered d'Estrailles with white lips.
"'Tis only a passing spasm; but, mademoiselle, the
pain is naught compared to my wonderment, my
gratitude, yet——"  He hesitated, as Gwennola,
throwing back her hood, laughed merrily up into his
astonished yet doubting face.

"See, monsieur," she cried, the dare-devil light of
triumph dancing in her blue eyes.  "You doubt! you
wonder!  You say to yourself, 'She is mad, this
demoiselle of Brittany, who brings a sick man into a
desolate forest, from whence it is impossible to flee
from his enemies'; and yet, monsieur, though doubtless
it is mad, this scheme of mine, it is more sensible
than it appears.  Yonder then is your horse, whom we
must approach cautiously, for I would not that he
proclaimed his master's presence.  'But,' you say to
yourself, 'what use is even my good horse to me in
this present plight? for, did I attempt to mount, my
wound would give me such pain that I should fall
swooning to the ground.'  Doubtless monsieur is right.
But, see, I do not say, 'Mount, ride, monsieur, it is
finished, my scheme.'  No, I say instead, 'Let us hasten
a little way through this dreary forest, you and I and
the good steed, and it will chance that we come in
time to a spot more lonely and desolate than any in
all the region round; here we shall find shelter—poor
and strange it may appear, but the gracious saints
will have monsieur in their fair keeping, and so it shall
be that he will be safe from his enemies until such
time as he is able to mount and ride on his way.'"

"Mademoiselle," stammered d'Estrailles, as he
raised her little hand to his lips.  "Ah, mademoiselle,
I am overwhelmed at such goodness, such generosity!
Surely it is an angel in the garb of fairest womanhood
whom the Blessed Mother hath sent to aid me from
so black a snare!"

"Nay, monsieur," she cried softly, smiling through
the tears which filled her soft eyes, "'tis no angel, but
only a poor Breton maid who loveth justice and
bravery, and who hateth a lie and a false coward.
But," she added with a glance half coquettish, half
doubtful, "monsieur thanks me too soon; it may be
that he will find his refuge less to his liking than
his prison, for truly if monsieur hath the fears of
many——"  She paused, smiling still as she looked at
him, hesitating; but as his smile met hers the
indecision in her manner passed.  "See, monsieur," she
said, "I will explain; though let us not delay, lest
darkness fall too soon.  This refuge to which I take
monsieur is but a ruin at best, a ruin of what once
was a chapel, very renowned, very beautiful, but
for many years, ah! very many, it has ceased to be
visited, save by the bats and owls, by reason of a
very evil legend, which tells how one of the monks
of a monastery hard by committed there a very evil
and terrible deed, in punishment of which, seeing
he escaped the justice of men, he is condemned to
wander for ever in ghostly shape around the chapel
where in his days on earth he served as the good
God's servant, and so terrible is the sight of the poor
brown friar that none dare pass within sight of the
chapel walls, nay, not even in the broad light of day,
for fear of encountering so dread a spectre; therefore
monsieur will be safe if, if——"

"I fear the monk's spectre less than thy kinsman's
treachery and thy father's rope," smiled Henri
d'Estrailles.  "Nay, mademoiselle, how can the sight
of so harmless a spirit affright when I wear so sweet
an amulet?"

"An amulet?" she questioned, looking with curious
eyes into his.

"Ay," he replied softly, "the amulet, mademoiselle,
of a brave maiden's aid and the tender
memory of sweet eyes."

"Nay," she said hastily, drawing her hood over
her hair again, with a shy bashfulness, to hide
perchance her blushes, "monsieur must remember that
I but aid him, because—because——"

"Ay—because?" he questioned eagerly, as he bent
to look into the downcast face.  "Because?"

"See, monsieur," she said hastily, pointing towards
an opening in the path which they were treading;
"yonder is the place.  Mary, Mother, protect us!" and
she crossed herself rapidly as, with half-scared looks,
she pointed to the rugged outline of a half-ruined
chapel which stood on the very outskirts of the
forest, sheltered only by a thick belt of trees from a
wide stretch of moorland which lay, scarcely visible
from where they stood, on their left.  Behind them,
in the rapidly darkening thicket, rose the murmurous
cries of the forest creatures; but in the open space
around the ruin the flickering rays of the waning
moon shone clear.  Wild and desolate was the spot,
ghostly and weird the hour, yet Henri d'Estrailles
smiled as he turned from scanning the refuge thus
found to the trembling girl at his side.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "what can I say to tell
you of my gratitude? how prove my devotion for one
who has at such risk sought to save me from my
enemies?  Truly, methinks, I may safely abide in such
a shelter without fear of too bold intruders; the
very presence of monsieur the good priest, my friend,
seems to haunt such a fitting dwelling-place.  Nay,
I do not jest, though I thank the saints I have not
the fears which prove so strong a safeguard against
my foes, for who could fear, I again demand, with such
an amulet as you have given me?"

"Nay," she whispered fearfully, "speak not lightly,
monsieur, for though I—I have little fear, seeing that
the saints ever have the innocent, Father Ambrose
saith, in their keeping, still, 'tis ill speaking thus at
midnight of the spirits of the dead, be they good or
ill, and, and," she continued, trying to speak more
bravely, "I have yet to show you your lodging,
monsieur."  She stepped forward as she spoke,
glancing back for him to follow, with a look in her
blue eyes which might well have haunted those of
martyr times, so brave yet so fearful it was.

"See," she whispered, as she led the way towards
the ruin, "Yvon and I discovered the secret in our
childhood's days, and none other know it, I ween, for
Yvon, ever fearless of aught, would ofttimes make
me play here with him against my will, and so it
chanced one day that we lighted on a chamber
beneath the ruined altar.  'Tis but a narrow, evil
place, monsieur, but at least a safe one."

"And the horse?" questioned d'Estrailles eagerly,
for now for the first time hope seemed verily to be
opening a way of escape before him.

"Nay," sighed Gwennola, "'tis our chiefest difficulty;
but there is beyond the chapel yonder a small shed,
monsieur, a shed also ruined, it is true, as the chapel,
but 'twill serve as shelter, and, should the poor beast
be discovered, still you may well lie hid in safety and
security."

The underground chamber, perchance in bygone
days the chapel crypt, was, as the girl had said, small
and ill lodging, but a man in extremity needs not
to lie softly, and to Henri d'Estrailles it was more
welcome in his need than a palace chamber might
have been.  Yet the young man found it difficult with
so full a heart to stammer forth his gratitude.

"Nay," smiled Gwennola, her courage returning as
he held her hands in his and she met the glance of his
dark eyes, "'tis small thanks I need, monsieur, seeing I
owed it to my father to save him from a crime of
which he wots little; but now, monsieur, I must say
farewell, do I desire to return ere the moonlight fades
from the forest," and she made a laughing grimace
of misgiving as she pointed towards the gloomy path.
"To-morrow e'en," she added, "food shall be brought
to you, monsieur, if not by my hand, then by that of a
faithful servant; till then I fear me your fare must be
frugal, for Marie could bring me no more than this,"
and with an apologetic smile she laid upon the ground
a small basket containing bread and a flask of wine,
which she had carried beneath her cloak.

"Nay," exclaimed d'Estrailles vehemently, "mademoiselle,
I cannot permit that you shall return alone
and unattended through yon dark forest.  Shame
would it be on my knighthood and my honour to
allow one who has already dared for me far beyond
my deserts to run so terrible a risk."

"Indeed," she pleaded, "I have no fear.  Nay,
monsieur, I lay my commands upon you not to
advance one step; already you faint with the pain of
your wound, also it would be impossible that you
should retrace your steps to this place.  Adieu,
monsieur, I shall have reached the château ere ten
minutes have passed."

"Pardon, mademoiselle," he replied gently, but
resolutely, holding her little hand so firmly in his that
she could not escape him, "but it may not be; weak
though I am, and but poor protection, I have at least
my sword; as for finding my way, I have hunted too
often in my own woods of d'Estrailles not to be able
to follow any trail; for the rest, mademoiselle, I shall
accompany you."

The power of his will overcame her, yet her red
lips pouted rebelliously under her hood.

"I would fain return alone, monsieur," she reiterated
with the persistence of a wilful child.  "'Tis but a
short distance, and little ill is likely to betide."

"The shorter to return," he replied coolly.  "As
for ill, there will, I ween, be less likelihood with me
beside you, mademoiselle."

She yielded with an ill grace, though glad, as
women ever are, to be mastered, for all her rebellion,
and so, till they came to the river bank once more,
there was silence between them.

"And now perchance it may be your pleasure to
let me go forward alone, monsieur," she cried with a
toss of her pretty head, as they halted within the
shadow of the trees, "seeing that the good Job awaits
me yonder by the bridge.  Au revoir, therefore,
monsieur, though methinks I had better say adieu,
for small likelihood is there, I fear, that you will
chance to retrace your footsteps in safety through
yon black darkness."

"I have no fear, mademoiselle," replied d'Estrailles,
bowing low over her hand, "seeing that the light of
your eyes would guide a man safely, however gloomy
his path.  Nay," he said gently, still holding her hand
in his, "pardon me, mademoiselle, if I allow the
gratitude of an overfull heart too free a speech, or
that I speak to the betrothed of another of what
should remain for all time the secret of my heart."

"Nay," she said, "monsieur has already spoken too
much of gratitude for a service which after all was but
a duty; though," she added softly, as she withdrew
her hand, "as for being betrothed to Monsieur de
Coray, it is a thing no more to be spoken of; a de
Mereac mates not with a murderer, monsieur, least of
all the murderer of a brother; methinks rather the
convent walls shall find shelter for one whose life
seems destined to be shrouded in so much of sorrow."

"Nay," said d'Estrailles, still detaining her hand,
"fairest lady, speak not of convent walls; too much
of sunshine dwells in those tender eyes to be
quenched in the gloomy grave of a convent life.
Believe me, troubles are but as passing clouds, which
come but to make the sun more joyous when it
shines again, and methinks that very surely behind
the clouds the sunshine of true love awaits one so
gracious and beautiful; happy knight is he who shall
inspire it: nay, could I but dream that such destiny
might be mine for but one instant, it would be verily
the opening of the gates of Paradise."

"Nay, monsieur," she laughed softly, a roguish
dimple deepening in her cheek, though her eyes
grew tender as they looked half shyly into his.
"The gates of such a Paradise are ever on the latch
for the gallant and the brave."  And before he could
reply, she had slipped her hand away and was gone,
flitting like some dark shadow from out of the forest
shade and across the little bridge which led through
the orchard to the outer postern of the château, where
Job still gazed in vague fascination towards the
darkening sky with watchful ears and an anxious heart.





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.. _`CHAPTER VI`:

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   CHAPTER VI

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Again at early morn Mademoiselle de Mereac walked
in the château gardens with her maiden by her side.
It was the same book of hours over which her head
was bent in seeming devotion, whilst one hand
strayed listlessly over the black rosary she wore;
but the devotions were, alas! but in the seeming, the
words and illuminations which danced before her eyes
conveyed not the slightest intelligence to the reader's
mind.

How strange it was that only yesterday she had
paced up and down this very path, read the same
words, viewed the same flowers, breathed the same
air, and yet between that day and this a whole
lifetime seemed to yawn!

"Ah, Marie," the girl sighed, as at last, giving up
the impossible task, she closed her book and flung
herself down on the grassy sward which sloped
riverwards, "I cannot read, nor certainly pray, to-day,
except to say the same words which run like chariot
wheels through my head, and which I fear me will
shock poor Father Ambrose when I confess them.
But come, let us talk!—sing!—laugh!—do somewhat! for
if thou sittest with so grave a face I shall deem—nay,
I know not what I shall deem," and, unclasping
her hands, Gwennola began picking the pink-tipped
daisies from the grass beside her, threading them into
a fantastic chaplet with feverish fingers.

Marie Alloadec eyed her mistress with solemn,
curious eyes.  Of a temperament less excitable and
impetuous, the slower train of her mind was seeking
vainly to find a clue for this eccentric and wayward
mood.  Of her mistress's nocturnal adventure she
had not ventured a question, though ever since Job's
whispered hints concerning the shadow which had
flitted by him in the moonlight, she had been
devoured with curiosity.  But for once Gwennola
was reticent, and only gave evidence of the anxious
stirrings of her mind by her variable and uncertain
moods: now plunged in melancholy, now bursting
forth into a wild hilarity which surprised, if it did
not shock, her staid handmaiden.

"See!" cried Gwennola, holding up her chain for
admiration.  "Is it not altogether charming?  I must
e'en make another.  Gather me some more flowerets
thou idle wench, seeing that thy tongue seemeth
somewhat tied this gay morn."

"Nay," sighed Marie lugubriously, "I thought, my
mistress, rather of the fate of the poor knight in
yonder turret room than of the sunshine."

"And wherefore shouldst thou think of him?"
laughed Gwennola teasingly, as she bent forward,
either to gather a more deeply-tinted daisy which
caught her fancy, or to hide a sudden wave of colour
which flushed her cheeks.  "Fie on thee, Marie! heardest
thou not that he is a foul traitor and murderer
to boot?"

Marie gaped, but ere she could open her mouth for
a reply, a shadow falling athwart the grass between
them warned her of the reason for her mistress's
high-pitched words of virtuous reproof.

"Ah, my cousin, a fair morrow to thee," cried
Mademoiselle de Mereac, as she sprang lightly to
her feet to face the new-comer.  "What! another
gloomy brow?  'Tis certain that you and Marie both
must have walked on the weed of straying yesternight
and seen more unwelcome visions in yonder forest."

De Coray's face grew more sullen than before at
her mocking words, as he glanced from one to the
other.

"You do ill to jest, mademoiselle," he said sternly,
"seeing what hath chanced."

"Chanced?" she echoed innocently, cutting short
his speech with a gay little laugh.  "Nay, mon ami,
naught hath chanced to my knowledge this morn,
save that I have made this chaplet of flowers to
crown the head of wisdom, justice, and mercy."  And
she made as though she would have flung him the
daisy wreath.

"A truce to such folly," he snarled.  "Well enough
you know, maiden, of what is in my mind, and dost
strive therefore to hide knowledge behind the mask
of foolery."

"Nay," she cried again, her blue eyes flashing at
him, though she still smiled.  "Truly, I forgot my
reverence to so illustrious a personage.  Marie, my
child, thy best curtsy to monsieur, the high chief
executioner and hangman of Mereac."  And she
swept a deep and mocking obeisance, her eyes still
on his face.

"Ay," he retorted, scowling at her this time
without disguise.  "But better the executioner of a
foul traitor and murderer than a——"

She checked him with an imperious gesture.

"Have a care, monsieur," she said in a low voice,
which trembled nevertheless with anger as she read
the insult in his eyes.  "Have a care lest I tell my
father your words, ay, and not only of words,
monsieur, but of deeds done in that dark wood at
St Aubin du Cormier."

He laughed aloud, though there was an ugly look
in his eyes.

"Your opportunity has already come then,
mademoiselle," he replied sneeringly, "for your
father hath bidden me summons you to his presence."

Again she swept him a curtsy, but this time with
statelier grace, as she turned and walked onwards
alone towards the château, ignoring altogether his
proffered arm.  Her face had grown paler, but her
blue eyes were bright and undaunted as her spirit
rose to the ordeal before her; perhaps it was steeled
as she glanced wistfully towards, the forest and stood
once more in fancy under yonder oak tree, looking
up with swiftly beating heart into dark eyes which
told their tale so far more eloquently than their
owner's halting words.

The Sieur de Mereac stood erect in the midst of
the great hall, his tall form towering there like some
giant figure of old as he swept an eagle glance over
the little group of retainers who stood, scared and
panic-stricken, in the background, and whom he
waved aside with an imperious gesture as his
daughter, as erect as himself, with her face upraised,
pale, but proud, came slowly forward, curtsying
silently as she stood before him, but without attempting
to embrace or smile at him, as she had ever done
before.

Unconsciously the old man sighed as his stern
glance met hers.  Was this his little Gwennola?—the
child with the ruddy curls and laughing eyes,
who so short a time since would scramble up on to
his knee, and, laying her shining head against his
breast, plead with all a spoilt child's boldness for a
tale of his battles with the cruel French.

Alas! the child had gone.  For the first moment he
realized it, and in her place stood this pale, defiant
woman, who, he bitterly told himself, had deceived
him so cruelly.

Perchance it was the memory of the blue-eyed
child running to meet him, hand in hand with that
tall, handsome youth, his lost Yvon, which steeled
his proud, passionate heart against her; or perhaps
it was that he read the reflection of his own
indomitable will and dauntless courage in her clear
eyes.  To him it seemed more meet that womankind
should bend, humbly and submissively, to his
sovereign will, little dreaming that this slim girl
from her cradle had, instead, bent him to hers, till
the two imperious tempers had chanced to clash on
so dire a field.

"Child," said the old man hoarsely, "what is it that
thou hast done? that thou—daughter of mine—hast
dared to do?  Nay," he cried, his voice breaking in
a cry of almost piteous entreaty, "'tis impossible that
thou hast done so treacherously, my Gwennola, my
little Gwennola!  Tell me then, child, and I will believe
thy word, though all the angels in heaven, ay, and
the devils in hell witness against thee—tell me that
thou hast not done this thing; that the escape of
this thrice accursed murderer of thy brother is not
known to thee; that thou hast had naught to do
with so evil a deed."

"Father," cried the girl, clasping her hands, whilst
her blue eyes brimmed with tears at the note of
pleading anguish in his voice.  "My father, listen to
me.  Verily, I have had naught to do with the escape
of my brother's murderer, seeing that he standeth
here, yet will I not deny that I, and I alone, aided
the escape of a noble and gallant knight, whose life
might well have been forfeit to the foul slander of his
enemies."

As she spoke she would have drawn nearer to her
father's side, have taken the trembling hand which
played with the girdle of his long robe, but that he
motioned her back with a fierce gesture, half despair,
half loathing.

"A noble knight!" he cried furiously.  "A noble
knight indeed to blacken the honour not only of my
daughter, but of his just accuser, for well I can guess
the lies with which his viper's tongue hath filled thy
foolish ears.  Nay, girl, speak no more, but rather go
from my presence ere my hand strike down the child
who hath stooped so low to save the murderer of her
only brother, and a lying traitor."

"Nay, monsieur," murmured de Coray smoothly,
as he stepped forward, "surely you would not thus
leave so grave a matter, painful as it must be to your
noble heart to unveil so black a story; but it may be,"
he added softly, glancing towards the young girl's
bowed figure, "that the righteous wrath of a just
parent hath brought remorse to a daughter's heart;
perchance her eyes are opened to what may well
have been but the foolish impulse of a generous
heart, and now that she seeth her act in its true
light, she may be able to guide us in our search for
the traitor."

At the words, through whose silky softness it were
easy for a keen ear to detect the note of bitter mockery,
Gwennola flung back her head with a gesture of angry
pride; her cheeks were flushed, and her blue eyes
sparkled with an indignant fury.

"Liar and traitor!" she cried bitterly, "viper,
monsieur, that you are, thus to strive to poison the
fame of a noble knight, because, forsooth! he chanced
to witness the foul deed whereof you accuse him; but
be warned, monsieur, sin wings its homeward way to
the heart that brought it forth, and foully shall perish
the hand that sought thy kinsman's life, and the
tongue that strove to tarnish his sister's name."

"Peace, woman!" snarled de Coray angrily, though
his face grew pale as her words rang in the rhythm
of a curse; then, turning to de Mereac with a shrug
of his shoulders, "Monsieur my uncle sees," he said,
his voice trembling with suppressed anger; "verily it
would seem as though this Frenchman had bewitched
the poor lady; perchance a little solitary confinement
would best bring her to see the error of her ways,
whilst we, monsieur, strive to undo what at worst
might well be a foolish maiden's mad whim, by seeking
in yonder forest for the murderer, who doubtless could
scarce ride far, if it be true that his wound was so
sore."

"Go to thy chamber, girl!" commanded de Mereac
of his daughter sternly, "and seek repentance of thy
waywardness and sin in prayer; it may be that if thy
heart still remaineth obdurate, a convent cell shall be
made to cure it."

"Nay," interrupted de Coray with a smile; "methinks
'twere wiser, mon oncle, to give to me the sweet task.
When I have the felicity to call mademoiselle my
wife, be assured that I shall take good care to teach
her how much foolishness there is in such acts which
leave even the shadow of reproach upon so fair a fame."

He looked for a tempest of anger or scorn doubtless
from the girl beside him; but this time he was mistaken.
White to the lips, Gwennola curtsied silently to her
father, and without so much as a glance towards de
Coray, walked with head erect and proud step down
the long hall and up the narrow winding stairway
which led to her own apartment.  But coldness and
pride vanished as, in a tempest of tears, she flung
herself into Marie's arms.

"Would I were dead," she sobbed passionately.
"Oh, Marie, Marie, such cruel words my father flung
at me, and he scorned me, Marie—me, his little
Gwennola, till I thought my very heart would break;
and oh! the bitterness of it when that foul traitor, my
kinsman, stood near, pouring forth his venomous lies
into my father's open ears; and he believed him, Marie.
Ah! the shame of it, he believed him rather than
trusting the fair honour of his daughter."

"Ah, mademoiselle," cried Marie, whose rosy face
was pale also with fear, and whose eyelids were swollen
with the tears of sympathy she had already shed
for her young mistress, "how terrible a mischance
is here!  But, mademoiselle, 'tis, I warrant me, much
the doing of that evil imp, Pierre the fool, for Job
hath been telling me what chanced whilst we were
out yonder plucking daisies and dreaming little of
the ill in store for us."

"Pierre the fool?" echoed Gwennola, drying her
tears and looking at her handmaiden in surprise.
"Nay, what hath the saucy varlet to do in the
brewing of such pickle?"

"He loveth well Monsieur de Coray," said Marie,
nodding her head wisely, "and hath as little liking
for thee, sweet lady, as he hath for aught that is good
and true and unlike his own crooked person and
soul; and so it chanced that last night, instead of
sleeping beside Reine and Gloire, as any well-ordered
Christian fool should have done, he poked and pryed
into what concerned him not, and, creeping softly in
the darkness down the chapel steps, because, forsooth! he
thought to hear voices, he cometh so suddenly
upon Father Ambrose—who, for some purpose of
which the saints alone wot, was waiting there near
the chapel door—that the poor priest fell backwards
in his alarm down the two steps that remained, and
so cracked his head that he hath lain unconscious
ever since, and cannot be questioned, which perchance
is well for him, as it may be that my lord's anger
against him will have time to cool, as he suspects
him of aiding you also, dear lady, seeing that the
mischievous Pierre, not content with well-nigh killing
the good father, goeth into the chapel, where, failing
to find aught to account for voices, he further pryeth
till it seemeth he picked up your kerchief on the very
steps of the altar, and this with his lying tale he
carries to his master at dawn, whereupon Monsieur de
Coray laid his accusations upon you for the escape
of the French monsieur."

"Nay," said Gwennola quietly.  "That were a tale
I must needs have told, were it but for the saving
of the poor Father Ambrose, of whose sorry plight
I grieve to hear.  Fain would I to his side, Marie,
but that even is forbidden me, for here must I
bide a prisoner, whilst, alas! alas! it may be that
even now they discover the hiding-place of—of——"  She
checked herself, meeting Marie's curious eyes.
"Nay, wench," she said sharply, "heed not my
foolish words; and yet, oh, Marie, Marie! my heart
breaks with fears and sorrow.  Was ever maid so
unhappy as thy poor mistress?"

"Nay, dear lady," said the girl affectionately, laying
her hand softly on her mistress's.  "Courage! it may
yet be that all will be well.  See, we will pray to our
Blessed Lady, whose protection and aid will most
surely be vouchsafed to the persecuted and innocent."

But in her distress and excitement even prayer
proved small solace to the impatient spirit of the
unhappy maiden.  To and fro she paced with all
the restless agony of a newly caged, wild creature,
now weeping, now crying to Marie to aid her, though
in what she neither said nor seemed to know.  But
presently the paroxysm of her passion passed, and
after kneeling for a lengthy space before the carved
figure of her patron saint, she rose and smiled more
calmly into Marie's anxious face.

"I was distraught," she said simply, "methinks with
very weariness as well as grief.  Now go, Marie, leave
me to compose myself in sleep; last night I rested
little and my eyes are heavy for need of slumber.
Go then, little one, and glean for me what news
thou canst anent the return of my father; 'twill
be a fruitless quest, I wot well, on which they ride,
seeing that the holy saints have him I love in their
keeping."

Her foster-sister, with wide eyes of wonder, not
unmingled with dismay, echoed her last words.

Gwennola smiled, and though her colour rose, she
replied quietly—

"Nay, Marie, thou art over-bold, wench, and yet,
ah! there is none other to whom I may confess it,
and by the love we bear each other, my Marie, well
I know my secret is safe with thee.  Yes," she
added softly, whilst a glad light stole into her tired
eyes; "yes, it is true, my Marie, I love him, this
noble Frenchman, who is a true and noble knight,
neither traitor nor murderer, but my faithful servant
and lover."

"But," stammered Marie, forgetful of aught in
her sheer amazement, "he is a Frenchman,
mademoiselle! an enemy! one who would take away
liberty from us of Brittany and bend our necks in
the yoke of servitude."

"Tush, little foolish one!" replied her mistress
severely.  "Thou pratest of that of which thou
knowest naught.  Indeed," she added, with an air of
knowledge which sat quaintly on her childish head,
"the love of Breton maid to French knight may well
be, since men say our Duchess herself would fain
have given her heart to the Prince of Orleans, had
he not been already wed."

"Nay," murmured Marie, abashed, yet persistent,
"but Madame the Duchess is the bride of the noble
King of the Romans."

"That goeth not to say that she loveth him,"
retorted Gwennola wisely; "indeed, poor Duchess! how
can she, seeing she hath never seen him?  And
ill is it to wed without love, be a maid queen or
peasant wench; and verily I will have none of it on
such terms, though my father command me to take
the veil in choice.  Ah, Marie!" she cried, stretching
out her hands towards the hesitating girl, "thou wilt
help me, wilt thou not?  For I love him, this poor,
persecuted knight, Frenchman though he be—ay, and
shall love him and none other for all time: and love
is sweet, my Marie, though as yet mayhap thou
hast not tasted of its sweetness; but when it
cometh——"

"Nay," retorted Marie tossing her head, "small
love have I for any man, save only for my father
and brother Job, for well I wot, as my mother hath oft
told me, that they are but poor creatures at best, and
little worth the tears and pains they put us foolish
women to.  Yet, sweet mistress," she added, laying
her hand affectionately on Gwennola's, "I would aid
*you* with my very life, ay, though my lord verily
putteth me to the torture for so doing."

"Nay," murmured Gwennola, turning pale, "that
my father would never do, as well thou knowest, foolish
one."

"As for that," replied Marie with a shrug of her
buxom shoulders, "I know little of the kind, for my
lord is a terrible man in passion, and for the
torture—did not my Lord of Quimperel so do to death one
of his wife's maidens who refused to confess her
mistress's secrets?"

"Nay," sighed Gwennola with a shudder, "my
Lord of Quimperel is a man of bloodthirsty moods
and evil repute, ever loving to inflict pain; but my
father, changed though he be to his little Gwennola,
by the poisoned tongue of lies, would never so forget
his honour."

"Be that as it may, sweet mistress," replied Mane,
smiling, "I am yours, to do your will, even to the
death; command me then, and blithely will I obey!"

"I must e'en think," murmured Gwennola, pressing
her hand to her forehead, "for well I can guess that
at least my kinsman will leave no unguarded door of
escape from his watchful eye.  Yet methinks we may
outwit even him, my Marie, with caution and daring,
if so be that my father's search to-day is fruitless."

"Then monsieur lies yonder?" inquired Marie, eager,
now that her scruples and surprise were overcome, to
assist in this unexpected romance.

"Hush!" whispered her mistress with raised finger.
"Better it were not to speak on such matters, seeing
that even walls have ears; but hie thee, Marie, below,
and see what news thou canst bring me of how matters go."

Those were days when the romance of love indeed
reigned paramount in every woman's heart, from the
lady who, from her casement, smiled down at her
knight riding by with her favour in his helmet, to the
serving wench who watched her swain go from her to
the wars with a tear in her eye and a choking pride
in her throat at sight of his gallant bearing and the
bunch of bright ribbons she had herself pinned to his
breast.  And, alone now in her chamber, Gwennola
was dreaming tenderly of the romance which had
been borne so swiftly and unexpectedly into the grey
gloom of her young life, flushing it with all the rosy
dawn of love and beauty.  She told herself, as her
heart throbbed gladly to her thoughts, that she had
loved him from the moment she had seen him lying
all unconscious in the forest.  And what wonder,
seeing how empty of such dreams her heart had been
before?—and yet how hungry for them, with the
hunger for such romance as is dear to seventeen
summers in any century!  And she had found him,
her knight, noble, handsome, surrounded with the
glamour of strange and thrilling circumstances,
chivalrous and devoted.  Ah! it could not be that a
foul lie and a hempen rope of shame should, rudely
terminate so sweet an idyll?  Her heart seemed to
beat to suffocation as she strove against the thought,
listening with anxious ears for the return of Marie.

How long the time seemed, and yet all too short,
ere she heard the swift sound of returning feet!  Was
it possible that even now the news would be that all
was over, and that guile had triumphed bloodily over
innocence and truth?

"Mother of Help," she moaned, sinking once more
on her knees before the little shrine—"Mother of
Help, save him!"

"Nay, lady," whispered Marie's voice behind her.
"Have no fear, I have no news but what is good to
hear, although I fear me that my lord and Monsieur
de Coray have returned in no holy frame of mind
from their bootless search, and resignation to failure
sits not placidly on either brow.  I had speech with
Jobik, poor fool! who, it seems, would fain have been
cursing yon poor French monsieur for killing his
young master, and perchance might have spoken evil
words of you, had I not twitted him for a moon-faced
oaf and told him all the truth."

"Mother of Mercies, I thank thee!" cried Gwennola
softly, as she bowed her head in thanksgiving.  Then,
raising a radiant face to Marie, "Now," she cried
softly, "cometh the time for brave hearts and wise
heads, my Marie, for we must e'en find some mode of
taking to monsieur both food and drink, for starvation
were little better than the rope, though perchance
more honourable."

"Nay, mademoiselle," said Marie earnestly; "you
must leave such work to Jobik or to me.  Tell me but
where the noble knight lies, and, I warrant me, he shall
not die of starvation."

But Gwennola shook her head, laughing and
blushing as she replied—

"Nay, Marie, be not too ready with thy offers, for,
alas! what would the poor Job say"—she dropped
her voice to a whisper—"did I bid him go by
moonlight to the Chapel of the Brown Friar?"

"Merciful saints!" gasped Marie, paling as she
crossed herself.  "Nay, lady, you do but jest; it is
not possible that a noble knight could find so fearful
a resting-place?"

"I say nothing," smiled Gwennola, "because, little
curious one, it is better for thee not to be too wise;
but verily it is truth that I must to the forest, this
night, alone, to take food and wine to this gallant
knight."

Marie hesitated; the thought of her young mistress
going alone into the dark and lonely forest was
terrible, but honest and steadfast as was the girl's
devotion, she would a hundred-fold rather have faced
death itself than the grim spectre of the haunted
chapel.

"I beseech you, sweet mistress," she murmured
through rising tears—"nay, I implore you—it is not
possible that you, Mademoiselle de Mereac, should go
alone, at midnight, through yon forest, for the sake
of—the sake of——"

"One whom I love," whispered Gwennola, half
shyly, half defiantly.  "Nay, maiden, chide me not;
the name of Gwennola de Mereac shall lose none of
its honour by so daring; and for cruel tongues, see
you, my Marie, there will be none.  Fie on thee,
child! dost not know yet, or hast listened to minstrel
lays in vain, that love hath no fear so long as it
reigns in purity and virtue?—and therefore such love
shall be my amulet, did the Brown Friar himself
strive against me."

Again Marie crossed herself, with pale cheeks and
frightened eyes, yet silenced by her mistress's glance
more than her words, for well she knew by the
compression of those small, rosy lips, and the sparkle in
those bright eyes, that there was no resisting the
proud young will.

"An this be love," murmured the handmaiden as
she turned aside, "may the holy St Catherine protect
me from such spells! for verily my lady is distraught
with it to dream of so mad an enterprise.  The saints
preserve us from the wrath of my lord should some
evil chance reveal it!"





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.. _`CHAPTER VII`:

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   CHAPTER VII

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Softly the moonlight stole through the interlacing
branches of the trees, like white-robed fairies who
come earthward to kiss the sleeping flowers into fresh
beauty for the morrow's sun.  Darkly against the
silver sheen stood out the rugged, ivy-grown walls of
the forest chapel.  It was a spot sufficiently romantic
for the youngest and tenderest of lovers, and yet not
without its thrill of that gloom and foreboding which
seems to haunt the land of Brittany, where such stern
shadows seem indissolubly mingled with the wild
beauties of poetry and romance.

But, for the moment at least, shadows had fled into
the darkness of the surrounding forest, and romance
reigned clear and beautiful as the Queen of Heaven,
who shed her silver beams down so softly on the two
lovers sitting there amongst the ruins which
superstition had clad with such terror and awe.

It was the third night that Gwennola had successfully
stolen out from her father's château, leaving two
faithful hearts to beat in anxious fear for her safety
until her return.  So little dreamt any of such an
undertaking, that the task had been less difficult than
she had supposed, and so, night after night Job had
watched with gloomy fear the dark, hooded figure
slip past him and vanish like some grim shadow into
the grimmer blackness of the forest, and there, divided
betwixt love and the overpowering fear of superstition,
he had been fain to watch for her return, whilst
the moments dragged by leaden-footed, till more than
once love overcame fear, and he started from his post
in search of his young mistress, only to come to a
halt midway down the terrace path, whilst the beads
of perspiration stood thickly on his brow as he
muttered aves and paters, and finally with a groan
of terror fled back to his place as he recalled the
dread vision which had already looked at him, hollow-eyed
and beseeching, from amongst the trees, till his
knees knocked together in a perfect frenzy of terror.

But no such fears now troubled Gwennola, for love
had bidden such phantom terrors a mocking adieu.
Yes, they were lovers now, not bowing and curtsying
to each other, with eyes more bold and eloquent than
the stiff phrases of their tongues; there was no more
speech of gratitude or duty, or the many foolish
subterfuges by which love must first hide himself,
but instead all the glamour and passion of first love,
which exaggerates itself and its dreams of sentiment
and finds in itself so sweet a delirium that it forgets
all else and mocks gaily at staid middle age, which
shakes its head so wisely at such quaint fantasies and
preaches truisms against its tender madness which are
listened to with deaf ears; for youth must have its
way and dream its dreams of love and fair ideals, which
clothe it in all its springtide of beauty, little recking
of the winter that must perchance disperse all, or
sober them down to greyer tints.

"Ah, sweet," whispered d'Estrailles as he bent down
to look into the blue eyes raised so happily to his;
"what shall I say to prove to thee the devotion with
which thou hast inspired me, or thank thee for the
tender heroism which brings thee thus to me through
such perils?"

"Nay," she replied gaily, "speak not of thanks,
my Henri, but rather of our love.  What fear have I,
my beloved, save for thy safety?  Ah," she cried,
clasping her hands with a sudden gesture of pain,
"every time my father rides forth my heart beats with
terror for fear that by some unlucky chance he should
discover thy hiding-place, for his heart is still bitter
against thee, my Henri, for de Coray still distilleth
his poisoned words into his ears; neither will he so
much as look on me, his daughter; whilst for the poor
Father Ambrose, he hath sworn to send him back to
his monastery in disgrace so soon as his sickness is
healed."

"Nay, weep not, little one," said d'Estrailles gently,
as he drew her into his embrace, "but let us rather
dream of the days when all this suffering and wrong
be past, and when thou, sweet Gwennola, art my wife,
and ridest with me to our château on the gay Loire,
where I will give thee sunshine and mirth, beauty and
laughter instead of these dreary forests and grey
gloom, which seem fitting surroundings for traitor
hearts and sad forebodings."

"Nay," she said with a sigh, "it is of my Brittany
thou speakest, dear heart, and I would not that thou
shouldst find it so ill a place, for I love it dearly, ay,
so dearly!" she whispered, clinging to him, "though
perchance in time thy château of sunshine shall be
more dear, my Henri, because of thy presence; but I
would have thee also to love in some measure the
Château of Mereac, and in time, it may be, my father,
who is good—ah! so good, so noble, so brave!—although
now it would seem his ears are closed and
his eyes blinded by a treacherous foe."

"Nay," said her lover tenderly, "I was wrong,
sweet, to speak of gloom where I found such sunshine
as hath before never lighted the fairest spot of
fair Touraine.  See then, it shall be that which thou
lovest, I love, and what thou hatest——"

He broke off to turn swiftly in the direction of the
forest, his hand on his sword, as though he had caught
a sound other than the constant murmur of cries from
bird and beast which arose in plaintive cadences
around.

"What is it?" breathed Gwennola, with a little
gasp of fear, as she bent forward to gaze in
the same direction as that in which his eyes were still
turned.

"Methinks 'twas but a fancy," he replied softly;
"and yet—see, sweet, what is that which moves
yonder?  Nay, 'tis naught, but some animal, or——"

But Gwennola's face had grown white with terror,
as with horror-stricken eyes she gazed across the open
space towards where, in a bright patch of moonlight,
sat a small, wizened creature perched on its haunches,
the very impersonation of some imp of darkness,
which, after pausing one brief instant to mouth at
them in seeming mockery, fled nimbly back into the
forest with a shrill cry.

"Bah," murmured d'Estrailles, devoutly crossing
himself, "'tis verily a spirit of evil, little one, that fled
at the glance of thy sweet eyes."

"Nay, rather," faltered Gwennola tremulously,
"'twas the ape of Pierre the fool, and verily the spirit
of evil was doubtless lurking unseen in the shadows
behind," and in a few brief words she told her lover
of Marie's tale and the devotion of the fool to Guillaume
de Coray.

"Fly, Henri, fly!" she pleaded.  "Surely there is
yet time; thy wound heals well, and methinks even at
some pain 'twere better to fly before discovery overtakes
us.  Alas, alas, how evil grows our case when it
seemed to promise so fairly!"

"Nay," laughed d'Estrailles undauntedly, "'twere
better first to strive to teach fools their foolishness,"
and without awaiting her reply he plunged into the
forest, only to emerge some moments later crestfallen
and indignant.  "Truly the knave is in league with
de Coray's own master," he said with a grimace of
discomfiture.  "Not a trace of him is to be seen.  But
come, sweet, wear not so troubled a brow; methinks
the danger is as little pressing as heretofore, seeing
that none know of yon snug chamber, where I may
well mock their vigilance for many days."

"Nay, Henri," entreated Gwennola, as she clung
afresh to him.  "Go, I beseech thee, whilst there is
yet time.  Oh, what agony shall I endure till thou
art in safety!"

But for all her pleading he refused to be turned
from his purpose of lingering another day, yet less,
perchance, from selfish motives as from fear of what
might befall her did the fool's tale move her father's
anger more mightily upon her.

"To-morrow eve," he cried, laughing at her fears,
as he held her two white hands in his, and kissed her
on her quivering lips.  "Courage, little one, 'tis but
a terror that will pass with the dawn, and if thou
fearest the malice of this crooked fool, why, smile
upon him with thy sweet eyes, and thou must needs
make him thy slave for ever."

So, perforce, seeing he was a man and wilful, she
was fain to yield, though her blue eyes still looked
into his with wistful foreboding as she entreated him
to be careful, and remain in the safe shelter of his
hiding-place.  So back through the forest they went
together till they caught sight of Job Alloadec's
broad figure standing stiff and straight by the outer
postern of the wall, when they bade each other once
more a tender adieu.

"Farewell, little one," whispered d'Estrailles, the
more gaily as he felt his cheek wet with a stray
teardrop which had fallen from her soft lashes.  "Fear
not yon impish fool, who dared thus insolently to
look within the gates of Paradise; seal his tongue
with sweet looks, and perchance a silver piece, and
to-morrow——"

"Ah, to-morrow," she sighed.  "Alas! to-morrow."

"Ay, alas indeed," he murmured, "since I must
needs, it seems, bid farewell to my sweet lady, and
yet not farewell, but only au revoir, dear love, for if
thy father relents not, nor opens his eyes to treachery
and falsehood, I shall very speedily return to steal
thee away, since till thy coming there will be no
sunshine in the Château d'Estrailles, and the hours will
go slowly for the very weariness of the waiting."

She smiled sadly back into his face.

"Ah, my Henri," she murmured, "what lies
between those days and these?  Verily my heart
groweth heavy in wondering whether they will ever be."

"Nay," he cried boldly, with all a man's insistence
and scorn of danger's shadows, "they must needs be,
sweet one, since love demands it."

"Our Lady grant it," said she, and passed on her
way towards the gloomy château, leaving him to
ponder on what lay so dimly and mysteriously before
them on the path of life; for verily it seemed that the
course of true love was little likely to run smoothly
for Breton maid and French noble in those days of
bitter enmity and danger.





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.. _`CHAPTER VIII`:

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   CHAPTER VIII

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The next day was at last drawing to a close.  All
through the long hours Gwennola had sat waiting in
torturing suspense for what news Marie might bring
her.  Still a prisoner in her chamber, she had seen
none save her foster-sister and brother since the day
of Henri d'Estrailles' mysterious disappearance.  Had
it not been for de Coray's insistent suggestions of
ill, the Sieur de Mereac's heart would long since
have softened towards his cherished daughter, and
he would, perchance, after the fashion of love, have
found some excuse for conduct which his inmost
heart told him had some other motive than those
maliciously suggested by de Coray's evil tongue;
as it was, the latter so successfully kept the warmth
of his anger stirred within him that he fiercely
shunned any suggestion either of seeing or being
reconciled to Gwennola, whilst upon Father Ambrose's
innocent head were heaped the bitterest invectives of
his fury.

But even the news of her father's unrelenting anger
towards her failed to move Gwennola's heart.  All
thought, all feeling, was for the time being centred
on her lover, after the manner of foolish and wayward
maidens who, in the awakening of such passion, forget
the love which has sheltered them from childhood;
and in the case of Gwennola de Mereac such forgetfulness
might in some measure be excused, seeing
that love had been born with her twin-sister pity for
a sick and innocent man, and such pity roused to the
depths the finer fibres of her woman's heart.  The
instinctive feeling of protection towards one who was
helpless had, even more than the vague, unnamed
whisperings of love, steeled her to her purpose and
inspired her courage in defiance of what she felt to
be foul injustice to an innocent man.  But now pity
was forgotten—submerged, as it were, in her passionate
love, for Gwennola was a true daughter of Brittany,
strong to hate as to love, undaunted, brave with that
powerful tenacity of purpose which seems inherent in
these people whose whole lives are set, as it were,
against the adverse forces of nature, which strive for
the mastery of that grey, bleak shore.  She had given
her love to Henri d'Estrailles, and for that love's sake
all ties were swept aside, save only those which
upheld her own pure young soul and guarded the
honour which must ever be more cherished even than
love itself in a noble woman's heart.  Yet honour itself
seemed to call her now to act the part she had set
herself, honour not only her own but her father's, who
little knew the part that fate was striving to force
upon him.

So it was with a clear conscience that Gwennola
knelt in prayer before the little shrine of the Virgin
Mother, asking help in her secret enterprise.

"And oh, Blessed Mother of Heaven," she cried with
a sob, as she buried her face in her hands, "grant that
all may be well, and that the saints may have him in
their good keeping till we meet again."  But even
with the words her heart grew chill as she pondered
how that meeting might be, and how, even did he
escape present danger, they, whom circumstances had
called to enmity rather than love, might hope to meet
to plight their troth in happier days.  Instead, there
uprose before her eyes the mocking, cruel face of
Guillaume de Coray, and when she turned with loathing
from it, there seemed to meet her only the sunless
gloom of grey, convent walls.

"At least," whispered hope and youth, "there
is still to-night; once more his arms shall hold
thee in his tender embrace, and thou shalt read
fresh vows of love in those dark eyes which speak
only of faith and constancy; surely it will be that
love hereafter shall find another way in the darkness
of the future."

So she comforted herself, and listened also to
Marie's cheering words of confidence with a smile
on her lips; but the smile faded as amongst the
dark shadows of the trees gloomy forebodings
gathered once more and pressed their weight of sad
presentiment on her beating heart as she hurried
along the narrow path.

How foolish it was to pause with a fresh throb of
fear as from the thicket near the rustle of a scurrying
rabbit startled her ear!  And why should she tremble
so violently when a great white owl almost swept her
cheek with its soft wings as it vanished into the
darkness with a low melancholy hoot?  So overstrung
indeed were the poor girl's nerves that she
must have fled homewards in sheer terror of she
knew not what, did not a stronger emotion impel
her forward.

At last, however, the outskirts of the wood were
reached; yonder through the trees she caught a
glimpse of the grey, ivy-covered walls.  How still all
seemed!  Even for the moment the distant cries of
birds and beasts were hushed; the sound of her own
footsteps alone broke the silence—a silence which
had oppressed her ever since she had left the
slumber-bound château.  Her heart bounded as she hurried
forward, looking, with eager eyes, to see the tall figure
standing there with outstretched arms and welcoming
whispers of love.  It was strange that he had not
heard her approach and hurried forth to greet her, as
he had before, but still——

The wondering thought was suddenly checked as
she stepped from the shadow of the trees into the
moonlit space surrounding the forest chapel.  All was
as silent and untenanted as that first night when she
and her lover had stood there glancing with
half-scared looks towards the weird old ruin.

"Henri," she cried, and in the silence her voice
seemed to ring shrill and clear, "Henri!"

A vague note of terror rang in the cry as she hurried
with panting breath towards the ruin itself, telling
herself that he might perchance have fallen asleep in his
hiding-place.  But no; no answer was returned to her
cries; the chamber under the altar was empty and
deserted.  For a moment she stood there, paralyzed
with fear, yet scarcely realizing what could have
happened.  It could not be that he was taken?  She
put the idea from her in agony.  No, no, not that!
How foolish she was!—how could he have been taken
without the knowledge of Job or Marie?  All day
neither her father nor de Coray had left the castle, not
even for their favourite hawking or boar hunting; no
whisper of suspicion had been breathed in the hearing
of either of her faithful servants; it had seemed, so
Marie said, that all thought—if they thought at
all—that the French knight had long since ridden away
far beyond pursuit.  Then a hundred eager suggestions
filled her mind: he had gone to meet her as she
came, and had missed his way; or perhaps, learning
of some new danger, had been forced to fly without
awaiting her coming.  But a hurried search of the
shed close by convinced her at least of the futility
of this last idea, for Rollo still stood in his
place, turning with a low whinny of inquiry to see
if it was his master who had come with his evening
meal.

"Alas! alas!" moaned Gwennola, fresh fears assailing
her, as she turned once more towards the gloomy
ruin, "what hath chanced?  Oh, wherefore heeded he
not my warning to fly yesternight?  Ah, if——"  She
had stooped, with the last words on her lips, and, with
the confirmation of her fears before her, raised from
the ground a tiny cap decorated with one tiny bell—it
was the cap of Petit Pierre, the fool's ape.  "He
is taken," whispered the girl to herself in a dull,
unrealizing tone; "he is taken."

With dawning comprehension she gazed round with
a shiver, picturing the scene which, like the vision of
a crystal-gazer, began slowly but clearly to rise before
her.

Here he had waited for her, unconscious of danger,
with a smile on his lips and the love-light in his eyes,
perchance in his folly humming the air of a ballad,
as he had yesternight.  Then through the trees
treachery had stolen upon him, and where he had
looked to see love, death himself had stalked grimly
on the scene.  She shuddered, covering her face with
her hands, as if to shut out the sight of some terrible
phantom.  Yet for all that her restless brain conjured
up before her unwilling eyes fresh scenes of terror;
her father, stern, implacable, revengeful, as he
remembered the fair-haired boy so cruelly done to
death in that far-off wood of St Aubin, and beside
him the true perpetrator of the deed, smiling,
triumphant, full of cruel and evil suggestions and
words, with the cunning, vacant face of Pierre the
fool, gleeful at the part he had been doubtless paid
to play, at his elbow; whilst the background was
filled up with grim, curious faces, pitiless, for the most
part, save where Job and Marie Alloadec stood fearful,
and perchance weeping, yet not for his sake, but for
hers.  Alas! not one there to pity *him*, to look
kindly on *him*; he was alone, surrounded by cruel
enemies, with death standing in the shadows beside
him—death, in all its hideous garb, without even the
golden glamour of glory to hide its mocking features.
A resolve to hasten back to the château and to stand
beside the man she loved overcame the sense of
faintness which at first threatened her, but even as
she rose, with that aching pain of sorrow, too deep
for tears, at her heart, a cold touch on her hand sent
the blood throbbing back with a sudden frenzy of
fear.  The memory of the unrepentant friar who so
grimly strolled around the earthly scene of his sins
came vividly before her, and as she bent her eyes she
fully expected to see them rest upon the shadowy
cowl of the chapel's ghostly inhabitant.  Instead it
was the lean, grey form of the wolf-hound Gloire
on which her eyes fell, meeting the beast's dumb,
affectionate gaze with the thrill which sympathy in
distress ever brings, even if that sympathy is but a
dog's—perchance at times a truer and more helpful
one than his human master's.

"Gloire," she whispered, bending down with a
sudden impulse to kiss the shaggy, faithful head.
"Ah, Gloire, how camest thou hither?  Was it
because thou knewest—wise beast!—that thy mistress
was in sore need of a comforter, and alone in this
terrible place, with a heart which, I fear me, must
break ere dawn?"

The great animal whined as it licked her face, then
suddenly drew back with a low, ominous growl as a
rustle of branches near caught their ears.  In an
instant Gloire was transformed from the sympathizer
into the outraged guardian, his grey hairs bristling,
his teeth gleaming white from drawn-back gums,
his whole aspect one of angry antagonism.  But the
quick footsteps, instead of coming up the path
towards them, had turned aside, as if their owner
were hastening towards the open heath beyond the
forest.  But Gloire was not minded to let even an
unseen intruder go without his passport of approval,
and, breaking loose from the gentle, restraining
hand of his mistress, leapt forward, with an angry
bay, in pursuit.

"Gloire, Gloire, come back!" cried Gwennola
softly, in much alarm, as she hastened forward in the
direction which the great hound had taken.  "Shame
on thee, Gloire! return instantly."

But Gloire was little minded to obey the gentle
command, for he had already reached the open, and
his quarry was in view.

It was a wild, picturesque scene, with a weird
grimness in it which was to remain ever imprinted on
Gwennola's memory.  The clear moonlight shone
over the vast tract of heath with the radiance of day,
clumps of broom and gorse here and there casting
black shadows in the white light.  No sign of habitation
was visible, naught seeming to flourish in this
desolate region saving only briars and thistles.  Here
and there piles of stone, almost druidical in shape,
lay scattered about, these, the people of the country
affirming to be the houses of the Torrigans or
Courils, wanton dwarfs, who at night bar your road,
and force you to dance with them until you die of
fatigue, whilst others declare that they are fairies,
who, descending from the mountains, spinning, have
brought away these rocks in their aprons.  For the
most part these shapeless monuments consisted of
three or four standing stones with another laid flat on
the top, and, seen by moonlight, presented a fantastic
appearance, dotted as they were over the barren
heath.

From the forest, where Gwennola stood, the ground
stretched away in a sharp declivity, to rise again
beyond, thus forming a small valley.  It was down this
valley that the figure of a man was seen flying, it
would seem for very life, as indeed he was, though,
perchance, scarcely yet aware of the fact, for behind
him, swift upon his track, came Gloire, a gaunt, grey
figure of doom, seen thus in the moonlight.

For a moment Gwennola stood uncertain, swiftly
weighing in her mind what she had best do, but the
man's peril decided her, and in imperious tones she
called the hound to return.  At the sound of her voice
both man and dog paused, turning towards her for an
instant, and with a throb of alarm the girl recognised
in the clear moonlight the features of the man who
had so suddenly sprung on to her path the day she
returned through the forest from her visit to Mère
Fanchonic.

It was not a face to be easily forgotten, with its
red, stubbly beard, broad, flat nose, and bold, insolent
eyes, and Gwennola, with an instinctive cry, had
stepped back towards the shadow of the forest, when
Gloire, with a sudden bay of fury, leapt forward, and,
before he had time to spring aside or draw his sword,
had borne the man backwards upon the ground, with
his mighty fangs fixed firmly into his flesh.

Forgetful of herself at sight of the unexpected
tragedy which was going forward before her eyes,
Gwennola sped down the valley, crying frantically to
Gloire to leave his unfortunate victim; but a very
demon of rage seemed to have entered the great
beast, and he continued furiously to rend his quarry,
until, at Gwennola's approach, he crouched with a
whine, which was half a growl, crept aside, and lay
panting on the heath with gory jaws, and eyes which
pleaded almost defiantly the excuse that he had done
but his duty in defending her.

Meantime, with a shudder of horror, Gwennola knelt
beside the mangled figure, even then her thoughts
flying back in agony to that judgment hall at
the Château de Mereac.  But torn as she was with
the desire to be beside the man she loved, her
womanly pity forbade her to forsake the obviously
dying wretch who lay panting out his life before her.

With her dainty kerchief she softly wiped away
the froth of blood upon his lips, and hastily fetched
water from a pool close by to bathe his brow, for
it was evident that, dying as the unfortunate man
was, he fought stubbornly to regain power of speech
before he passed out into the land of silence and
mystery.

It was a terrible sight to the poor girl, scarcely
more than a child, to witness this death-struggle of a
strong man, brought thus swiftly to his end, and the
terror was enhanced by the eeriness of both time
and place.  But Gwennola was no nervous, timorous
woman to start at her own shadow; born of a hardy,
undaunted race, in rough and warlike times she did
not shrink from the spectacle of death, grim and
terrible as it was.  The nervous fears of superstition,
too, which had haunted her an hour ago, had passed
with this awful reality of suffering.

Presently the man's gasping breath became calmer,
and though the death sweat stood out thickly on his
brow, he appeared to be capable of both thought and
speech.

"Mademoiselle?" he gasped with an upward look
of inquiry.

"De Mereac," she said gently, raising his head
and resting it upon her knee, whilst she, wiped the
sweat from his brow.  "Is there aught you would
tell me, poor fellow? or shall we not rather pray
together for your soul, since here is no priest to
shrive you?"

"My soul," muttered the man with a groan.  "He
had that long since—my soul," and he smiled
mockingly into the fair face bent over him.  "Nay," he
continued with another groan; "'tis ill to jest in
death's own face, though I have laughed in outwitting
him many a time before, but yon devil hath brought
me to bay at last, though I'll not go without my
revenge."

He muttered the last words over several times, as
if trying to recollect something, then continued to
speak rapidly and pantingly, as one who, having raced,
would fain deliver his message without delay; and,
verily, it was a grim race he ran, with death swift
on his heels to cut the tale short.

"Guillaume de Coray," he muttered, "he was my
master, I, his slave, body and soul, mistress—body
and soul.  Ah! I could tell you stories, but there
is not time, suffice to say that he was the tool—the
thing—of the tailor of Vitré[#]—and I—well, no matter,
the past is dead, but there is still revenge.....  It
was the battle of St Aubin—the son of de Mereac
was there—his heir—my master was the next in
succession.....  He slew young Yvon, as he thought,
in the wood there .... by treachery, and came to
Mereac to be welcomed as the heir, and to marry the
sister of the slain youth.  Is it not so, mademoiselle?
Ah!  I read it in your eyes that the bridegroom was
not to your pleasing, for your eyes are true and
his .... Well, Guillaume de Coray rode to Mereac,
but before he did so, it chanced that he had
found that he had no more occasion for my services,
therefore he had bidden another to hasten my
departure to another land, from whence no tales return
to inconvenience monsieur; but he who was so clever
made a mistake.....  The man was my friend.....
He told me his mission.....  We drank to each other's
health and the confusion of our master.  So it came
to pass that when he fled from that wood at St Aubin
with a murderer's fear in his heart, I sought the body
of Yvon de Mereac.  He was not dead .... nay, he
was not dead.  Merciful God! why then does he
haunt me with those eyes?  Nay .... was it not I
who saved him, and tended him for months?—aye
years?—for, for long the blow on his head had rendered
him little better than a fool.  Then, when understanding
returned, he demanded many things......  Ah! but
he was proud and impatient .... that youth
.... perchance I pleased him not for a guardian.....
He commanded to be set free .... he raved
at times .... foolish one .... saying that I kept
him prisoner to murder him .... I, who but bided
my time till the fruit was ripe for the picking.....
But he escaped from my safe shelter.  I was angry
.... I followed him quickly.  What, mademoiselle,
after these years was I to be robbed of my reward?
Grand Dieu! not so, I arrived whilst he still wandered
in the forest, so far still distraught that he had lost
his way.  I found him .... but ere I did so was
myself seen by ill fate by my enemy, Guillaume de
Coray.  It became impossible that I should escape
too hastily with my friend, therefore we concealed
ourselves .... de Coray and his devil's imp seeking
us all the time.....  To-night"—the blood in his
throat well-nigh choked him as he
spoke—"to-night—we—we...."

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.. class:: noindent small

[#] The nickname of Pierre Laudais, the hated and infamous
minister of François II., Duke of Brittany.  The angry nobles at
last took justice into their own hands, and hanged the miscreant
who had ruined their country.

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He stared vaguely up at the moon—already the
finger of death was resting on his shoulder.

"But my brother—Yvon—he lives?  Oh, where—where
is he?" cried Gwennola, whose emotions had
scarcely been controlled during the gasping confession
which seemed to foreshadow forth so grim a tragedy.
"Speak!"

But already death had sealed those lips with his
cold kiss, only with a convulsive effort the man raised
his arm and pointed towards one of the heaps of piled
stones which gleamed white in the moonlight halfway
up the opposite slope.  Then a spasm seized him,
and he lay in the last dread struggle, with his black
eyes fixed upwards in horror, as if around him he
saw crowding the reproachful victims of a sinful life,
gathering about to arraign him before the dread Judge
Who awaited him beyond the veil.

Falling on her knees, Gwennola whispered a prayer
into the dying ears, till, with one last gasping groan,
the jaws relaxed, the dark eyes, still terror-haunted,
became fixed, and a soul fled forth in shame and awe
into the silence of eternity.

With a sob—the outcome of overwrought nerves—the
young girl rose to her feet, and stood looking from
the dead man at her feet towards the rude cairn which
seemed to form so poor a clue to her search.  And
yet her heart beat rapidly as she thought of what that
search might mean, and recalled that not only a
brother's but a lover's life lay as a guerdon for success.
Then with a low breathed prayer she hastened to
turn and scramble up the slope towards the spot
indicated by the dead man's finger.





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.. _`CHAPTER IX`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX

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For a few minutes Gwennola's heart sank; in spite
of a rapid but careful search, the possibility of a
human presence anywhere in the neighbourhood of
that rough pile of stones seemed impossible.  But
once again Gloire was to come to her assistance,
and retrieve his lost character, which he seemed to
feel instinctively had seriously suffered in the late
encounter,—though why he should be reproached
for thus ridding the world of one whom canine
sagacity had recognised as a black-hearted villain,
he could not altogether realize.  Nevertheless, the
sound of his mistress's reproving voice had damped
poor Gloire's self-congratulations, and he had followed
her with drooping tail and melancholy mien towards
the reputed home of the mischievous dwarfs.  Here,
however, his spirit of inquiry was freshly aroused,
and with a short yelp of excitement he proceeded to
investigate a hole, partly concealed by gorse, partly
by a slab of stone which had apparently slipped
from the pile near.

Attracted by his excitement, Gwennola ran to his
side, and, after some moments of desperate tugging
and pulling, succeeded in rolling the stone aside.

Yes! the dead man's clue was a true one; the
opening obviously led into one of those natural caves
so often found in Brittany.  Gloire, with cocked ears
and wagging tail, stood by the side of the aperture,
evidently only awaiting his mistress's bidding to
continue his investigations.  But Gwennola waved
him back, and, bending low, looked down eagerly
into the darkness.

"Yvon," she called softly, her voice trembling as
she pronounced the long-unused name, "Yvon—brother—are
you there?"

In the silence that followed she could hear only
the panting of Gloire's breath close to her ear.

"Yvon," she cried again, "Yvon."

Then faint but clear came back the answer, in
the voice of a man who answers as in a trance—

"Gwennola."

"Mother of Mercies, I thank thee!" cried the girl,
tears of joy streaming down her cheeks, as without
hesitation she scrambled quickly through the aperture.
All was darkness within, although she gathered
from the faint glimmer of moonlight at the cave's
mouth that she was in a small subterranean chamber.
In breathless suspense she called her brother's name
again, and this time the reply came from somewhere
close beside her, almost, it would seem, at her feet.
But still the voice which spoke upwards through the
darkness was that of a man who speaks as one who
replies rather to some inward call than answering
to his name from the lips of a fellow-creature.

"Where art thou, Yvon?" cried Gwennola, sinking
on her knees and spreading forth her hands vaguely
in the darkness.  "Brother, brother, is it indeed
thou?"

"Gwennola—my sister."  This time the voice beside
her rang with a sudden feeble exultation, as of one
who, for the first time, realized that his name had
verily been pronounced by a denizen of earth.
"Gwennola, Gwennola! nay, it is impossible.
Hence, mocking demon, and taunt me not in my
last hours!"

But already, groping in the darkness, guided by
the feeble voice, the girl had found the object of her
search, and bent over the prostrate figure, weeping
and laughing in a very paroxysm of joy.

"Yvon, Yvon!" she cried, as she clung to him,
pressing her warm young lips to the damp brow.
"Ah, my brother, whom for these past years we have
mourned as dead, is it possible that thou livest?
What mystery is here? what foul and terrible plot?
But, what is this?—thou art bound and helpless? a
prisoner!  Oh, tell me, Yvon, tell me all! and yet
no, we must not linger one instant in this terrible
place, for already a still fouler wrong is being done
to one altogether innocent."

"Nay," groaned Yvon de Mereac faintly, "in that
thou speakest wisely, little sister, if it indeed be
thou thyself, as these tears and kisses assure me,
rather than one of the mocking fiends of delirium
which ever haunt me, for truly the chief fiend
himself will return anon, and then——"

Gwennola felt the shudder that ran through the
gaunt frame, and the thought of Gloire's vengeance
seemed to her less terrible than heretofore.

"He is dead!" she cried, divining swiftly of whom
he spoke.  "Gloire hath killed him but now, on the
heath without; but ere he died methinks he repented
of the ill he did thee, which the rather took the form
of vengeance to another, even blacker-hearted than
himself, than from hatred to thee."

"Dead?" echoed Yvon with a sob of sudden joy.
"François Kerden dead? and thou here, little
Gwennola, to save me?  Nay! tell me not it is a
dream, but rather free me from these bonds, and let
me breathe once more the pure air of heaven."

"These bonds?" cried Gwennola in dismay, as her
slender hands felt the tight thongs which bound the
helpless man beside her.  "Nay, but how shall I
unloose them, Yvon?  They are too strong for me to
break, and, alas! I have no dagger."

Yvon groaned.  "Can naught be done?" he sighed.
"I faint for very longing of the cool night breezes;
for days have I lain here, little sister, waiting for
death, but he delayed; yon fiend suffered me not to
die, though he kept me looking ever down into the
abyss, and now——"  His voice quivered, as with the
feeble insistence of a child he repeated his plea to be
liberated.

"Ay, verily," cried Gwennola joyfully, a sudden
inspiration coming to her, "and so thou shalt, my
Yvon; tarry but one instant, and I wot well I shall
find what we seek."

"Ah, go not," cried her brother in despair, "lest
thou return not, but instead that evil one with his
cruel eyes and sharp dagger."

"Nay," laughed the girl, stooping once more to
smooth and kiss the clammy brow, "'tis indeed his
dagger which lieth yonder on the hillside that I go
to seek.  Peace, brother, have no fear; he will return
no more to fright thee, and speedily shall thy cruel
bonds be cut and we will return home."

He echoed the last word softly, as one whose brain
is too weary to take in its full meaning, but he did
not again seek to detain her as she groped her way
towards the glimmer of light which was already
growing fainter as the moonlight faded.  To her
surprise, Gloire stood not at the cave's mouth as she
emerged, and for a moment she looked round her
with a thrill of fear, wondering what new foes might
not have arisen to fight against.  But Gloire's absence
was not far to seek, seeing that the wolves from the
forest had already scented their human feast, and had
crept stealthily forth to rend it, and as Gwennola
stood there in the dim light, she perceived two gaunt
forms flit in swift pursuit of one another across the
hill towards the shadow of the trees, and shuddered,
well guessing what they meant.

Daggers there were in plenty in the dead man's
leathern belt, and Gwennola hastened to draw a small
keen weapon forth and hurry back, for it was ill work
to bend so over a dead man's body, and feel the close
stare of sightless eyes.  But Gwennola's nerves were
re-strung now to meet the desperate necessity of her
case, for well she knew that the moments fled swiftly
and already the sands of an innocent man's life were
running low, and not only of one innocent of crime,
but her own true lover, without whom life must be as
dark and gloomy as yon forest from whence came the
yelping howls of beasts of prey, kept back by fear,
for the nonce, from their evening feast.

One by one the tight leathern thongs were severed,
and Yvon with a cry of thankfulness rose slowly to
his knees, though so cramped were his limbs that
even after the space of some minutes he could but
crawl to the entrance of his prison on hands and
knees.  But the cool night air revived him, like a
draught of wine, as he sank down on the heath
without.  Gwennola could ill repress a cry of dismay
as the feeble moonlight revealed a face which, but for
the eyes, it were difficult to recognise as that of the
handsome boy who, but three short years ago, had
left the château in all the pride and glory of youth
and noble manhood.  The rosy cheeks were sunken,
and so emaciated that the skin seemed but drawn
over the high cheek-bones; the smooth chin was
covered with a short, unkempt beard; and the fair
golden curls were long, matted, and discoloured; but
the eyes, blue as Gwennola's own, were the same as
they looked up into hers, and yet, with a sob in her
throat, she realized they were not the same, for the
glad, merry light with which youth faces life had
gone, and instead there seemed to lurk within them
an almost vacant look of terror, such as one sees in a
frightened child.  It was a face which told its own
tragedy without need of words, and with a shudder
of pity his sister bent, raising him tenderly as he
struggled vainly to his feet, passing a strong,
protecting young arm around him, and softly bidding
him lean on her.

He gazed round vaguely, shivering as his glance
fell on the forest.

"It was there I wandered," he said faintly.  "I could
not remember the way, but I had found it at last, and
had stood already in sight of the château itself, when
I saw him creeping upon me; then, like a mad fool, I
fled once more into the forest, instead of crying for
help from the soldier who stood sentry near the
gateway."

"And who took thee for a spirit of the dead," smiled
Gwennola, remembering Job Alloadec's terror, "and
small blame, I trow; but dwell not on past years, my
brother; yonder lies the miscreant dead, in just reward
for the evil he did, and we may not delay seeing what
passeth at the château."

The poor girl was indeed a prey to feverish emotion,
the thought of what injustice might even now be
doing weighing like lead upon her heart, and yet
she might not speed on her way as she desired, seeing
that salvation to the man she loved came only with
halting and painful steps, stopping from time to time
for very faintness and weakness.  And not only was
their progress slow, but dangerous, as Gwennola knew
well, for the yelping howls from the forest grew ever
more importunate.  Did the wolves escape Gloire's
vigilance and break in a pack into the open, death
awaited them both, for Gloire, gallant hound as he
was, could be no match against numbers on that bare
heath side, whilst within the forest he could dodge
and worry his enemies, thus keeping many times his
number at bay.

Yvon was walking more steadily as they came at
length to the outskirts of the trees; his limbs were
less cramped, his brain clearer, as the shadow of
death, which had haunted him for so long, was
dispelled by Gwennola's bright voice and tender care.
Still, even so, he seemed little to realize their present
danger, which grew ever more terrible.

Already Gwennola could see through the nearly total
darkness the gleam of cruel eyes shining on them
from out of the thicket, and once a dark, wolfish
form leapt out on to the very path before them, only
to be driven back by the faithful Gloire, who,
bleeding but undaunted, kept gallant guard around them.
Many of the beasts had gone unrestrainedly now to
fight for the meal awaiting them on the heath, but
with appetites whetted they would return anon, and
then——

"Canst walk but a little faster, Yvon?" whispered
Gwennola with a gasp, as the howls and yelps grew
nearer and more insistent on every side.  But Yvon
shook his head; indeed, in the very attempt to obey
her petition he nearly stumbled, and would have
fallen, had it not been for her arm.  "Alas!" she
cried, with a sob of terror, "Yvon, we are lost—the
wolves——"

A short bark of anger from Gloire changed
suddenly into a glad yelp of welcome, and Gwennola
echoed it with a little cry of surprise as a man
bearing aloft a flaming torch came hurrying towards
them, stopping indeed to echo her cry as he perceived
the two figures standing before him.

"Job—ah! my good Jobik," cried Gwennola joyfully.
"See, Yvon, we are saved—we are saved!"

"Yvon—Monsieur Yvon!" stammered Job, his eyes
fixed in wonder, not unmixed with horror, on his
young master's face.  "Monsieur Yvon!  Mother of
Heaven! it is impossible!"  And so violent was the
fear that overcame the honest fellow, that he nearly let
fall the torch, and with it their safety, for the wolves,
scared, as they ever are, by the light, had fled, howling
with disappointment, back into the forest.

"Nay," said Yvon, smiling faintly, "'tis I myself,
good Job, though more in the bone than the flesh, I
warrant me."

"Monsieur Yvon," still repeated Job, with
undiminished wonder in his eyes—"Monsieur Yvon."  Then,
as he realized that in some miraculous way it
was indeed his beloved master who stood before him,
he fell a-weeping for very joy, repeating the name
over and over again, as though to convince himself
of what was apparently beyond reason or understanding.

"Nay, foolish fellow," cried Gwennola sharply,
being in no mood just then, with nerves stretched
to breaking, for idle tears.  "Cease such maundering,
or wait till fitter time and place to give vent to thy
joy.  Wouldst have tears verily to take the place of
laughter by delaying, when—when——"  She broke
off abruptly, adding in a lower key, "And Monsieur
d'Estrailles?—the French knight—what of him?
Nay, stand not gaping, there, as if thou awaitest the
moon to swallow thee up, as she did poor Pierre
Laroc, but take the arm of Monsieur Yvon, who is
weak, as thou seest.  There, support him well, good
Job, and let us hasten onwards whilst thou tellest me."

Her heart beat fast as she waited, all eagerly, for
the answer which she so dreaded to know that she
was fain to stop her ears or fly from hearing into the
forest.  But Job's wits were still astray for very joy
and wonder, as he felt Yvon's gaunt form lean against
his stout arm, and read recognition in the great blue
eyes, which had stared so despairingly into his, scarce
a week back, from the forest shade.

It was not till Gwennola had impatiently repeated
her question that the former events of that strange
night came back to his slowly revolving brain.

"The French knight?" he repeated.  "Ah, yes,
mademoiselle, it was Marie herself who sent me in
search of you, because, forsooth! it would seem you
had gone to bid farewell to one in the forest who
came instead, but sorely against his will, to the
château to bid farewell to life."

"How chanced it?  How came he thither?  Who
discovered his hiding-place?  Nay, thou shalt not
tell me he is already sped," cried Gwennola passionately.

"How chanced it?" echoed Job, clinging to the
first question.  "Nay, mistress, that I know not.
I was on guard at the outer postern when, scarce
two hours agone, Marie cometh to me, weeping.
'He is taken,' she cried.  'Alas! the poor monsieur
is taken, and mademoiselle will die.'  Thou knowest,
mademoiselle, the foolish tongue of my sister.  At
first I could comprehend nothing, but at last it
appeared that Monsieur de Coray had learnt, by
some means, of which I know naught, that the
French knight lay hidden in the forest; he divined
also his hiding-place, but of this no word did he
say to my lord, only commanding six soldiers, as
by my lord's order, to be ready shortly before
midnight to accompany him secretly, and without
telling their comrades one word of what they did.
It would appear then that Monsieur de Coray led
them to this so secret hiding-place and captured the
poor knight, whom they brought back to the château.

"The foolish Marie was distraught with grief, and
for mademoiselle's sake, I will confess, my heart was
also heavy, but a soldier hath his duty, and therefore
I remained where I was until a short half hour ago,
when Marie returneth to me, white and weeping still
more sorely.  'Alas!' she saith, 'the poor monsieur—the
lover of mademoiselle—is condemned to death;
only hath he been given time for the good father to
shrive him of his sins, and then, alas! he will be hanged,
even ere dawn.'  After which the foolish one wept
upon my shoulder, and I—I also wept for the sake
of mademoiselle, for of the sins of this monsieur I
comprehended naught, except that he was falsely
accused of murdering Monsieur Yvon.  But anon,
Marie drieth her tears, and biddeth me light my
torch speedily and go in search of you, mademoiselle,
for she feared greatly for your safety, seeing that two
hours had passed and you had not returned.  At first
I refused, for I am a soldier, mademoiselle, who must
think of his post, but when Marie represented to me
your danger, and promised to guard well my post
till my return, I hesitated no longer, for, for myself,
I also had my fears as I listened to the howlings
of the wolves.  And so, mademoiselle, I came, and
the holy saints directed my footsteps in the way."

"And he is not dead?" whispered Gwennola, with
a quick gasp for breath, as she hurried forward.
"He is not dead?"

It was the only point which remained in her
memory of all the honest Breton's preamble.

"Nay!" said Job slowly.  "He was given time to
be shriven, and Father Ambrose, being sick, had to
be brought carefully from his bed, and methinks the
good priest is little like to hurry over the last
confessions of one who goes to death; nay, mistress,
methinks he will surely yet live."

"Merciful Mother of God, grant it!" cried Gwennola
in agony.  "Ah, see, Yvon, we are near at last; there,
yonder, is the château; a few minutes——"

No more was spoken as the three hurried swiftly
onwards.  Job almost bearing Yvon in his stalwart
arms, whilst Gwennola held aloft the flaring torch.
A strange trio truly the yellow light gleamed on: the
sick man's thin, emaciated features and drooping
form; the thickly-set, dark-browed Breton soldier with
his honest, wondering eyes and bushy beard; and the
slender, dark-robed figure with pale, agonized face,
eager eyes, and a tumbled mass of red-gold curls,
from which the hood had fallen.

No word was spoken even as they passed the
outer postern, where the wondering Marie still held
impatient guard, but swiftly onwards they sped
through the darkness of the little chapel, till they
stood at length to pause and listen in the shadow of
the tapestries which hung around the great hall.  The
flaring light of the torches fastened in the iron cressets
on the walls revealed a strange scene.  By the long
table sat the Sieur de Mereac, and close to his side
Guillaume de Coray, the former, stern, implacable
judge, the latter, mocking, triumphant accuser; in
the foreground, a small group of soldiers surrounding
the tall, slender figure of the condemned man, his
hands bound tightly behind him, even now on his
way to execution, and by his side the black-robed
form of the old confessor.

Although d'Estrailles' back was towards them,
those standing there in the shadows could see the
proud bearing of his mien as he listened to his judges
last words.

"Henri d'Estrailles," said the old man sternly,
"you are found guilty and condemned to die;
murderer and traitor that you are, the death of a
felon is fitting ending to such a life.  My son's life
you spared not to take by foul and cruel means, and
still more, in reward for the hospitality I all unwittingly
bestowed upon you, you have robbed me of a
daughter's soul.  Coward and villain! have you made
your peace with God?—if so, it were well, for even in
death the hand of every true and upright man shall
be against you."

"Nay, my son," interrupted Father Ambrose gently,
"beware how you pass unjust sentence on a man
whom my soul telleth me is innocent.  Nay, frown
not, but listen to the warning of an old man, who
from early youth hath learnt to read men's hearts.
Have I not but now listened to the confessions of one
about to pass to the judgment of One with Whom
no deception is possible? and in the face of eternity
itself would he look back upon his fellow-men with
lies upon his lips?  I tell thee, no, Sieur de Mereac,
no, a hundred times!  And so I tell thee, that
having read the secrets of this man's soul, I find him
innocent of the crime whereof he is accused."

"Nay, my father," interrupted de Coray with a
sneer, "you speak well, but, bethink you, it was *I* who
saw this man strike the very blow which he so glibly
denies; *I* who saw him creep so treacherously behind
my poor kinsman—the noble young Yvon—and
cleave him from brow to chin ere he could turn to
see his foe; *I*——"

"Liar!"

The single word rang down the hall like the
challenging blast of a trumpet, as all turned to see
standing there against the tapestry the tall, gaunt
figure of a man.





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.. _`CHAPTER X`:

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   CHAPTER X

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For a few minutes there reigned a breathless silence.
All eyes seemed indeed riveted on that strange,
emaciated figure, which half leant, as if for support,
against Gwennola's slender form as she stood beside
him, her pale face flushed now rosy red with joy and
triumph, as she glanced from the bound, helpless
figure between the soldiers towards her father.

The Sieur de Mereac had risen, and was standing,
one trembling hand clutching the back of his chair,
the other shading his eyes, as if the flickering
torchlight blinded his sight, as he gazed in mute wonder
towards the speaker.  Then, as the blue eyes met the
black with an up-leaping light of recognition, another
cry, more faltering, yet trembling with a very
wonderment of joy, rang out in the silence—

"Yvon!  Yvon! my boy! my boy!"

For the time all were forgotten: prisoners, accusers,
false and true; to the old man striding forwards with
outstretched arms, the world, for the moment,
contained nothing but that haggard, dishevelled figure,
and the blue eyes of his long-lost, long-mourned son.

"Father," cried Yvon with a sob, as he staggered
forward to meet him.  "Father, at last!"

De Coray had sprung to his feet with an oath, half
fury, half dismay, as Yvon de Mereac sent down his
challenge through the hall.

Little as he had dreamt that his blow had not been
fatal in that dark wood of St Aubin du Cormier,
he was sufficiently keen-witted to vaguely guess the
sequel, his conclusion being more easily drawn from
the fact of the unexplained presence of his old
comrade and late enemy, François Kerden.  Without
giving himself time or trouble to fit into its place
every piece of the puzzle, he grasped the meaning of
the whole, and realized that it was indeed Yvon de
Mereac who stood before him, and also that his own
position was one of imminent danger.

These calculations passed like lightning through
his ready mind as he looked eagerly round for means
of escape.  None noticed him or his movements, all
attention being fixed on the two central figures of the
little drama.  All indeed but one, for, as he turned, he
encountered the sympathetic and comprehensive gaze
of Pierre the fool.  That the strange, dwarfed jester
had evinced an unaccountable devotion for him had
puzzled de Coray more than once, little used as he
had ever been to be loved for his own sake, and he
was more than half inclined to treat the little fellow's
overtures with suspicion.  But in the present crisis it
would be well to have even a fool for a friend rather
than an enemy, and de Coray, obeying Pierre's obvious
signs, crept unseen behind the tapestry.

"Quick, monsieur!" whispered the boy in his ear.
"You are as yet unperceived, but we must not delay.
To your right, monsieur, so—there is a passage there
which leadeth to the chapel.  Methinks few know it
but I myself.  The outer postern is unguarded; we
can escape to the forest."

Not unwilling to be guided by so ready an ally,
de Coray followed, his hand, however, on his sword,
ready to draw it should he have cause to suspect
treachery.  But Pierre had apparently no such
intention, and ere many minutes had elapsed they had
both reached the shelter of the forest.

Scarcely knowing whither he went, de Coray hurried
along by the boy's side, black rage in his heart as he
recalled how swiftly the tables had been turned upon
him by the girl whom he had intended to force into
marriage with him, and how complete had been her
triumph.  Only five minutes more, and at least one
witness against him would have been removed from
his path, the only witness indeed that he need have
feared, trusting to his ready wit to weave some fresh
fiction to account for his error in supposing Yvon de
Mereac dead.  Now, he felt, even in the moment of
flight, that by so escaping he was severing the last
possibility of deceiving his uncle into disbelief of the
Frenchman's word, coupled as it was by Yvon's
reappearance.  Yet he dared not stay, for behind all
lay the risk of Kerden's discovery and subsequent
confession, which might well damn him beyond hope
of redress, and perchance bring him within reach of
the noose which he had hoped to see tightening round
the neck of an innocent man.

Well might de Coray feel blank despair clutching
him as he began the more clearly to realize the
hopelessness of his position were he captured—and
yet such capture was imminent.  Once persuaded of
his treachery, he was assured that de Mereac would
leave no stone unturned to find and bring him to
justice, and that such persuasion would be easy he
doubted not, seeing that his own flight sealed his guilt.

"Fool," he cried angrily, as he suddenly halted on
the forest path which they were treading, "where
dost thou lead me?  I tell thee that there will be
pursuit, and I, wandering on foot here, alone, must
needs be captured without hope of escape."  And
in his fury he turned on the dwarfed lad, who stood
looking up at him with a face on which cunning and
fear were mingled with a strange, half-comic expression
of dog-like devotion.

"Nay, monsieur," said Pierre deprecatingly, as he
spread forth his hands as if to arrest the movement
which de Coray made to draw his sword.  "Fool
though I be, monsieur shall find that I have yet some
wisdom in this thick skull of mine."  And he nodded
his head gravely as he tapped his forehead.  "Yes,"
he said thoughtfully, "Pierre the fool has eyes, also
ears, and he says to monsieur, 'Hasten, quickly, for
there is safety only in flight.'"

"Safety!" echoed de Coray bitterly; "ay, fool's
safety, I trow, such as I merit for entrusting myself
to thy guidance.  How, forsooth, Sir Wise Fool,
wouldst have me escape de Mereac's fleet steeds and
keen blades?  Thinkest thou that he and his retainers
are as dull of wit and sight as thou art, thou ape of
iniquity?"

The lad shrank back as if struck by a lash, putting
up his thin hands as though to protect himself from
a blow.

"Ah, monsieur, listen," he moaned, "and be not
angry with one who would die for you.  Nay!" he
added eagerly, stung by de Coray's sneer, "monsieur
*shall* believe.  See, far in the depths of the forest
is a hut, small but well sheltered; it is there that
my sister Gabrielle dwells, who blesses monsieur's
name nightly in her prayers for the money which
saved us from misery when the hunger-wolf knocked
loudly at the door but a few days since.  In this hut
monsieur will be safely hidden for, perchance, a few
hours only, whilst Pierre the fool watcheth to see
whither his enemies ride; then, when danger lies with
her back to him, monsieur will mount and ride to
where he will be in safety."

De Coray's brow cleared, though he looked doubtfully
into the puckered, upturned face, as if still
suspicious.

"If thou betrayest me thou shalt die, boy," he said
menacingly; then, in a kinder tone, "nevertheless, if
all goes as thou sayest, and I escape, Guillaume de
Coray shall be found neither an ungenerous nor
forgetful master."

With a shrewd smile the jester stooped to kiss the
hand outstretched to him, then, drawing himself up,
said, with the simple dignity of his race, be they noble
or peasant—

"Monsieur, I too am a Breton."

"Lead on," said de Coray peremptorily—-"for the
rest, we shall see."

The wolves, which still howled dismally in distant
parts of the forest, did not molest the two travellers
as they hurried on their way, though from time to
time de Coray started with all the nervousness of a
guilty man as a bough or twig snapped under their
feet or a night bird brushed their faces in the darkness
with her wings.

Dawn was already faintly tinging the sky in the
far east when Pierre halted before the door of a hut
so quaintly built against an overhanging crag of rock
as to be easily passed by unobserved.

"See, monsieur," he said thoughtfully, "it will not
be well to enter now; it may be that ere long the
enemies of monsieur will think of the hut of Pierre
the fool, for there are those who know not only of it,
but of the love I bear you; therefore it were best to
seek shelter till day arrives in a secure hiding-place.
Tenez, monsieur, behold such an one as will mock
those who pursue!"  And with pride the boy showed
a deep fissure in the crag close by, so carefully
concealed that a man might lie in perfect safety between
the two high boulders without fear of detection.
"Monsieur will rest here till danger has passed,"
observed Pierre, waving a lean hand towards the
fissure of rock with the air of a host who invites his
guest to partake of his sumptuous hospitality, "and
afterwards the little Gabrielle will keep watch, as also
she will tend to the needs of monsieur."

"And for yourself?" demanded de Coray sharply,
even now distrustful.

The jester shrugged his shoulders and spread out
his hands with a gesture of self-importance.

"For myself, monsieur, I return to the château,
for it were not well that I should be missed.  Be
assured, monsieur, that my ears and eyes will
be open, so that in the evening when I return
there may be news which will guide you on your
journey."

"Journey!" exclaimed de Coray bitterly; "a long
and safe journey, I trow, with neither horse nor
provision for the way; 'twill be a journey into the
arms of my good uncle, I ween, and, by the beard of
St Gildas, I trow his embrace will be scarce to my
liking."

But Pierre shook his head with an air of superior
wisdom.

"Monsieur misjudges me," he said reproachfully.
"Pierre the fool is surely less fool than the words of
monsieur imply.  This evening when I return I will
bring a horse fleet and sure-footed, also news of the
pursuit of monsieur's enemies; the rest, if monsieur
rides with caution, will be altogether easy."

The lad's words were reassuring, his manner simple
and straightforward, and, in spite of the inward
misgivings, which must ever haunt a man whose
own ways are crooked when they are fain to entrust
themselves to the honour of another, de Coray was
forced, for very necessity, to accept Pierre's apparently
honest promises of assistance.  Yet, shut up in his
gloomy hiding-place, the traitor felt the inward qualms
and fears growing rapidly, coupled as they were with
the dread of capture.  A swift review of his broken
schemes showed him how small a hope of mercy
there must needs be did he fall into his outraged
kinsman's hands.

The tissue of lies which he had woven around
d'Estrailles and Gwennola de Mereac would now
wing themselves against him and prove fresh voices
of accusation as his true motives and own deadly
deeds were brought to view.  As he thought of all
he could not but glance with some vague dread
on that shrouded past of his.  Little did any guess
the traitor's way he had trodden so blithely since
youth.  With a shame which was yet half-mocking
pride at his own shrewdness and cunning, he recalled
how he, a noble of Brittany, had been content to
become a tool in the hands of the infamous Landais,
and yet, whilst earning a rich reward for his services,
had escaped sharing his low-born master's fate, when
an outraged and too long-suffering people had taken
the law into their own hands and hanged the tyrant
in defiance of their Sovereign Duke.  Then he
recalled, lying there looking back over the past, how
he had bethought him of his kinsfolk of Mereac,
and, riding westward, had come, like some ill-omened
bird, to prey on an inheritance which he found well
to his liking.  The treacherous death of the young
heir had seemed to him a master stroke of cunning,
and no sooner had he deemed it safely accomplished
than he set to work to ingratiate himself with the old
Sieur and his daughter.

But Gwennola had proved a stumbling-block to
his ambitions, and conceiving that her father, who
was devoted to this sole surviving child, would be
likely to leave her whatever fortune it was possible to
divide from the inheritance of his lands, he decided
to wed her—not that he loved her; but, bah! what
did that matter?  Neither did it concern him that the
maiden took no pains to conceal her hatred of him.
It pleased the inherent cruelty of his nature to cause
pain, and it delighted him to watch the shudder that
shook her when he alluded, with mock devotion, to
their union.  For the scorn he endured at her hands he
promised himself a charming and protracted revenge
when she was his wife.  Now, to his chagrin, his
dreams were in an instant shattered, and, instead of
the presumptive heir and honoured guest, he found
himself a hunted murderer, condemned already without
trial, and all, he bitterly told himself, through the
machinations of a puling girl and her lover—a lover
whom he had been on the brink of consigning to a
felon's grave as reward for his inopportune presence
at Mereac.

Thus pondering, de Coray fell into a heavy slumber,
out-wearied by the events of a long and unpleasantly
exciting day, nor did he awake till the warm rays of
the sun struck downwards, sending long, bright shafts
of light almost to the heart of the dark shadows of
his hiding-place.

Consumed with hunger and thirst, still it was some
time before he could summons up sufficient courage
to creep forth from his lair.  It was a day of dazzling
sunshine, which illuminated even the depths of that
grey and gloomy forest, and for a moment de Coray
stood there, blinking, like some suddenly disturbed owl,
before his sight grew accustomed to the brilliant glare.
Presently, however, he became aware of a girl's
slim figure seated in the doorway of the hut, beside
her spinning wheel.  A pretty enough picture was
thus formed—the dark background of forest, the
quaint and dilapidated woodland hut, and stray rays
of golden glory lighting up the figure in the
foreground, in its picturesque dress and cap of a Breton
peasant girl, a dress which set off to perfection the
beauty of the face bent low over the humming wheel.
It was in fact the face rather of a Madonna than a
mere peasant, for the beauty lay not only, or chiefly,
in the delicate oval of her cheeks, the regularity of
her features, or the glossy luxuriance of the long
plaits of black hair which fell over her shoulders, but
in the soft and tender expression of her lips and dark
eyes, which were swiftly raised to meet de Coray's
curious gaze.

A sudden flush of joy, rather than maidenly bashfulness,
crimsoned the girl's cheeks as she rose hastily,
and with a deep curtsy welcomed her visitor.

To his surprise, de Coray found himself treated
with a respect and gratitude wholly unlocked for.
It was evident that her brother had breathed no
word of his patron's true character or the reason
of his present difficulties, but instead had sung
such praises into his simple sister's ears that she
looked upon de Coray in the light of some poor,
persecuted saint.

If is a strange experience thus to be taken for what
one is too obviously not, and de Coray listened, half
amused, half pleased, to her shy, faltering words of
gratitude.

The suspicions which had lurked around his heart
as to the trustworthiness of his little ally faded away
before the clear truth of his sister's dark eyes, and
involuntarily he made an effort to assume the rôle
which she had given him so innocently.  It was the
wolf in sheep's clothing once more, but this time the
wolf was more anxious to hide his own dark skin
than to devour the trusting lamb.

So, after the meal was over, they sat there together,
those two ill-assorted companions, whilst in still shy
but more confiding sentences Gabrielle related to her
visitor the simple story of her life.  It was so simple,
so humble, yet, as he sat there by her side, watching
the innocent beauty of her face and listening to her
murmured words, interrupted as they were by an
occasional burst of bird song from the whispering
woodlands around, it seemed a very idyll of
beauty.

The glamour of an entirely new experience had
crept over the cruel, scheming man of many crimes
as he sat there waiting for the twilight to fall, the
glamour which hangs around the days of early
childhood and innocence, and seems to whisper of things
holy and beautiful.  It thrilled him with a new sense
of what life might be, and made him shrink back
appalled from what his had already been.

It was shame, and yet not without its sweetness, to
see himself mirrored in this peasant girl's eyes as a
noble knight whose goodness and untarnished honour
had been already the theme of her girlish thoughts,
and he almost shivered as he pictured how the light
of reverence and admiration would fade from her
sweet face did she know the truth.

"Ah, monsieur," murmured Gabrielle as she paused
in her busy work to look across to where he was
sitting, "my heart aches to think of the cruelty of
those who seek to do you harm, nor can I conceive
how one so good and noble as the Sieur de Mereac
could be so deceived by lying tongues."

De Coray shrugged his shoulders.  "Nay, mademoiselle,"
he said carelessly, "doubtless in time the
noble Sieur will find out his error and regret his hasty
judgment; for the rest, if I can but ride in safety to
my own château at Pontivy, I shall not forget the
succour which you and your brother have bestowed."

"Nay," cried the girl softly, "monsieur must not
speak of reward for what it has been our joy to
give; monsieur has already saved us from want, for,
see, I was sick—I could do but little spinning—and
my brother had but small money to bestow on
me, until monsieur, in the generosity of his heart, gave
him much silver, for which may our Lady and all the
saints for ever bless you, monsieur, and deliver you
from the hands of cruel men."

"Nay," said de Coray gallantly, "methinks, fair
maid, one of the sweetest saints hath already
undertaken my deliverance."

She looked at him innocently, not comprehending
the compliment he intended to convey, seeing that
her thoughts were not of herself, but for him.

And so they sat there, talking softly, as the spell
and glamour of the moment bade them, and she told
him with the simplicity of a child how she lived here
alone in the forest hut, all alone, spinning for the most
part, for she was lame and could walk but little, and
how her brother Pierre would come often to see her,
when it was possible.  And at Pierre's name her
eyes grew tender, for her love for him was great.
Ah! the poor little Pierre!—he who would have been
so gallant a soldier had it not been for his affliction.
The poor Pierre!  It had been long ago that the
Sieur de Mereac, hunting in his forests, had passed
the little hut where François Laurent lived with his
wife and two children, and alas! the little Pierre,
playing out there in the sunshine, had paused to gaze
at the gay trappings of the cavalcade rather than run
to the safe shelter of his mother's arms, so that one
of the horses had struck him down underfoot and
injured his spine.

That was the story of poor Pierre; that was why
instead of a strong-limbed, gallant man, he must
shuffle through life as the crooked, puny Pierre the
fool.  It is true the Sieur de Mereac regretted what
had happened, and when Pierre was old enough he
had taken him into his service, and finding the
sharp-faced lad had a wit of his own, had made him jester,
with Petit Pierre the ape for company.

But for herself? de Coray asked.  Had she no fear
dwelling alone in so desolate a hut, with nothing but
the howlings of wolves and the wailings of the wind
to keep her company?

The little Gabrielle smiled.  Surely not!  How
could she fear, when the Blessed Mother of God
and all the holy saints were near to protect her from
evil?  So simple, childish innocence argued with
guilt and crime, which go ever hand in hand with
fear and terror; and again, de Coray, looking into
her great, dark eyes, felt a thrill of joy that she did
not know him for what he was; for truly, had he
spent that long day of secret fears and suspense
with an angel from heaven, no softer or more
purifying hand could have been lain on the hardened
blackness of his heart, causing it to leap with a
sudden vague, yet momentary yearning towards
what was pure, noble, and good.

So the twilight fell, and neither Pierre nor his
enemies had come; but as the dim, mysterious time
of shadows passed into the darkness of night, the
two watchers saw through the trees the approaching
figure of a boy leading a horse by its bridle.

"It is Pierre!" cried Gabrielle joyfully, and rose
from her work, though she waited still in the
doorway till her brother came towards her, smiling his
welcome first into her flushed, glad face, before he
turned to de Coray.

"Monsieur," he said, bowing low with a sweep
of his tall fool's cap, which seemed more mockery
than deference, though perchance he meant it
not—"monsieur, all is well.  The enemies of monsieur
ride towards Nantes and Angers; it is evident that
they have forgotten so humble an abode as that of
Pierre the fool.  Moreover, methinks they scarce
suspect me of assisting you, seeing that I was found
sleeping this morning between the good hounds
Gloire and Reine."

"And the forest?" questioned de Coray eagerly.

"That also they have searched, monsieur, though
it is evident not yet with sufficient care; my lord
indeed hath commanded that every corner of Brittany
be searched till you are found, and hath offered
a goodly reward for your capture, but for the
present he himself is too much occupied with
attending upon Monsieur Yvon to direct the search
in person."

De Coray smiled, casting a side glance towards
Gabrielle, who had entered the hut to prepare supper,
as he added in a lower key—

"Heardst aught, my friend, of one Kerden?  In
their search for me did they light, perchance, on a
man who bears that name, who methinks might even
now be haunting yon woods?"

Pierre glanced up to meet his patron's inquiry
with a look as shrewd as de Coray's own.

"Monsieur," he said simply, "it appears that this
Kerden will no longer haunt the forest of Arteze in
the flesh, and if all be true of which men talk at the
château, the devil will have been too swift in bearing
off his spirit to its own place to leave it chance of
roaming yonder at nightfall."

"Dead?" echoed de Coray, with a long-drawn
sigh of relief.  "Thou art sure of it?"

"Verily," retorted Pierre, "if the word of mademoiselle,
and the bloody jaws of Gloire are sufficiently
to be trusted.  The hound killed him, so 'tis said,
out yonder on the heath, where the courils dance
on moonlit nights; but monsieur will be wise to
delay no longer.  See, the horse is a good one, and
fresh too; there are also provisions for a journey,
though methinks they were prepared for other jaws
to consume than those of monsieur, but they will
taste none the less sweet for that."  And the strange
lad chuckled gleefully over his jest.

"Nay, 'tis the steed of the Frenchman!" exclaimed
de Coray, as his eye glanced over the bay horse
which Pierre held by the bridle.  "Tiens! my friend,
I know it by its white star and cropped ears.  But
how came you by it, little knave?  Methinks monsieur
yonder would scarce have such ardent desire for my
escape as to lend me his own steed?"

"Nay," replied Pierre wisely, "in that you speak
truth, monsieur; but I will explain.  The horse of
the French knight I discovered two days since, when
Petit Pierre and I went at midnight in the footsteps
of mademoiselle; it was stabled close to the chapel
of the brown friar, and hath there remained till the
present.  Methinks in his expected exit from the
present life, monsieur's thoughts were too busy
with the next to remember his poor steed; and
so this morning, ere I returned to the château, I
visited the shed and unloosed the poor beast, and,
after giving him a meal, I led him to a distant
part of the forest, where I tethered him, trusting in
the saints that none should chance to pass that way.
Also near the chapel I discovered a basket of
provisions which the thoughtful care of the beautiful
mademoiselle had prepared for her lover; these also
I appropriated for the needs of monsieur, therefore
methinks that for a fool I have done right well.  Is it
not so, monsieur?"

"Nay," said de Coray warmly, "thou hast done
right gallantly, my friend, and great shalt be thy
reward in due time, though for the present an empty
gratitude must be thy guerdon; but when fortune
smiles once more on me, then there shall be golden
smiles for thee too, my manikin, as also for thy
sweet sister here."

"Ay," replied Pierre, drawing himself up proudly,
as he led the way into his humble abode, "peasants
though we be, monsieur, still there is nobility too in
the blood of the Laurents of Arteze, for truly in the
veins of our ancestors ran the blood of King Arthur
himself, and the renowned Morgana.  Is it not so,
Gabrielle?"

The girl smiled from one to the other.

"Nay, my brother," she replied softly, "so our
parents told us, but I wot well that there is better truth
in the words of our father, that nobility is of the soul
rather than the body, and it little matters who our
ancestors were, so long as we ourselves wooed honour
and virtue for our spouses."

"Mademoiselle is wise," said de Coray smoothly,
as his glance met hers.  And, to his shame perchance,
his own fell not beneath the steadfast gaze, but met it,
as if he too cherished the ideals imprinted on her pure
young brow.

Nevertheless, perhaps his heart, false though it was,
reproached him as he rode away into the darkness of
the night, bearing with him the memory of an upturned
face full of sweet, confiding trust and reverence, and
eyes which hailed him by a name he had never known.





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.. _`CHAPTER XI`:

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   CHAPTER XI

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"And so we say farewell, my Henri?" sighed
Gwennola mournfully, and there were tears in the
blue eyes raised to Henri d'Estrailles' dark, handsome
face.

"Nay, rather, 'au revoir,' sweet," he replied tenderly,
"though I trow that be hard enough to say."

They were standing, those two, on the terrace path
close by the river side.  Beyond them lay the grey
gloom of the forest, with its air of tragedy and
mystery, and behind them the château, standing on
the outskirts of a dreary heath, grim and forbidding.
But around them life took a gladder note; the
sunshine of summer played amongst flowers and orchard
blossoms, and birds sang sweetly in the boughs
overhead.  Above all youth and happiness smiled the
glad story, old and for ever new, of love and devotion,
into each other's eyes.  Yet, even in the tender beauty
of the present, the music of joy struck a minor note in
the sad word of farewell.

It was hard—so hard—to part, when love was but
newly born, and yet part they must.  The Sieur de
Mereac was inflexible in his decision.

Convinced of d'Estrailles' innocence, he had offered
his injured guest the courteous apologies due to him,
apologies as sincere as they were hearty, though
perchance small blame could be attached to his
conduct, seeing what had passed; whilst apologies
would have been of small value had Yvon de Mereac
appeared in the hall of judgment a few moments later.

Great and bitter had been the old noble's anger
and mortification at finding that his own kinsman
should have played so base a part, and terrible
was the retribution which he swore to repay him with.

But even in his desire to offer amends for an
injustice so nearly consummated, Gaspard de Mereac
turned a deaf ear to d'Estrailles' pleadings concerning
his daughter.  To him it was a thing altogether
beyond comprehension that a Mereac should mate
with the natural enemy of her country, for here,
on the borderland of the distracted dukedom,
hatred of France was drawn in with the first breath
of life.

Only at last, yielding most unwillingly to his
cherished darling's entreaties, did he agree to
temporize.  Did the mission of the Count Dunois
meet with success, and the bond between mutual
enemies be cemented in one of love and marriage, then
perchance, if Gwennola were still unchanged, natural
prejudice should give way and a betrothal between
the two be permitted.  Yet even this temporizing
would scarce have been, had not de Mereac convinced
himself of the certainty of his Duchess's rejection of
any offer of union betwixt herself and the man whom
she must needs regard as her bitterest foe, in defiance
of the troth she had already plighted to the King of
the Romans.

So the wily old Breton, yielding no whit in his
purpose to mate his daughter to none but her own
countryman, outwardly consented to conditions little
likely of fulfilment, and so silenced the importunities
of the child he adored and the man whom he had so
nearly condemned unjustly to death.  But to Yvon
he confided his secret purpose.

"'Tis but the passing whim of a foolish maid," he
said lightly, "and one not to be regarded seriously,
my son; yet 'tis wisest to yield in outward seeming,
for, did I oppose her will, the little Gwennola would
sigh and weep as any love-lorn maiden of romance,
such as our minstrels picture wherewith to turn the
heads of other silly maids; but if she have her way,
she will soon forget a stranger when another noble
lover comes a-wooing.  Nay, nay, the child is too
true a Mereac to long love a French lover; another
shall soon steal the fancy from her heart and leave a
truer one in its place.  Alain de Plöernic seeks a
bride, and where shall he find a fairer or a sweeter
than the demoiselle of Mereac?"

So the old father built his schemes, all unwitting
of his daughter's mind, dreaming; that maids, forsooth! must
needs be all of one pattern, and ready enough to
change lovers at a father's command, or because,
perchance, the name of one sounded ill in a father's
ear, little recking that here was a slip from his own
stern, iron-willed stock, which, having found its mate,
responded not to the call of any other, even at the
command of a parent, however beloved.

So on the terrace walk the lovers, so ill assorted, yet
so faithful, pledged undying constancy and truth, and
in the hall of the château the Sieur de Mereac smiled
at his new-found serpent's wisdom, then altogether
dismissed from his mind the ill thought of Gwennola's
unwelcome lover, to turn instead to think of the man
to whom he had pledged his daughter's troth, and to
swear vengeance on the subtle brain which had so
nearly wrought the undoing of his house.  Even in
his racial hatred he could not but admit that Henri
d'Estrailles claimed his gratitude in striving, even
though vainly, against the coward hand which had
struck the traitor's blow on his Yvon.  And so, from
thoughts of that scene in the wood of St Aubin, once
more the old man's wandering reflections went back
with a shuddering fury to the tale which Yvon himself
had so haltingly told them as he stood there in the
dim hall, with his father and sister beside him, his
hands—such thin, trembling hands!—locked in theirs
as he spoke.

And the tale itself!  Ah! why had the chief actor
in it gone so summarily from justice—his justice?
Almost he could find it in his heart to quarrel with
the faithful hound that had done its work of retribution
so swiftly and so well.  At first it had been almost
impossible to believe that this broken, feeble-minded
man with Yvon's eyes could really be the gallant
youth on whom his fond hopes had been set.  And
then he had heard—yes, heard of the little cellar
chamber in the old house at Rennes where his son
had awaked from his long unconsciousness and found
it so hard to struggle back through the shadowland
of delirium into realization of where he was, and in
whose keeping.  And the realization, too, when it
came, how terrible and how bitter!  The father, conning
over the tale, could well fit in the bare outline of it all,
with lurid touches of imagination.  As he stared,
leaning his elbow on the table before him, with
unseeing eyes on the faded tapestries of the wall, he
could picture that dark cell, the sick, fevered man,
whose youth struggled so madly within him for life;
then the mocking, jeering face of his captor as he told
him the truth which there was no need to hide—the
truth that he was to lie there as this villain's trump
card, the instrument with which he was to work on
another's fears; how indeed that he was to be kept
there to pine and languish, but not to die, until his
kinsman should enter upon his inheritance, when his
captor would be able to use him as a constant menace
to the unlawful Sieur de Mereac, wherewith to extort
gold and favour for himself.  Oh, it was a cunning
scheme! and how gleefully the originator of it would
have laughed as he unfolded it to his victim!  And
then the long waiting time, the dragging by of month
after month, in which death indeed must have been
yearned for as the best good, and yet came not at his
call.  Then the delirious fancy, born of that terrible
captivity, that his gaoler was ever waiting an
opportunity to come creeping into his cell with his
murderous dagger.  And even though he had prayed
for death and longed for her restful kiss, yet the terror
of this swift and bloody end must have become
unendurable.  Then, when hope seemed dead, the
sudden fresh upleaping of it in the pity and friendship
of the old crone who brought him food, and, on rare
occasions, fresh garments—the resolve for flight, the
breathless excitement of creeping up those long and
winding flights of stairs, with the old hag muttering
and sobbing out fears that her master would kill her
when he heard the truth, then the mad joy of drawing
in once more the pure draught of outer air, and finally
the ill-timed escape—an escape so nearly successful,
however, that he had reached the river side and stood
in very view of the château, when the sight of his
cruel captor had unbalanced the weak, cowed spirit
once more, and he had incontinently fled into the
forest, only to be easily overtaken and overpowered by
Kerden, who with oaths and blows threatened torture
and punishment for his temerity when once more he
had brought him back to his prison.  But here the
ruffian had been himself outwitted, for, in his search
for his victim, he had himself been seen and recognised
by his late master, and anxious, not only to elude, but
put the latter off his scent entirely, he had determined
to lie low until de Coray's suspicions were allayed.
Accordingly he had carried Yvon to the cave he had
found on the hillside, and had secreted himself beside
him, only to steal out at night in search of provisions,
which he procured from the peasants of Mereac and
the little town of Martigue close at hand.  That very
night he had told Yvon of his intention of fetching
his horse and returning to Rennes, leaving his
trembling prisoner in suspense as to his own fate.
Whether he had changed his mind, or whether the
vigilant search of Pierre the fool had alarmed him, it
was impossible to say, seeing that death had so swiftly
overtaken the heartless schemer; but as de Mereac
recalled the terror-haunted face of his son as he told
his story, he brought down his clenched fist on the
table before him with a fierce curse on the soul of the
man who had done this deed.

"My son," said a gentle voice at his side, "saith
not the Holy Script, 'Forgive, as we forgive to
others their trespasses'?"

De Mereac turned swiftly with outstretched hand
towards the black-robed figure standing by his
chair.

"Ambrose!" he cried softly.  "Nay, it does me
good to hear thee speak of forgiveness, seeing how
much I need at thy hands."

The Benedictine smiled as he laid his slender hand
on the other's broad shoulder.

"Nay," he replied, "it is not for thee to crave my
forgiveness, Gaspard, for in very truth methinks I
was to blame for yielding to a maiden's whim, albeit
a generous one."

"Bah!" laughed de Mereac heartily, as he drew
forward a chair and gently pushed the old priest
into it.  "Thou wert not to blame for that, my friend.
Gwennola, I fear me, is her father's own daughter,
and when she setteth her mind to a thing there is
no rest till it is performed.  But truly all was ordered
for the best, and my little maid's judgment was not
ill, though whether she defied her father from love
of justice, or because she so hated the man whom in
my folly I would have had her wed, I know not."

Father Ambrose's smile was somewhat whimsical,
for from his window he had seen the two figures by
the river side.

"Nay, old friend," he said gently, "perchance
'twas neither altogether justice nor hatred that made
a heroine of romance of the child, but a stronger
power than both, namely, love, which ever moveth
a maid to strange deeds and fancies."

De Mereac stared across at the priest for a moment
with knitted brow, then, as he divined his meaning,
he frowned.

"A foolish whim," he retorted shortly, "and one
that I trow well will fade fast enough when this
Frenchman hath taken his departure, which, thanks
be to Mary! he doth speedily.  I would sooner the
maid became a dismal nun, all prayers and melancholy,
than the wife of a French robber."

"Truly to be a bride of Heaven is a happy and
exalted vocation," said Father Ambrose reprovingly,
"though," he added, with a twinkle in his keen old
eyes, "methinks scarcely fitted for our Gwennola."

"Nay," replied de Mereac bluffly, "the maid hath
too high a spirit and too warm blood to endure
the cramping life of a convent cell.  A noble maid,
father, a noble maid, and one who shall be as nobly
wed.  I have thought of young Alain de Plöernic or
Count Maurice de la Ferrière, both worthy mates
for the dove of Arteze, who, alas!" he added with a
shrug of his shoulders, "was so nigh to falling a prey
to yonder bloody hawk, whose neck I would fain
wring ere the morrow's sun.  False caitiff!  Nay,
father, speak not to me of forgiveness, when I
remember yon lying tongue and think that I might
have given my daughter's hand into the red one
which had thought to slay my son."

"Peace, Gaspard," said the priest soothingly, as
de Mereac leapt from his seat to stride wrathfully
up and down the hall, "and rather than vengeance
think of the mercies vouchsafed to thee in that thou
hast son and daughter safely restored to thine arms."

"Restored!" cried de Mereac bitterly.  "Nay,
Ambrose, think of yon poor lad's face and drooping
form, all haggard and terrible, and recall the morning
when young Yvon rode forth so blithely across the
bridge, calling back to me, as I lay, cursing my ill
luck in being unable to move with rheumatic pains,
that he would bring back our banner in triumph with
fresh laurels twined around it."

"It may yet be that he will recover," said Father
Ambrose gently.  "But now, I left him sleeping
peacefully; he is young, and life still runs swiftly
in his veins; here at Mereac, with love and friends
surrounding him, we may well hope to blot out those
years which would altogether have crazed one less
strong and courageous."

"My poor Yvon! my poor son!" moaned the father.
"My curses on these, his all but murderers.  Nay, father,
reprove me not, for curse them I must and will; I
grow verily weary of delay when I think of de
Coray even now escaping my justice.  Nay, father,
your pardon, for whilst I thus rave I forget to
ask after thy hurts.  Thou art still pale and worn;
methinks it were not well to rise so soon from thy
couch."

"Nay," said the priest with a smile, "'twas but
a cracked pate, which truly somewhat acheth still,
but which I trow will soon mend.  Better a pain in
the head, my son, than one at the heart; therefore
listen to thy old friend's advice, and pray rather for
thine enemies' souls than for the destruction of their
bodies."

"Nay, that will I not," retorted de Mereac sturdily,
"for I would not rob the devil of such choice
morsels.—How now, Job, what news dost thou bring?
Where is thy prisoner?"

"Nay, my lord," faltered Job Alloadec, as he
advanced, sweating and abashed, towards his irate
master, "I fear me that he hath escaped, for, though
we searched the forest from the château walls to
Martigue itself, we could find no trace of the miscreant."

"Curses on him!" growled de Mereac.  "But
I know thy searchings, knave, with one eye shut
and the other gazing upwards, as if thou expectest
thy quarry to drop like a ripe nut from the
boughs overhead.  Why, the fellow must needs
be within reach, since he had no steed to carry
him."

"Nay, monsieur," replied the soldier with a
perplexed stare at his master, "craving your pardon,
methinks he found a steed awaiting him yonder in
the forest, for when we rode to the ruined chapel"
(Job involuntarily crossed himself) "to fetch
hitherward Monsieur d'Estrailles' steed, which he told
us was harboured close by, we found no trace of it,
though we searched not only the shed but the ruins
too."

"By the beard of St Efflam, the villain hath
escaped!" growled de Mereac furiously, "the fiends
verily having assisted him, for else, how knew he
where to find the Frenchman's horse?"

Job scratched his head doubtfully.  It was to him
altogether an affair of Satanic agencies, and as he left
his lord's presence with fresh orders to continue the
search, however hopeless, he again crossed himself,
little dreaming that he and his fellow-searchers had
been more than once that day within a stone's throw
not only of the Frenchman's horse, but of de Coray
himself, sitting quietly within the sheltered hut of
Pierre the fool.

It was a grief indeed to Henri d'Estrailles when he
heard of the loss of his favourite horse—that the
poor Rollo should be condemned to carry his master's
would-be murderer out of reach of the hand of justice
seemed a fate altogether unworthy of so gallant a
beast, and one which filled d'Estrailles with so keen
a sorrow as could not well be compensated by the
generous gift of a splendid grey Arab from the Sieur
de Mereac himself.

The old Breton noble bade his guest a characteristic
adieu, bluff, hearty, yet in no way concealing his
satisfaction at his departure.

But though Henri d'Estrailles found little encouragement
from his host's evident, though courteously
concealed antagonism, he still clung to hope as he
bade a tender farewell to Gwennola.  That love must
triumph over all obstacles is the gospel of youth, and
so thought those two as they looked their last into
each other's eyes.

"I shall return," whispered Henri gently as he
leant from his saddle bow to kiss the tears from the
beautiful upturned face—"I shall return ere long,
little one, to claim thy promises, and perchance
remind thy father of his, and for troth I shall
guard this ring which thou hast given me, and thy
favour, which I shall bind in my helmet in the day
of battle."

She smiled at him through her tears.

"Thou hast given me no guerdon," she whispered
softly.

"Have I not?" he replied tenderly.  "Nay, sweet,
the only guerdon I have to give is myself, and
the heart that thou hast already in thy keeping,
and which I shall surely return anon to claim at
thy hands."

"Thou shalt not have it then," she retorted, smiling
again as she raised her blue eyes to meet his dark
ones.  "For thou hast given it me for all time, and
in place—in place——"

"In place?" he echoed, bending still lower.

"Foolish one!" she cried, with a little laugh which
ended in a sob, "thou knowest very well what
heart thou hast in exchange—a heart of Brittany,
monsieur, for whose sake thou must be tender of its
countrymen."

"I swear it," he replied—"I swear it, little Gwennola,"
and so rode away through the forest, and out over the
wild heaths beyond, on the road to Rennes.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII

.. vspace:: 2

The long-cherished dream of the astute and
far-seeing François Dunois, Comte de Longueville, had
apparently been brought to an untimely end by the
imperious will of a young girl.  In spite of the
representations of her guardian and trusted councillors,
as well as those of her faithful friend, the Count Dunois
himself, Anne remained firm in her rejection of the
proposal to unite herself with the King of France,
and thus form an indissoluble bond of union between
the kingdom and duchy.

"King Charles," she said, "is an unjust prince,
who wishes to despoil me of the inheritance of my
fathers.  Has he not desolated my duchy, pillaged my
subjects, destroyed my towns?  Has he not entered
into the most deceitful alliances with my allies, the
Kings of Spain and England, endeavouring to
overreach and ruin me?  And have I not, by the advice
of all of you who now counsel the contrary, just
contracted anew a solemn alliance with the King of the
Romans, approved by you and all my people?  Do not
believe that I will so falsify my word, nor that I will
burthen my conscience with an act which I feel to be
so reprehensible."

In vain her council urged upon her the necessity
of yielding to their suggestions; in vain de Rieux,
de Montauban, and the Prince of Orange joined with
Dunois in pleading the state of Britanny, the
impossibility of its defending itself, the certainty of its
falling a prey to the first ambitious neighbour who
attacked it, since their Duchess would be in a distant
country, married to a man whose own subjects were
continually in a state of rebellion.

Anne haughtily refused to listen to these arguments.
In spite of her tender years, her will was indomitable,
and her mind clear as to what her actions should be.

"Rather," she replied at length to her discomfited
council, "than be found wanting in the honour and
duty I owe to the King of the Romans, whom I look
upon as my husband, I will set forth to join him,
since he finds it impossible to come hither to fetch me."

Such a reply was decisive, and Dunois was fain to
ride back chagrined and discomfited, but not yet
baffled, to give Anne's answer of defiance to her royal
wooer.

So also seemed to terminate the vague hopes to
which Gwennola de Mereac had clung during those
summer days—days which were bringing, alas! fresh
sorrows to the lonely maiden of the old Breton château.
For, scarce two months after her lover's departure, a
fall from his horse during a boar hunt had left her to
mourn a father who had ever been tender and loving
to his daughter, although for the past few weeks
somewhat sterner than his wont at her—to
him—obstinate refusal to listen to the command he laid
on her to accept the hand—if not the heart—of the
young Comte de Laferrière, a betrothal which might
indeed have been forced upon her had not death
intervened to save her from an unwelcome lover, at
the same time that he deprived her of a tenderly
loved parent.

The mourning of those days was long, and sufficiently
trying even for those whose grief was the most sincere;
etiquette demanding that a daughter should retire to
bed for six weeks in a funereally draped chamber, at
most only being permitted to rise and sit upon a
couch, also hung with trappings of woe.

Deeply as she mourned her father, Gwennola could
not but breathe a sigh of relief as she stole out into
the September sunshine at the conclusion of the
stated period of retirement.  How dreary all seemed,
she told herself, and yet,—why, the sun shone, and
the birds sang, and after all life was young, and
death,—she shuddered as she glanced down at her
black robe; but even whilst the tears dimmed her eyes,
her thoughts, with the inconsequence of youth, flew
back to the lover from whom she had parted, and
wondered when he would come again a-wooing, and
what Yvon would say when he asked her hand of
him.  Those months of rest and peace had wrought
a great change in her brother.  Much of the lost
beauty of youth had returned, and the attenuated
limbs had regained their strength and vigour, but
still in the blue eyes there lurked that vague terror
which three years of haunting dread and suffering
had indelibly stamped within them.  Neither would
Yvon de Mereac ever be the noble, gallant knight
his boyhood had foreshadowed.  Cruelty and
mind-torture had crushed and enfeebled a strong, brave
nature in their ruthless clutch, and Gwennola's own
eyes would often fill with tears of sympathy as they
met the restless, anxious glance of her brother's,
which betokened a mind still clouded with nervous
fears.  Yet, in spite of weakness, Yvon possessed an
obstinate determination, when once his mind was set,
from which neither argument nor entreaty would move
him, and it was this vein of obstinacy which Gwennola
trembled to evoke by mention of her lover's name,
seeing that her brother inherited all his father's
implacable animosity to their natural foes of France.
Still, the love of brother and sister for each other was
strong, and it would often seem as if Yvon would lean
on the stronger nature of Gwennola for guidance and
advice, whilst her own sisterly affection had, at times,
the motherly instinct of protection for one whose
mind still became shadowed with dread of an unseen,
indefinable fear.

Accompanied by Marie and the faithful Gloire
Gwennola was returning some few days later from
her weekly visit to the now bed-ridden old peasant
dame, Mère Fanchonic, when she was surprised to
note the signs of an arrival at the gates of the château.
Two strange men-at-arms were leading away horses,
on the backs of which were pillions.

"See, Marie," Gwennola exclaimed, as she hurried
forward, "what can it mean?  It is without doubt
visitors who have but lately arrived, and look, pillions
also!  Verily, what dames can so unexpectedly have
honoured us, here at Arteze?"

"Some travellers doubtless who have lost their
way," suggested Marie.  "But see, lady, here cometh
Job, with his foolish face all agog with news."

"Which we are as fain to hear as he to tell,"
cried Gwennola, laughing gaily, for her spirits had
risen to hail any change which came to break the
monotony of existence; besides, might this strange
visit not be in some way connected with her absent
lover?

"Perchance 'tis the Dame of Laferrière come hither
with her noble son," suggested Marie slyly, as she
watched the flush of annoyance which instantly rose
to her young mistress's brow.

"'Tis little likely," retorted Gwennola with some
asperity, "seeing that the good dame hath been as
bed-ridden as Mère Fanchonic these past two years.
An thou hast no better suggestion to give, wench,
'twere wisest to bear in mind the good Father
Ambrose's homily on the virtue of silence, which he
delivered last Sunday."

Marie did not reply to this rebuke, though she
pursed her rosy mouth, round which the dimples
played, and tossed her dark, comely head with an
air of great sagacity, as one who knew well what
lay in her mistress's thoughts behind the sharp
speech.

But the maidens' curiosity was in no way
gratified by the worthy Jobik, who conveyed only the
intelligence that a dame had but lately arrived
at the château, and that his master had bidden him
speedily seek his mistress and acquaint her with
the news.

"A dame?  Alone and unattended?" queried
Gwennola eagerly.  "Tell me then, good Jobik, what
name did she give? and what appearance hath she?
Is she old or young? and hath knowledge of her
features?"

To which Job Alloadec responded that to his knowledge
the lady had given no name, and that so closely
was she hooded that he had not seen her features, but
that she was tall and slender, and spoke with the air
of a great lady, very haughtily and proudly.  For the
rest, he knew naught save that she had come in
company with a waiting damsel and three men-at-arms,
and that the Sieur de Mereac had bidden him
hasten.

Seeing that it was useless to waste time in
further questions, Gwennola hastened on, wondering
greatly what such a visit portended, and who the
lady might be who thus rode in such troublous times
with so small an escort and unattended by any
cavalier.

The hall of the château was deserted, save for two
men-at-arms who lounged near the lower end, and
Pierre the fool, who lay on his stomach sporting with
his ape, and emitting from time to time shrill screams
of merriment in mimicry of his wizened little
companion's cries of anger at being thus mocked, much
to the amusement of little Henri, the page, who
squatted opposite him.  In reply to his mistress's
inquiries, the page informed her that his master was
awaiting her coming in the solar room, whilst he ran
before her to raise the tapestries which hung before
the inner apartment.

The solar room was one in which Gwennola most
often sat with her maidens over her tapestry or
embroidery work, and was more sumptuously furnished
than the rest of the château; the floor being covered
with a fine Flemish carpet, and the hangings of dark
velvet, whilst in the corner stood a harp and
embroidery frame.

Standing by the high, narrow window, his head
leaning against the stone work, as if he strove to see
beyond into the courtyard, was Yvon de Mereac, and
Gwennola noted the restless, uneasy expression of his
handsome face as he turned to greet her.

"Fair sister," he began nervously, as he bowed with
the courtesy which in those days of chivalry even
brothers paid to their sisters.  "Pardon me for so
hasty a summons, but—but——"

"Jobik bade me hasten to greet an unexpected
guest," replied Gwennola, glancing round the room
in surprise at seeing no other occupant saving her
brother.

"Ay," replied Yvon with growing uneasiness.  "I
pray you, my Gwennola, of your courtesy, greet the
lady graciously, for——"

"Nay," retorted his sister with some haughtiness.
"Am I then accustomed to treat guests so
unbecomingly, that thou needest to school me in my
manners, Yvon?"

"Nay, nay," he replied anxiously.  "Again thy
pardon, little sister, but methought,—methought
perchance the name might strike unpleasingly upon
thine ear, did I not first explain."

"The name?" repeated Gwennola wonderingly.
"In sooth, brother, I take not thy meaning."

"It is Mademoiselle de Coray," he muttered
hurriedly.  "Nay, sister, look not so angrily; she
hath come, poor maid, on an errand of peace."

"Peace!" echoed Gwennola, her face hardening into
lines so proud and cold as to recall the stern look of
her father, "a de Coray bound on peace?  Sooner
would I trust the serpent who spoke soft words
to our Mother Eve to have come on an errand of
love to mankind than the sister of Guillaume de
Coray to be bound on such a mission."

"Nay, thy words are unjust," said Yvon hotly.
"But stay, thou shalt not judge till thou hast seen her,
for once look into her eyes and thou shalt read there
such wells of innocence and truth as shall shame thee
of suspicion."

"Innocence and truth!" replied Gwennola scornfully.
"So perchance thought Adam when he looked
into Eve's eyes and plucked the apple from her hand;
but tell me, then, what hath brought this paragon of
beauty and perfection to our poor Château of Mereac?
There must e'en be good reason to bring so fair a
dame across Brittany in these times."

"Thy mocking becomes thee not," retorted Yvon
coldly.  "As for the errand of Mademoiselle de
Coray, thou shalt judge for thyself whether it augurs
more of deceit than of such sweetness of disposition
as I fear me thou wilt scarce appreciate in thy present
wayward mood."

"Wayward mood!" echoed Gwennola indignantly,
for a seventeen-year-old châtelaine could hardly thus
calmly brook being chidden as a child.  "Wayward
mood, forsooth! but we shall see in good time who is
the wise one.  Yet mayhap thou wilt tell me, most
wise and well-discerning brother, of what import the
story was?  Whereof it was made I wot I know
already."

Perhaps Yvon did not hear the last few words, in
his eagerness to convert his sister to a more amenable
mood concerning their guest.

"She had heard," he said, "that our father was no
more, and would, in spite of her brother's opposition,
insist straightway on coming to Mereac, deeming the
time a fitting one to heal a sore breach betwixt loving
kinsmen, by an explanation which should have been
made long since."

"Loving kinsmen!" murmured Gwennola, plucking
at the girdle round her waist.  "Bah!  I would have
little of such love, I trow."

"And so," continued Yvon, heeding her not, "she
hath come to Mereac, and told me her story."

"Which thou hast believed with all the simplicity
of a yearling babe."

"Tush! child, thou pratest of what thou knowest
not; little like was I to be deceived.  Yet verily there
was no deception in the eyes of mademoiselle; whilst,
as for the story, it is simplicity itself."

"As was the hearer," whispered Gwennola.  "And
the story, brother?"

"Truly for the most part I knew it before.  My
sole enemy was François Kerden, who himself stole
upon me in the wood, and would have killed me, for
no reason but wanton cruelty, had not the fouler
scheme entered his head.  Yet, even as it came to
him, fate furthered the plot, for Guillaume de Coray,
seeing in part what was chancing, sprang to the spot,
and would have revenged my death, as he supposed,
on my murderer, had not the Frenchman intervened
and robbed him of his prey and me."  Yvon stopped
with a groan as the memory of those three years of
imprisonment returned to him.

"But," said Gwennola coldly, "the story scarce
bears the light of truth, brother, seeing that Henri
d'Estrailles saw the traitor blow struck; besides, if
so innocent, why fled this so noble kinsman when
he saw thee appear? and why did he strive to
doom to death another, when he saw who had in
reality struck thee down, according to this pretty
fable?"

"Nay," said Yvon, knitting his brows, "it is easily
explained, didst thou but listen, girl.  It was in this
way.  Guillaume had already been wounded, and,
faint with loss of blood, could scarce distinguish
betwixt Frenchman or Breton.  Both wore closed vizors,
and both were near at the time of my fall; which
had struck the blow Guillaume could scarce realize.
The Breton fled, however, and whilst he turned to
strike him down in the act, the Frenchman opened
his vizor, and de Coray clearly saw his features.
Methinks it was this that confused him in claiming that
d'Estrailles had done the coward's act, for but one
face was imprinted on his reeling memory, and surely
'twere easy thus to confuse which of the twain he had
seen actually to perform the foul deed.  That it was
Kerden himself is shown by the part he afterwards
played in so torturing me."

"Nay," said Gwennola shortly, "the story is false,
my brother, and should not deceive a babe—false as
the weaver of it.  Did I not kneel beside this Kerden
and listen to his dying words, which fitted so aptly
with those of Monsieur d'Estrailles?  It is impossible,
Yvon, that for a moment thou couldest believe so
lying a tale, or shelter beneath thy roof one who
proves herself traitress with her first breath."

"Nay, mademoiselle," said a laughing voice in the
doorway, and, turning, brother and sister perceived
the object of their conversation standing there, the
tapestry curtain half raised by one arm, as she smiled
from one to the other, as if aware of the dainty picture
she thus formed.

That Diane de Coray was beautiful there was no
denying, but her beauty was not of the kind which
perchance Gwennola had already imagined her to possess.
No possibility of deceit seemed to lurk in her clear,
hazel eyes, which shone with frankness and merriment.
Her rosy cheeks, full red lips, and delicate features,
all combined to give her an appearance of extreme
youth, an embodiment of springtime, in truth, and a
fair one to boot.  The hair under the white head-dress
was soft and wavy, and of a rich, dark brown; her
figure was slender and tall, set off to advantage in a
sleeveless gown of crimson velvet, edged with lettice,
a fur much in vogue then amongst the fashionable,
whilst round her waist she wore a handsome girdle
with jewelled tassels.

As they turned to face her, Diane dropped the
tapestry and with a deep curtsy towards her young
hostess advanced with outstretched hands.

"Nay," she cried, still laughing, "thou shalt not
thus judge me unheard, little one.  Fie on thee! thy
kinswoman a traitress?  I pray thee tell me wherein?
See!  I come as a hostage for my brother's truth."

"And one that we shall hope to keep for long,"
responded Yvon courteously, as he placed a seat for
her.

She laughed up at him, showing a set of small,
pearly teeth as she did so.

"Thy sister would not too warmly echo thy words,
fair kinsman," she replied with a sly glance towards
Gwennola.

But Mademoiselle de Mereac was not to be
moved by roguish glances, dimples, or sweet words.
She had responded to her cousin's effusive greeting
with a stiff curtsy, taking not the slightest notice of
the outstretched hands.

"Mademoiselle," she replied icily, in answer to
Diane's rallying words, "is as welcome as the sister
of Guillaume de Coray is likely to be at Mereac."

Diane pouted her lips, with the sweet coquetry of a
spoilt child; there would even seem to have been tears
in the eyes which she raised first to Yvon and from
him to Gwennola.

"It is cruel," she murmured softly, "that thou wilt
not believe my word, but it is as Guillaume warned
me, for oft he hath told me with sorrow of the hatred
you bear him, sweet Gwennola.  But no," she cried,
springing from her seat and clasping her slim hands
together with a pretty little air of supplication, "thou
shalt be convinced, fair cousin.  See, I swear to thee it
is true.  Wilt thou not believe me?"

"If Monsieur de Coray were innocent, why did he
fly?" demanded Gwennola inexorably.

"Fly?" echoed Diane innocently.  "Nay, cousin,
scarcely fly!  That he left in haste it is true; yet not
so much from fear as from another sin—shall I confess
it?"  Her arch smile was met by Gwennola's grave,
set face, which, however, seemed in no way to abash
her.  "It was jealousy," she murmured, glancing
up towards Yvon and addressing him more than
Gwennola.  "Fie! it is an evil passion.  Is it not,
monsieur? but one to which poor mortals are prone.
He had verily proved, as he thought, that Monsieur
d'Es—d'Es—monsieur the Frenchman was guilty of
his cousin's blood, and unworthy though it might be,
he was the more glad to see him die as he fancied the
lady of his love looked more kindly on him than he
deemed befitting.  So, when he found that his rival
was like to be restored to liberty, in a foolish fit of
unreasoning rage he hurried homewards, little dreaming
how ill a construction so weak an act could have
placed upon it."

"And how knew he of such construction, seeing he
fled in such haste?" demanded Gwennola shrewdly;
but Diane de Coray had suddenly become afflicted
with deafness.

"To such foolishness doth unrequited love lead us,"
she sighed, addressing Yvon solely now.  "Alas! 'tis
a cruel passion at best, is it not, monsieur? and one
better eschewed by the wise."

"Nay," replied he slowly, looking down with
undisguised admiration into her face.  "Not when it
cometh in the guise of an angel of peace and love,
mademoiselle."

"Peace and love!" whispered Gwennola to herself
as she withdrew.  "Mary, Mother, grant that it be
not strife and bitter hate; for, alas! she is false, this
demoiselle, false to the heart's core, for all her
beauty."





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   CHAPTER XIII

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It would seem indeed that Diane de Coray had come,—if
come for that purpose she had,—to play hostage for
life against her brother's truth, for almost
imperceptibly she slipped into her niche in the simple,
family life at the Château of Mereac.

Not that her presence brought peace in its train,
for it seemed that where she found peace she would
fain leave a sword, and many and bitter were the
tears that Gwennola shed in the solitude of her
chamber as she watched her enemy gaining daily
more undisputed sway over her pliable and
weak-minded brother.  Yes, it was tacitly agreed that it
was to be warfare between these two kinswomen, yet
such warfare as only women can play, the scratching
of claws from velvet paws, and the sweet smile veiling
bitter words.  Not that Gwennola was an adept at
such fencing; her nature was too straightforward,
perhaps also too tempestuous, to repay veiled insult
with veiled insult.  She would reply hotly, even
angrily, thus bringing the odium of a quarrel entirely
on her own shoulders, leaving her rival to smile
indulgently, as if at the stormy outburst of a child,
till Gwennola could have wept for very mortification.
These unequal trials of strength had, however, the effect
at which Diane aimed; brother and sister grew gradually
more estranged, for Yvon, hot with the infatuation
with which his beautiful kinswoman had inspired him,
hesitated not to rebuke his sister, ofttimes with anger,
for replying indignantly to Diane's sugared taunts.
So the days wore on, and Gwennola's heart grew ever
heavier, and the hopes which summer had whispered
in her ears faded before the shrill blasts of autumn.

It had been rumoured that King Charles had taken
ill the refusal of the young Duchess to listen to his
proposals, and was even now assembling a mighty
army to march into Brittany and demand by force
what could not be his by pleading.

In face of such rumours the bitter hatred of their
overweening and powerful neighbours became
intensified, and Gwennola knew that her rival would
make use of such national indignation to crush her
hopes that Yvon would allow of a betrothal between
herself and Henri d'Estrailles.

Indeed, that such was in truth the case, Yvon, all
too soon, took no pains to conceal, telling his sister
coldly that since she so resented the thoughts of a
betrothal with Guillaume de Coray, she must choose
between a nun's veil and the bridegroom her father had
already designed for her, Maurice de Laferrière.

In vain Gwennola pleaded her father's promise
that, should peace at length bind the two countries
together, her hand might follow the dictates of her
heart.  With an obstinacy which, when once aroused,
was immovable, Yvon refused to listen to tears or
entreaties, bidding her choose without delay, seeing
that it was time that her destiny should be settled,
and at the same time announcing his own betrothal
to Diane de Coray.

Prepared as she was for this, still, the shock was
terrible to the unhappy Gwennola.  The prejudice
she had conceived against the sister of de Coray had
ripened during those past weeks into something akin
to hatred, a feeling she felt to be heartily reciprocated
by Diane herself.  That young lady, however, was
sufficiently mistress of her emotions to conceal her
dislike under a very pretty show of friendship, which
entirely deceived the love-sick Yvon, who felt that his
sister only was to blame in the dissensions which rose
from time to time between châtelaine and guest.

Thus matters stood that October morning, as Diane
de Coray entered the hall of the château with her
falcon on her wrist, and a smile of triumph in her
hazel eyes.

"Come, Pierre," she said softly, as the fool, who had
been crouched shivering over the fire, at her entrance
rose to his feet.  "I would talk with thee yonder, on
the terrace path.  The Sieur de Mereac will not yet be
ready for the chase, and meantime I have somewhat
to say to thee.  Tell me," she added, still further
lowering her voice, as she reached the broad terrace
and stood facing her shivering companion, "hath thy
master arrived?"

"He has been for some days past at the hut of
Henri Lefroi," muttered the lad, eyeing his
interrogator curiously.

"For some days?" echoed Diane in surprise.
"Nay, 'tis strange; to what purport should he
linger thus?"

"I know not," replied Pierre moodily, "that being
my master's business, and none of mine.  But what
is your will, lady? for methinks I hear monsieur's voice
yonder, calling your name."

"No matter," said Diane lightly; "he can wait for
the nonce.  But attend then, little knave: thou must
go this day to the house of this Lefroi, and bid my
brother ride hitherward as if he had come from a
journey.  Tell him that his welcome is assured from
all, except perchance the little fool Gwennola de
Mereac; but tell him on no account to delay longer,
for I am at a loss how to proceed without him."  She
repeated the last words emphatically, as if desirous
of imprinting them on Pierre's mind, then with a brief
nod she turned from him to welcome with sunny
smiles the young lord of the château, who came
striding towards her, his handsome face flushed with
pleasure, his blue eyes aflame with love.

"Nay, sweetheart," he cried reproachfully, "didst
not hear me call?  See, I grow jealous even of a fool,
who is thus overwhelmed with honour at receiving
one smile from those sweet lips."

Perhaps Pierre the fool, slipping back to his corner
by the fire, found the honour less burdensome than
his lord supposed, seeing that he sat there chuckling
at the merry flames that blazed and leapt on the
open hearth.  It was manifestly an effort to drag
himself away from the warm glow, out once more
into the keen air, yet, so pleasant seemed his thoughts,
that he still chuckled softly, as he trotted along the
forest path with Petit Pierre perched on his shoulder,
chattering and scolding in unison.

The hut of Henri Lefroi bore almost as ill a
reputation as the ruined chapel of the Brown Friar, for,
folk said, this was the habitation of a wizard whose
powers in the occult science were so great as to defy
both heaven and hell, wherefore at the name men
and women crossed themselves and repeated an ave,
for very fear of incurring the wrath of so dread a
personage.

But it was not to the hut of old Lefroi that Pierre
turned his steps, but rather to the little dwelling-place
where Gabrielle, his sister, would be sitting spinning.

It was two weeks since that her brother had also
started spinning, but not in his case from flaxen
thread, but the woof of romance, which had been
born suddenly in his cunning mind.  Why should
Monsieur de Coray, he asked himself, come so many
days before the time appointed by his sister?  And
why, instead of acquainting her with the fact of his
presence, should he strive to conceal it?  And also,
why should he daily steal away from Henry Lefroi's
dismal abode to spend the long hours of the autumn
days beside the pretty Gabrielle?  Aha! a pretty
romance that was, which the little fool watched, safe
hidden from prying eyes, amongst the undergrowth of
the thicket.  Yes, he told himself, without doubt
Monsieur de Coray had lost his heart to Gabrielle, his sister,
and without doubt the day would come when Gabrielle
should be the mistress of a noble château, and he,
Pierre the fool, would for ever doff the motley and
play the rôle of Monsieur Laurent.  Ah! how grand
it sounded, how distinguished!  Yet for all that he
kept jealous guard over those two, for not altogether
did he trust the honour of Monsieur de Coray,
although he marked shrewdly with what respect he
spoke to the little sister, such respect as he had surely
not even shown Mademoiselle de Mereac, the proud,
haughty demoiselle of the château yonder.

And Pierre, for all his foolishness, was right, for the
passion of a bad and evil man had become purified
in the presence of this child of the forest.  He loved
her, not as he had loved others, but with a reverence,
such as one has for saints, combined with the passion
he felt for the woman, and, as he sat there, day by
day, watching her as she span, or listening entranced
when she sang to him a sweet, simple ballad of
Brittany, filled with the romance and sadness of her
land, in a voice such as the birds might have envied,
he swore to himself that this peasant girl should be
his wife, and that for her sake he would do all things.
But the snake of old ever lurks in the fairest garden
of dreams, and so the very purpose of his presence in
these forests became one that he swore to fulfil, evil
and cruel as it was, for the sake of this beautiful child,
whose guileless glances had won his sin-hardened
heart.  So the devil tempts us.  For the sake, we
say, of one we love, however pure and good, we will
do evil so that we may lavish its fruits on the object
of our devotion, who, forsooth! would shrink back
appalled if it knew from whence those fruits came.

So in the autumn woods three souls dreamed out
their dreams.  Pierre the fool strutting, in his mind's
eye, in a suit of velvet and chain of gold, no longer
the jester or object of jest, but "Monsieur Laurent,"
brother, honoured and esteemed, of Madame la
Châtelaine.  Guillaume de Coray clasping in his
arms the lovely girl whose image had blotted out so
many and so varied dreams of ambitions, and leading
her with proud and triumphant steps to his Château
of Mereac, won at last by means to which he
involuntarily closed his eyes.  And Gabrielle Laurent,
seeing only the face of the man to whom she had
given her heart, and whom she must love for all time,
indifferent to whether he were great lord or simple
peasant, with all the pure tenderness of her young
heart.  Whilst at night, as she knelt in prayer within
her lonely hut, she would thank the good God and
all her guardian saints, with child-like simplicity and
gratitude, for sending into her life one so noble and
so good as Guillaume de Coray, repeating the name
softly and reverently to herself, as though it possessed
some charm to drive away all dreams of ill, as she
lay in her wooden bed, watching the flickering
moonlight as it fell across the threshold—the white,
beautiful moonlight, which was no purer than her
thoughts as she fell to sleep murmuring her lover's
name.  Alas! the poor little Gabrielle!





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   CHAPTER XIV

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It was some three hours after Pierre the fool had
delivered Diane de Coray's message that the brother
and sister sat together in her chamber at the Château
de Mereac.

"So thou hast succeeded?" inquired Guillaume,
scanning with curiosity, not unmixed with admiration,
his sister's beautiful face.

"Beyond our expectations."

There was a mocking intonation in her words which
did not escape him.

"So," he said, crossing his legs and leaning his
elbow against the table, so that his eyes were bent
nearly opposite to hers.  "Beyond our expectations?
That is well.  And so the poor fool, Yvon de Mereac,
loves you?"

"As warmly as his sister hates me."

"Equally to their own destruction."

She laughed a trifle uneasily.

"The idea causes you amusement?"

His tone was not pleasant.

"Amusement," she said vaguely.  Then, changing
her tone, "Is it after all so necessary?"

"Altogether necessary.  Remember your oath."

She changed colour, but clung to her point.

"Nay, but seeing—seeing he loves me?"

"Scarcely with such devotion that he would give
up his inheritance to the brother of his adored."

She winced under the sneer.

"But will nothing else content you, mon frère?  If
I were his wife, I—I would arrange matters altogether
to your will.  You shall be lord in all but name.
Consider, he is, after all, but a poor, weak fool, who
will ever do my bidding."

Her words were rapid, and rang with a note of
pleading, but Guillaume de Coray only frowned.

"It is necessary that he shall be altogether removed,
or, if plain speaking be necessary, he must die.  The
means are already in our hands."

She shuddered involuntarily.

"Bah!" he said lightly.  "Thou surely dost not
love this weakling lover of thine, Diane?  Grieve
not for him, ma chère; the new Sieur de Mereac
will wed thee to a nobler suitor when he comes to
his own."

"I cannot do it," she moaned.  "Nay, brother, I
sicken at the very thought.  'Tis not in truth that I
love him, but—but——"

"A foolish fancy," quoth her brother mockingly.
"Nay, Diane, thou art not wont to blanch so easily,
and bethink thee of thy sweet revenge on yon proud
and scornful maid."

Her hazel eyes grew hard.

"Yes," she said, "I hate her; yes, hate her with all
my soul, for she scorns me, Guillaume, and flouts me
too, for all her brother's anger.  Ay, revenge is sweet,
and yet——"

"Courage," mocked Guillaume, leaning closer to her
across the table—"courage, little sister.  After all——"

He paused, watching her eyes dilate with sudden
dread as she filled in the unspoken words.

"No," she cried at length, and her voice rose in a
quick, decisive tone, "I cannot do it, Guillaume; sooner
than be thy tool in this work I will—I will——"

"Die thyself belike," he said coolly, his eyes never
leaving her changing face.  "Think well, Diane, yes,
very well, before thou breakest thine oath—remember
the fate that awaits thee, did I so much as breathe
one word concerning thy dealings in matters which
have brought many a fairer maid than thee to the
stake, or the torture chamber.  Did I proclaim thee
witch, what arm, even of love itself, would be strong
enough in Brittany, ay, and in all France, to save
thee?"

"I am no witch," she cried passionately, "as thou
knowest well, liar and coward that thou art."

"No witch," he replied smoothly, "yet sufficiently
akin to seal thy doom, were I to reveal thy secret
dealings with one at whose name all Brittany
shudders.  And thou thyself hast been no mean pupil,
my sister—therefore——"

The significant pause was sufficient, and the
unfortunate girl covered her face in her hands as she
moaned out—

"Nay, spare me the taunt, Guillaume.  It is
true I have sinned, and yet I am no witch, before
Heaven I am no witch.  Did I not flee from the
beldame's accursed dwelling in very terror from such
deeds as they would have me do?  Nay, brother, little
I knew with what black terror I played, I, a motherless
girl, led astray by one whom I had deemed a
friend."

"A fair friend," he sneered, "truly a fair friend; but
enough.  That thou didst flee is known to me; that
thou wert *there* shall be known, ay, and proved to
the world if thou art obstinate, and thou shalt pay the
penalty as surely as if thou wert as truly a servant of
Satan as any hag who gathers nightly on the sands
of Seville or around the nut tree of Benevento."

Diane crossed herself, white to the lips, whilst her
eyes crept to his face with the fear of a dog who looks
up in very terror of the lash he knows he shall see
descending.

"What is thy will?" she whispered mechanically,
as she read no sign of relenting in the hard face before
her.

He smiled triumphantly.

"Thou wilt obey?"

"I will obey."

"That is well, but for the rest, thou knowest very
well my will, and wherefore thou camest hither."

She shuddered.

"Still," continued her brother, "if thou wilt hear it
again I will repeat our plan, *our* plan, thou mindest,
Diane, which thou helpedst me to form so cleverly at
Pontivy."

"I had not known him then," she cried with a little
sob, "and—and he loves me well."

"So much the better; the less chance of suspicion
falling upon us.  See, child, have done with these foolish
vapourings, and mark how all falls in with our purpose.
The Sieur de Mereac loves thee—a love which he
will doubtless in time extend in some measure to me,
thy brother, seeing that thou hast set his mind at rest
concerning the affair at St Aubin.  All then are at
peace and filled with content, saving only Mademoiselle
de Mereac, who, for some unknown reason, is
consumed with hatred and jealousy against her
brother's beloved friends, a hatred which, indeed, also
estranges her from her brother.  Suddenly, without
warning, the Sieur de Mereac falls ill, wasting away,
in some strange and inexplicable sickness, till in due
time it is apparent that death claims him for a
comrade.  A whisper is rumoured throughout the
house coupling the name of Gwennola de Mereac
with witchcraft; the whisper grows to an outcry; proofs
of guilt are discovered in the maiden's chamber; she
is condemned to death, but it is too late to save her
ill-fated brother, who perishes, a victim to an execrated
sister's malevolence, and Guillaume de Coray, his
cousin, reigns in his stead over the broad lands of
Mereac.  Voilà, my sister, how charming and how
simple a history!  And the means, the *means*," he
emphasized, "of its fulfilment lie here."

As he spoke he handed her a small phial containing
a dark liquid, watching her, as the cat does the mouse,
as she took it in her trembling hand.

"You comprehend?" he asked softly.

"I comprehend."

He smiled pensively.

"That is very well, and in due course my delightful
history will unfold itself.  For the whisper of
mademoiselle's guilt it would be well to employ the
services of the good Jeanne.  She is discreet, that
girl, and worthy of reward."

But Diane did not answer; she was still staring in
horror at the tiny phial she held in her hand—the
phial that was the price of a life.

"A charming love potion, the dear Lefroi informed
me," said de Coray, spreading out his hands with an
airy gesture.  "Ah, what a man is that, and what a
dwelling!—a very charnel-house; and yet not without
its amusement.  Thou mightest have done worse, my
Diane, than stay to listen to thy fair friend's discourse
on the occult science, that night at Pontivy.  But thou
dost not agree?  Bah! what foolishness!—'tis surely
better to mix one's own potions rather than trust to
the discretion of another.  But, as for Lefroi, he is no
gossip, and, if one foresaw danger, a dagger thrust is
a sure seal to unruly lips.  And now, my sister, I will
bid thee au revoir, seeing that I go to greet the
beautiful demoiselle who did me the honour not long
since to become my betrothed bride.  Parbleu! it
may well be that ere long she shall regret having
scorned the hand which was once offered her in love
and friendship."

"Love and friendship!" echoed Diane drearily to
herself, as with a bow her brother withdrew.  "Thy
love and friendship!  Merciful heavens! methinks the
love of such an one would but bring damnation in its
train, and I——"  A sob choked her whispered words.

"Ah, Yvon! poor Yvon!" she muttered softly,
"and thou must die!"  Then, shaking back her hair,
which had partly fallen across her face, she drew
herself up defiantly.  "At least," she said softly, as
she faced her mirror, and noted the haggard
countenance reflected therein—"at least I shall have
revenge on yon proud girl.  For her I have no
pity—the scornful one!"

Meantime, so strange is human nature, Guillaume
de Coray was standing looking out from his turret
chamber towards the forest with a look so softened
and tender that his sister would have failed to
recognise the man who but a short hour before had
planned murder in mocking tones.  Now he was
dreaming of the time when he should lead his
Gabrielle forth from those forest shades, a proud and
happy bride.  In that dream of the future, when
he saw himself at last at the summit of ambition,
lord of the surrounding lands, husband of a woman
already adored, it was strange that he saw himself
also attaining to an honour and nobility which he
could never possess.  The husband of Gabrielle
Laurent, he told himself, should close for ever the
gates of the past which shrouded Guillaume de
Coray, the blood-stained, unprincipled villain who,
from serving an evil master, had afterwards served,
more evilly still, his own lusts, trampling underfoot
on his way any who opposed his progress to his goal,
only mindful of his ends, caring no jot by what
villainy they were accomplished.  Yes, the gates
should be shut on this man, and in the Sieur de
Mereac should arise a new creature, upright, honourable,
knightly, a phantom figure striving to be ever
what the woman he loved had pictured him.  Strange
freak of complex human nature, seldom found so lost
as to be beyond the pale of redemption; cruel and
sin-hardened as this man was, there must needs have
been a heart somewhere buried deeply within him,
which afar off worshipped goodness and truth,—a heart
which had been roused into life, amidst corruption, by
a woman's pure touch.  She had believed in him, this
simple peasant girl, with the face and mind of a holy
Madonna, and the trust had awakened within him
that long silent chord of chivalry and honour from
which love itself had sprung.  In her presence he was
no longer the Guillaume de Coray whom the world
knew, but one who strove to cloak that evil presence
in a garb of honour and nobility.  And in the
deception itself lay the very germ of a new-born
nobler self, a desire to lay aside for ever that hidden
being of sin and become that which he read himself
to be in her pure eyes.  He shuddered as he pictured
her realization of himself as he was, and swore that
sooner than that this should be he would cast the old
self aside.  Yet,—mark the insidious whisper of
Satan,—such dreams of goodness and virtue were garments
to be donned after he had accomplished his purpose.
Sin was the necessary tool he must employ to win
for his white dove the fair nest he coveted; therefore
sin should be his boon companion till the work was
done, and he almost forgot to shudder at her
uncomely countenance or shrink from the foul whispers
of her counsel in his haste to use her far his will.
Afterwards he would spurn her—yes, afterwards,
when Gabrielle reigned at Mereac—afterwards—but
not now.





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.. _`CHAPTER XV`:

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   CHAPTER XV

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The sound of revelry rose high in the great hall of
Mereac.  On the dais at the head of the table the
young Sieur, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes,
raised his goblet of wine and drank deeply as he
looked into the hazel eyes of the beautiful woman
beside him.  The guests around the table whispered
together that Yvon de Mereac's taste had not been
amiss when he chose the lovely Diane de Coray for
his betrothed, and toasts were freely drunk to the
future châtelaine of the castle, and admiring glances
flung towards the youthful beauty who sat there
laughing and smiling so gaily and happily.

Guillaume de Coray laughed too as he pledged
the fair dame beside him and quaffed the choice
hippocras which filled his cup.  All indeed went
well with those castles in the air which he was so
intent on building.  The first seeds were already
sown, and his keen glance noted with a thrill of
pleasurable excitement that the flushed cheek and
sparkling eye of his young host wore anything but
the bloom of health.  His own eyes roamed slowly
round the board as he followed the tenor of his
thoughts, and fell at length on the face of Gwennola
de Mereac.

The young girl was sitting silent and pale amongst
her brother's guests, her listless eyes and apathetic
replies to the cavalier beside her telling how far
away were thoughts and heart.  In vain the Comte
de Laferrière whispered tender words in her unwilling
ears.  She replied in accents so cold that they must
necessarily have chilled the warmest admirer; and
at length the Count, weary of repulses, turned his
attentions and compliments to a more sprightly
damsel on his left, who seemed only too willing to
respond to his wit and gallantry.  If he had thought
to chagrin his destined bride, the effect was quite
contrary to his expectations, for Gwennola seemed
entirely indifferent, if not oblivious, to his neglect,
but sat in her place, pale, listless, and indifferent as
before, except when for a moment's space she raised
her blue eyes to encounter de Coray's mocking smile,
when a flush of anger swept over her pale cheeks, and
for a moment her eyes flashed with their old scorn
and defiance.

In spite of her passionate indignation and pleading,
this man had been welcomed as an honoured guest
by her infatuated brother, who listened with ready
ears to the lame and feeble excuses with which de
Coray strove to explain the past.  All was forgiven
and forgotten to the brother of the lovely Diane, and
it needed but a brief space for de Coray to attain a
firm command over his future brother-in-law's weak
and wavering will.  That she should be forced into
some hateful marriage or condemned to a convent
cell was Gwennola's daily expectation, but so far
the blow had not fallen.  It is true that Maurice
de Laferrière still wooed, but no formal betrothal
had taken place.  Yet all hopes of a marriage with
her lover were shattered for ever, not only by reason
of France's threatening attitude towards the
persecuted duchy, but because of the bitter enmity of
de Coray, who had successfully persuaded de Mereac
that the Frenchman had been the ally of François
Kerden.

No wonder, therefore, that Gwennola's heart was
heavy as she sat, perforce, alone and solitary, amidst
the revelry around.

"A new minstrel!" cried Yvon with a gay laugh.
"Nay, my friend, by the bones of St Yves, thou comest
in a fortunate hour.  Thy name, good fellow? and a
cup of wine to clear thy throat before thy song."

The stranger bowed as he accepted the cup and
glanced towards the speaker.

"My name, monsieur," he replied in the Breton
tongue, "is Jean Marcille, and my birthplace near to
Cape Raz."

"Good," replied the host.  "A true Breton; and
a Breton ballad of Breton prowess is ever welcome
at the Château de Mereac.  Eh, old Antoine?  A
new strain will be as welcome to us as a rest is to
thee; therefore sing us a stirring lay, Sir Minstrel,
and see that its theme be of love and war, for of such
things all true knights make their dreams and fair
ladies welcome."

Again the minstrel bowed, and, taking his vielle
in his hand, swept the chords ere he began his song,
glancing as he did so round the long board, though
his eye seemingly rested on none.  He himself was
a sufficiently striking figure to cause interest, especially
at the lower end of the table, where the waiting-women
eyed with appreciation the slight, well-formed
figure in its corset of scarlet cloth and wide hanging
sleeves, and the cap of velvet, nearly half a yard in
height, set jauntily on the man's dark hair, which
well matched his bronzed complexion and black,
merry eyes, which seemed to promise a boon
companion of a gay wit and keen tongue.

The visit of such a vielleur was not uncommon to
the châteaux of the great; for although nearly all
possessed a minstrel of their own, a fresh repertoire
was always welcomed, music and singing being an
almost necessary accompaniment to the meal.

Jean Marcille was evidently the possessor of a
voice of no mean merit, and thunderous applause
greeted song after song.  Wild ballads of ancient
Brittany he sang, telling of the fate of the wizard
Myrddyn, who, for all his wisdom, was beguiled to
tell his secret to the treacherous Vyvyan, knowing all
the while of her cruel intention, yet unable to
withstand the siren wiles of her woman's tongue, and so
lies sleeping for ever in his tomb in the forest of
Broceliande, under the fatal stone where his false love
has enchanted him.  Then, still pursuing the
mournful themes with which Brittany seems to abound,
and which her children hold so dear, he sang of the
romantic loves of Abelard the sage and Helöise the
beautiful—loves which, crushed and killed in sorrow
and despair, bloomed immortally in poetry and song.
But presently his voice rang with a more martial
strain, as, sweeping the chords of his harp, he sang the
inspiriting songs of valour—songs these, perchance,
of his own weaving, for they told of the distresses of
the fair young Duchess Anne, of her helpless condition
amongst ravening enemies, of her gallant Bretons
rallying around her, of the intrepidity of Breton
heroes, of the siege of Gwengamp, where the brave
Captains Chero and Gouicket defied the traitor
Rohan's call, and declared that whilst there was a
Duchess in Brittany they would not give up her
towns; and of Tomina Al-Léan, the wife of Gouicket,
who took her husband's place on the walls when he
lay helpless and wounded below.

Such ballads, at such a time, when deeds of chivalry
were brave men's daily acts, and ladies had no smiles
for recreant knight or coward lover, never failed to
stir their listeners to a frenzy of enthusiasm, and
knights drew their swords as they sprang to their
feet, and, with goblets in their right hands, drank to
their little Duchess, and flung the shivering glass to
the ground.

Only, perhaps, the enthusiasm of Guillaume de
Coray was a little forced, and his lips curved more
than once into a mocking smile as he watched the
ring of flushed faces, and reflected how small a
concern it was of his did Duchess or King rule in
Brittany, provided his own schemes went well.

The stranger minstrel needed little pressing to stay
at the Château of Mereac, for truly it seemed that he
fell almost naturally into his place in the household.
A welcome addition, indeed, to enliven the shortening
and gloomy days, for the voice of old Antoine was
growing cracked and faltering, and his songs became
wearisome by reason of oft repetition; nor had the
elder man the facility in weaving new ones which his
young rival seemed to possess—a fact which tended
to jealousy, though Antoine was too wise to let such
be apparent.

Meantime, Jean Marcille proved to have as soft
and winning a tongue in speech as in song, and so
Marie Alloadec found, as she sat busily employed in
her needlework, whilst the minstrel sat on the wide
ledge beside her with crossed legs and a face bent
perhaps a little nearer to Marie's swiftly flying needle
than was judicious.

He was telling her of his home, near the wild and
mournful Cape Raz, and from time to time Marie
would allow her work to fall as she listened to the
graphic descriptions of that dreary and romantic
coast.  The very name of Raz causes the trembling
sailor to pray aloud to his patron saints as he thinks
of the time when his boat must glide by the red rocks
where the hell of Plogoff yearns for its prey.  No
wonder the Breton proverbs say, "None pass the Raz
without hurt or fright," and "Help me, great God, at
Cape Raz;—my ship is so small, and the sea is so
great."

A terrible dwelling-place this, with a brooding fear
in the air and a melancholy mingled with every legend
and fancy which haunts the coast around.  Far away
there beyond Dead Man's Bay lies the island of
Sein, a desolate sandbank inhabited by a few
compassionate families, who yearly strive to save the
shipwrecked mariners.  This[#] island was the abode
of the sacred virgins, who gave the Celts fine weather
or shipwreck.  There they celebrated their gloomy and
murderous orgies; and the seamen heard with terror, far
off at sea, the clash of the barbaric cymbals.  Yonder,
too, watchers may see two ravens flying heavily on
the shore: they are the souls of the dread King Grallo
and his daughter; whilst the shrill whistling, which
one would take for the voice of the tempest, is the
*crierien*, or ghosts of the shipwrecked, clamouring for
burial.

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[#] See Michelet's *History of France*.

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"But see," Marie exclaimed, with great eyes grown
even greater with wonder and awe as she listened to
the wild tales which Marcille poured into her ears,
"they are gloomy, these tales, and very terrible; and
yet, how is it that you laugh and are gay, and have
altogether the air of joy and happiness?"

"A good conscience," quoth Jean lightly, as with
absent fingers he twanged the strings of his vielle.
"Also, mademoiselle, perchance the good gift of my
mother, who came from laughing Touraine, where all
sing and are gay, and where the waters of the Loire
dance with the happy sunshine, instead of being grey
with melancholy, as here in Brittany."

"Of Touraine?" questioned Marie, dropping her
voice, whilst her bright eyes searched curiously the
dark, smiling face of the minstrel.  "And thy mother
came from Touraine?  But that perchance was long
since, and thou hast never journeyed so far?"

"I?" laughed Jean Marcille.  "Nay, mademoiselle,
a minstrel wanders oft in many lands, and I have
seen not only the orchards and meadows of Touraine,
but the blue skies of Italy, and the white mountains
of Switzerland in my day."

"But of Touraine?" persisted Marie.  "If thy
mother is of that country, thou knowest perchance
much—almost as much as of thy native Brittany?"

"Verily," replied Marcille, with a shrug of his
shoulders, "seeing that my father died long since,
when I was but a little lad, and my mother, wearying
of grey skies and the wails of lost spirits, was fain to
return to the sunshine of her own land."

"And so," said Marie, her colour deepening as
her eager eyes again sought his, "you have long
dwelt in the land of our enemies, Sir Minstrel?
Aha! but you told not that to our lord yesternight when
he asked from whence you came."

Marcille spread out his hands with a careless
gesture of indifference.

"Monsieur asked me only of my name and
birthplace," he replied with a smile.

"But if perchance mademoiselle fears I am a
spy——"  He paused, watching her face as she
turned it to him.

"Nay," she murmured, glancing around to be sure
that they were unheard; "I asked,—I
asked—because,—because I would have inquired of a noble
monsieur from Touraine who journeyed hitherward
in the early summer, and in whom my mistress took
somewhat of an interest."

"For that matter," said her companion, "there is
scarce a château in all Touraine whose lord I do not
know; for there is ever a flagon of wine ready for the
minstrel bard."

"But not ever for Breton ballads," slyly replied
Marie, with a coquettish side-glance.

"Nay," he laughed, "I suit my songs to my
company, mademoiselle, for 'tis a foolish bird that
sings only on one note, and there are chansons and
rondeaux of Touraine and Anjou with which I can
woo the dimples to thy cheeks, sweet mistress, as
well as ballads of Brittany, to bring tears to those
bright eyes."

"But," she said, shaking her head at him with a
dimpling smile to moderate her rebuke—"but you
are foolish, altogether foolish, and I want no
compliments of France, but rather listen to what I would
ask of you.  In this fair Touraine, where all laugh
and are gay, have you perchance met one who is
named Monsieur Henri d'Estrailles, whose château
lies not far from the banks of the Loire?"

"So well I know him," replied Marcille, eyeing her
steadily, as if he would fain read her very heart—"so
well I know him, that at his bidding I am here; pretty
maiden, to bring his message to thy fair mistress."

"A messenger from Monsieur d'Estrailles!" gasped
Marie, whilst the work slipped from her hands and
lay unheeded on the floor.  "A messenger from
Monsieur d'Estrailles!"

"Ay, verily," whispered the minstrel.  "But speak
not so loudly, mademoiselle, for, from what I gather,
there were short shrift for me did some here suspect
me or my errand."

"But I cannot believe it," murmured Marie, her
eyes still round with wonder.  "It is impossible."

For reply Marcille slipped his hand into his vest
and brought forth a small ring which lay safely
shrouded in his brown palm.

"It is the token," he said simply.  "Do not fear,
Mademoiselle Marie; all is as I say.  I am in truth
the servant of Monsieur d'Estrailles, who hath a
message for his mistress's ear, but knew too well that
he might not come hither in his own proper person to
tell it, seeing that even now the French army crosses
the Breton border, and he feared that his presence at
such a time might be less than welcome."

"Less than welcome!" echoed Marie.  "Nay, at
the moment I ween it would be death itself to the
gallant knight.  But your message shall be delivered,
monsieur, and at once.  See, I go with haste to my
mistress's chamber, and it shall be that I will return
anon to summon you to her presence."

So saying, Marie Alloadec, without waiting to
gather up her fallen embroidery, tripped quickly
away, to return with haste in a few moments, softly
calling to Marcille to follow her.

Neither of them noticed that close to the
embrasure in which they had been seated knelt the
figure of a woman, who withdrew almost behind
the heavy tapestry hangings as they passed.  But
there was a smile on the face of Jeanne, the
dark-browed waiting-woman of Diane de Coray, as she
watched furtively their departing figures.





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.. _`CHAPTER XVI`:

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   CHAPTER XVI

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The Sieur de Mereac was sick.  No longer could
there be any disguising of the fact; he had grown in
the past week thin and emaciated, whilst his great
blue eyes, so like his young sister's, looked out of his
sunken face with a pathetic wistfulness which touched
a chord of pity in the hardest heart.

Yet what the reason of so strange and deadly a
sickness might be it seemed impossible to say.  Vague
suspicions, indeed, seemed to float like faint and evil
breaths upon the air of the château; but so intangible
were they, that men scarce dared to look into the
thought which from time to time stirred within them.
Gloom had suddenly seemed to fall upon the household
which had before resounded with a mirth scarcely
befitting, seeing that so short a time had elapsed
since the death of the old Sieur.  And now it would
seem that death again stretched forth his hand, but
not this time to gather to his full garner one whose
head was already white with the snows of age, but to
snatch greedily at youth, with its swift pulsations of
joy and life.  What did death here?  What place
had he at the betrothal board?  What right had his
shadow to fall between the sunshine of love and its
fulfilment?  Such questions were hard indeed to
answer, and by reason of them the shadow of fear fell
on those who pitied, whilst they loved, the young
master, whose footsteps through life had led him in
such tragic paths, and who now seemed, in the dawn
of happiness, before unknown, to stand before the
yawning chasm of a grave.

Yet, strangest and most mysterious of all did it
seem that Gwennola de Mereac—she who, in past
days, had been so tenderly attached to her brother—should
scarcely heed the fact of his altered appearance,
and, from brooding melancholy, herself assume
all suddenly an aspect of content and happy
expectation.

So the retainers of Mereac gazed at the mysterious
march of events, whilst the whisper on the air grew
clearer day by day.  But Gwennola suspected none
of these things.  True, her heart ached for her brother
as she noted his altered looks; yet so wide had grown
the gulf which Diane de Coray had made between
them, that her pride refused to allow her to show the
anxious solicitude she felt; whilst Diane herself strove
secretly to make such solicitude the more impossible
by her attitude towards the girl she hated.  Yvon
was made silently to know that he must choose
between his sister and his lady-love; and there was
no hesitation possible in his mind as Diane bent
tenderly over his couch, whilst Gwennola held coldly
aloof, allowing no one to guess the bursting grief and
jealousy which raged in her heart.

But it was not altogether pride alone which set
Gwennola's lips into a calm and serene smile of
seeming unconcern for her brother's sickness; for,
setting apart her anxiety for him,—and youth is
skilful in persuading itself that such fears are
groundless,—she was rejoicing secretly in the message
brought to her by the hand of Jean Marcille.

Ah! what a joy it had been, and yet how fierce
an anxiety brooded behind it!  As she sat by her
window, watching the brown leaves of the forest trees
caught and whirled away in the autumn wind, her
heart was singing, yet shuddering, as she thought of
the time, but three days hence, when she should creep
forth as she had done months ago and find, under
that forest shade, the lover, faithful and true, who
laughed at perils for the joy of clasping her once
more in his arms.  How sweet it was to rehearse over
and over again that meeting—the terrors of the
woodland path, the haunting dread of spying eyes, all
forgotten and swallowed up in the glad moment when
she should feel those strong arms holding her to him,
and should look up to read the old, old story in
eyes so full of love's deepest tenderness.  Then the
exquisite joy of the picture faded, as fears crowded
with jeering, mocking faces around the dream.  What
if he should be discovered?  This time there would,
she knew, be no escape.  No shadow of suspicion
would be too faint to seal his doom.  Revenge, she
knew, was smouldering deeply in de Coray's heart,
and the hatred and jealousy of his sister would but
too eagerly seize upon this means of repaying her rival,
whose influence, she knew, would fain have been
exerted to drive her from the château gates.

But Marie Alloadec had no such fears.  The faithful
maiden rejoiced not only in her mistress's romance,
but in one of her own which was being woven at
the same time.  The handsome face of Monsieur
d'Estrailles' messenger had already made its impression
on the Breton girl's susceptible heart; and Jean
Marcille had been no backward wooer, finding it
altogether to his own pleasure, as well as his master's
interests, to make love to the pretty waiting-woman
whilst he attended to her mistress's commands.

All three were keenly aware of the dangers that
beset them; but love laughs at such dangers, and
the happy optimism of Marie and Marcille comforted,
if it did not convince, Gwennola.  For Marie it was
easy to be gay, for her lover was beside her; but for
her own part, Gwennola shivered even whilst she
smiled, so fearful of ill was she.

But at last the night had arrived, a night so calm,
so peaceful, that it seemed as one born out of time in
that wild month of November.  True, there was but
a dying moon to light the way through the forest
path, and from time to time even her wavering light
was dimmed by the scudding clouds which obscured
her.  But this time Gwennola went not to her tryst
unattended; indeed, such a course was fraught with
dangers, which had necessarily multiplied since the
summer, for the hungry wolves grew more importunate
than ever for their prey.  Shielded, however,
by the strong arm of Jean Marcille, and accompanied
by Marie, who pleaded to be allowed to follow her
mistress on her dangerous errand, she felt little fear
of these four-footed enemies; whilst behind, she
knew, Job Alloadec guarded faithfully the open
postern gate.

It was, however, only discreet that Jean and Marie
should remain behind in the shadow of the trees,
whilst she advanced alone towards the ruined
chapel.

Ah! the memories that thronged around the
spot!—memories of terror long past, as also of that
father, so dear and yet so imperious, whose anger she
had braved, and whose forgiveness she had won, all
for the sake of the man who stood now once more
before her.  No gallant knight was here, however, as
in those other days when the warm summer breezes
stirred the ivy round the grey walls, and the scent
of the flowers was sweet on the night air.  The
very moonlight seemed to shrink at sight of the tall
figure whose brown cowl was drawn so closely round
its head, as it stood waiting there alone.  But as
Gwennola, with a little cry, ran forward, the cowl fell
back from a dark head which was assuredly not that
of any spirit of ill, and strong, human arms caught
and held her in their warm embrace, whilst passionate
kisses were pressed on the rosy, trembling lips which
whispered over and over again his name.  No wonder
that the white owl who sheltered herself amongst the
ivy of the ruin fled shrieking dismally against the
sacrilege which thus desecrated with human love the
haunt of her ghostly friends; no wonder that the
lizard which crept up the crumbling wall paused to
peep with cunning, glittering eyes at the scene which
his forefathers had watched in the garden of man's
innocence.  But at that supreme moment what cared
those two for watching eyes?—so oblivious were they
of any other in the wide world than the ones into
which each looked.

True eyes, brave eyes, eyes in which the story of
love and faithfulness was so easy to read!  And then
once more down to earth and the perilous present
they must come, and leave the all-absorbing joy of
that first moment of oblivion to the past and to the
dim, sweet future to which both were looking with
eager longing, the more impatient for that brief
moment of rapture.

But it was no time for love dreams then, with the
keen winter wind whistling around, and the still colder
fear of danger which whispered of separation.

There was so much to tell, so much to hear, so
much to plan, and oh! so short a time for the
speaking of it all.

Together they sat there amongst the ruins of a
dead past, and built golden castles for the future;
shining, gorgeous castles, all love-illumined and
beautiful.  But even as they built them, difficulties
innumerable and insuperable blew them once more to
their feet.  The situation was indeed one which well
might dismay lovers so devoted.  The vast army of
Charles was already advancing towards Rennes; and
though it appeared to menace rather than to attack,
still the danger to the duchy seemed imminent if the
Duchess Anne held fast to her determination, as it
seemed only too likely she would do.

In faltering tones Gwennola told the story of the
past months: of her father's death, of the coming of
Diane de Coray, of Yvon's fatal infatuation, of the
return of Guillaume de Coray and of the complete
sway he and his sister held over her brother's weak
mind; of Yvon's illness and her own estrangement
from him; finally, of Diane's veiled persecution and
her fears for her own future.

A stormy picture, so dark that for the moment it
held both lovers speechless; till, as he bent to look
into the face half hidden on his shoulder, Henri caught
sight of a bright tear which trembled on the drooping
lashes.

"Nay, weep not, my darling," he whispered
passionately.  "Thou shalt not thus weep and fear
such things; it shall not be permitted.  Sooner than
that I will mount thee on good Charlemagne yonder,
and ride with thee to Touraine, where we will laugh
together at these vile plotters—ay, and at thy brother
too for bringing such unhappiness to his little sister's
heart.  Fie on him! hath he forgotten that but for thy
bravery he would even now have been rotting in some
foul dungeon?"

"Nay," she whispered, smiling, "but that also was
more for thy sake, Henri, than for his, though well I
loved him—ay, and love him still for all his harshness,
for I know that his eyes are, for the time, blinded by
reason of this woman."

"But, say," cried d'Estrailles pleadingly, "is it then
so impossible to aid thee, little one?  Would I might
go boldly to yonder château and claim thee for my
bride, for it seemeth to me but a coward's part to
hide like any evil-doer in such a manner."

"Ah, Henri," she sighed, "what foolishness thou
wouldest speak!  Surely, little couldst thou aid me
by entering the lion's den, or save me from a dreary
fate by dying as a spy, as thou wouldst surely be
dubbed if thou camest hitherward in thy proper guise."

"The lion's den!" he echoed scornfully.  "Rather
I would term them jackals, seeing that their ways
are cowards' ways, and their thoughts the thoughts
of traitors.  But tell me, sweet, is then my plan so
impossible?  or wilt thou fear to trust all,—even
thyself,—to my honour?"

"Fear?" she smiled; "fear!"—and she raised her
lips to meet his caress.  "Nay, Henri, 'tis no fear that
causeth me to hesitate, but because—because——"

"Because?" he questioned, holding her hands in
his.  "Because, little one?"

"Truly, I know not," she whispered softly; "only,
perchance 'tis foolishness, but my mind misgiveth me
as to what is best.  Let us wait, my Henri, till
to-morrow, and I will ask the advice of dear Father
Ambrose, who loves me well, and who, methinks,
hath no more liking for these de Corays, brother and
sister both, than have I.  Moreover, I am assured
that he pitieth me, and would fain see me happy,
which he wotteth well I could never be in convent
cell or other arms than thine.  So till to-morrow,
Henri, let us wait, and it may be—it may be I will
come."

So again they sat there side by side, dreaming of
all the bliss that coming would make, whilst he told
her again of the happy, merry life of Touraine, so
vividly that it seemed to Gwennola that she was
already riding by his side through the laughing
meadows and sunny orchards singing rondeaux and
virelais gay and sweet as their surroundings, with no
weird melancholy such as every song reverberated
with in this grey, yet for ever dear, land of Brittany.
But dreams must fade ofttimes before the dawn, and
erelong they must say farewell, those foolish young
lovers, who found the world so entirely made for
them alone.  And yet not farewell, but *au revoir—au
revoir* until the morrow, with, perchance,
Father Ambrose's approval, if not his blessing, on
their flight from troubles and shadows, suspicions
and jealousies.

"Au revoir!  Au revoir!"  The very sweetness of
the words made a melody in Gwennola's heart as she
and her attendants hurried homewards, and her lips
trembled in a smiling happiness, warm with the
memory of his kisses.  As for Marcille and the
rosy-faced little Marie, they also had found the waiting
time less irksome than might have been supposed;
for the example of one's betters, see you, is a fine
thing to follow, and the atmosphere of love is so
infectious that perchance it had even become wafted
towards the shadow of the trees where the two
waited; and that may explain, the reason why Marie's
rosy lips dimpled too as she smiled in the darkness
and a hand which should have been holding her
cloak slid downwards to meet and be grasped by
another hand, strong and tender, which held it so
fast that the smile nearly overflowed into a merry
laugh for the very happiness of youth.





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.. _`CHAPTER XVII`:

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   CHAPTER XVII

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"Alas, poor Yvon!  Nay, rest thy head so,—yes,
that seemeth better; and place thy hand in mine.
Ah! how cold it is! and how thou shiverest, even
before this warm blaze!"

"Ay, cold as grows my heart when I think of what
this sickness portendeth," groaned Yvon, as he lay
back wearily on his couch, looking up with loving yet
wistful eyes into the glowing, beautiful face bent so
close to his.  An angel of light and grace did Diane
de Coray appear in her graceful, clinging gown of
heavy white material, the long sleeves and throat
edged with gleaming gold, whilst the high head-dress
framed a face fair enough to soothe and gladden any
man, and soft hazel eyes filled with sympathy,
tenderness—and perhaps some other vague, undefined
expression impossible to read.

She repeated his name over softly many times as
she stroked the thin hand which lay listlessly at his
side.

"Thou wilt be better anon," she said gently at
length, in reply to his weary sigh.  "See, Yvon, for
my sake thou *must* be better."

He shook his head sadly.  "Nay," he replied, "I
fear not, little Diane; for me there is naught but the
grave—the grave in which shall be buried all the
hopes and the great love with which thou hast
inspired me.  Yes, little one, weep not, for it is even so,
bitter as it seemeth to say it,—and how bitter the holy
saints only know; for death is a sorry guest when
love has stepped in before him.  And I love thee, my
Diane, I love thee, with all this poor heart of mine—not
worthy of thee, sweet, nay, not worthy, for suffering
and fear have left but a sorry wreck of the Yvon
de Mereac who once was.  And yet, Diane, thou hast
loved this poor, weak one, so unworthy of thee!  See,
thou shalt hold my hands in thine and say it
softly,—thus,—'I love thee, Yvon de Mereac, I love thee,
although thou art but a poor, unworthy lover at best
for the sweetest, fairest damsel that the good God
ever made.'"

"Nay!" she cried passionately, dashing away a
tear, and bending to kiss the white, upturned face;
"thou knowest well that I love thee, Yvon, the saints
aid me!  But thou shalt not die!  Listen!—I will
tell thee my secret thoughts, though I fear me thou
wilt be angry."

"Angry?" he questioned, smiling; "angry with
thee, Diane?"

"Yes," she said, turning a flushed, half-shamed face
to him, and speaking in a hard, even voice; "thou
wilt be angry, Yvon; and yet I will dare that anger
for the love I bear thee."

She glanced around as she spoke, but none
were near; only the tapestried faces met hers
as they looked calmly down from the walls as if,
lifeless as they were, they scorned this woman who
knelt there, knowing and hailing her as liar and
traitress.

But the swift pang of remorse and fear which held
the words trembling on her lips passed, and, steeling
herself to her task, the girl drew close to the sick
man's side.

"Listen," she said softly, "and judge, Yvon, my
betrothed.  Hath it not caused thee wonderment, this
sore sickness of thine?  None can tell its name;
skilled leech as he is, Father Ambrose hath no knowledge
of it; and yet, so deadly is its nature, that truly
death seemeth near."

Yvon's blue eyes were fixed curiously on the
speaker's face, a vague horror growing in them as
she proceeded.

"Hath all this never struck thee, my Yvon?  Hast
thou not searched in vain for the cause of thy
suffering?"

"Nay," he muttered, "I understand not what thou
speakest of, Diane."

"Of witchcraft," she said softly but very clearly.
"Of witchcraft, dearest love, which hath been brought
to work so evilly upon thee that death stands already
awaiting thee."

She crossed herself, shuddering as she saw the
horror deepening in the wide eyes so close to hers.

"Witchcraft?" he echoed faintly.  "But wherefore? and
by whose hand should such spells be wrought?"

"By the cruel hand of Gwennola, thy sister!"

Instantly the blue eyes blazed, a red, angry flush
swiftly dyeing the pale, sunken cheeks.

"Gwennola! my sister Gwennola a witch!  Nay,
Diane, thou ravest.  Unsay such words, maiden!  By
my faith, they shall not be breathed again in my
presence,—the honour of the house of Mereac may
not lightly be bandied by careless lips."

She had expected his anger, and faced it coolly
enough.

"I cannot unsay the truth, Yvon de Mereac, even
when thy house's honour is at stake.  Nay! blame
not me, but rather her who so cruelly hath dragged it
in the mire."

"But it is a lie," he cried passionately, "a foul and
cruel lie.  Who dared speak such words to thee,
Diane?  I will have him hanged to the nearest
tree for thus smirching the fair name of a noble
maiden."

Diane laid a soft, caressing hand on his clenched
palm; the eyes she turned to his sparkling and
indignant ones were full of tears.

"Alas! alas! my Yvon!" she whispered.  "Should
I have dared thus to speak of thy sister had I
not for myself discovered the truth of the accusation?"

He lay back on his couch, panting and almost
breathless with emotion; but his eyes dilated still
with fear and horror as he listened to her smooth,
softly spoken words.

"But for the love I bear thee, Yvon, no word should
have crossed my lips; but because even now it may
not be too late to save thee, love hath unsealed my
lips, and I hereby do solemnly declare to thee that
thy sister Gwennola, and she alone, is answerable for
this thy deadly sickness."

"Nay, I cannot believe it," he cried with a quick
sob.  "What!  Gwennola try to slay me? my father's
little Gwennola a witch?  It is beyond reason, I tell
thee, Diane."

"So said I at first," said Diane softly; "yet
nevertheless it is truth."

"Gwennola!" he echoed dreamily, as on the instant
all the old childish days seemed to surge forward in
his memory—"little Gwennola!"

He was seeing her, a tiny, lovely maiden of five
innocent summers, being held up in his own strong
young arms to kiss the forehead of his horse; and
remembering how she turned from loving the black
steed to fling a pair of soft, baby arms round his
neck and kiss him again and again.  Then other
pictures stole back to him in the darkening room:
pictures of the same child grown into a slim little
maiden, beautiful as the flowers which bent their
fair heads to the summer breezes; with great blue
eyes which were always watching for father and
brother, whom she must ever run to greet, if but for
the excuse of slipping away from the embroidery
frame and her mother's rebukeful eye.  But at the
last the pictures faded, shrivelling up before a
poisoned breath—and Diana's voice rang in his
ears, "Gwennola is a witch!"

"No," he cried fiercely, as if to drown the accusing
voice; "it is no truth, but a lie—a lie fashioned in
the blackest hell!"

But Diane was not to be moved by his harsh words.
She was playing for a stake, and knew she must
win, though in her heart she was the more angry to
find that the love she had hoped to have already
destroyed had so strong a root.

"It is for thine own sake I spoke, my Yvon," she
pleaded, with a break in her soft voice.  "Alas! alas!
I have but angered thee, and all to no purpose,
seeing thou wilt neither believe nor strive to save
thyself from her spells."

"Nay, sweet one, thou must forgive my angry
words," said her lover, melting to tenderness as his
ear caught the sob in the gentle tones.  "Well I
know that it is but thy zeal for my welfare which hath
led thee astray in believing such false words.  But
bethink thee, my Diane, what proof can these evil
tale-bearers bring? what knowledge have they?"

"Ah, me!" moaned Diana, "I must anger thee
again, Yvon; and yet, so cruelly has she deceived
and wronged thee, that I will have no pity—no, for
so foul a wrong deserves none, and her sin be on her
own head!"

"Speak," muttered Yvon hoarsely, as once more
the fear crept into his eyes; "speak, Diane."

"When my maid, Jeanne Dubois, told me the tale,"
said Diane softly, "I bade her be silent; for, for evil
tongues there was sharp punishment, and slanderers,
to my thinking, should have small mercy.  But the
wench persisted, and so perforce I listened, merely at
first to point to her the danger of such lying
falsehoods.  Yet the story smacked so vividly of sincerity
that I listened at length with more attention, whilst
she told me that the Demoiselle de Mereac kept
strange company, and that ofttimes passing her
chamber door at nightfall she had had reason to
cross herself for very fear of the weird chantings and
voices she heard within.  Yet knowing it was naught
of her business, the girl said nothing till, chancing
one day to be conversing with Pierre the fool, the
knave whispered somewhat in her ear of his own
suspicions, and told Jeanne that he could also prove
to her how that the young châtelaine not only
gathered evil company under the very roof of the
château, but also went into the heart of the forest
at the midnight hour to celebrate terrible orgies
with her foul friends, and converse with her dread
familiar, who appeareth to her in the garb of a brown
friar, who, for his evil deeds on earth, hath been
condemned to haunt the shades of a ruined chapel
and assist still further those whose sins are as black
as those of his own lost soul."

Again Diane looked steadily into Yvon's eyes, and
with a thrill of triumph marked the look of dread
which had stolen into them.

"I myself," she said sadly, "have already proved
the truth of Jeanne's words; it remains with thee,
Yvon, to also convince thyself of a guilt which,
alas! shineth as clearly as noonday.  In very truth, I beg
thee thus to prove the words I have dared to speak,
for little doubt is there in my mind that in this lost
maiden's evil practices lies the secret of thy fatal
illness.  And because I love thee, Yvon, with all my
heart and soul I pray thee strive to save thyself from
these cruel spells, and even, if need be, tear from its
parent-tree this smitten branch and cast it into the
fire."

"Gwennola!—Gwennola!" moaned Yvon; "my
father's darling,—his little Gwennola!  Is it possible
that thou hast so fallen—art become so lost?  Diane,"
he cried, turning almost fiercely upon her, "I accept
thy word.  Prove to me my sister's guilt, and I will
myself light the faggots which shall purify the honour
of the house of Mereac.  Yet I warn thee that if this
tale be false, the very love I bear thee shall shrivel
and burn away till nothing be left but the ashes of
hatred."

"I will prove it," said Diane, returning his look
unflinchingly.  "This very night, with thine own
eyes shalt thou behold thy sister clasped to the arms
of one of hell's foulest shades, and with him plotting
for thy destruction."





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.. _`CHAPTER XVIII`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII

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It is difficult to realize how tremendous a hold the
superstition of witchcraft had upon the minds of our
ancestors from the earliest ages.  And in the fifteenth
century the fear of wizards and witches and belief
in their supernatural powers was almost unlimited.
Indeed, the repute of madness was not more fatal to
dogs than that of witchcraft to human beings.[#]  So
destructive was it, that there is scarcely a hamlet of
ancient date west of the Carpathians wherein crowds
of witches have not been massacred during the middle
ages.  For a considerable period Cologne burnt four
hundred of these wretches, Paris three hundred, and
a multitude of second-rate towns two hundred a-piece
every year.  To be stigmatised as a witch was to
be condemned, sooner or later, to the stake; and so
well was this understood, that the malicious had only
to fix that evil name on their victims in order to
secure their execution.  A list remains of some
hundred and fifty witches slain in three years by
that insignificant place, Wurzburg; and among the
sufferers we find half-a-dozen vagrants, children, and
others; a scold, a learned judge, a skilful linguist,
several popular preachers, and "Goebel Babelin, the
prettiest girl in Wurzburg."

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.. class:: noindent small

[#] See *Witches and their Craft*.

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It was a fundamental axiom of the witch-codes, as
explained by Bodin, that no witch might be acquitted
unless her innocence shone "as clear as the noontide
sun"; and every care was taken to render that
impossible.  But by far the most powerful means of
effecting their conviction—surpassing false witness
and torture by an infinite length—was the infamous
scrutiny to which the miserable creatures were
subjected.  The search for devil mark and amulet,
as prescribed by the Church, was regarded as worse
than death itself, and of the thousands who perished,
a vast proportion died self-accused, preferring the
deadly search of the flame to that of the monkish
inquisitors.

Considering how fearfully and inevitably witches
were punished, it seems astonishing that any, much
less such myriads, should have professed them of
the craft.  But, on the other hand, it must be
remembered that the acquisition of power to inflict
storm and devastation, disease and death, was an
irresistible temptation to the savage nature that
then predominated in the lower classes.  For
everybody sought the fraternity.  Those who
suffered, or apprehended suffering, bought their
services equally with those who desired to have
suffering inflicted.  The latter, however, were by
far the more numerous, and the witches had a
very singular way of gratifying them.  One of the
strangest was to fashion an image of the hated
individual during the celebration of certain infernal
rites.  The simulacrum was usually of virgin wax;
but when it was meant to make the work of
vengeance thoroughly sure, the clay taken from
the depth of a well-used grave was generally
preferred.  The image being moulded according to
rule, and baptized by a properly qualified priest,
whatever injury was inflicted on the model was
believed to have a similar effect on the original.
Did they tie up a member of the effigy, paralysis
attacked the corresponding limb of the person
represented.  Intense pain and fearful mutilation
were thus assumed to be produced; nor was even
death itself beyond the wizard's power.  To secure
this fatal result there were several approved recipes.
Some pierced the heart of the statuette with a new
needle; others melted it slowly before a fire; a
third set interred it at dead of night in consecrated
ground with horrible burlesque of the burial service;
and a fourth gathered the hair into the stomach of
the model, and concealed it in the chamber—if
possible under the pillow—of the intended victim.
Such images were prepared by Robert of Artois
for the destruction of his enemies.  In this way
Enguerrand de Marigny was said to have slain
Philip the Fair.  Thus, too, Eleanor Cobhan, wife
of Duke Humphrey, was said to have attempted
the life of Henry VI.

Many and varied were the powers and mischievous
contrivances of the witches and wizards for every
possible purpose.  A decoction made of a toad
baptized by the name of John, and fed on consecrated
wafers, was thrown under a farmer's table by a
witch at Soissons, and all who sat round the board
died immediately.  Every witch possessed her agent,
or familiar imp, who on her inauguration into the
sisterhood sucked her blood, thus leaving the fatal
"devil-mark."

In Brittany, not more than fifty years before the
opening of our tale, the far-famed and execrable
Gilles de Retz had been led to the stake, there to
pay the penalty of his horrible career as wizard,
murderer, and devil-worshipper.  The crimes of
this fiend of iniquity are too many and too terrible
to bear repetition.  His chief delight, however,
was to lure children to his castle by the agency
of an old hag named la Meffraie, who went about
the country enticing any children she met, with
false promises, to her master's abode; and from
that moment they were heard of no more.  When,
after fourteen years, his horrible practices were
disclosed and search was made, there was found
in the tower of Chantoce a tunnel of calcined
bones—of children's bones in such number, that
it was supposed there must have been full forty
of them.[#]  A like quantity was found in the castle
of La Suze and in other places; in short, wherever
he had been.  The number of children destroyed
by this exterminating brute was computed to be
a hundred and forty, the motive of the destruction
of these unfortunate innocents being more horrible
than the manner of death.  He offered them up to
the devil, invoking the demons Barren, Orient,
Beelzebub, Satan, and Belial to grant him in return
gold, knowledge, and power.  He had with him a
young priest of Pistoia in Italy, who promised to
show him these demons; and an Englishman, who
helped to conjure them.[#]  It was a difficult matter.
One of the means essayed was to chant the service
for All Saints' Day, in honour of evil spirits.  And
yet this blood-stained villain, who revelled in
listening to the piteous death-cries of little children and
gloated over their suffering, who from worship of
demons had himself become more devil than man,
commended his evil assistant and magician, who
was condemned with him, to the grace of
God—Whose living image he had murdered—in the
following terms, "Adieu, François, my friend; may
God grant you patience and knowledge, and rest
assured, provided you have patience and hope in
God, we shall meet in the joys of Paradise."  The
horror inspired by this blasphemous wretch still
lingered in the hearts of the Bretons, and small
wonder was it that wizardry or witchcraft found
little mercy at the hands of an ignorant and fanatic
people; although often wizards or witches were
allowed to practise their craft unmolested for many
years, the fear of suffering from their vengeance,
even in death, keeping their enemies at bay, whilst
they drove a profitable business with those patrons
who desired their aid.

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[#] *Depositions of Etienne Corillant*.

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[#] Michelet's *History of France*.

.. vspace:: 2

It will be the more easily understood from these
foregoing remarks how skilfully Diane de Coray had
woven the web of her plot around her unfortunate
victim, who remained in total ignorance of her danger,
the retainers of the château having been before
instructed by the wily Jeanne to breathe no word of
their suspicions into the ears of those likely to warn
her.  Therefore it was with no presentiment of coming
ill that Gwennola de Mereac stole forth to her lover's
trysting-place once more, full of happy thoughts and
a heart the lighter by very contrast with its weary
heaviness of so many weeks past.  Little did she
or her attendants guess what sharp eyes had been
watching their movements, or what stealthy feet
had already crept after them through the forest
shade.

It was the maid Jeanne Dubois who had been the
first to discover the identity of the wandering minstrel
whose advent had been hailed with so much joy by
the young Sieur de Mereac.  Hiding in the shadow
of the heavy tapestries, she had heard what had passed
between Marie Alloadec and her would-be lover, and
had hastily carried the news to her mistress.  The
clue thus given had been carefully followed up, but
it was Pierre the fool whose cunning had discovered
the fatal rendezvous and pierced the disguise of the
cowled figure.  So the threads of the web were
gathered more surely around the weavers' fingers,
and now the time drew near to prove their
strength.

A cold wind whistled through the bare trees
overhead, but so close grew the undergrowth of the
thickets around the ruined chapel as to shelter any
watchers not only from the keen blast but from
curious or inquiring eyes.  But Gwennola's eyes and
thoughts were far from suspicion of treachery or evil.
She was thinking, as she hurried on her way, of
Father Ambrose's kind and tender counsel.  He had
promised, the good old man, to use his influence to
the utmost with Yvon to persuade him either to allow
his sister to wed the man she loved, or at least to
leave her unmolested by unwelcome suggestions of
betrothal till it could more clearly be seen how matters
fell out between the two contending countries.  If
Yvon were still obdurate—well, it might be that
Father Ambrose would be willing to risk the anger
of his lord for the sake of the little maid he loved so
tenderly; but she must be patient—very patient—whilst
he prayed that his way might be made clear
before his eyes.

So gentle, so loving had the old man been, with
such tears of fatherly fondness had he besought
her, that Gwennola had listened to his pleadings,
and had promised to wait with patience for his
further counsel, instead of lending an all too
willing ear to her lover's importunity in urging
the hasty flight which had appeared in so favourable
a light to her eyes as he whispered eloquent
reasons to the heart which readily responded to
his entreaties.  Yet her step grew slower as she
neared her trysting-place, as if she found her
promise weighing almost too heavily upon her as
she pictured the disappointment in the dark eyes
which would look down their eager inquiry into
hers.

Marie and Jean Marcille lingered behind their
mistress as they had done yesternight.  They had
their own concerns, these two, which perhaps—and
who may blame?—dulled their ears and clouded the
watchfulness of their eyes.  Very certain it is that
neither of them saw amidst a clump of trees not far
from where they stood, four cloaked figures bending
low, as if furtively watching those who already
stood in the waning moonlight close by the ivied
ruins.

"It is enough," whispered Yvon de Mereac in a
low, stifled voice as he raised himself and stood facing
the woman at his side.  "It is enough."

Yes! he had been convinced where he felt conviction
to be impossible, by the evidence of his own eyes;
for, stooping there, he had seen, shuddering in horror,
the shadowy outline of a tall, monkish figure, and
even as he crossed himself in fear, he had seen
another figure, slender and hooded, steal from
amongst the trees to be clasped in the close
embrace of the Brown Friar himself; and, as the
feeble moonlight straggled downwards from behind
a passing cloud, the hood had slipped back,
revealing the red-gold curls and pale face of
Gwennola.

Diane de Coray was a skilful conspirator.  To
linger there might speedily reveal to the agonized
brother that his sister's lover was verily in the flesh
and no ghostly agent from the unseen world; and so,
with murmurs of sympathy, she hastened back with
him towards the château, followed by her brother
and Pierre the fool.  But to her whispered words
Yvon de Mereac answered not at all; the blow had
been so sudden, so overpowering, that his weak spirit
reeled under it.  To a Breton honour stands even
before love itself, the Duchess Anne voicing the
sentiments of her people in her chivalrous motto, "Death
is preferable to dishonour."  And now dishonour in
its blackest form was to fall on the fairest flower of
his house!  No wonder that the poor, weak brother
groaned in helpless bewilderment at such a fate.
Paralysed with the horror of what he had seen, his
failing brain refused at first to realize what his outer
senses told him, and he allowed himself to be led back
to the château by his apparently sympathizing friends;
nor, till he sank down once more on his couch and
drank from the goblet of wine which the tender
Diane raised to his lips, did his mind become
sufficiently clear to understand the full meaning of
that midnight adventure.

"Gwennola a witch!" he whispered, with a hoarse
sob, at length.  "The little Gwennola a witch!  Holy
Mother of God! what shall I do?  Alas! what
shall I do?  The little Gwennola!—the little
Gwennola!"

"Nay," said Diane, speaking in a low, clear voice,
as she bent over him where he lay moaning out his
sister's name again and again, "she deserves no
pity, Yvon.  She is lost,—ay, lost,—bethink thee of
her sins,—of the awful sin against thee, my Yvon.
For my sake, since I live but for thee, she must pay
the penalty of her crime, so that thou mayest once
more be restored to health."

Her beautiful face was close to his; he could feel
her warm breath stir his hair, which lay damp with
sweat on his forehead; her hazel eyes seemed to burn
her very will into his numbed brain and to force him
to it as if with magnetic power.  Weak and helpless,
he was as utterly in her hands as if he had been
indeed but a yearling babe; and as his eyes followed
hers he slowly repeated her words as if she drew them
from him.

"She is a witch, and as a witch she must die—for
thy sake, Diane,—for thy sake."





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.. _`CHAPTER XIX`:

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   CHAPTER XIX

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"Thou, Marcille?  In the name of the blessed
saints, what dost thou here?—and thus!"

The grey dawn of a November day was creeping
slowly upwards in the east, but the air was damp
and chill with frost and dew, and the men who stood
there looked into each other's faces through a
vaporous mist.  The face of Jean Marcille was
blanched with fear, and his dark eyes looked into
his master's with an expression of terror and
dismay.

"How now, varlet!" cried d'Estrailles anxiously,
"hath aught of ill befallen the demoiselle?  Why hast
thou come thus with such fear in thy looks?"

"Alas, my master!" gasped the man.  "Alas! how
can I tell you? ill indeed has befallen the noble lady,
such ill as men dread to speak of and Marie
saith——"

"Peace, fool," cried d'Estrailles angrily, "what care
I for the words of Marie or any other; tell me only,
and instantly, what ill hath chanced to mademoiselle,
or I will go without wasting more words on thee to
the château."

"It was thus," muttered Marcille, as he stood, still
panting for breath, and with head thrust forward, as
if he were awaiting a blow.  "We journeyed in safety
through the forest, but as we neared the château, who
should come running towards us, with wide eyes and
mouth agape, but the honest fool, Job Alloadec,
brother to the pretty Marie.  'Nay, mistress,' he cried,
barring our progress, 'go no step forwards, for naught
but evil awaits thee,' and, so saying, he fell a-sobbing
like any foolish maid, so that his sister was fain to
upbraid him roundly, and bid him tell his news in brief.
But that was more than the good Jobik could essay,
and it was some time ere we could gather from his
tale what had chanced, and even then 'twas but a
tale's shadow.  The Sieur de Mereac, it appeared,
had been ill at ease all day, but towards nightfall he
had seemed calmer and bade all a good night's rest
as he retired.  But scarcely had the midnight hour
struck than the great bell pealed forth a summons
for all to assemble, and behold, there, in the hall, stood
Monsieur de Coray, dressed and cloaked, with his
sister, Pierre the fool, and Jeanne Dubois beside him.
His face, the good Job added, was bent in a terrible
frown, and as he spake to those around it grew still
sterner.  But for his words, monsieur, Job saith they
were ten thousand times more terrible than his face,
for he bade the retainers hear of how their master,
whose sickness they had all watched with so much
dread, had been seized with a fit, and that Father
Ambrose, who was with him, despaired of his very life;
then with smooth words and well-simulated horror
and indignation, he told of how this sickness was the
work of witchcraft, and of how such witchcraft, to
the incredible dismay of his sister and himself, had
been proved beyond all doubt to have been practised
by Gwennola de Mereac, their mistress and châtelaine.
And at his words there was a confusion of voices, for
some cried this, and some that, and some called for
death to the witch who had slain their master, and
some that it was false and that the demoiselle was an
angel of light and not of darkness.  But the answer
of Monsieur de Coray—or rather I will say, Monsieur
le Diable—was that all should be proved, and bade
two of the maidens go with Jeanne Dubois to their
mistress's room and fetch thither the lady and her
waiting-woman, Marie Alloadec.  On hearing which,
Job came in haste to tell the news and to warn us of
the danger ere we set foot in the château."

"And mademoiselle?" muttered d'Estrailles hoarsely.

Marcille groaned.  "Alas, monsieur!" he said.
"Mademoiselle has the courage of a man.  She stood
there, in the darkness, so that we who were near could
scarce see her face; but her voice was steady and
calm as she replied that, though she thanked the
good Job with all her heart, her place was there, in
the hall of the Château, to prove her innocence of the
foul crime of which she had been so maliciously
accused, and if possible to save her brother from the
cruel clutches of his false friends.  In vain Marie
entreated her, whilst I also could not refrain from
showing the many dangers to which she might be
exposed; but she would not be shaken from her
purpose by tears or warnings, protesting that a maid's
innocence and honour were dearer to her than life
itself, and that she would uphold them before the
bitterest foes, knowing that God would not forsake
her cause.  Nevertheless, monsieur, she did not forget
you, but bade me conceal myself in safety and return
with the first streak of light to bid you escape before
the cunning of your enemies discovered you; for well
did she guess that soft-footed treachery must have
long crept in her shadow.  Also did she strive to
persuade Marie to seek safety in flight with Job; for
if the charge of witchcraft were truly brought against
her, there might be much danger for her too, seeing
that such fiends would be little likely to spare the
torture they were at liberty to inflict in the hopes of
wringing a false confession from lips which writhed in
agony till twisted to their will.  But the brave Marie
was also firm, declaring that if her mistress were to
die she would die with her, for it would be impossible
that she should forsake her; but, as at length we went
forward, she bade me wait close there by the river side,
and that before dawn she would contrive to bring or
send me news of her lady's case and her own.  Therefore,
monsieur, in much fear I waited, for it is little to
an honest man's liking to thus skulk in safety behind
trees when perchance the maid he loves is in danger
of her life; but I knew it was no work then for muscles,
but for wisdom, and so with sore heart I lay watching
for dawn; and in due time from the shadow of the
Château walls there stole forth a man who came
swiftly to where I waited, and I perceived that it
was once more the good friend Job, though by his
distraught appearance I augured ill even before he
spake.  And ill it was, such ill that methought hell
itself must be already yawning for the plotters of such
villainy; for it appeared that they were clever, these
devils, so clever that the plight of mademoiselle and
the little Marie was terrible indeed.  It was already
rumoured throughout the Château that Monsieur de
Mereac was dead; and whether that were the case or
not, Monsieur de Coray assumed very speedily his
place, whilst the false demoiselle his sister, with the
black-browed wench her maiden, and Pierre the fool,
whose neck should long since have been wrung, told
their lying tale.  Ah! how he wept, the poor Job,
monsieur, as he repeated it!  Such a ring of evil,
cruel faces, said he, full of Satan's own malice, and
opposite them the Demoiselle de Mereac, beautiful,
calm, innocent as an angel, looking at these her
accusers with the proud scorn of a noble lady who
sees the canaille howling execrations at her from below.
And yet, calm and innocent as she was, even she
blanched to hear the foul lies with which these
slanderers blackened her fair name, and to see with
what skill they had plotted for her life.  It was the
lying wench Jeanne Dubois who brought the first
false statements against her, speaking of voices she
had heard talking at midnight in mademoiselle's
closet, of weird laughter and chantings and such-like
foolishness, till even de Coray himself cut her short,
seeing the discontent on the faces of the men around,
who looked, Job said, little pleased to see their young
mistress in such a plight, and on such slender grounds.
But the next to speak was the devil's imp Pierre the
fool; and when he told of the Brown Friar with
whom the lady talked and walked at midnight by
the chapel, there were many who looked askance and
crossed themselves.  But no word spoke mademoiselle
herself, only standing there in all the purity and pride
of her innocence, facing her accusers with contempt.
But it was now the turn of Mademoiselle de Coray
herself, and, as she spoke to those gathered around,
even the heart of Job himself sank, for the very tones
of her voice possessed the fascination which engenders
belief.  In mournful tones she dwelt on the love she
had possessed not only for Monsieur de Mereac,
but for his sister also; of how sorrow had filled
her heart at the sudden and mysterious sickness
which had laid so low the one to whom she was
already betrothed; of Mademoiselle Gwennola's
strange behaviour; of her own suspicions; of her
scorn, however, of Jeanne's allegations and the story
of Pierre the fool until she had proved the truth for
herself.  In a few vivid words she pictured the
meeting of mademoiselle with you, monsieur, declaring
you to be the agent of evil by whose aid she worked
her hideous spells; the horror of her lover at
discovering also for himself the infamous dealings of
his sister; his fierce denunciation of her, and command
that she should be brought to death, ere a fresh
seizure robbed him of speech and, she feared, of life.
Finally, amidst the murmured execrations from
those around, she produced a small waxen figure,
bearing a vague resemblance to Monsieur de Mereac,
which had apparently been partly melted before a
fire, and which she declared had been discovered in
the accused's own chamber.  Yet in spite of the loud
murmurs of horror and loathing which now rilled the
hall, Mademoiselle Gwennola flinched not at all.  'I
am innocent,' she said once, loudly and clearly.  'May
our Lord and Lady forgive you, Diane and Guillaume
de Coray, for the false tale you have brought against
me.'  But Mademoiselle Diane only laughed, pointing
to the black hood and cloak which were damp with
night dews.  'A lie!' she cried in mockery, so that
Job would fain have struck her down as she stood
there, mouthing and grinning.  'A lie, sayest
thou?—witch and murderess that thou art.  Whence comest
thou, then, honest maiden, with the dews of night
around thee, instead of from thy slumbers?  Thy
chamber was empty when they went to search for
thee, and anon thou comest to us fresh from thy
unholy revels, and darest thus to upbraid me with a
lie!  Nay! thou canst not thus hope to hoodwink
justice, girl, with the signs of thy guilt clinging
around thee, or turn outraged love from its righteous
vengeance!'  But mademoiselle replied not at all,
only drawing her cloak more closely around her, as
if to guard her secret the safer; and truly, as Job
said, the words of Mademoiselle de Coray savoured
of truth to those who knew not the sequel."

"Alas! alas!" cried d'Estrailles passionately,
"why was I not there to proclaim that truth?
Better a hundred deaths than that one breath
of such shame should soil the purity of such a
maiden's honour!  But it is not too late,—fool that
I was to delay!  Let us hasten then, quickly, Jean,
and tell to these foolish ones the truth."

"Nay, master," said Marcille, laying a detaining
hand on his master's arm; "methinks 'twould little
benefit the lady to run your head into a sure and
certain noose.  Moreover, even so the charge would
still stand good, so craftily have they contrived it.
Besides, already are the poor demoiselle and the
pretty Marie on their way to Martigue under the
escort of Monsieur de Coray himself, who declared
that ere dawn they should be delivered to justice."

"To justice?" echoed d'Estrailles, whilst his eyes
stared in horror before him, as if he were indeed
viewing already the dread picture which the significant
words brought before him.  "To justice?"

"Ay," groaned Marcille with a sob; "they would
fain burn her as a witch, my master; and alas! perchance
also the little Marie beside her,—devils that
they are!"

But Henri d'Estrailles had as yet scarcely grasped
the full import of the stunning blow which had fallen
so swiftly upon the sweetness of love's dream.  As
vaguely as Yvon de Mereac himself he repeated the
words to himself, "Gwennola a witch!—to be burnt
as a witch!—She!"  His voice choked in a sudden
wild rush of emotion and fury, as his imagination
conjured up the terrible picture of his beloved
standing alone and helpless amongst her enemies.
He could see her, ah! so vividly, with her proud,
girlish figure drawn to the utmost of its slender height,
and the great, blue eyes challenging haughtily her false
accusers,—those eyes which had so short a time ago
looked with love and tenderness into his, and
which—Holy Mother of God shield him from the
thought!—might ere long be staring in the agony of death
from amidst the smoke and flames of the cruel stake.

But, though his blood leapt madly in his veins to
ride in all the strength of his love and anger and
wrench her single-handed from her enemies' hands, he
knew the thought was too hopeless, such a scheme so
impossible that it would but seal afresh her doom.
Yes!—doom!  For full well he knew how inexorably
it was written already; well he knew that with
such evidence to hand there would be short shrift for
the noblest or the fairest, more especially with the
powerful hand of the new Sieur de Mereac behind to
push his victim forwards to the flames awaiting her.
The situation was indeed desperate.  So closely were
the threads of the web woven that there was no
breaking them.  Did he come forward and reveal the
identity of the Brown Friar, there would still be the
deadly evidence of the waxen image and the
unaccountable and mysterious death of Yvon de Mereac.
Clear as the plot of de Coray was to him, its very
boldness rendered the plotter's position impregnable,
and all d'Estrailles might expect to gain by attempting
to disclose his rival's perfidy and murderous schemes
was the death of a French spy caught wandering in
disguise within the borders of Brittany.

Only one last desperate hope there seemed, and to
this hope he turned with the energy of despair.  He
would ride to Rennes with all speed, where, close to
the city, lay the passive armies of the King of France.
Seeking his master, the Count Dunois, he would pray
to be allowed to take a body of French troops
wherewith to ride to Martigue in the hopes that by
threats, backed with military power, he might induce
the authorities to deliver up their prisoners.  A wild
hope, so wild that he dared not glance too closely at
its shadowy outline; yet the only one to which he
might cling in his extremity.

"Farewell, Marcille," he cried, as, doffing robe and
cowl, he sprang into his saddle.  "Nay, my friend, I
will not take thee, and short time I ween is there for
instructions.  All I can bid thee is to watch, and
should immediate peril threaten thy lady, ride with
loose rein towards Rennes.  Thou shalt find me on
the road, I warrant; and can I not beg a company
from Dunois, I will e'en steal one, for, by the faith of a
French knight, I swear to save her!"

But there were tears in the eyes of Jean Marcille
as he watched his impetuous young master's retreating
form, as with spurs struck deep into his horse's sides
Henri d'Estrailles galloped madly away, over the
heath where the morning mists still hung heavily.

"Alas!" he sighed, as he turned back towards the
forest, "it is of no avail; and not only mademoiselle,
but also the little Marie will perish; and for me there
will be nothing left but revenge."





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.. _`CHAPTER XX`:

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   CHAPTER XX

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The wizard Lefroi lived alone in his little hut in the
forest of Arteze.  It was very lonely, that hut, and
within it had an appearance altogether execrable.
But that was the purpose of his trade; for, what! you
would not go to inquire into mysteries from the
grave, or seek means of conveying your enemies to
the latter, in a parlour clean and bright and orderly,
with the pure sunshine of heaven pouring in through
the windows, and perchance flowers of purity and
innocence blooming within?  No! the abode of
sorcery and evil must necessarily be dim and gloomy,
with the usual accessories of the trade surrounding
one.  The hut of old Lefroi was not lacking in this
way.  The light of a taper burnt low and dim indeed
that wild November night, as the wizard bent,
absorbed, over his nocturnal incantations.  He was
wise, this old man, with the wisdom of many ages,
learnt, some said, from his master the devil, and
others that he had been taught by some of those
wandering Bohemians and sorcerers who were so
often to be met with at that time in France.  These
sons of Egypt had been kindly treated in the little
forest hut, and for reward they had imparted to the
owner, it was affirmed, not only knowledge of the
stars, but the secrets of many wonderful and deadly
drugs which were found often so useful by old
Lefroi's customers, and did not always partake of the
nature of love-philtres.  Perhaps he was even now
decocting some of his noxious draughts as he bent
over his crucible, for his wizened old face was drawn
together into a twisted mockery of a smile, which
gave it still more the appearance of crinkled parchment.
His costume was effective, being a long, loose
wrapper embellished with numerous quaint cabalistic
signs and hieroglyphics.  On his head he wore the
usual skull-cap; whilst by his side perched the
familiar black cat, whose purrings played a suitable
accompaniment to the bubbling of the pot into which
a huge black raven peered with curious eyes from
her master's shoulder.  Altogether the picture was a
familiar one, such as might have been seen in any
abode of those jugglers and quacks of the age who
practised the occult science and grew rich on the
superstitions of the ignorant.

A tap at the wooden door roused the old man
from his absorbing occupation, and with a muttered
curse he hobbled across to withdraw the bolt and
peer out into the darkness.

The visitor, however, waited for no invitation to
enter, but pushed in almost rudely, as if fearing that
the owner of the hut might wish to refuse admittance.
It was a woman, who lost no time in flinging back
her hood and facing her companion.

"I am Diane de Coray," she said briefly, "and have
been sent in haste by my brother, whom you know,
old man, to ask of you the antidote for the poison
you gave to him some time since."

Lefroi peered curiously into the pale, beautiful
face which looked down so anxiously into his.  Then
he nodded.

"It is very well," he observed shrewdly, "it is very
well; but how am I to know, fair mistress, that you
are indeed she whose name you give, for in truth you
resemble monsieur, your noble brother, not at all?"

"Fool!" she cried impatiently, "I swear to you I
am Diane de Coray—is that sufficient?  Give me the
antidote quickly, else it will be too late."

Still he eyed her furtively, hesitating to do her will.

"Indeed, I know not of what you speak, mistress,"
he whined at length.  "Poison?  I know of no
poison.  A love-philtre, mistress—a love-philtre or
the prediction of the horoscope now——"

"Have done!" she cried angrily, and he noted the
gleam of despair in her eyes.  "Have done, old
foolish one; I have no time to lose, and well thou
knowest of what I speak: the poison that was to be
administered drop by drop, which was so slowly yet
so surely to do its work.  What! should I know all
this were I not indeed the sister of the man to whom
you gave it?"

"But wherefore," he questioned, half convinced
and yet still doubtful, "wherefore doth the noble
lord require an antidote?  Was the draught too slow,
or too quick? did it not fulfil its purpose as I predicted?"

"Ay! but too surely," cried the girl, with a
shudder.  "But there is yet time, old man; quick,
give me the antidote, and thou shalt have gold—yes,
gold."

She drew forth a bag as she spoke, and in the dim
light the wizard's keen eyes sparkled as he caught
the gleam of the glittering coins.  Yet still he held
back another instant.

"Gold cannot purchase the secrets of life," he
muttered with a grin.

"Can it not?" she pleaded, and in a moment was
kneeling on the grimy floor pouring forth a stream
of golden coins on to the seat near her.

The temptation was strong, yet its very strength
made him hesitate again.

"But wherefore dost thou need the antidote?"
he persisted.  "And how know I that it is thy
brother who sent thee?  If there be a trick in this,
he will have his revenge upon me, who am but a
poor, innocent old man who——"

"Innocent!" she cried, rising to her feet; then
changing her scornful tones, she turned a pleading
face towards her companion.

"I swear to thee that there is no trick, I swear by
all the saints in heaven, or"—she added bitterly as
she noted the suspicion in his eye—"by all the devils
of hell, if that be an oath more in keeping with this
abode."

He laughed softly, turning a tender eye on the
gold, then on the face above it, finally on the closed
door.

As if divining a menace in the glance, the girl
placed her hand within her dress, and the ominous
glitter of steel warned the man that this was no
occasion for foul play, did he meditate such.

"Nay," he said, as if suddenly yielding to the
temptation which lay glittering before him, "I will
trust thee, maiden; thou shalt have the phial.  But
the price is high."

He repeated the last words softly, glancing again
from her face to the pile of gold.

"Gold!" she cried, flinging the word from her in
scorn; "yes, you shall have gold—see, more gold
than this,—much more; I have it here,—only hasten,
hasten, else it will be too late."

He watched her with greedy eyes as she poured
forth more money upon the already goodly pile.  No
leather money this, the impoverished coin of an
impoverished land—but good gold,—French gold,
warm-hued and glittering.

"And so he still liveth," quoth the wizard slowly,
as he bent once more over his crucible.  "I had
heard—nay, what matter what I heard?  The wind singeth
strange songs in yon sere branches, and the night
owls bring many a false tale.  And so he lives?—and
you, fair lady, are glad that death hath not yet taken
him from your warm embrace?  Ah! it is good to
love in youth.  See, once also I was young too, and
I remember; that is why I prepare here my love-charms
for the young and joyous, although for me
the branches of the forest bear no green leaves and
my arms are empty."

But Diane de Coray made no reply to the mocking
words, only standing there, pale and fear-stricken,
yet with a defiance in her dark eyes which seemed
to challenge death itself to mortal combat.

"Love and hate," maundered the old man, half
to himself, as he stirred the drugs he held in a tiny
crystal bowl; "love and hate, love and hate, they
are strong masters, mistress, strong masters, and
lead by strange paths.  It is I who know—aha! who
so well?  There have been secrets whispered in these
ears—have they not, my Pedro?  Yes, such secrets
as might well blanch those fair cheeks yonder; but
she shall not hear—no, no, for secrets have their price.
Yes, a goodly price!"

The raven croaked dismally, as if in reply to its
master's words, and rubbed its beak against the
skull-cap in weird caress; whilst the cat, as though
jealous, rose, purring, to push her sleek body against
his legs.  But Diane's eyes were fixed only on the
dark drops of liquid which, with steady hand, were
being slowly poured into the phial.

"It is ready," said Lefroi, as he handed it to her.
"Tell thy noble brother that I send it with my most
humble salutations.  Also, if later thou requirest a
love-potion for thine own use, sweet maiden, thou
wilt not forget Henri Lefroi, the magician."

"Forget," muttered the girl hysterically.  "Forget!"  She
said no more, but seizing the phial eagerly, drew
her cloak around her, quitting the hut with no further
word of thanks or farewell.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXI`:

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   CHAPTER XXI

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"He lives?" whispered a soft voice, which trembled
nevertheless with fear.

Father Ambrose raised a grave, anxious face, looking
with some surprise into the pale one bent close
beside him.  But Diane de Coray's eyes were looking
not at him for answer, but at the drawn, white face
which lay back amongst the cushions of the great
bed.  There were ominous blue lines round the closed
mouth and under the sunken eyes, whilst one burning
spot of colour on each cheek but intensified their
pallor.  It was the face of a man who hovers on the
brink of death, and already the curls which lay thick
on the white forehead were damp with the death
sweat, whilst the thin hands which strayed aimlessly
over the coverlet plucked at it from time to time, as
if some spasm contracted them.

"He lives," replied the Benedictine mournfully;
"but already, daughter, is his soul winged for flight.
Leave him in peace, so that, if consciousness return
ere the last, his thoughts may be fixed rather on the
confession of his sins and the eternal love to which
he goes forth than to the perishing flame of human
passion."

But Diane shrank back no whit at the reproof, or
the priest's cold manner.

"Nay," she cried piteously, "he shall not die,
father; see, I,—I have prayed to the holy saints, and
it shall be that they will save him."

"Hush, my daughter," said Father Ambrose, in a
sterner tone.  "Rebel not at the Divine Will, nor
bring in opposition to it thine own unavailing and
perishing love.  Yvon de Mereac is dying, and no
power of thine shall prevail to drag him back from
the grave to which he hastens."

"Will it not?" she cried softly, and the light of
challenge and defiance which had shone in her eyes
in the wizard's hut brightened them again, as they
met the rebukeful glance of the priest.  Then,
changing her tone to one of gentle pleading,
"Father," she cried, "forgive one who is mad belike
for very grief; and yet I pray thee not to say that
Yvon shall die by the will of Heaven; for, see, he
shall live in answer to my prayers.  I——" her voice
faltered—"I,—I have here a draught given me by a
skilled and learned leech—a very elixir of life,
father;—give it to him now,—now, ere it be too late, and
truly thou shalt prove the truth of my words."

The old man took the tiny phial, gazing suspiciously
the while from it to the pale, agonized face near his own.
"Daughter," he said solemnly, "what meaneth this?
Whence came this phial?"

"Nay, ask me not," she cried passionately, "but
give it to him, now,—now!  See, his eyes unclose, he
knows me!  Yvon!  Yvon!"

The blue eyes of the sick man shone faintly with
the light of recognition; then, even as she sank on
her knees beside the bed, closed heavily again.

"Delay not, delay not, father!" cried the girl
imploringly, "or it will be too late.  See, he gasps for
breath! he,—nay, he *shall* have it," and snatching
the phial from the Benedictine's fingers, she raised
Yvon's head and poured a few drops of the contents
down his throat.  Then, with a sigh, she let the sick
man sink back amongst the supporting cushions, and
turned with flushed face to meet the priest's stern look.

"Daughter," he said slowly, "what hast thou done?"

The accusing note rang out sharply in the quiet
chamber, and involuntarily Diane glanced towards
the bed; but the sufferer stirred not—even the
restless fingers were still, his breathing came already
more easily.

"He will live!" cried Diane, clasping her hands;
"he will live, father!"

But Father Ambrose replied not; instead, he was
looking with curious, thoughtful eyes into the
half-emptied phial which the girl had yielded into his
outstretched hand.  But whatever the thoughts that
stirred in the old man's brain, they were at present
too intangible to resolve into words; the shadow of
suspicion was too vague, his mind in too chaotic a
whirl, for him to realize what this strange happening
portended.  He, the friend of the little Gwennola, who
had loved her from a child with an affection almost
paternal, had long watched with concern and suspicion
the machinations of this woman against his darling.
But with regard to her dealings with Yvon he was more
perplexed; from the first he had doubted her love for
the young Sieur de Mereac, and readily guessed that
she acted a part under the influence of her brother.
As for that brother, it is to be confessed that there
was little of the spirit of charity in the gentle old
man's breast towards this man whose presence had
proved ever so baneful to those under whose roof he
lived, and who had won his love.  It was the same
natural repulsion of a human creature to some
gliding, treacherous snake, which he watched in fear and
suspicion, knowing that where the reptile coils most
lovingly around its object it is but in preparation to
strike a fatal blow.  And now the blow had fallen,
but so unexpectedly that it seemed impossible that
it should have been struck by the serpent in question.
That Gwennola was innocent Father Ambrose would
have staked his soul; but who was the guilty, if guilty
one there were?  Was not this illness, perhaps, rather
the finger of Heaven?  Puzzled and bewildered by the
very contrariety of his thoughts, this fresh
development completely mystified the good man.  If this
woman were guilty of the apparently wanton act
of poisoning her lover, wherefore this distress, this
simulated agony of love and devotion?  As for the
draught, what was it?  A fresh potion from the
sorcerer?  A love-philtre? or what?  Did it bring
death or healing with the quaffing?  His experienced
eye saw, to its infinite surprise, that already a change
had stolen over his patient.  The drawn, pinched look
had gone; the blue lines, around lips, nose, and eyes,
were fading into a more healthful white; the breathing
was more regular and less laboured.  And, whilst still
wondering at the apparent miracle, Father Ambrose
turned to speak to his strange visitor, behold! her
place was empty, and he heard the soft swish of the
tapestry curtain as it fell again into its place.

There was a smile on the lips of Diane de Coray as,
a few hours later, she stood gazing out of her window
in the chamber which had been set aside for her
use.  She was meditating deeply, it would seem, on
things pleasant and joyful, for she did not hear the
door softly open, nor was she aware that she was no
longer alone till a hand grasped her shoulder.

"Guillaume!" she cried, facing him with the rich
colour surging swiftly to her cheeks; but it had faded
again, leaving them the paler by contrast, before he
spoke.

"It is I, Diane."

"So I may well see for myself," she laughed, but
the laugh flickered a little tremulously as her eyes fell
before his.

"He is not dead," he said in a low, menacing tone;
"what means it, Diane?"

"Means it?" she echoed vaguely.  "What should
it mean?  Perchance the drug was less potent than
Lefroi told thee, or Yvon too strong to succumb
beneath its power."

"Thou knowest it is neither," he hissed.  "Traitress
and fool that thou art, but now Father Ambrose
told me, with shrewd looks of suspicion, that the noble
Sieur lay at the point of death, but that, since he had
partaken of a draught given him by the lady, my
sister, he had rallied in a manner truly miraculous."

She laughed merrily and stood there defying him,
seeing that concealment of her act was useless.

"And the old man speaks truth," she cried gaily;
"I have saved him—saved him!  Ah! thanks be to
the holy saints that I have done so!—saved him,
Guillaume, my brother!  And wherefore? askest
thou.  Why, because I love him—love him with
all my heart and soul; because riches, greatness—all—would
be nothing to me if he lay cold and silent
in the grave.  Dost thou not understand?  Cannot
thy cold heart learn what such love is?—what fires
it kindles in the breast, what passion it arouses?
Nay!  I care little for thy anger—I love him, I tell
thee."

"Fool!" he snarled, "and thrice times fool for thy
pains!  Dost think that I shall be balked by thy
puling fancy, now, on the eve of all my plans'
fulfilment?  Love! ay, perchance I also know the flame
that burns within, and which shall consume all else
which stands as barrier to its fulfilment.  But to
compare my love with thine——!"  He broke off with a
scornful laugh, changing his tone to one of cold
sarcasm.

"And so thou lovest him, this weak fool whom
thou plottedst to destroy?  Nay, blanch not, but
picture to thyself how great will be his love to thee
when he knoweth the truth!  Picture to yourself his
rage, his despair, his agony, when he learns that his
sister perished in innocence, and the woman who
dragged her to the stake, the woman whose arms
clung around his neck, whose warm kisses were
passed to his lips, whose siren tongue whispered of
faith and devotion, was also the one to pour into the
betrothal cup the deadly drops that should send the
proud bridegroom to keep festival with Death!"

She covered her face with her hands, shuddering.

"Would he love thee?" mocked Guillaume de
Coray; "would his arms again seek to clasp so foul
a bride to his heart?  Would he woo thy kisses to
his lips when the death-cries of his sister rang in his
ears?"

"But it is not yet too late," cried Diane passionately.
"Alas! alas! my sin hath been great,—the sin which
thou didst conceive, cruel demon that thou art; but
I will yet save her—I will tell all,—all; and it may
be that he will forgive me, even though he cannot
love me again."

"Not so," replied de Coray softly, as with a sudden
spring he caught her in his arms; "not so, fair lady.
Nay, struggle not with me, else will it be the worse
for thee."  And, clasping her with one arm, he placed
his hand before her mouth, bearing, or rather
dragging, her towards the bed as he did so.  She was
powerless in his grasp, and after a few vain attempts
to free herself lay passive as he gagged and bound her.

"So," he said softly, as he stood over her, meeting
the helpless glare of her eyes with a mocking smile,
"thy wings are clipped for the present, my bird.  So
thou thoughtest to cross the path of thy dear and
well-beloved brother, didst thou, sweetest maiden?
Alas!  I fear me 'twas rash—too rash.  Adieu, little
one, adieu!  All will, I am assured, regret to hear of
the sudden and dangerous sickness of mademoiselle;
it will be altogether clear to them that she has been
bewitched—alas! poor maid!  In the meantime I
must bid thee rest, Diane; thou art weary—so weary.
'Tis too long and too perilous a walk for one so
tender and so innocent, to Henri Lefroi's hut,—fie on
thee for so forward and unmaidenly an undertaking!
What wouldst have done hadst thou met the Brown
Friar himself?  Nevertheless, I will not distract thee
with reproaches, but will leave thee to thy orisons, or
perchance to still sweeter meditations,—of thy lover, it
may be, or of thy brother.  In the meantime, have no
fear that the dear Yvon shall miss thy tender care;
I will myself usurp thy place for very love's sake.
Ah!  I will tend him right well, my Diane; he also
shall have rest, such peace and rest!  Slumber is
good for the sick, say the leeches; therefore he shall
sleep—so long, so well, I fear me it will need warmer
kisses than thine, my sister, to rouse him again.  But
I go at once, for it seemeth that thou carest little for
my presence.  Take comfort, for I swear none shall
disturb thee, not even the worthy Jeanne, and anon
I will myself bring thee food and wine; for if in
truth thou art bewitched, the evil spirit may not leave
thee till the hot flames have devoured her who had so
ill a will upon thee."

With a sinking and agonized heart the unhappy
girl saw the mocker turn away, heard the bolts shoot
back into their places, and knew that she was as close
a prisoner as any who languished in dungeon cell.

"Yvon!—Yvon!—Yvon!"  It was the dumb cry
of pain and terror which surged within her so
helplessly, so passionately.  Bound and gagged as she
lay, she could neither move nor cry aloud; and, in
the midst of all her agony, came the fatal intuition
that even now, once again, death would be awaiting
her lover.  Terrible hours those; the limits of human
endurance stretched to their utmost on the rack, not
only of love's fears but the crudest torture of remorse.
Vividly there came before the eyes of Diane de Coray
the picture of her life,—a picture so sad, so melancholy,
so pathetic, that the tears of self-pity and sympathy
splashed down her pale cheeks.

An orphan from earliest youth, she had been left
under the guardianship of a brother little fitted to
govern so tender a maid.  Himself the tool of an
infamous scoundrel, his friends were little likely to
be fitting companions to a young girl of gentle birth;
and so Diane had grown up amidst wild and reckless
surroundings, courted and flattered for her beauty
and sparkling wit by men with whom she should
never have been associated.  For friends of her own
sex she had neither taste nor inclination; and, of the
few she possessed, one had so ill an influence over
her as had successfully placed her in her brother's
power.  Ignorant girl that she was, she had yet
shrunk back appalled from the practice of the black
art of which she was invited to be a devotee; but,
even in escaping from the peril, the smirch of
contamination had sufficiently soiled the whiteness of
her honour to lead her to believe that her brother, if
he chose, might denounce her as a witch.

And so terrible had been the thought, that she
had been willing to accede to any command of his
which would insure his silence.  Brought up to regard
lightly all sorts of treachery, the plan conceived by de
Coray for his own enrichment and revenge struck her
with no pangs of horror, and she had started on her
journey comparatively light of heart.  But all had
fallen out so strangely beyond her expectations.  The
gentle, tender Yvon de Mereac, with his weak,
wavering will, but chivalrous heart, had by degrees
inflamed her with a passion hitherto unknown.
From contempt at first had sprung pity, and, from
pity, love itself; not the calm, sweet love of the
smoothly-flowing stream, but the mad, tumultuous
rush of the mountain torrent, which sweeps aside all
obstructions, and dashing blindly over rocks and
boulders flings itself with exhausted passion into the
deep, still pool below.  The mutual dislike between
Gwennola and herself had risen, on her own part, from
inborn jealousy.  She hated instantly this proud, pure
girl who had never looked on temptations such as had
beset her path, or been lured into such danger as had
nearly ended in her own destruction; and as she met
the glance of the clear, blue eyes it seemed that
Gwennola must read, perforce, her guilty secret.  Yet
she had hardened herself against shame or the first
mysterious whisperings of her own heart.  Goaded by
Gwennola's cold contempt, she had for long continued
to do her brother's will, and it was only the rush of the
last few days' terrible events that had opened her eyes
to the intensity of her passion, and inspired her with
the resolution to save her lover at all risks—ay! even
at the price of her own life; even,—and this was
hardest of all,—even at the risk of losing for ever the
love which had grown so precious a thing.  And
now,—now when she had seen hope burst radiant and
glorious upon the darkness of night—hope, love, and
life itself seemed as suddenly quenched; and all that
she could do was to moan forth short, agonized prayers
for succour, in her despair, to Him Who alone could
still protect the doomed house of Mereac.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXII`:

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   CHAPTER XXII

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The chamber in which Diane de Coray lay had
grown light at last,—light, at least, as the grey dawn
of a November day could make it as it crept through
the narrow slits which served as windows.  Yet there
were shadows everywhere; she could see them as she
moved her weary eyes to look through the opening
where her brother's hand had rudely torn aside the
bed hangings.  Half-fainting with suffocation and the
strain on her over-burdened heart, she felt no throb
of surprise or fear as she saw the feeble light swiftly
blotted out by a dark-robed figure.  Yet, as the figure
moved, coming quickly to her side with a low exclamation
of horror, her senses began to return to her,
and her eyes looked up in joyful recognition to meet
the stern but puzzled glance of Father Ambrose.

"Daughter," said the old man gravely, "what
meaneth this?"

He had severed her bonds and removed the gag,
helping the poor girl, whose limbs at first were cramped
and useless, to raise herself into a sitting posture.

For reply Diane stared vaguely into the troubled
eyes bent upon her; her brain was cramped too with
the long agony of those terrible hours, but at last
comprehension slowly returned as the stinging blood
began once more to circulate in her numbed members.

"How came you hither, father?" she questioned
faintly, staring from her unexpected visitor to the
closely barred door.

"Suffice that I am here," was the enigmatical
reply.  "Yet time presses, daughter, and I must
have an answer to my question.  Alas! it may even
now be too late!"

"Too late?" she echoed, a fresh fear striking its
chill to her heart.  "Nay, tell me, father—he
lives?—he is better?—he will recover?"

"I spake not of Yvon de Mereac," said the priest
in a stifled tone, "but of the pure and innocent
maid, his sister, who hath been condemned falsely
by wicked men, to suffer death at noon; and yet,"
he added slowly, fixing a piercing glance on Diane's
pale face,—"I can see already that there lieth much
behind this.  Speak, maiden, without delay—confess
all thou knowest of this plot, and save thy soul
from the blood of the innocent."

"To die!" whispered Diane slowly; "to die!"

On the instant the whole picture of her guilt
flared before her eyes, and the words of her brother
rang in her ears: "Picture to yourself his rage,
his despair, his agony, when he learns that his sister
perished in innocence, and the woman who dragged
her to the stake, the woman whose warm kisses
were pressed to his lips, whose siren tongue
whispered of faith and devotion, was also the one
to pour into the betrothal cup the deadly drops
that should send the proud bridegroom to keep
festival with Death."

"To die!" she cried again, flinging out her hands
as if in supplication to the priest, who stood there
stern, grave, and immovable.  "To die!—and for
my sin!  Merciful Virgin, Mother of Help! save
her!—save her!—for she is innocent!"

She had sunk on to the ground at the old man's
feet, at the last words, and, clinging to his robe,
sobbed out her terrible confession.  In the remorse
and shame of her agony she hid nothing; and as
he listened, Father Ambrose's stern face relaxed
into a softer expression of pity.

"Daughter," he said gently, as he raised the
weeping girl from the floor, "Daughter, be of good
comfort; to one also who had greatly sinned were
words of pardon spoken for love's sake, and it may
be that repentance hath not come too late.  But,"
he added, his face hardening, "we may not delay;
come, child—see, I will trust thee to play thy part
in the salvation, not only of the innocent, but of
the man whom thou lovest.  Come speedily, for it
may be that that man of blood and treachery,—upon
whose soul shall rest the curse of God and whose
damnation shall be quick,—may come hither to bring
thee food.  But we shall yet escape the snare and
pluck the innocent lamb in time from the cruel
death prepared for her."

As he spoke he was supporting the weeping
Diane across the room, pressing back an unseen
door, cunningly secreted from view in the shape
of a sliding panel, through which he passed, still
guiding her carefully as they descended a winding,
spiral stair which led downwards to another part
of the château.

"Child," he said again softly, as they paused,
close to the tapestry curtain which separated them
from Yvon's room—"child, the way of repentance
is no easy one.  Confession must be made, not
only to God, the Judge of all, but to him whom
thou hast so injured, and against whom thou
plannedst this ill.  I leave to thee this task, so
terrible yet so necessary, weak and sick though he
be, for the sake of one whose life I go to save, if
the will of the Lord and our Lady permit it, as
I well wot shall be, seeing that they ever guard the
innocent from the snares of the evil-doers."

"But it will kill him," moaned Diane; "it will
kill him, father!  Oh! say that I may wait until
he grows stronger,—then I will confess all—yes,
all, even to the uttermost!"

But the priest shook his head.

"Confession must be made without delay," he
said gravely.  "Thou thyself mayest well see the
necessity, daughter; for, weak and sick though he
be, Yvon de Mereac must know the truth of his
sister's innocence, and also the guilt and evil
intentions of the man who hath thus plotted against
his life and who hath but used thee, poor maid,
as his tool.  But delay not, for I may not linger
with the sweet voice of Gwennola calling me to
hasten to her deliverance."

With a sob, Diane yielded to the old man's will,
and with trembling fingers raised the curtain and
entered her lover's room.

He was lying there, still, amongst his cushions;
but even in those few, short hours the change in
the emaciated face was marvellous.  It was no
longer the face of a dying man, drawn, blue-hued,
and pinched with suffering.  Haggard and gaunt
still, yet the eyes which met Diane's were bright
with recognition.

"Diane!  Diane!" he whispered; "fairest love, with
what an aching heart I have awaited thy coming!
She is condemned, Diane—the little Gwennola is
condemned to death; and yet so fair a dream I had of
her but yesternight, for methought she was a child
again, lily-crowned and laughing, and that she ran to
me, crying my name in joy, and, clinging to my neck,
pressed her flowers upon me, saying she had gathered
them for love's sake; and her eyes looked into mine
with so sweet a tenderness that I awoke sobbing,
calling to remembrance that she was a witch who had
striven for my death."

"No witch!" cried Diane, as she knelt, weeping, at
his side; "no witch, Yvon, but pure and innocent as
the child of thy dreams.  Alas! alas! that, for the
sake of thy love for her, thy love for me must die;
and yet I am unworthy of it, unworthy of aught but
thy hatred, thy loathing, and thy scorn!"

"My hatred?" he whispered tenderly, whilst his
feeble hands strayed fondly towards the tresses of her
bowed head.  "My hatred, little Diane?  That could
never be, wert thou—wert thou—ah! all that thou art
not, my sweetest one!"

"Alas! alas! thou knowest not!" sobbed the girl.
"Ah! the bitterness of telling thee, Yvon!  Why
may I not die the sooner, so that I shall not look into
thine eyes and see the scorn and loathing which thou
must needs feel towards a thing so foul?"

"Hush!" he whispered faintly, "thou shalt not say
such words, Diane, my adored."

The very tenderness of his speech, the quiver in his
voice, made the task more terrible; yet it had to be
essayed, and with bowed head and sobbing breath she
faltered it forth.

When it was finished there was silence in the room.
Outside the wind moaned and shrieked; reproachful
voices, they sounded, calling to those within that that
very day innocence was suffering for the guilty.  The
raindrops that splattered against the grey walls
without seemed to be fingers knocking for admittance,
ghostly fingers which mocked and gibed whilst the
wind voices wept and lamented the louder.  And as
she listened, Diane de Coray crouched the lower in a
very agony of self-abasement and remorse, not daring
to look up and find the eyes she had learnt to love so
passionately grow hard and cruel as love died within
them.

"Diane!"

The voice roused her, and in spite of her forebodings
she slowly raised her head.  The face on the
pillows was deathly pale, and the poor lips quivered
piteously in their pain and horror; but the eyes—ah! those
eyes! love was not dead there, but so mortally
wounded that his agony was the more terrible to witness.

"Yvon!  Yvon!" she moaned.  "Ah! why may I
not die?  Why may I not die?  I may not ask thee
to forgive me, but oh! for the sake of our sweet Lady
of Pity, curse me not!"

"Curse thee?" he muttered faintly, "nay, myself
the rather, seeing I love thee still, and as truly as
ever; and yet the little Gwennola——"

A smothered sob choked him, and Diane knew
that though love stood there calling to her with
outstretched arms of forgiveness, there lay between them
the irrevocable shadow of a sister's blood.

"Oh, merciful heavens!" she cried, clasping her
hands, wringing them together in a paroxysm of grief
and entreaty, "grant that they may be in time!"

"In time?" faintly whispered the sick man; "in time?"

"Ay," she sobbed, "ay, Yvon, there is yet a hope,
for Father Ambrose and Alain Fanchonic ride at full
speed to Martigue to proclaim her innocence."

"And—and thou hast told Father Ambrose all?"
he murmured, and the thin hand on the coverlet
strayed once more nearer to the bent figure at his side.

"All—all!" she cried passionately; "for thy sake,
Yvon, for thy sake—and for love's!"

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"For love's sake!"  Yes, that was the goad which
added wings to the good horse's feet as Alain
Fanchonic, with Father Ambrose, seated on a pillion
behind him clasping the stalwart man-at-arm's waist,
rode forth into the tempest which shrieked raging
through the forest.  A wild ride, with the wind
beating in their faces, and dead leaves whirling in
a very hurricane around them; but neither of the
two had thought for wind or weather, for ever before
their eyes stood the slender figure of a young girl
bound to a burning stake with arms outstretched in
pleading, whilst her voice cried to them to hasten to
her aid.  It is true that Alain Fanchonic, grandson
of the old dame upon whom Gwennola so often
bestowed her bounty, had crossed himself in devout
horror when he heard the story of the Brown Friar
and the waxen image; but so severely had his
grandmother upbraided him for his credulity in
believing such slander against one of Heaven's own
angels, that he had lived in a state of doubt and
horror during the few days which had elapsed since
Gwennola's arrest and condemnation.  So that when
Father Ambrose had come to him, telling him to
saddle Barbe, the fleetest mare in the stables, and
ride with him to Martigue to save his mistress and
proclaim her innocence, he had lost little time in
complying, muttering curses and prayers alike, whilst
the tears ran down his brown cheeks as he sprang into
the saddle, and, with the good priest clinging on for
dear life behind, dashed out, across the drawbridge
and away through the forest so madly that surely
Providence only could have upheld the grey mare's
feet as she sped along the narrow, dangerous path.
But not once did she stumble as she galloped swiftly
along, and Father Ambrose felt his heart beat with
joy and gladness as they gradually neared their goal.
Yet not without interruption were they thus to
journey, for, as they rode, they were startled suddenly
by another horseman who leapt unexpectedly on to
the path before them.  It was Guillaume de Coray;
and even as their glances met, the old priest felt a
thrill of wonderment as he saw the traitor's face.  It
was not indeed that of a man who hastens from the
scene of his triumph, and the consummation of his
hopes and plots, but rather that of baffled hatred and
anger.  His fierce gaze met the Benedictine's for
an instant only, as he reined back his horse, which
trembled as it stood there, as if its master had spared
it little in his ride.  Then, even before either had
time to speak, a blast of wind, sweeping through the
forest, brought one of the mighty trees close by to the
ground with a terrific crash.  The noise so near and
so unexpected startled de Coray's horse; rearing on
its hind legs, it pawed the ground in terror, then, with
a snort of fear it leapt forward so wildly as to unseat
its rider, who, flung heavily against one of the trees,
lay senseless and bleeding on the ground.

In a moment Father Ambrose was beside him;
yet, even before he stooped to examine the injured
man's hurts, he paused to address the man-at-arms.

"Ride on with speed, Alain Fanchonic," he cried
authoritatively; "spare not thy steed, but ride for thy
life, or rather for hers whom thou lovest; save thy
mistress, ere it be too late."

Without hesitation, the man plunged his spurs into
the good horse's sides, quickly disappearing amongst
the trees; and Father Ambrose was left alone beside
his unconsious enemy, struck down in the hour of his
vengeance by what, to the simple faith of the priest,
was nothing less than the finger of the Eternal Judge.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXIII`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII

.. vspace:: 2

It was a great day in the little town of Martigue,
for they were out of the world, here on the borders
of the forest of Arteze, and life was inclined to grow
monotonous.  True, there were the festivals and
such-like mild excitements; but they could not bear
comparison with the burning of a witch in the
marketplace.  And she was no ordinary witch, see you,
but a beautiful and high-born demoiselle, whose evil
practices no one had even dreamt of till they had
been brought to light in so wonderful a manner.
And she had murdered her own brother!  Was it to
be conceived?  But it was terrible!—nevertheless,
very interesting.  Some said they did not believe it,
and, that the new Sieur de Mereac was a foul fiend
himself, and Pierre the fool his attendant imp; but
these were only the foolish ones, for had it not been
quickly proved, and beyond all doubt, that this
beautiful young witch had ofttimes attended Satanic
meetings yonder in the forest, and had been seen
dancing with the Brown Friar himself, whilst she and
her dread partner chanted incantations so deadly that
it was a wonder that all in the Château de Mereac
had not fallen under their spell instead of only the
unfortunate young Sieur?

It had been easy work, that condemnation of so
terrible a malefactor; there had been no need of
search or torture to prove the guilt both of mistress
and maid.  Justice moves quickly when there is a
powerful arm behind to arrange the machinery, and
Guillaume de Coray was already looked upon as
Sieur de Mereac, seeing that Yvon was reported to
have died in agonies, shrieking for vengeance against
his guilty sister.  And vengeance he should have; the
good folk of Martigue and Mereac were determined
on that, promising themselves a day's holiday and
enjoyment into the bargain.

That the day itself should be so tempestuous was but
another proof of the witches' guilt and malevolence;
clearly it had been raised by demon power to arrest the
course of justice.  But justice should not be arrested.
Pile high the faggots!—yes! higher,—higher!
Parbleu! what a blaze there would be!—how they would shriek
and curse!—how they would writhe and groan!  The
prospect, appealing to the savagery of ignorant natures,
thrilled all with pleasurable excitement and delight.
Some wondered if the fiend himself would appear to
carry his devotees away; others looked forward to
hearing hideous confessions wrung from writhing lips
by the torture of the flames.  Altogether there were
few to pity two young and beautiful girls who were
going forth to die a cruel death, so fiercely ran the
passions and superstitions of the peasantry of the age.
Yet there were those in the little town whose hearts
beat in the agony of horror and suspense, and whose
eyes were turned, not on the grim spectacle preparing
in the market-place, but upon the wild heath which
stretched away westwards, half hidden by the blinding
rain and wind.

Close to the gates stood Job Alloadec and a small
knot of men of Mereac who were loyal to their
unfortunate young mistress.  Even if the help for which
they looked came not, Gwennola de Mereac and
Marie his sister should not die alone that day in the
market-place,—so Job had sworn, with hands held
fast in the hands of those who promised to stand
side by side with him.  But out yonder, through the
mist and rain, a man rode hastily along the road to
Rennes.  The peasants tramping towards Martigue
wondered amongst themselves as they watched him
gallop by.  It was urgent business, they said one to
another, which sent a man away from Martigue that
day! and therewith they fell afresh to speculations on
what would occur when the witches of Mereac met
their doom.  But on galloped the horseman, with spurs
in his horse's flanks and his mouth tight set as if he
rode on a matter of life and death.  Yes! and life
and death it was to be for some that day in the little
town behind him.

The hour of noon was approaching, already a bell
tolled forth from the church close by, and in the
market-place the people thronged so closely that they
trod one on another in their eagerness to behold.
By the gate Job Alloadec and his men waited, with
an eye towards the market-place as the minutes crept
by.  In their prison cell two girls knelt in prayer.
Marie was weeping, her head resting on her mistress's
shoulder; but Gwennola was calm, a shadowy smile
even seemed to flicker around her mouth as she raised
her face towards the faint light which struggled in
through the narrow slit above them.

The tolling bell, the roar of the crowd, came faintly
to them, and sent fresh shudderings through Marie's
frame.

"Courage, child," whispered Gwennola; "remember
we are innocent, and the Holy Mother will not forsake
us even in this our extremity.  For myself I have
no fears; if death indeed be our lot, grace shall be
sent to strengthen us for the trial, and I will pray to
die as Gwennola de Mereac should die, defying her
accusers to the last.  But I have hope so strong
within my breast that it seemeth I can take little
thought for death.  Dry then those tears, my Marie;
look into my eyes and fear not;—I tell thee it is life,
not death, before us."

But though her foster-sister struggled bravely with
her emotions, sobs of terror still shook her as at
length their prison door was flung open and their
guards appeared.  A yell of fury greeted them as, a
little later, the two unfortunate girls, tightly bound,
were led forth to their doom.  Yet, even as the
outcry died, a fresh and more compassionate murmur
arose from many at sight of the captives.

Innocence indeed seemed written on every lineament
of the faces turned towards their enemies, and men
and women pressed forward with exclamations in
which pity mingled with admiration and indignation
against the sentence about to be executed.  But the
guards around kept back the populace as the victims
were fastened to the stakes prepared for them.  Yet,
even as the executioner stepped forward with lighted
torch, a loud shout arose, the thunder of horses' hoofs
was heard at the gate, and, turning, all beheld a
strong body of soldiery riding at full speed towards
the market-place.

.. _`282`:

"Do your work, knave, and quickly!" shouted a
horseman, who, with his hat drawn closely over his
eyes, had stood close to the centre of the crowd, near
to the stakes.  "Delay not an instant—fire the
faggots!"

Recognising the voice, Gwennola turned, and, from
her awful position looked into the face of Guillaume
de Coray.

"Fire the faggots!" cried he again imperatively to
the man, who stood, with flaming torch, hesitating as
he watched, first the changing faces of the populace, and
then the soldiers who were advancing at a gallop.

"The French! the French are upon us!" shouted a
voice from the crowd, and in an instant panic reigned.
Yet still the guard around the stake drew close, the
executioner still hesitated,—it was not too late.

With white face and furious looks de Coray, whose
swift instinct had told him what the diversion meant,
sprang to the ground and, snatching the brand from
the executioner's hand, rushed forward.  For an
instant he stood opposite his victim, glaring at her
with baffled hatred and malice as he stooped to thrust
the flaming torch into the brushwood piled around
her; but even as it seemed that his purpose was
accomplished, a strong arm intervened, and Job
Alloadec, with an oath, had snatched the torch
from his grasp, and would have hurled de Coray to
the ground had not one of the guard come quickly to
his rescue.  But the opportunity had gone, and de
Coray knew, that, for the present at least, safety lay
only in flight.  He had seen that the French soldiers,
with d'Estrailles at their head, far outnumbered the
soldiers of the town guard; also he had watched the
changing mood of the crowd, and foresaw that their
rage might be quickly turned against him, the
principal witness in procuring the sentence against
the supposed witches.  Therefore with creditable
discretion the gallant knight leapt upon his horse's
back, and by dint of some hard blows and many
curses succeeded in struggling out of the seething
crowd and gaining in safety the shelter of the forest.

But Gwennola had no thought to bestow on her
enemies.  Bound and helpless as she was, she had
caught a glimpse from afar of a bronzed, flushed face
under a raised vizor, had heard the shouts that arose
on all sides, and knew that deliverance had indeed
come.

Job Alloadec was sobbing at her side as he cut the
bonds that bound her still to the cruel stake; whilst,
close at hand, she was aware that Marie was already
in her lover's arms.  In a dazed, half-unconscious
way she wondered why Henri delayed, and even as
she did so she was aware of a tall, knightly form at
her side, felt herself lifted into a close embrace and
heard a voice whispering her name again and again in
her ear: "Gwennola, Gwennola, thou art saved!"

Yes, he had come, this faithful lover—come, by the
Providence of God, in time to save her from the death
which had appeared so inevitable, and even now, as
he held her in his arms, still loomed all too dangerously
near.  The garrison of the little town might indeed
have proved a stubborn foe had it not been for Job
Alloadec's presence at the gate; and d'Estrailles full
well knew the peril he ran in thus snatching reputed
witches from death, and that even his own men might
turn against him for so doing.  But one thing was in
his favour: the peasantry had changed from their
savage mood of the morning, and had welcomed at
first the rescuers.  It was an appeal to the romantic
side of their natures, but an appeal which d'Estrailles
knew would not last.  All too soon their slow
reasoning would put a different complexion on the affair.
That the enemies of their country should thus
summarily snatch from them their lawful prey would
not commend itself to stubborn Breton pride.  The
brief pity which the beauty of their victims had
inspired would fade away as they remembered their
dreaded vocation, and the pleasurable excitement they
had anticipated from their sufferings.  Therefore there
was no time for delay; one brief kiss, one word of
joyous assurance, and Henri d'Estrailles had raised
Gwennola to his horse's back, and swinging himself
into the saddle, turned to force his way back through
the crowd, which already began to murmur as a pack
of hungry wolves may howl when they see their prey
borne from them into safety.  Murmured execrations
on the hated Frenchmen rose to a clamour, which,
however, was partly subdued by the formidable array
which gathered around their leader.  At the gate the
Breton captain of the guard called them to a halt.
He could not understand what had occurred, poor
man, so unexpectedly and so suddenly had this
intervention of justice taken place.  How had it been
possible that the gates had been so readily opened?
Why was it that these French desired to save a witch
from her well-merited punishment?  Altogether the
mind of Captain Maurice d'Yvec was as chaotic as
the crowd behind him.

It was easily explained: the demoiselle and her
woman, whom the French captain carried away, were
no witches; they were falsely accused, as doubtless
monsieur would soon be informed.  In the meantime,
Monsieur d'Estrailles had commands to carry the
demoiselle, and also her woman, to Rennes; surely
Monsieur le Capitaine would raise no objection
when he heard it was the command of Madame la
Duchesse herself.

"Vive la Duchesse!"  That was a cry that these
Breton soldiers could understand.  "Vive la
Duchesse!"—and confusion to her enemies!  Well,
it was a thing most extraordinary that the Duchess
should send enemies as her messengers to rescue
reputed witches from burning; and yet—Captain
Maurice d'Yvec hesitated, but there was a soft
corner in this heart, which was not all of grey Breton
flint-stone, and perchance the beauty of Gwennola
de Mereac had found it out, and perchance also the
gallant captain had no great love for the new Sieur
de Mereac.  Moreover, the Sieur had unaccountably
disappeared; and even did he himself oppose this
fair-speaking, gallant enemy, it was probable that he
and his soldiers would be out-numbered and killed.
So at length the hesitation came to an end, and
Henri d'Estrailles rode out of Martigue with
Gwennola de Mereac clinging to his saddle-bow and
the wild landes before them, where the wind howled
its welcome and the rain beat in their faces as if
laughing at their triumph over its rival element.  But
what cared Henri or Gwennola for wind or rain?
Behind them lay their enemies, vanquished and
overcome, and before them through the mists of wind
and rain shone the sunshine of love and life—love,
life, and each other.

"En avant—to Rennes!" cried d'Estrailles gaily,
as he rode forward with one arm round Gwennola's
slender waist.  "To Rennes!"

"To Rennes!" echoed Jean Marcille, and stooped
with a merry laugh to kiss the rosy lips of little
Marie, which pouted up at him from under the hood
drawn tightly about her face.  "To Rennes, little
sweetheart—where thou and I wilt wed."

"Wed!" whispered Marie coyly, as she nestled
closely to him.  "How knowest thou that, great
foolish one?—perchance I have no mind to wed at
all; and as for wedding *thee*——"  But he did not
allow her to complete her sentence.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXIV`:

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   CHAPTER XXIV

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Back through the vague shadowland of unconsciousness,
back once more to a still vaguer, more terrible
realization of life—life all drawn into one great and
hideous contraction of pain, where thoughts became
at first impossible, till, the mists clearing aside,
recollections of the past claimed fresh tortures of the
mind.  It was so that Guillaume de Coray crept back
once more into conscious existence, to find himself lying
on a couch in a chamber of the Château de Mereac.
What chamber it was his weary brain refused to
realize: all he was aware of was the agony which
shot through his body with the first attempt to move.
Then swiftly came the unerring intuition that this was
death—death, terrible, unrelenting, inexorable, come
to claim him all unready, sin-stained, fear-stricken.
A shudder passed through the quivering, broken body,
which suffered now less than the man's soul.  Clearly
they stood out, those sins,—hideous sins, arraigning
him before the judgment seat of One Whose Eyes
must needs search deep to the heart's core.  Was
it all black within?—all black, irredeemable guilt?
Far back in the secret chambers of his heart there
flickered a feeble light; it was the inner shrine, so
long empty, but filled now with the image, not of
its Creator, but of His creature.  Gabrielle Laurent,
the humble peasant-girl of Arteze—it was she who
alone had found that sanctuary and filled it so
strangely.  Cruel, evil, treacherous to all, his love
for her had been the one pure spot in a shameless
life.  For her sake indeed he might have striven
to become other than he was, had it not been for
the devil-whisper which prompted him to win for her
by foul and wicked means what she, had she known,
would have shrunk from in horror.  So the powers
of evil twist us to their will, and Guillaume had
plotted with no thought for the undoing of his
soul, even whilst he felt stirring within him the
birth of a pure love.  And now——?  Again the
shiver ran through him.  He had played for a high
stake, and he had lost.  Death was the penalty.  In
solitude his lost soul must steal forth to its doom,
and even in so going leave behind it a memory of
shame which should be read in grief and horror by
eyes from which he had striven so carefully to hide
so horrible a story.  What would she think of him
when she knew him for what he was?  What would
she say when she learnt that her noble lover was but
the phantom of her own pure spirit, and that the
thing she had loved was that from which all true and
upright men and women must turn shuddering away?
Even in death the thought tormented him above
all bodily sufferings.  If only he could have explained,—if
only he could have told her that his love at least
was true,—if only he could have had time.  But it
was too late, all too late; never again would he see
her as he had seen her that summer morning, innocent
and beautiful, sitting there in the sunshine beside
her spinning-wheel.  The destiny she might have
woven for him with those tender hands had been
snapped by his own reckless touch, and love, life,
and hope,—that purer life and hope of which he
had vaguely dreamt,—were quenched in the utter
gloom of death and sin.

With a groan his eyelids flickered and unclosed,
staring out into the whirling darkness.  But even
as life seemed rushing from him in a mad agony of
mind and body, a hand was laid on his, and a face
bent close to his twisted, death-distorted one.  Was
it the face of an angel come to taunt him in those
last moments with a glance into the Paradise he
had lost?  Somewhere near he fancied he heard a
low, monotonous voice chanting prayers, but the words
were lost in the tumultuous surgings of his brain.

Then suddenly mental vision and recollection
became clear, with that strange, unearthly clearness
which comes to the dying, and reveals past and
present in the intense, mysterious light of summer
moonlight.  He remembered all, realizing that he
lay a-dying in the great hall of the Château de Mereac.
He realized that he was stretched on a low couch
close to the blaze of the fire, although the heat failed
to warm the chill of his body; as in a dream he saw
Pierre the fool crouched at his feet, sobbing as if in
pain, as he knelt there.  He had often wondered what
had made this strange, uncanny lad evince such
affection to him; he wondered vaguely now as his languid
eyes gazed into the wizened face of the ape, perched
on the boy's shoulder.  Then he became aware that
there were other figures around him; that close by,
gazing down at him in awed and pitying silence, were
his sister and Yvon de Mereac—Yvon de Mereac, the
man whose life he had so often and so vainly sought.
He tried to wonder why he had sought it, tried to
wonder why he looked at him so curiously,—was
he spirit, or flesh and blood?  He had heard that
Yvon was dead, but that had been a lie—his own
lie, perchance; but he was not dead, although he
stood there so gaunt, so pale, so reproachful; he was
alive, and it was he himself who was to die—not
Yvon de Mereac.  The chanting voice of the priest
was clearer now—were those the prayers for the
dying he was saying?  What mockery it was!—prayers
for a lost soul—lost beyond redemption!
Then the hand that held his closed again over his
cold fingers in a warm, strong clasp.  Whose was it?
Once again his eyes fell on that other face which
had floated before his half-conscious gaze.

"Gabrielle!"  It was a cry of anguish, of pleading,
of despair, though it rose little above a whisper.  But
she understood, for there is a language of the soul
which but one other pair of eyes beside our own can
read.

"Guillaume!" she said, and the soft utterance of his
name seemed to stir within him that which he had
thought already dead.

"I love thee," said the eyes that looked into his.
"Yes, I know all, poor, broken, sin-stained soul, and
yet I love thee—for love is of God and changeth
never."

He was looking up into those eyes, reading all
their message of pity and tenderness, till in his own
there dawned something less than despair.

"Thou knowest, Gabrielle?" he whispered, and for
answer she bent, kissing the trembling lips.

How fast rushed the voiceless chaos in his brain!
Whirling faces long dead looked into his as they
passed, voices were crying in his ears of the memories
of old sins; and yet, through the mists and
vanishing forms those tender eyes looked down into
his; and beyond, far away in the distance, a Voice
Which had calmed that other tempest of wind and
waves called softly his name.

A lost soul!—a lost soul!  What use was it to
call?  He had sinned too deeply for aught but
damnation, swift and terrible, damnation to which he
must turn his shuddering eyes as the hand of Death
claimed him.  And yet, those eyes which looked into
his still spoke their message of hope.  She, this angel
of purity and goodness, knew all his guilty secrets,
and yet—she loved him; her kiss of tender love and
forgiveness still lingered on his parched lips.  Was it
then so impossible that he should find a forgiveness
greater than that of earth?  His eyes wandered
involuntarily from the face above him to the pictured
image of a Figure,—a Figure thorn-crowned, suffering,
dying,—a Figure of Love incarnate, with wide-stretched
Arms which seemed to invite him to Their embrace.
The voice of Father Ambrose rose clearer and sweeter,
but it was not the Latin prayers which held the dying
man's attention, but a Voice, more sweet, more clear
than all, which seemed to soothe the tempest of his
soul.

Then with a lightning flash another memory stole
upon him.  Gwennola de Mereac,—the girl he had
tried to wrong more cruelly than he had her brother,
the innocent girl who perhaps had already suffered
the last agony of death through his sin and treachery.

"Gwennola?" he whispered faintly, and the peace
which had stolen over him seemed for the moment
shaken to its foundation as he listened for the answer.

It was Diane who replied.  Slipping from Yvon's
side, she knelt beside him, looking gladly into his eyes.

"She is safe," she whispered, with a happy sob.
which told the tale of the great joy that deliverance
had brought to her; "she is safe!"

Guillaume de Coray's eyes closed.  Yes! she was
safe, and the golden gates of mercy which he had
fancied to see slowly opening were not shut against
him by reason of this deadly sin.  And so the
mocking, cruel voices sank slowly to rest—those
voices which cried in his ears that terrible sentence
of eternal death.  And though the bodily pains grew
ever more agonizing, he could smile once more into
the beautiful face so close to his.

"Forgiven?" he whispered in a faint, yet awestruck
tone, whilst with a last effort he strove to clasp his
hands in prayer.  "Forgiven?"

He saw her lips move in prayer too, as together
they turned to look towards the great crucifix Father
Ambrose held aloft.  It was growing dark to the
dying man—dark and cold; he did not hear the
words of absolution which freed his penitent soul
from its load of sin; he did not feel the purifying
touch of the holy oil.  All he saw was the bowed
Head of a crucified Saviour; all he heard was the
voice of the woman he had loved with so strange and
passionate a devotion, as into the Unknown his soul
passed forth, with the echo of her words to guide him
on his last journey.

"For love's sake, my Guillaume,—for love's sake!"





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.. _`CHAPTER XXV`:

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   CHAPTER XXV

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Dark and gloomy had been those November days to
the young Duchess of Brittany.  Her defiant reply
to her over-bearing Suzerain had brought the banners
of France within the sight of the castle walls of her
town of Rennes, and great had been not only the
terror of Anne herself, but apparently that of her
councillors and ladies.

But Charles had seemed strangely disinclined to
show any hostilities, but instead had sent a deputation
proposing a treaty.  To this Anne had perforce to
agree, and at the dictation of the King twelve persons
were appointed on each side to examine the claims
each had on the duchy of Brittany.  Meanwhile, the
city of Rennes was placed in sequestration, in the
hands of the Dukes of Orleans and Bourbon, to be
governed for the time by the Prince of Orange.
The King, on this being agreed to, promised to
withdraw his troops, and allow passage and safe
conduct to the Duchess and ambassadors of Maximilian
to Germany, where she might join the husband who
had been too impecunious to come in person for his
bride.

All arrangements having been thus settled,
the King had ordered his troops to retire from
Brittany, and had, it was reported, himself returned
to Touraine, whilst the Duke of Orleans, as
Ambassador-Extraordinary, was despatched to the
Duchess to confirm the treaty and compliment her
on its conclusion.

Whilst these events of historical interest were
occupying the minds of the chief actors in the destiny
of Brittany, the lesser destinies of Gwennola de
Mereac and Henri d'Estrailles were trembling in the
balances.

To ride with his rescued bride to his château by
the Loire was the first impulse of the young knight;
but there is a power stronger even than, love, and
duty called him inexorably to his master's side.
The Count Dunois was not a man lightly to be
disobeyed, and Dunois had bidden him take the
Demoiselle de Mereac, if he succeeded in saving her
from her threatened fate, to be placed under the care
of the Duchess Anne.  That in so doing Dunois
had his own schemes at work, d'Estrailles did not
doubt, for Dunois was one to hold carefully in his
hand every thread of the slenderest fibre which
might further the weaving of his darling scheme.
Debarred by his enormous bulk from following in
the warlike footsteps of his gallant father, there was
no man in the kingdom of more service to Charles
than François Dunois, Comte de Longueville, and
for the present the heart of Dunois was set upon
the uniting of his royal master to the heiress of
Brittany, or, in other words, the binding of the
refractory duchy by indissoluble bonds to its parent
kingdom.

Anne had indeed welcomed to her persecuted little
court one whose perils and misfortunes had been, in
a different manner, even greater than her own.  In
former years Gwennola de Mereac had ofttimes stayed
with her father and brother at the court of Francis II.,
and the little Anne had learnt to know and love the
playmate who was scarcely three years her senior.
Therefore it was with ready and sympathetic ears
that she listened to Gwennola's tale of her
misfortunes, and promised that when her own affairs
gave her leisure she would not spare trouble in
clearing her fair subject's fame and bringing to justice
the wrongdoers, little knowing that justice had
already been administered by a higher Power than
even the Duchess of Brittany's.

But the kindly and generous protection of Anne
meant for a time separation from her lover, and
bitter such separation must needs be, seeing that
neither knew when they should again meet; and
Gwennola readily mingled her tears with those of
the disconsolate Marie, who wept unrestrainedly at
the thought of parting from the faithful Marcille.
But duty was imperative, and it needs had to be that
Henri d'Estrailles and Jean Marcille must follow the
retreating lilies of France, vowing to return as soon
as it should be possible.

The possibility came sooner, indeed, than it was
expected, seeing that Henri d'Estrailles, to his
infinite delight, was chosen to accompany the
Duke of Orleans himself on his mission to Rennes.
Yet another disappointment awaited him, for, to
his surprise, he was bidden to remain outside the
city walls whilst Louis proceeded alone to his
interview.

The Duchess Anne received her Ambassador but
coldly, with all the proud haughtiness of one who
feels herself to have been treated unjustly and
tyrannically.  Whatever her feelings were, when
Louis of Orleans, apparently ignoring the fact that
he had once pleaded his own cause into the same
ears, urged with all the persuasive eloquence of which
he was so complete a master that she should yield to
the King's desire and the wishes of her most trusted
councillors in becoming Queen of France, she was
outwardly the same cold, inflexible girl who had
refused to listen to the pleadings of Dunois and
others, finally referring him, with a lofty and
indifferent air, to her council, "who," she informed
him, "were acquainted with her pleasure."

Seemingly defeated, Louis of Orleans quitted the
presence chamber, but not before humbly begging, as
a special favour, that his young attendant might have
speech with his mistress, the Demoiselle de Mereac.
The request was granted, and Louis went on his way
more elated than apparently his audience had given
him cause for.

That evening two interviews took place in the old
Castle of Rennes, one of which only is recorded in
history, and even that in so vague a way as to leave
its purport and sequel shrouded for ever in mystery.
Henri d'Estrailles did not enter the castle gates
alone; neither was his companion, whose face was
partly concealed by a cloak, the faithful Jean, for
whose coming the little Marie looked in vain.  And
so it chanced that all unexpectedly there appeared
before Anne the man whom she had pictured as a
monster of cruelty—the man whom she had fondly
thought to be in far-off Touraine.  It was indeed
Charles himself, the gentle, kindly king whom his
people had nicknamed "le Petit Roy."  Not perhaps
the ideal lover to woo a beautiful but refractory
maiden.  Handsome, Charles was certainly not.  His
head was large,—as was also his aquiline nose,—with
large, prominent eyes, round dimpled chin, thin flat
lips, compressed body and long, thin legs; whilst his
slow speech, nervous movements, and constantly open
mouth added to his appearance of foolishness.  His
great charm, however, lay in a singularly sweet voice
and an expression of gentle amiability which appealed
instantly to the generous side of those around him.
Such was the royal wooer, the very opposite indeed
of the bride he so vainly sought.  Scarcely more than
a child in years, Anne had already proved herself
of a high-spirited, resolute disposition.  In outward
appearance she was undoubtedly beautiful, with
black eyes, well-marked brows, dazzling complexion,
dimpled chin, long, black hair, and fine features.  Her
carriage was majestic in spite of a slight lameness,
and her manner somewhat haughty; but in spite of
her pride and love of vengeance, she had many fine
and noble qualities, being generous, truthful, and
faithful to her friends.

Of what passed during that secret interview little
has ever transpired; but it would seem that though
Anne may have been softened to kindlier feelings
towards the man she had formerly hated, she still
remained firm in adhering to her resolution in
considering her marriage to Maximilian binding, and
Charles, perforce, had to retire as unsuccessful as
his ambassadors.  But the King did not go far; his
friends in Rennes were many and powerful, or
assuredly he would never have so dared to enter a
hostile city practically alone and in disguise.

Meanwhile, the second interview was fraught with
more happiness.  There was so much that Gwennola
had to tell—so much of joy and gladness, for a
messenger had arrived from Mereac itself, a messenger
who was no other than the faithful Job, who had
watched his young mistress ride away through the
mists and rain on that winter's day, across the
wind-swept landes—away from the dangers and perils which
had surrounded her, into safety.  And yet the faithful
Breton had sometimes misdoubted even that safety,
for his jealous heart had rebelled against the fact that
the protectors who surrounded her were Frenchmen—for
it takes long to convince the obstinate nature of
the Breton, whose ideas travel slowly, and all his
life Job Alloadec had read "Frenchman" as
"enemy."  Therefore he had been glad enough to carry Father
Ambrose's messages and letter to his mistress, and
see how it fared with her and his sister, and whether
they were truly safe under the protection of the
Duchess.  But the coming of Job was of less import
to Gwennola than the good news he brought.  Her
innocence was proved.  Diane had confessed, and
the guilty brain that had planned all the evil against
her and her brother was still for ever from such plots.
Then, too, her brother was better,—far better; and
though the betrothal between him and Diane de
Coray had been cemented afresh by new bonds of
a deeper and truer devotion, still there was no more
to fear from such a love.  Indeed, as Father Ambrose
said, the unfortunate girl seemed only too eager to
make reparation for the past and plead forgiveness
from those she had injured.  And so it had come to
pass that, owing greatly to her influence, Yvon had
given his sanction to his sister's marriage with Henri
d'Estrailles.

How happy were the lovers as they sat together
whispering of what joy and happiness this good news
brought to them both!  Yes, the dream was near to
realization now; the tempest was past, and the
sunshine shone across the path of youth and love without
the shadow of a cloud between.  But when would the
time come when they should ride together, as they
had so often done in fancy, and see the grey walls
of the Château d'Estrailles rise close to the laughing
waters of the Loire?  Ah! when?  Perhaps even
sooner than she thought—it was possible.  Only,
there was one word of whispered counsel for her
ears ere he bade her farewell: should the Duchess
claim her attendance for a sudden and unexpected
journey, she must not hesitate to comply, strange
as it might seem;—that was all that he might
say.  And so, with fresh vows of love, they parted,
though Gwennola little guessed that neither lover
nor cloaked attendant went so far that night as the
city walls.

A deputation of her councillors waited the following
morning upon the young Duchess.  It would seem
that they were filled with anxiety; in fact, truly a
new danger appeared to have arisen.  That they
were cognizant to the secret interview of the night
before they made no attempt to hide, pleading that
in their Duchess's interests they had permitted it to
take place.  Finding her inexorable with regard to
the French marriage, they apparently yielded to her
wishes, yet urged her, by reason of the dangers of her
position, to make at least a compromise.  Charles
was set upon a betrothal, by some means or other;
and the councillors hinted that there would be small
scruple in taking by force what was not yielded to
request.  He had sworn to make Anne his bride.
The armies of France were at no great distance;
Maximilian was far away.  What they would suggest
was that Anne should in fair seeming yield acquiescence
to the importunities of the King and allow herself to
be secretly betrothed.  Then, his suspicions lulled to
rest, Anne would, with the greater ease, escape from
her town and fly with a small retinue, including the
ambassadors of Maximilian, to her husband's
protection.  Such craft and duplicity were little suited
to Anne's straightforward nature; but, beset as she
was with enemies and difficulties, she yielded at
length, and that very night, in the utmost secrecy,
was celebrated in the church of Notre Dame, this
strange and romantic betrothal of the King of
France to the Duchess of Brittany, witnessed by
the Duchess of Bourbon, the Count Dunois, Philippe
de Montauban, and Louis of Orleans, who thus saw
consummated the match he had both desired and
dreaded.

The betrothal over, Anne retired in haste to her
castle, with scant ceremony, there to await the
development of events promised her so glibly by
her Chancellor and council.

All had impressed on the young Duchess the strict
necessity of making her flight secret—so secret,
indeed, that it had been communicated to no one;
in fact, the Chancellor told her that the ambassadors
themselves would only be acquainted with her plans
at the last moment.

In due time, however, the hour arrived, and,
attended by Gwennola de Mereac, Marie Alloadec, and
Madame de Laval, her gouvernante, Anne stole from
her castle to commence a journey which she could
not but foresee would be both arduous and dangerous;
and yet we are told, in minute detail, that the
Duchess's travelling dress was of cloth of velvet,
trimmed with one hundred and thirty-two sable
skins, whilst her palfrey was adorned with three ells
of crimson velvet!

But who can tell the anger and terror of this
unfortunate girl, to find how craftily she had been
duped, and how, instead of the ambassadors of
Maximilian, the man who rode at her bridle rein,
so closely cloaked and disguised, was no other than
King Charles himself!

Morning had broken when the Duchess made the
fatal discovery and perceived how hopeless was her
case.  To return, to explain, would be useless.  The
midnight betrothal, taken in conjunction with the
secret flight, would appear in a light impossible to
explain away to the outraged ambassadors of the
husband to whom she had thought to go.  To the
high-spirited Anne even death itself were better than
dishonour, and surely to return to Rennes after such
an adventure would give rise to countless surmises
and ill talking.  Moreover, by her side rode one who
could well plead his own cause; and though she
wept and upbraided both him and the Breton nobles
who surrounded her, Anne perforce had to yield to
the exigencies of her position.  And so forward
they rode, a strange bridal party: a weeping bride,
and a groom divided, perchance, 'twixt shame and
triumph; whilst behind them came the men who
had betrayed their mistress for the sake of their
country—or for some more ulterior motive, amongst
them being the Chancellor de Montauban, the Sieur
de Pontbrient, and the Grand-Master Coetquen.  A
strange party indeed, but four at least of the company
heeded it little.  Close by the bridle of Gwennola
de Mereac rode Henri d'Estrailles, whilst in the
background Jean Marcille had already discovered
the bright eyes of Marie Alloadec.

The clear, chill dawn of a December day was
breaking in the east, as in the distance rose the grey
turrets of Langeais, where Anne of Brittany was
to become Queen of France.

"Touraine!  Touraine!" whispered Henri d'Estrailles,
as he bent his dark, handsome face down to meet
the fair, flushed one so close beside him.  "Welcome,
my bride, welcome home!"

The sun rose high, illuminating a cold and cheerless
world.  Before them lay France and happiness; but
above all, shining cloudless and imperishable in their
hearts, rose the star of love.  It was surely her
welcome to his heart that Henri d'Estrailles whispered
as their lips met in a lingering kiss.

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   Printed at The Mercat Press, Edinburgh

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   *BY THE SAME AUTHOR*

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   Henry of Navarre

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   A Romance

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   BY

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   May Wynne

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"HENRY of NAVARRE" is a swinging
and thrilling story of the

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   MASSACRE OF ST BARTHOLOMEW

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and is founded on the play by William
Devereux, PRODUCED WITH GREAT
SUCCESS by

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**Little France**.  By Cyrus T. Brady

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**Workers in Darkness**.  By J. B. Harris Burland,
author of "The Financier"

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**Henry of Navarre**.  By May Wynne, author of
"A Maid of Brittany," etc.

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**Semiramis**.  By Edward Peple, author of "The
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the Brazen"

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**The Hoverers**.  By Lucas Cleeve, author of
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**A Maid of Honour**.  The Story of a Losing
Hazard, by Robert Aitken, author of "The
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**The Sin of the Duchess**.  By Houghton Townley,
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**Rose Campion's Platonic**.  By Adam Lilburn

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**In the Days of Marlborough**.  By Geo. Long,
author of "Fortune's Wheel," etc.  (Illustrated)

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**In the Shadow of the Peaks**.  By Stata B. Couch

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**A Bachelor's Love Story**.  By Anthony Grimm

.. vspace:: 1

**Love in a Maze**.  By Briton Lambert

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**The Artificial Girl**.  By R. W. Cole



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**The Emperor's Candlesticks**  By BARONESS ORCZY

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**Seen and Unseen**  By E. KATHERINE BATES

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**A Maid of Brittany**  By MAY WYNNE

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**The Degradation of Geoffrey Alwith**  By MORLEY ROBERTS

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   ROMANCES BY

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A Maid of Brittany

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A stirring romance of the Fifteenth Century.

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"It is an exciting tale, and is the sort of book
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Let Erin Remember

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A Dramatic Irish romance.

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"An attractive romance which deserves a
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When Terror Ruled

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A thrilling story of the French Revolution.

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