Yet, how went the gypsy's song,—the one we had heard him sing at Godeau's inn, by the forest road?

"But, ah, the sadness of the day When woman shows her treason! And, oh, the price we have to pay For joys that have their season! Her look of love is but a mask For plots that she is weaving. Alas, for those who fondly bask In smiles that are deceiving!"

Might this, then, be true of any woman? So many men had found it out. The eyes of so many had been opened at last. Was I still a fool, had I learned so little of women, had my experience with Mile. d'Arency taught me only to beware of women outwardly like her, did I need a separate lesson for each different woman on whom I might set my heart? Was it my peculiar lot to be twice deceived in the same way?

And yet, how her eyes had moistened in dwelling on mine, how they had dropped before my look, how she had yielded to my embrace, how she had stood still and unresisting in my arms! No, no, they were wrong! De Berquin had lied, Blaise and Frojac were stolid fools, capable of making only the most obvious inference, and I was a contemptible wretch to falter in my faith in her for an instant! She was the victim of a set of circumstances. She had reason for her hasty departure, she would make all clear in a few words. On, on, my horse, that I may hear those words, that my heart may rejoice! How soon shall we come up to her? How far ahead is she? How near to Clochonne? On! She is true, I know it. On! It may be even for my sake that she is endangering herself. On, that I may be at her side to shield her! On, for of late I have passed all the hours of the day with her, all the nights near her, her presence has been the breath of life to me, it is a new and unwonted and intolerable thing to be away from her, and I madly thirst and hunger for the sight of her! On, good horse!

Yet, torturing thought, how the story explained all that had seemed strange! How it fitted so many facts! At the inn at Fleurier we had overheard the plan suggested by Montignac for my capture, the employment of a spy who was to find my hiding place, send word of it, then plan an ambush for me. Then the lady had come to the inn. Perhaps she was one who had already some kind of relations with the governor and had now come purposely to meet him. What had passed between her and the governor we had not overheard. It might easily have been the proposal by him, and the acceptance by her, of the mission against me. Such a task might better be entrusted to a woman. Catherine herself had employed women to entrap men who would have been on their guard against men. Certain Huguenot gentlemen had been especially susceptible to the charms of her accomplished decoys. Then the governor and his secretary had gone, and the latter had reappeared with De Berquin. It might really be that this woman, whether she were Mlle. de Varion, or whether she merely took that name in order to get my confidence without having to make the risky pretence of being a Protestant, was desired by Montignac and yet disliked him, and that De Berquin had been hired indeed to hold her forcibly for the secretary after she had accomplished her mission. But her ingenuous signs of a tender feeling for me? A device to blind me and win my trust, and so, through me, get the confidence of my supposed friend, La Tournoire. Her grief on the journey? Mere pretence, in order to bear out her story and enlist my sympathy. Her periods of silence and meditation? She was thinking out the details of her plot. Her questions about La Tournoire? A means of learning what manner of man she would have to deal with, and of finding out his hiding-place at a time when it would be easiest to despatch her boy with a description of it to the governor. Her desire to know how great was my friendship for La Tournoire? This arose perhaps from a thought that I might be won over to her purpose, perhaps from a fear that I might some day avenge his betrayal. The barrier that, she said, lay between us? A pretext to get rid of me as soon as I might be, not only useless to her, but also in the way of her designs against La Tournoire. Her strange agitation? A mask to cover the real excitement that one in her position must have felt. Her aspect of horror at the disclosure that I was La Tournoire? This may have been real, coming from a fear that she might have betrayed herself by the curiosity she had shown about me, that the eyes of La Tournoire must be keener than those of the light-hearted man she had taken me to be, that I had dissembled to her as well as to De Berquin, that I had been playing with her from the first. After she knew me to be La Tournoire, and was assured that I did not suspect her, she no more spoke of my going from her. What was her weakness of body at Maury but a pretext for delay, that the governor might have time to come to Clochonne and the project of the ambush be carried out? She had forged chains of love to hold me where she was. Her coyness but kept those chains the stronger, her postponement of the surrender made it the more impossible for me to leave her side. Who can go from the woman he loves while his fate is uncertain? If she had made no show of love, I could have left her. If she had confessed her love in words, and promised to be my own, I could have endured to leave her for a time. How well she knew men! How well she had maintained just that appearance which kept my thoughts on her night and day, which made me unwilling to lose sight of her, and which would have made me instantly responsive to any summons that she might have sent me from any part of the forest!

So, then, there were two sides, two appearances, to this woman. The one, the good side, that which I had seen, that which had been the joy of my life, was not real, was but a seeming, had no existence but in pretence. The other, the wicked side, was the real one, was the actual woman. I had never known her. What I had known was but an assumption; it had no being. Was this credible? Could a bad woman so delude one with an angelic pretence, so conceal her wicked self? If so, to what depths of vileness might she not be capable of descending? Was it, then, not that I had lost my beloved, but that she had never existed? At thought of it, I felt a sickness within, a weakness, a choking, a giving way. And then her image came before me again, as she had stood in the moonlit garden, and my beloved was born again. The woman I had known was the real one. I had done her incredible wrong to have thought otherwise. But whether good or bad, whether or not my betrayer, I loved her; I longed for her; I would see her face; I would clasp her in my arms; I would claim her as my own; I would hold her against her own will and the world's. On, my horse, on! Where is she now, what has befallen her, how soon shall my heart bound at sight of her before me in the night? On! Whether she lead me to heaven or to hell, I must be with her; I cannot wait!

Presently we came to the abode of Godeau and Marianne, where the forest path runs into the old road across the mountains. We had to check our speed here, on account of the thick growth of vegetation that served to mask the forest path from travellers on the road. We emerged from this, and turned the heads of our horses towards Clochonne.

The door of the inn opened, and Marianne came forth. She had been watching.

"Monsieur," she said, "I did not know whether to come to you or not. I have been keeping my eyes and ears open for any of the governor's troops."

"But you have seen or heard none," I answered, impatiently.

"None, monsieur. But some one has ridden by, towards Clochonne—the lady!"

I knew from her tone that she saw in Mademoiselle's flight alone sufficient reason for suspicion of mademoiselle and for alarm on my own part. She, too, thought mademoiselle guilty, myself duped. I first thought to pretend that mademoiselle's departure was a thing agreed on by her and me, but it was no time to value the opinion of a peasant.

"On, Frojac!" I said, and on we went. We could make better speed now, for the road, though little used and in bad condition, was continuous and, unlike the forest path, comparatively free of intrusive vegetation. It was hard, too, for the weather had been dry for a long time. The loud clatter of the horses' hoofs was some relief to my eager heart.

There is a place where this road passes near the verge of a precipice, which, like that at Maury, falls sheer to the road along the River Creuse from Clochonne to Narjec. But, unlike that at Maury, this declivity is bare of trees.

We were galloping steadily on and were approaching this place in the road. Frojac was now riding at my side, as there was room for two horsemen to go abreast.

"Hark!" said Frojac, suddenly. "Do you hear something?"

I heard the sounds made by our riding, but no other.

"Horsemen," he went on. "And men afoot, on the march!"

"Where?" I asked. We continued to gallop forward.

"Ahead," he answered. "Don't you hear, monsieur?"

I listened. Yes, there was the far-off sound of many shod feet striking hard earth.

"It is ahead," said I.

"A body of troops," said Frojac.

"Then we may catch up with them."

"Or meet them. Perhaps they are coming this way."

"Troops on a night march!" said I.

Frojac looked at me. I saw written on his face the same thought that he saw on mine.

"Whose else could they be?" he said. "And for what other purpose?"

Had Monsieur de la Chatre, then, chosen this night for a surprise and attack on me at Maury? If he knew my hiding-place, why should he not have done so? The idea of the ambush, then, had been abandoned? Perhaps, indeed, the plan that I had overheard Montignac outline to La Chatre had been greatly modified. Had mademoiselle, if she were in truth the governor's agent, known of this night attack, if it were in truth a night attack against me? Had she fled in order to avoid the shame or the danger of being present at my capture? These and many other questions rushed through my mind.

"What shall we do?" asked Frojac, after a time.

"Go on," said I.

"But if we meet them, and they are La Chatre's men, I fear that our chances of catching up with the lady will be small."

"But, after all, we do not know who they are. If they are coming this way, they must have met her by this time. Perhaps they have stopped her? Who knows? I must follow her."

"But now it seems that the sound comes more from the north. They are certainly coming nearer. They may be on the river road. We can see by going to the edge of the precipice and looking down."

"We should lose time."

"'Tis but a little way out of the road. This is where the road is nearest to the edge."

It might, indeed, be to my advantage to learn at once whether the troops were in the road in front of us or in the road at the foot of the mountain. So I fought down my impatience, and we turned from the road towards the precipice. There was little underbrush here to hinder us, and in a very short time we reined in our horses and looked down on the vast stretch of moonlit country below.

At the very foot of the steep was the road that runs from Clochonne to Narjec. And there, moving from the former towards the latter, went a troop of horsemen, followed by a foot company of arquebusiers. They trailed along, like a huge dark worm on the yellow way, following the turns of the road. Seen from above, their figures were shortened and looked squat.

I looked among the horsemen.

"I cannot see La Chatre," said I.

"But some of these are his men," said Frojac, "for I see my old comrade. He knew nothing today of this march. I see most of the men of the Clochonne garrison. I wonder what use they expect to make of their horses if they intend to approach Maury from the river road."

I recalled now the exact words in which I had indicated to mademoiselle the location of my hiding-place. I had said that it might be reached by turning up the wooded hill from the river road, at the rock shaped like a throne. Was it, indeed, in accordance with directions communicated to La Chatre by her that they were now proceeding?

"If they are bound for Maury," said I, "they have hit on a good time. Blaise and the men will have left there long before they arrive. Come, Frojac, we lose precious minutes!"

"One thing is good, monsieur," said Frojac, as our horses resumed their gallop towards Clochonne. "If we do have to follow the lady all the way to Clochonne, we shall not find many soldiers there when we arrive. Nearly all of La Chatre's men and the garrison troops are down there on the river road, marching further from Clochonne every minute."

Alas, it was not then of troops to be encountered that I thought! It was of what disclosure might be awaiting me concerning mademoiselle. Would she admit her guilt or demonstrate her innocence? Would she prove to be that other woman, or the one I had known? Would she laugh or weep, be brazen or overwhelmed? How would she face me? That was my only thought. Let me dare death a thousand times over, only to know the truth,—nay, only to see her again!

So we sped forward on the road, which, by its length and its windings, makes a gradual descent of the northern slope of the wooded ridge. At last we came to the foot of the steep, emerged from the forest, turned northward, and then saw before us, a little to the right, the sleeping town of Clochonne. At the further end of that, on an eminence commanding the river, stood the chateau, looking inaccessible and impregnable.

I thought of the day when I had first seen the chateau, the day when we had come over the mountains from the south, and Frojac had pointed out to me where it stood in the distance. That was before I had met mademoiselle or knew that she was in the world. Little had I thought that ever I should be hastening madly towards that chateau in the night on such an errand or in such turmoil of heart!

We came to the point where the road by which we had come converges with two others. One of these, joining from the right, also comes from the south, and is, in fact, the new road across the mountains. The other, joining from the left, is the road from Narjec, the one which runs along the river and the base of the hills. It is this one which passes the throne-shaped rock beneath Maury, and on which we had seen the troops. Had we, coming from the mountains, reached this spot before the troops coming from Clochonne reached it, we should have met them; but they had passed this spot long before we had seen them from the height.

Blaise and the men, whom I had ordered to follow me, would nave left Maury soon after I had. Certainly they would not be there when the governor's troops should arrive. Coming by the road that I had used, Blaise would not meet the governor's men on their way to Maury. But the road by the river was much the shorter. The governor's men, on discovering Maury deserted, might return immediately to Clochonne. They might reach this spot before Blaise's men did, or about the same time. Then there would be fighting.

These thoughts came into my mind at sight of the converging roads, not as matters of concern to me, but as mere casual observations. There was matter of greater moment to claim my anxiety. As to what might be the end of this night, as to what might occur after my meeting with mademoiselle, as to what might befall Blaise and my men, I had no thought.

And now, turning slightly northeastward, the road lay straight before us, between the town wall and the river, up an incline, to the gate of the chateau. This gate opens directly from the courtyard of the chateau to the road outside the town wall. The chateau has a gate elsewhere, which opens to the town, within the town wall.

The road ascended straight before us, I say, and on that road, making for the chateau gate, was a horse, and on the horse a woman. She leaned forward, urging the horse on. Over her shoulders was a mantle, a small cap was on her head. Her hair streamed out behind her as she rode. My heart gave a great bound.

"Look, Frojac! It is she!"

"We cannot catch her. She is too near the chateau."

"She will be detained at the gate."

"If she is the governor's agent, she will know what word to give the guards. They will have orders to admit her, day or night. One who goes on such business may be expected at any hour."

The manner of her reception at the gate, then, would disclose the truth. If she were admitted without parley, it would be evident that she was in the governor's service. My heart sank. Those who ride so fast towards closed gates, at such an hour, expect the gates to let them in.

"Mademoiselle!" I called.

But my voice was hoarse. I had no command over it. I could not give it volume. She made no sign. It was evident that she had not heard it. She did not seem to know that she was pursued. She did not look back. Was she so absorbed in her own thoughts, in her desire to reach her destination, that she was conscious of nothing else?

Frojac was right. She was already too near the chateau for us to overtake her before she arrived at the gate. We could but force our panting horses to their best, and keep our eyes on her. The moon was now in the west, and there was no object on the western side of the road to make a shadow. So we did not once lose sight of her. She approached the chateau gate without diminution of speed; it looked as if she heeded it not, or expected the horse to leap it.

"Even if they do admit her promptly," said I, "it will take a little time to lower the bridge over the ditch. We may then come up to her."

"Can you not see?" said Frojac. "The bridge is already down."

So it was. The troops had, doubtless, departed by this gate; the bridge, let down for their departure, was still down, doubtless for their return. The guards left at the chateau were, certainly, on the alert for this return. In the event of any hostile force appearing in the meantime, they could raise the bridge; but such an event was most unlikely. The only hostile force in the vicinity was my own company. It is thus that I accounted for the fact that the bridge was down.

Right up to the gate she rode, the horse coming to a quick stop on the bridge at the moment when it looked as if he were about to dash his head against the gate.

With straining ears I listened, as I rode on towards her.

She called out. I could hear her voice, but could not make out her words. For some time she sat on her horse waiting, watching the gate before her. I was surprised that she did not hear the clatter of our horses and look around. Then she called again. I heard an answer from the other side of the gate, and then the way was opened. She rode at once into the courtyard.

We pressed on, Frojac and I, myself knowing not what was to come, he content to follow me and face whatever might arise. The immediate thing was to reach the chateau, as mademoiselle had done. Some means must be found for getting entrance, for now that mademoiselle was inside, I looked to see the gate fall into place at once.

But we beheld the unexpected. The gate remained open. No guard appeared in the opening. We galloped up the hill, over the bridge, into the courtyard. Nothing hindered us. What did it mean?

We stopped our horses and dismounted. There in the courtyard stood mademoiselle's horse, trembling and panting, but mademoiselle herself had disappeared. Before us was an open door, doubtless the principal entrance to the chateau. Mademoiselle had probably gone that way.

"Come, Frojac!" said I, and started for this door.

But at that instant we heard rough exclamations and hasty steps behind us. We turned and drew sword. From the guard-house by the gate, where they must have been gambling or drinking or sleeping, or otherwise neglecting their duty, came four men, who seemed utterly astonished at sight of us.

"Name of the Virgin!" cried one. "The gate open! Where is Lavigue? He has left his post! Who are you?"

"Enemies! Down with La Chatre!" I answered, seeing in a flash that an attempt to fool them might be vain and would take time. A quick fight was the thing to serve me best, for these men had been taken by surprise, and two of them had only halberds, one had a sword, the fourth had an arquebus but his match was out.

It was the man with the sword who had spoken. He it was who now spoke again:

"Enemies? Prisoners, then! Yield!"

And he rushed up to us, accompanied by the halberdiers, while the arquebusier ran to light his match at a torch in the guard-house.

Never was anything so expeditiously done. The leader knew nothing of fine sword work. I had my point through his lungs before the halberdiers came up. While I was pulling it out, one of the halberdiers aimed a blow at me, and the other threatened Frojac. My follower dodged the thrust meant for him, and at the same instant laid low, with a wound in the side, the fellow who was aiming at me. Thus one of the halberdiers followed the swordsman to earth instantly. The second halberdier recovered himself, and made to attack Frojac again, but I caught his weapon in my left hand, and so held it, while Frojac ran towards the arquebusier, who was now coming from the guard-house with lighted match. The halberdier, whose weapon I now grasped in one hand, while I held my sword in the other, took fright, let his weapon go, and ran from the courtyard through the open gateway. The arquebusier tried to bring his weapon to bear on Frojac, but Frojac dropped on his knees and, thrusting from below, ran his sword into the man's belly. The man fell with a groan, dropping his weapon and his match.

I looked around. The courtyard was empty. Were these four, then, the only soldiers that had been left to guard the chateau? No, for these four had been surprised to find the gate open. Some one else must have opened the gate for mademoiselle. Moreover, the swordsman had spoken of a Lavigue. "Take the arquebus and the match, Frojac," said I, "and come. There is nothing to be done here at present."

He obeyed me, and we returned to the door of the chateau. Just as we were about to enter, I heard steps as of one coming down a staircase within. Then a man came out. He was a common soldier and he carried a halberd. At sight of us he stopped, and stood in the greatest astonishment. Then he looked towards the gate. His expression became one of the utmost consternation.

A thought came to me. I recalled what the swordsman said.

"You are Lavigue?" said I to the soldier.

"Yes," he said, bewildered.

"You were on duty at that gate, but you left your post."

"Yes, but—"

"But you first opened the gate for a lady."

"It was not I, monsieur," he answered, as if anxious to exonerate himself, although he knew not to whom he was talking. "It was my comrade. He said he knew the woman, and that the governor would wish her instantly admitted, and he opened the gate. When she came in, I would have had her wait at the gate till M. de la Chatre had been informed, but she ran into the chateau, and my comrade with her. There must be something wrong, I thought, if my comrade would leave his post to go in with the lady. So I ran after them to get her to come back. It was my thought of my duty that made me forget the gate. Indeed it was so, monsieur."

He evidently thought that we were friends of the governor's who had happened to arrive at the chateau at this hour.

So he, at least, had not received orders to admit mademoiselle. Joyful hope! Perhaps there had been no understanding between her and the governor, after all! But his comrade had let her in, had said that the governor would wish the gate opened to her at once. Then there was an understanding.

"Where is your comrade?" I asked.

"I left him with the lady, in the chamber at the head of the staircase. Ah, I hear him coming down the stairs!"

"Look to this man, Frojac," said I, and then hastened into the chateau. The moonlight through the open door showed a large vestibule, from which the staircase ascended towards the right. The man coming down this staircase was at the bottom step when I entered the vestibule. He stopped there, taken by surprise. I saw that he was of short stature and slight figure. I caught him by the back of the neck with my left hand, and brought him to his knees before me.

"Where is the lady who but now entered the chateau?" I said. "Why are you silent, knave?"

He trembled in my grasp, and I turned his face up towards mine. It was the face of mademoiselle's boy, Pierre, who had left us in the forest!

"You here?" I cried. "It was you, then, who opened the gate to her! How came you here? Speak, if ever you would see the blue sky again!"

I pressed my fingers into his throat, until he choked and the fear of death showed in his starting eyes; then I released my clasp, that he might speak.

"Oh, monsieur, have mercy!" he gasped. "Do not kill me!"

I saw that he was thoroughly frightened for his life. He was but a boy, and to a boy the imminent prospect of closing one's eyes forever is not pleasant.

"Speak, then! Tell the truth!" I said, still holding him by the neck, ready to tighten my clasp at any moment.

"I will, I will!" he said. "I went from Mlle. de Varion to M. de la Chatre, with a message, and he kept me in his service."

"What message? The truth, boy! I shall see in your eyes whether or not it be truth you tell me, and if you lie your eyes shall never look on the world again. Quick, what message?"

"That I came from Mlle. de Varion to the governor," he answered, huskily, "and that at the top of the hill that rises from the throne-shaped rock by the river road to Narjec is the burrow of the Huguenot fox!"

The last doubt, the last hope, was gone!

"My God!" I cried, and cast the boy away from me. What now to me was he or anything that he might do or say? He cowered for a moment on the ground, looking up at me, and then, seeing that I no longer heeded him, ran out to the courtyard.

For a moment I stood alone in the vestibule, crushed by the terrible certainty. All women, then, were as bad as Mlle. d'Arency. The sweet and tender girl who had filled my heart was as the worst of them. To be betrayed was deplorable, but to be betrayed by her! To find her a traitress was terrible, but that I should be her dupe! And that I should still love her, love her, love her!

What, she was in the chateau, under this roof, and I tarried here deploring her treason when I might be at her side, clasping her, looking into her eyes! "In the chamber at the head of the staircase," the guard had said. I forgot Frojac, the guard, Pierre. But one thought, one desire, one impulse, possessed me. With my dripping sword in my hand, I bounded up the stairs. They led me to a narrow gallery, which had windows on the side next the courtyard. There were doors on the other side. A single light burned. No one was in the gallery. The door nearest the staircase landing was slightly open. I ran to it and into the chamber to which it gave entrance.

As in the gallery, so in the chamber, I found no one. I stood just within the threshold and looked around. The walls of the apartment were hung with tapestry. At the right was first a window, then a chimney-place, beside which stood a sword, then a prieu-dieu. Before the fireplace was a table, on which were a lamp burning, paper, ink, pens, and a large bowl of fruit. At the left of the chamber was a large bed, its curtains drawn aside. Beside this was another table, on which was an empty tray. There was a door, slightly ajar, in that side of the room, and another in the side that faced me. On the back of a chair near the fireplace was slung a hunting-horn. On a stool near the door by which I had entered lay a belt with a dagger in sheath. The bed looked as if some one had recently lain on it. The presence of the fruit, writing materials, and other things seemed to indicate that this was the chamber of M. de la Chatre. But why was he not in his bed? Probably he could not sleep while he awaited the result of this midnight enterprise of his troops. Certainly the servants in the chateau were asleep. It was apparent that the six guards, four of whom we had disposed of, were the only soldiers left at the chateau, for, if there had been any others in the guard-house, they would have been awakened by the fight in the courtyard. How many troops were left in the town, I could not know, but they would not come to the chateau during the night unless brought by an alarm. So there would not be many to interpose themselves between mademoiselle and me. But where was she? Whither should I first turn to seek her.

I had well-nigh chosen to try the room at the left, when the door opposite me opened without noise, and a figure glided into the chamber, swiftly and silently. The movement was that of a person who rapidly traverses a place in search of some one.

"Mademoiselle!"

She heard me, saw me, stopped, and stood with parted lips, astounded face, and terror-stricken eyes.

So we stood, the width of the room between us, regarding each other.



CHAPTER XVI.

BEHIND THE CURTAINS

So we stood. Irresistible as had been my impulse to follow her, I now found myself held back, as if by the look in her eyes, from approaching nearer. So, while she gazed at me in wonder and terror, I regarded her with inexpressible scorn and love, horror and adoration.

Presently she spoke, in a terrified whisper:

"Why are you here?"

I answered in a low voice:

"Because you are here. Like a poisonous flower you lure me. A flower you are in outward beauty! Never was poison more sweetly concealed than is treachery in you!"

"You were mad to follow me!" she said, and then she cast a quick, apprehensive glance around the chamber, a glance that took in the different doors one after another.

I thought she meant that, as we were in the stronghold of my enemies and her friends, it would be madness in me to attempt to punish her treachery. So I replied:

"Seek not to fright me from vengeance, for I intend none! I did not come to punish. I do not know why it is, but where you are not I cannot rest. I am drawn to you as by some power of magic. I would be with you even in hell! Spy, traitress that you are, I love you! Your dupe that I am, I love you!" I went to where, with downcast eyes, she stood, and I caught her hand and pressed it to my lips. "I make myself a jest, a thing for laughter, do I not, kissing the hand that would slay me?"

She raised her eyes, and held out her hand towards the fire-place, saying:

"The hand that I would thrust into the flame to save you from the lightest harm!"

What? Now that I was here, now that my capture seemed certain, would she pretend that she had not acted for La Chatre against me? She did not know that I had met Pierre, and what he had confessed to me.

"Mock me as you will, mademoiselle!" said I.

"Mistrust me as you will, monsieur! I tell you, I would not have you undergo the smallest harm!"

"You well sustain the jest!"

"Before God," she answered, "I do not jest!"

There was in her voice a ring of earnestness that seemed impossible to be counterfeit. Puzzled, I looked at her, trying to read her countenance.

"Yet," I said, presently, "you were a spy upon me!"

"I was, God pity me! Scourge me with rough words as you will; I merit every blow!"

"And you came here to see La Chatre," I went on, "perhaps because you feared discovery, perhaps because you thought your work of betrayal was done" (for I thought that she may have known of the midnight march of the governor's troops), "perhaps to finish that work!"

"Now you wrong me at last!" she cried. "Thank God, I am not as bad as you can think me!"

"Then you did not come here to see La Chatre?"

"I came to see him, I admit! I was seeking him when I met you here. But it was not because I feared discovery that I left you, nor because I thought my miserable work was done, nor to finish it."

I saw now that she was in great agitation. She tottered forward to the table and put her hand on it, and leaned on it for support.

It seemed as if she were speaking the truth, as if there might be some explanation of all, but that her inward excitement was too great, her ideas too confused, for her to assemble the facts and present them in proper order. It seemed that she could answer my accusations only as they came, that she acknowledged herself guilty in part towards me, and yet did not wish me harm.

"Mademoiselle," I said, dropping my harshness and irony, "to believe you true would make me as happy as I now am wretched. But why is your boy here, in the governor's service? Why did he carry from you the secret of my hiding-place?"

Mademoiselle shuddered and gave a gesture of despair, as if there were indeed no defence for her.

"Why are the troops away, if not in quest of me?" I asked. "We saw them going towards Maury by the river road."

"I did not know that the troops had gone, or were going," she said. "I swear to you, monsieur, if troops have gone to Maury this night, I had nothing to do with their going!"

"But they knew what road to take, and how to find my hiding-place. La Chatre knew that."

"Alas, it is true!" she moaned, while tears ran down her face. "I sent him word!"

"You sent him word! You learned how to reach La Tournoire's hiding-place from the man you thought his friend, and you sent the secret to the governor, whom you knew to be his enemy? And yet you are not as bad as I can think you!"

"I sent him word of your hiding-place; but he was not to seize you till I had arranged a meeting with you alone and informed him of it!"

"You confess this! Oh, mademoiselle!"

"Consider! Did I arrange that meeting?"

"You had not time. It was but this afternoon you learned La Chatre was at Clochonne."

"Yet, instead of coming here to-night I might have done it, monsieur. I ran no risk of discovery in staying at Maury. You would still have had faith in me had I remained there. And it was easy to do; it was all planned. You know the old tower by the spring, to which we walked the other day. I was to send Hugo at midnight to M. de la Chatre, with word to have his men hidden there to-morrow at sunset. To-morrow I was to go off into the forest with Jeannotte, and at sunset she was to come to you, saying that I was at the tower grievously injured. You would have gone, monsieur, without waiting to call any of your men; you would have come at my summons on the instant, to the end of the world—"

"You knew that? Truly, the heart of man is an open page to women!"

"It was easily to be done, monsieur. Hugo could have shown the troops the way. The place was well chosen. Neither your sentinels nor the inn people would have seen the troops. They would have hidden there in wait for you. So we had planned it, I and Jeannotte; but I abandoned it. I gave no orders to Hugo. I came to Clochonne."

"Yes, knowing, perchance, that I would come after you. You thought to make of Clochonne a trap into which to lead me! You were careful to let it be known where you were coming, that I might find out and follow!"

"I told only my maid and Hugo, in a moment of excitement, when I scarce knew what I said. I no more desired you to follow than I desired myself to stay at Maury to call you to the ambush!"

"The ambush!" I echoed. "You forget one thing, mademoiselle, when you take credit for renouncing the ambush. The troops have gone already to Maury. Had they found me there, they would have made your ambush unnecessary or impossible."

"But I knew nothing of their going to Maury," she said, helplessly. "It was not to have been so. You were to have been taken by an ambush, I say! If the governor sent troops to attack you to-night, he must have changed the plan."

Now, I could indeed believe this, for I had overheard the plan suggested by Montignac, and her very talk about the ambush seemed to show that his plan had been adopted without change. In that case, she might not have known of the movement of the troops. La Chatre might have decided, at any time, to change his plan. Perhaps he had done this, and, for lack of means or for some other reason, had not tried to inform her, or had tried in vain.

She stood like an accused woman before her judges, incapable of formulating her defence, expressing her distress by an occasional low, convulsive sob. What did her conduct mean? Was her demeanor genuine or assumed? Why did she confess one thing and deny another? Why did she seem guilty and not guilty?

"I am puzzled more and more," I said. "I thought that, when I saw you, I should at least learn the truth. I should at least know whether to love you as an angel, who had been wronged alike by circumstances and by report, or as a beautiful demon, who would betray me to my death; but I am not even to know what you are. You betrayed my hiding-place. So far, at least, you are guilty; but you did not arrange the ambush that you were to have arranged. For so much you claim credit. Whatever are your wishes in regard to me, they shall be fulfilled. I am yours, to be sent to my death, if that is your will. What would you have me do?"

"Save yourself!" she whispered, eagerly, her eyes suddenly aflame with a kind of hope, as if the possibility had just occurred to her.

Was this pretence? Did she know that I could not escape, and did she yet wish, for shame's or vanity's sake, to appear well in my eyes?

"I shall not leave you," I said, quietly.

"Hark!" she whispered. "Some one comes!"

She looked towards the door near the head of the bed, the door that was slightly ajar. She looked aghast, as one does at the apprehension of a great and imminent danger. "Go while there is time! Do you not hear? It is the voice of La Chatre! I recognize it! And the other,—his secretary, Montignac! Go, go, I pray you on my knees, flee while there is yet time!"

She did indeed fall to her knees, clutching my arm with one hand, and with the other trying to push me from the room, all the while showing a very anguish of solicitude on her white face. Her eyes plead with me for my own deliverance. The voices, which I too recognized, came nearer and nearer, but slowly, as if the speakers were impeded in their progress through the adjoining chamber. "Save yourself, save yourself!" she continued to whisper.

"Come what may," I whispered in reply, my hand tightening on my sword, "I will not leave you!"

"Then," she whispered, rapidly, seeing that I was not to be moved, "if you will court death, at least know me first as I am,—no better, no worse! Hide somewhere,—there behind the bed-curtains,—and hear what I shall say to La Chatre! After that, if death find you, he shall find me with you! I implore you, conceal yourself."

There was no pretence now, I was sure. Mystified, yet not doubting, I whispered: "I yield, mademoiselle! God knows I would believe you innocent!" and went behind the curtains, at the foot of the bed. It was easy to stand behind these without disturbing the natural folds in which they fell to the floor. The curtains at the sides also served to shield me from view, so that I could not have been seen except from within the bed itself.

I had no sooner found this concealment, and mademoiselle had no sooner taken her place, standing with as much composure as she could assume, a short distance from the foot of the bed, than M. de la Chatre and his secretary entered the chamber. Peering between the curtains, I saw that La Chatre was lame, and that he walked with the aid of a stick on one side and Montignac's shoulder on the other.

"To think," he was saying as he came in, "that the misstep of a horse should have made a helpless cripple of me, when I might have led this hunt myself!"

I assumed that the "hunt" was the expedition to Maury, and smiled to think how far was the game from the place of hunting.

The undisturbed mien of La Chatre showed that he had not heard of the arrival of mademoiselle or of myself, or of the brief fight in the courtyard. He would not have worn that look of security had he known that, of six guards at the chateau, three now lay dead in the courtyard, one had fled, and two were being looked after by my man Frojac.

He wore a rich chamber-robe and was bareheaded. Montignac was attired rather like a soldier than like a scribe, having on a buff jerkin and wearing both sword and dagger. His breeches and hose were of dull hue, so that the only brightness of color on him was the red of his hair and lips. It was, doubtless, from an excess of precaution that he went so well armed in the chateau at so late an hour. Yet I smiled to see weapons on this slight and fragile-looking youth, whose strength lay in his brain rather than in his wrist. With great interest I watched him now, knowing that he had devised the plan for my capture, had caused Mlle. de Varion to be sent on her mission against me, and had sent De Berquin on his mission against her. This march of the troops to Maury, also, was probably his doing, even though it did imply a change from the plan overheard by me, and confessed by mademoiselle. He had, too, if De Berquin had told the truth, resolved to possess mademoiselle. He was thus my worst foe, this subtle youth who had never seen me, and whom I had never injured. He still had that look of mock humility, repressed scorn, half-concealed derision, hidden ambition, vast inner resource, mental activity, all under a calm and thoughtful countenance, over which he had control.

It was not until they had passed the bed that they saw mademoiselle. Both stopped and looked astonished. Montignac recognized her at once, and first frowned, as if annoyed; then looked elated, as if her presence suited his projects. But La Chatre did not immediately know her. He lost color, as if it were a spirit that he saw, and, indeed, mademoiselle, motionless and pale, looked not unlike some beautiful being of another world.

"Who are you?" asked La Chatre, in a startled tone.

"It is I—Mlle. de Varion."

La Chatre promptly came to himself; but he looked somewhat confused, abashed, and irritated.

"Mlle. de Varion, indeed!" he said. "And why comes Mlle. de Varion here?"

And now Montignac spoke, fixing his eyes on La Chatre, and using a quiet but resolute tone:

"She comes too late. La Tournoire will be taken without her aid."

"Be silent, Montignac!" said La Chatre, assuming the authoritative for the sake of appearance. "It is true, mademoiselle; you are too late in fulfilling your part of the agreement."

He spoke with some embarrassment, and I began to see why. Inasmuch as he had been at Clochonne but little more than one day, no more time had passed than would have been necessary for the arrangement of the ambush. Therefore it could not be honestly held that she had been tardy in fulfilling her mission; that is to say, when he told her that she was too late, he lied. Hence his embarrassment, for he was a gentleman. Now why did he put forth this false pretext of tardiness on her part?

"Too late in fulfilling your part of the agreement," said the governor.

"I came, monsieur," said mademoiselle, heedless of the lie and the apparent attempt to put her at fault, "to be released from my agreement."

Montignac looked surprised, then displeased. La Chatre appeared relieved, but astonished.

"Released, mademoiselle?" he exclaimed, assuming too late a kind of virtuous displeasure to cover his real satisfaction.

"Released, monsieur!" said mademoiselle. "I shall no further help you take M. de la Tournoire. It was to tell you that, and for nothing else in the world, that I came to Clochonne this night!"

She was close to the bed-curtains behind which I stood. I felt that her words were meant for my ears as well as for the governor's.

"I shall not need your help, mademoiselle," replied the governor, with a side smile at Montignac. "Yet this is strange. You do not, then, wish your father's freedom?"

"Not on the terms agreed on, monsieur! Not to have my father set free from prison, not even to save him from torture, not even from death. I take back my promise, and give you back your own. I gave you word of La Tournoire's hiding-place, and so far resigned my honor. I abandon my hateful task unfinished, and so far I get my honor back. And, now, do as you will!"

I could have shouted for joy!

This, then, explained it all. She had undertaken to betray me, but it was to save her father! I remembered now. They had wanted a spy "who would have all to lose by failure." Such were Montignac's words at the inn at Fleurier. A spy, too, who might gain a wary man's confidence, and with whom a rebel captain might desire or consent to a meeting away from his men. Hardly had their need been uttered when there came mademoiselle to beg a pardon for her father. A woman, beautiful and guileless, whom any man might adore and trust, of whom any man might beg a tryst; a woman, whose father was already in prison, his fate at the governor's will; a woman, inexperienced and credulous, easily made to believe that her father's crime was of the gravest; a woman, dutiful and affectionate, willing to purchase her father's life and freedom at any cost. What better instrument could have come to their hands? Her anxiety to save her father would give her the powers of dissimulation necessary to do the work. Her purity and innocence were a rare equipment for the task of a Delilah. Who would suspect her of guile and intrigue any more than I had done?

And now, having gone as far as she had in the task, she had abandoned it. Even to save her father, she would no more play the traitress against me! Against me! She loved me, then! Her task had become intolerable. She must relieve herself of it. Yet as long as La Chatre still supposed that she was carrying it out, she would feel bound by her obligation to him. She must free herself of that obligation. She had made a compact with him, she had given him her word. Though she resolved not to betray me, she would not betray him either. He must no longer rely on her for the performance of a deed that she had cast from her. She must not play false even with him. All must hereafter be open and honest with her. The first step towards regaining her self-respect was to see the governor and renounce the commission. Then, but not till then, would she dare confess all to me. I saw all this in an instant, as she had felt it, for people do not arrive at such resolutions slowly and by reason, but instantly and by feeling.

And all that she had done and suffered had been to save her father! Had I but told her at once of my intention to deliver him, if possible, all this, and my own hours of torment, might have been avoided. From what little things do events take their course!

I rejoiced, I say, behind the curtains, on learning the truth. What matter if we met death together in the enemy's stronghold, now that she was pure and loved me? And yet, if we could but find a way out of this, and save her father as well, what joy life would have!

La Chatre cast another jubilant smile at Montignac. The governor was plainly delighted that mademoiselle herself had given up the task, now that he had changed his plans and had no further use for her in them. It relieved him of the disagreeable necessity of making her an explanation composed of lies. He was really a gallant and amiable gentleman, and subterfuge, especially when employed against a lady, was obnoxious to him. As for Montignac, he stood frowning meditatively. He surely guessed that mademoiselle's act was inspired by love for me, and the thought was not pleasant to him.

Suddenly the governor turned quite pale, and asked quickly, in some alarm:

"Did you speak the truth when you sent word of his hiding-place?"

It would, indeed, have been exasperating if he had sent his troops on a false scent.

Mademoiselle hesitated a moment, then turned her eyes towards the bed-curtains, and said:

"Yes, monsieur."

Her look, as I saw it, expressed that my position was not so bad, after all, as long as the troops were away, and La Chatre supposed that I was at Maury being captured by them.

La Chatre, reassured by her tone, which of course had the ring of truth, again breathed freely.

"Then I release you from your agreement, mademoiselle," he said, and added slowly and with a curious look at Montignac, "and your father may languish in the chateau of Fleurier. But note this, mademoiselle: you withdraw your aid from our purpose of capturing this traitor. Therefore, you wish him freedom. For you, in the circumstances, not to oppose him is to aid him. That is treason. I must treat you accordingly, mademoiselle."

"I have said, do with me as you will," she answered. For a time, relieved of the burden that had weighed so heavily on her, she seemed resigned to any fate. It was not yet that her mind rose to activity, and she began to see possibilities of recovering something from the ruins.

And now the demeanor of La Chatre became peculiar. He spoke to mademoiselle, while he looked at Montignac, as if he were taking an unexpected opportunity to carry out something prearranged between him and the secretary; as if he were dissembling to her, and sought Montignac's attention and approval. His look seemed to say to the secretary, "You see how well I am doing it?" Montignac stood with folded arms and downcast eyes, attending carefully to La Chatre's words, but having too much tact to betray his interest.

"And yet," said La Chatre, "you have been of some service to me in this matter, and I would in some measure reward you. You sent me information of La Tournoire's whereabouts, and for so much you deserve to be paid. But you leave unfinished the service agreed on, and of course you cannot claim your father's release."

"Yet, if I have at all served you in this, as unhappily I have, there is no other payment that you possibly can make me," said mademoiselle.

"The question as to whether you ought to be rewarded for what you have done, or held guilty of treasonable conduct in withdrawing at so late a stage," said La Chatre, "is a difficult matter for me to deal with. There may be a way in which it can be settled with satisfaction to yourself. It is your part, not mine, to find such a way and propose it. You may take counsel of some one—of my secretary, M. Montignac. He is one who, unlike yourself, is entitled to my favor and the King's, and who may, on occasion, demand some deviation from the strict procedure of justice. Were he to ask, as a favor to himself, special lenience for your father, or even a pardon and release, his request would have to be seriously considered. Advise her, Montignac. I shall give you a few minutes to talk with her."

And La Chatre, aided by his stick, made his way to the window, where he stood with his back towards the other two.

I was not too dull to see that all this was but a clumsy way of throwing mademoiselle's fate and her father's into the hands of Montignac. The governor's manner, as I have indicated, showed that he had previously agreed to do this on fit occasion, and that he now perceived that occasion.

A new thought occurred to me. Had Montignac, coming more and more to desire mademoiselle, and doubting the ability of his hastily found instrument, De Berquin, sought and obtained the governor's sanction to his wishes? Had he advised this midnight march to Maury in order that I might be caught ere mademoiselle could fulfil her mission; in order, that is to say, to prevent her from earning her father's freedom by the means first proposed; in order that La Chatre might name a new price for that freedom; in order, in fine, that herself should be the price, and Montignac the recipient? Montignac could persuade the governor to anything, why not to this? It was a design worthy alike of the secretary's ingenuity and villainy. Circumstance soon showed that I was right, that the governor had indeed consented to this perfidy. Mademoiselle's unexpected arrival at Clochonne had given excellent occasion for the project to be carried out. The governor himself had recognized the fitness of the time. No wonder that he had at first falsely charged her with tardiness, pretended that her delay had caused the alteration of his plans. He had needed a pretext for having sent his troops to capture me so that he might cheat her of her reward. I burned with indignation. That two men of power and authority should so trick a helpless girl, so use her love for her father to serve their own purposes, so employ that father's very life as coin with which to buy her compliance, so cozen her of the reward of what service she had done, so plot to make of her a slave and worse, so threaten and use and cheat her! No man ever felt greater wrath than I felt as I stood behind the curtains and saw Montignac lift his eyes to mademoiselle's in obedience to the governor's command. Yet, by what power I know not, I held myself calm, ready to act at the suitable moment. I had taken a resolution, and would carry it out if sword and wit should serve me. But meanwhile I waited unseen.

Mademoiselle drew back almost imperceptibly, and on her face came the slightest look of repugnance. From her manner of regarding him, it was evident that this was not the first time she had been conscious of his admiration and felt repelled by it. The meeting in the inn at Fleurier had left with her a vastly different impression from that which it had left with him.

Without smiling, he now bowed very courteously, and placed a chair for her near where she stood.

"Mademoiselle," he said, with great tenderness, yet most respectfully, "a harder heart than mine would be moved by your gentleness and beauty."

And here my own heart beat very rapidly at sound of another man speaking so adoringly to my beloved.

She looked at him questioningly, as if his tone and manner showed that she had misjudged him. His bearing was so gentle and sympathetic that she could not but be deceived by it. She ceased to show repugnance, and sat in the chair that he had brought.

"Monsieur," she said, "in my first opinion I may have wronged you. If your heart is truly moved, you can demonstrate your goodness by asking for my father's freedom. M. de la Chatre will grant it to you. You have a claim on his favor, as he says, while I have none. Free my father, then, and make me happy!"

Poor Julie! She thought not of herself. She knew that it would be useless to ask anything for me. Yet there was one thing that might be had from the situation—her father's freedom. So she summoned her energies, and devoted them to striving for that, though she was in terror of my being at any moment discovered.

"I would make you the happiest of women," said Montignac, in a low, impassioned tone, falling on one knee and taking her hand, "if you would make me the happiest of men."

Apprehension came into her eyes. She rose and moved towards the bed-curtains, and, in the vain hope of turning him from his purpose by pretending not to perceive it, said, with a sad little smile:

"Alas! it is out of my poor power to confer happiness!"

She half-turned her head towards where I stood behind the curtains, partly at thought of the happiness that it seemed impossible for her to confer on me, partly in fear lest Montignac's words might bring me forth.

"It is easily in your power to confer more than happiness," said Montignac.

"How, monsieur?" she faltered, trembling under two fears, that of Montignac's ardor and that of my disclosing myself. "I am puzzled to know."

"By conferring your hand, mademoiselle," said Montignac, following her and grasping her wrist. "Your father will be glad to give his consent for his liberty, if he knows that you have given yours. But we can arrange to proceed without his consent. Do not draw back, mademoiselle. It is marriage that I offer, when I might make other terms. My family is a good one; my prospects are the best, and I have to lay at your feet a love that has never been offered to another, a love as deep as it is fresh—"

I clutched the curtain to give vent to my rage. Mademoiselle was looking towards me, and saw the curtain move.

"Say no more!" she cried, fearful lest his continuance might be too much for my restraint. "I cannot hear you?"

"I love you, mademoiselle," he went on, losing his self-control, so that his face quivered with passion. "I can save you and your father!"

He thrust his face so close to hers that she drew back with an expression of disgust.

"A fine love, indeed?" she cried, scornfully, "that would buy the love it dare not hope to elicit free!" And she turned to La Chatre as if for protection. But the governor shook his head, and remained motionless at the window.

"A love you shall not despise, mademoiselle!" hissed Montignac, stung by her scorn. He was standing by the table near the bed, and, in his anger, he made to strike the table with his dagger, but he struck instead the tray on the table, and so produced a loud, ringing sound that startled the ear.

"Your fate is in my hands," he went on; "so is your father's. As for this Tournoire, concerning whom you have suddenly become scrupulous, he is, doubtless, by this time in the hands of the troops who have gone for him, and very well it is that we decided not to wait for you to lead him to us. So he had best be dismissed from your mind, as he presently will be from this life. Accept me, and your father goes free! Spurn me, and he dies in the chateau of Fleurier, and you shall still belong to me! Why not give me what I have the power and the intention to take?"

"If you take it," cried mademoiselle, "that is your act. Were I to give, that would be mine. It is by our own acts that we stand or fall in our own eyes and God's!" She spoke loudly, in a resolute voice, as if to show me that she could look to herself, so that I need not come out to her defence,—for well she guessed my mind, and knew that, though she had consented a thousand times to betray me, I would not stand passive while a man pressed his unwelcome love on her. And now, as if to force a change of theme by sheer vehemence of manner, she turned her back towards Montignac and addressed La Chatre with a fire that she had not previously shown.

"You have heard the proposal of this buyer of love! You hear me reject it! M. de la Chatre, I hold you to your word. I have been of some service to you in the matter of La Tournoire, and you would, in some measure, reward me! You have said it! Very well! You expect to capture him to-night at his hiding-place. Through me you learned that hiding-place, therefore, through me you will have taken him. There is but one possible way in which you can reward me: Keep your word! What if I did refuse to plan the ambush? You yourself had already decided to dispense with that. In the circumstances, all that I could have done for you I have done. Would I could undo it! But I cannot! Therefore, give me now, at once, an order that I may take to Fleurier for my father's release!"

La Chatre was plainly annoyed, for he loved to keep the letter of his word. He could not deceive this woman, as he had at first felicitated himself on doing, with a false appearance of fair dealing. She saw through that appearance. It was indeed irritating to so honest a gentleman. To gain time for a plausible answer, he moved slowly from the window to the centre of the chamber. At the same time, mademoiselle, to be further from Montignac, went towards the door by which she had entered the room on my arrival. The secretary, with wolf-like eyes, followed her, and both turned so as still to face the governor.

"I shall devise some proper reward for you," said La Chatre, slowly. "I adhere always to the strict letter of my word; but I am not bound to free your father. The strict letter of my word, remember! Recall my words to you at the inn. I recall them exactly, and so does Montignac, who this very evening reminded me of—ahem, that is to say, I recall them exactly. I was to send the order to the governor of Fleurier for your father's immediate release the instant I should stand face to face with the Sieur de la Tournoire in the chateau of Clochonne."

I threw aside the bed-curtain, stepped forth, and said:

"That time has come, monsieur!"



CHAPTER XVII.

SWORD AND DAGGER

M. de la Chatre could not have been more surprised if a spirit had risen from the floor at his feet. He stared at me with startled eyes. I had sheathed my sword while behind the curtains, and now I stood motionless, with folded arms, before him. Mademoiselle uttered a slight cry. Montignac, who stood beside her, was as much taken aback as La Chatre was, but was quicker to comprehend the situation. Without moving from his attitude of surprise, he regarded me with intense curiosity and hate. This was his first sight of me, hence his curiosity. He had already inferred that mademoiselle loved me, therefore his hate.

"Who are you?" said La Chatre, at last, in a tone of mingled alarm and resentment, as one might address a supernatural intruder.

"The Sieur de la Tournoire," said I, "standing face to face with you in the chateau of Clochonne! You shall give mademoiselle that order for her father's release, or you shall never break your word again."

And I drew my sword, and held it with its point towards his breast.

The fear of death blanched his cheeks and spurred his dull wits.

"Montignac," he cried, keeping his eyes fixed on mine, "if this man makes a move, kill the woman!"

In his situation of peril, his mind had become agile. He had suddenly perceived how things were between mademoiselle and me.

As I have shown, Montignac stood with mademoiselle at some distance from La Chatre and myself. I dared not take my eye from the governor, lest he should step out of reach of my sword; but I could hear Montignac quickly unsheathe his dagger, and mademoiselle give a sharp ejaculation of pain. Then I turned my head for a moment's glance, and saw that he had caught her wrist in a tight grasp, and that he held his dagger ready to plunge it into her breast.

For a short time we stood thus, while I considered what to do next. It was certain that Montignac would obey the governor's order, if only out of hatred for me and in revenge on her for his despised love, though he might fall by my sword a moment later. Therefore, I did not dare go to attack him any more than I dared attack La Chatre. The governor, of course, would not let her be killed unless I made some hostile movement, for if she were dead nothing could save him from me, unless help came. He feared to call for help, I suppose, lest rather than be taken I should risk a rush at Montignac, and have himself for an instant at my mercy, after all.

I cast another glance at Montignac, and measured the distance from me to him, to consider whether I might reach him before he could strike mademoiselle. La Chatre must have divined my thought, for he said:

"Montignac, I will deal with this gentleman. Take mademoiselle into that chamber and close the door." And he pointed to the door immediately behind mademoiselle, the one by which I had first seen her enter.

"But, monsieur—" began Montignac.

"I had not quite finished, Montignac," went on La Chatre. "I have my reason for desiring you and the lady to withdraw. Fear not to leave me with him. Lame as I am, I am no match for him, it is true, but mademoiselle shall continue to be a hostage for his good behavior."

"I understand," said Montignac, "but how shall I know—?"

"Should M. de la Tournoire make one step towards me," said the governor,—here he paused and took up the hunting-horn and looked at it, but presently dropped it and pointed to the bowl of fruit on the table near the fireplace,—"I shall strike this bowl, thus." He struck the bowl with his stick, and it gave forth a loud, metallic ring, like that previously produced by Montignac's dagger from the tray on the other table. "The voice is not always to be relied on," continued the governor. "Sometimes it fails when most needed. But a sound like this," and he struck the bowl again, "can be made instantly and with certainty. Should you hear one stroke on the bowl,—one only, not followed quickly by a second stroke,—let mademoiselle pay for the rashness of her champion!"

"Yes, monsieur," replied Montignac, a kind of diabolical triumph in his voice.

"It may be," said La Chatre, "that no such violent act will be necessary, and that I shall merely require your presence here. In that case, I shall strike twice rapidly, thus. Therefore, when you hear a stroke, wait an instant lest there be a second stroke. But if there be no second, act as I have told you."

"After you, mademoiselle," said Montignac, indicating by a motion his desire that she should precede him backward out of the chamber. He still clutched her arm and held his dagger aloft, intending thus to back out of the room after her.

"I will not go!" she answered, trying to resist the force that he was using on her arm.

This was the first resistance she had offered She had previously stood motionless beneath his lifted dagger, feeling herself unable to break from his grasp of iron, and supposing that any effort to do so would bring down the dagger into her delicate breast. A woman's instinctive horror of such a blow deterred her from the slightest movement that might invite it. She had trusted to me for what action might serve to save us from our enemies. But now her terror of leaving my presence, and her horror of being alone with Montignac, overcame her fear of the dagger. "I will not go!" she repeated.

"Go, mademoiselle," said I, gently, taking her glove from my belt, where I had placed it, and kissing it, to show that I was still her devoted chevalier. "Go! 'Tis the better way." For I welcomed any step that might take Montignac from the chamber, and leave La Chatre's wit unaided to cope with mine.

Her eyes showed submission, and she immediately obeyed the guidance of Montignac's hand. Facing me still, he went out after her, and closed the door.

I was alone with La Chatre.

"My secretary stood a little too near the point of your sword," said the governor, "for the perfect security of my hostage. There was just a possibility of your being too quick for him. I saw that you were contemplating that possibility. As it is now, should I give him the signal,—as I shall if you move either towards me or towards that chamber,—he could easily put mademoiselle out of the way before you could open the door. Not that I desire harm to mademoiselle. Her death would not serve me at all It would, indeed, be something that I should have to deplore. If I should deplore it, how much more would you! And since you surely will not be so ungallant as to cause the death of so charming a lady, I think I have you, let us say, at a slight disadvantage!" And he sat down beside the table near the fireplace.

"I think not so, monsieur," said I, touching lightly with my sword's point the tray on the table near the bed; "for should you strike once on your bowl, I should very quickly strike once on this tray, so that two strokes would be heard, and the obedient Montignac, mindful of his orders, would enter this chamber, not having slain mademoiselle."

I ought not to have disclosed this, my advantage. I ought rather to have summoned Montignac by two strokes on the tray, and been at the door to receive him. But I had not waited to consider. I spoke of the advantage as soon as I noticed it, supposing that La Chatre, on seeing it, would think himself at my mercy and would come to my terms. He was taken back somewhat, it is true, but not much.

"Pah!" he said "After all, I could shout to him."

"It would be your last shouting. Moreover, your shouted orders would be cut off unfinished, and the punctilious Montignac would be left in doubt as to your wishes. Rather than slay mademoiselle on an uncertainty, he would come hither to assure himself,—in which case God pity him!"

"Thank you for your warning, monsieur," said La Chatre, with mock courtesy. "There shall be no shouting."

Whereupon he struck the bowl with his stick. Taken by surprise, I could only strike my tray with my sword, so that two strokes might surely be heard, although at the same time he gave a second stroke, showing that his intention was merely to summon Montignac. In my momentary fear for mademoiselle's life, and with my thoughts instantly concentrated on striking the tray, I did not have the wit to leap to the door and receive Montignac on my sword's point, as I would have done had I myself summoned him, or had I expected La Chatre's signal.

So there I stood, far from the door, when it opened, and the secretary advanced his foot across the threshold. Even then I made a movement as if to rush on him, but he brought forward his left hand and I saw that it still clutched the white wrist of mademoiselle. Only her arm was visible in the doorway. Montignac still held his dagger raised. One step backward and one thrust, and he could lay her dead at his feet. Had I been ready at the door for him, I could have killed him before he could have made these two movements; but from where I stood, I could not have done so. So I listened in some chagrin to the governor's words.

"I change the signal, Montignac. At one stroke, do not harm the lady, but come hither; but should you hear two strokes, or three, or any number more, she is to be sacrificed."

"My dagger is ready, monsieur!"

Again the door closed; again I was alone with La Chatre.

I had lost my former advantage. For now, should I strike my tray once, for the purpose of summoning Montignac, so that I might be at the door to slay him at first sight, the governor could strike his bowl, and Montignac would hear two strokes or more—signal for mademoiselle's death.

"And now, monsieur," said the governor, making himself comfortable in his chair between table and fireplace, "let us talk. You see, if you approach me or that door, or if you start to leave this chamber, I can easily strike the bowl twice before you take three steps."

I could see that he was not as easy in his mind as he pretended to be. It was true that, as matters now were, his life was secure through my regard for mademoiselle's; but were he to attempt leaving the room or calling help, or, indeed, if help were to come uncalled, and I should find my own life or liberty threatened, I might risk anything, even mademoiselle's life, for the sake of revenge on him. He would not dare save himself by letting me go free out of his own chateau. To do that would bring down the wrath of the Duke of Guise, would mean ruin. That I knew well. If I should go to leave the chamber, he would give the signal for Montignac to kill mademoiselle. As for me. I did not wish to go without her or until I should have accomplished a certain design I had conceived. Thus I was La Chatre's prisoner, and he was mine. Each could only hope, by thought or talk, to arrive at some means of getting the better of the other.

La Chatre's back was towards the door by which I had entered. By mere chance, it seemed, I turned my head towards that door. At that instant, my man, Frojac, appeared in the doorway. He had approached with the silence of a ghost. He carried the arquebus that had belonged to the guardsman, and his match was burning. Risking all on the possible effect of a sudden surprise on the governor, I cried, sharply:

"Fire on that man, Frojac, if he moves."

La Chatre, completely startled, rose from his chair and turned about, forgetful of the stick and bowl. When his glance reached Frojac, my good man had his arquebus on a line with the governor's head, the match dangerously near the breech.

"I have looked after the guards, monsieur," said Frojac, cheerily, "both of them."

"Stand where you are," said I to him, "and if that gentleman attempts to strike that bowl, see that he does not live to strike it more than once."

"He shall not strike it even once, monsieur!"

"You see, M. de la Chatre," said I, "the contents of an arquebus travel faster than a man can."

"This is unfair!" were the first words of the governor, after his season of dumb astonishment.

"Pardon me," said I. "It is but having you, let us say, at a slight disadvantage; and now I think I may move."

I walked over to the governor's table and took up the bowl. La Chatre watched me in helpless chagrin, informing himself by a side glance that Frojac's weapon still covered him.

"You look somewhat irritated and disgusted, monsieur," said I. "Pray sit down!"

As I held my sword across the table, the point in close proximity to his chest, he obeyed, uttering a heavy sigh at his powerlessness. I then threw the bowl into the bed, taking careful aim so that it might make no sound. At that moment I saw La Chatre look towards the chamber in which were Montignac and mademoiselle, and there came on his face the sign of a half-formed project.

"See also, Frojac," said I, "that he does not open his mouth to shout."

"He shall be as silent as if born dumb, monsieur."

"Oh, he may speak, but not so loud as to be heard in the next chamber. Look to it, Frojac."

"Very well, monsieur."

For I did not wish, as yet, that Montignac should know what was going on. Through the closed door and the thick tapestried walls, only a loud cry, or some such sound as a stroke on the resonant bowl or tray, could have reached him. We had spoken in careful tones, La Chatre not daring to raise his voice. Thus the closing of the door, intended by the governor to make Montignac safer from a sudden rush on my part, now served my own purpose. It is true that, since Frojac had appeared, and the governor could not make his signal, I might have summoned Montignac by a single stroke, and despatched him in the doorway. But now that my own position was easier, I saw that such a manoeuvre, first contemplated when only a desperate stroke seemed possible, was full of danger to mademoiselle. I might bungle it, whereupon Montignac would certainly attempt one blow against her, though it were his last. I must, therefore, use the governor to release her from her perilous situation; but first I must use him for another purpose, which the presence of the keen-witted Montignac might defeat. Hence, the secretary was not yet to be made aware of the turn things had taken.

There were three quills on the table. I took up one of them and dipped it in the horn of ink.

"Shall I tell you of what you are thinking, monsieur," said I, observing on the governor's face a new expression, that of one who listens and makes some mental calculation.

"Amuse yourself as you please, monsieur," he answered.

"You are thinking, first, that as I am in your chateau, and not alone, I have, doubtless, deprived you of all the soldiers left to guard your chateau; secondly, that at a certain time, a few hours ago, your troops set out for my residence; that they have probably now learned that I am not there; that they have consequently started to return. You are asking yourself what will happen if I am here when they arrive. Will I kill you before I allow myself to be taken? Probably, you say. Men like me value themselves highly, and sell themselves dearly. You would rather that I leave before they come. Then you can send them on my track. Very well; write, monsieur!" And I handed him the pen.

He looked at me with mingled vindictiveness and wonder, as if it were remarkable that I had uttered the thoughts that any one in his position must have had. Mechanically he took the pen.

"What shall I write?" he muttered.

"Write thus: To M. de Brissard, governor of Fleurier. Release M. de Varion immediately. Let him accompany the man who bears this and who brings a horse for him."

With many baitings, many side glances at Frojac's arquebus and my sword-point, many glum looks and black frowns, he wrote, while I watched from across the table. Then he threw the document towards me.

"Sign and seal," I said, tossing it back to him.

With intended slovenliness he affixed the signature and seal, then threw the pen to the floor. I took the order, scanned it, and handed him another pen.

"Excellent!" said I. "And now again!"

He made a momentary show of haughty, indignant refusal, but a movement of my sword quelled the brief revolt in him.

"The bearer of this," I dictated, "M. de Varion, is to pass free in the province, and to cross the border where he will."

This time he signed and affixed the seal without additional request. He threw the second pen after the first, and looked up at me with a scowl.

"A bold, brave signature, monsieur! There is one pen left!" and I handed him the third quill.

He took it with a look of wrath, after which he gave a sigh of forced patience, and sat ready to write.

"The bearer of this, Ernanton de Launay—"

"Ernanton de Launay?" he repeated, looking up inquiringly.

"Ernanton de Launay, Sieur de la Tournoire,—" I went on.

He stared at me aghast, as if my presumption really passed all bounds, but a glint of light on my sword caught his eye, he carried his eye along to the point, which was under his nose, and he wrote:

"—is to pass free in the province, and from it, with all his company."

"No, no, no! I will never write that!"

Without an instant's hesitation, I drew back my sword as if to add weight to an intended thrust. He gasped, and then finished the pass, signed it, and attached the seal.

"Be assured," I said, as I took up the last order, "these will be used before you shall have time to countermand them." He gritted his teeth at this. "I thank you heartily, monsieur, and shall ask you to do no more writing. But one favor will I claim,—the loan of a few gold pieces for M. de Varion. Come, monsieur, your purse has ever been well fed!"

With a look of inward groaning, he negligently handed me some pieces, not counting them.

"Parbleu!" he said. "You will ask me for my chateau next."

"All in good time. It is a good jest, monsieur, that while you visit me at Maury by proxy, I return the visit at Clochonne in person and find your chateau unguarded. To complete the jest, I need only take possession. But I am for elsewhere. Frojac, come here."

While Frojac approached, I held my sword ready for any movement on the part of my unhappy adversary, for I saw him cast a furtive look at the tray on the other table, and I read on his face the birth of some new design.

Rapidly I gave Frojac my commands, with the gold and the two orders first written.

"Take this order immediately, with my horse and your own, to the chateau of Fleurier. Secure M. de Varion's release, and fly with him at once from the province, leaving by the western border, so that you cannot possibly be forestalled by any troops or counter-orders that this gentleman may send from here. Make your way speedily to Guienne."

"And in Guienne, monsieur?"

"You will doubtless find me at the camp of Henri of Navarre. As soon as you see M. de Varion, assure him of the safety of his daughter. And now to horse!"

"I am already on my way, monsieur!" And the good fellow ran from the chamber and down the stairs. In a few moments I heard the horses clattering out of the courtyard and over the bridge. Pleased at his zeal and swiftness, I stepped to the window to wave him a godspeed. I thus turned my back towards La Chatre.

Frojac saw me and waved in response, as he dashed down the moonlit way towards the road to Fleurier.

I heard a stealthy noise behind me, and, turning, saw what made me fiercely repent my momentary forgetfulness and my reliance on the governor's lameness. The sight revealed plainly enough what new idea had come into La Chatre's mind,—simply that, if he should give the signal for mademoiselle's death, I would probably not stay to attack him, but would instantly rush into the next chamber in the hope of saving her. He could then fasten the door, and so hold me prisoner in that chamber until the return of his troops. Well for us that he had not thought of this before the arrival of Frojac!

He was already near the table on which was the tray, when I turned and saw him. He raised his stick to strike the tray. I rushed after him.

He brought down his stick. The tray sounded, loud and bell-like. He heard me coming, and raised his stick again. The second clang would be the death-knell of my beloved!

But my sword was in time, my arm served. The blade met the descending stick and knocked it from the governor's grasp. The same rush that took me between La Chatre and the table carried me across the chamber to a spot at one side of the door which Montignac at that moment threw open.

"You struck once, did you not, monsieur?" said Montignac, not seeing me, for he naturally looked towards the centre of the chamber.

He held mademoiselle's wrist in his left hand, his dagger in his right. I was at his right side. I was too near him to use my sword with effect, so I contented myself with stepping quickly behind him and bringing my fist down on his left arm above the elbow. This unexpected blow made him involuntarily release mademoiselle's wrist, and informed him of my whereabouts. The impulse of self-preservation caused him to rush forward and turn. I then stepped in front of mademoiselle and faced him. All this, from my turning from the window, was done in a moment.

"And now, M. de la Chatre," said I, "you may strike the bowl as often as you please."

"M. de la Chatre," said Montignac, in a quick, resolute voice, "give me leave to finish this!"

"As you will, Montignac!" replied the governor, moving towards the window. His movement betrayed his thought. If his troops should return in the next few minutes, I would be too busy with Montignac to attack himself. There were two hopes for him. One was that, by some miracle, Montignac might kill or wound me. The other was that the troops might return before I should have finished with Montignac. La Chatre had doubtless inferred that I had brought with me none of my men but Frojac; therefore I alone was to be feared.

Montignac, keeping his eyes fixed on me, transferred his dagger to his left hand, and drew his sword with his right. I, with my sword already in my right hand, drew my dagger with my left.

"Monsieur," said I to Montignac, "I see with pleasure that you are not a coward."

"You shall see what you shall see, monsieur!" he answered, in the voice of a man who fears nothing and never loses his wits.

It was, indeed, a wonder that this man of thought could become so admirable a man of action. There was nothing fragile in this pale student. His eyes took on the hardness of steel. Never did more self-reliant and resolute an antagonist meet me. The hate that was manifest in his countenance did not rob him of self-possession. It only strengthened and steadied him. At first I thought him foolhardy to face so boldly an antagonist who wore a breastplate, but later I found that, beneath his jerkin, he was similarly protected. I suppose that he had intended to accompany the troops to Maury, had so prepared himself for battle, and had not found opportunity, after the change of intention, to divest himself.

Conscious of mademoiselle's presence behind me, I stood for a moment awaiting the secretary's attack. In that moment did I hear, or but seem to hear, the sound of many horses' footfalls on the distant road? I did not wait to assure myself. Knowing that, if the governor's troops had indeed found Maury abandoned, and had returned, quick work was necessary, I attacked at the same instant as my adversary did. As I would no more than disable an antagonist less protected than myself, I made to touch him lightly in his right side; but my point, tearing away a part of his jerkin, gave the sound and feel of metal, and thus I learned that he too wore body armor. I was pleased at this; for now we were less unequal than I had thought, and I might use full force. He had tried to turn with his dagger this my first thrust, but was not quick enough, whereas my own dagger caught neatly the sword-thrust that he made simultaneously with mine.

"Oh, M. de Launay!" cried mademoiselle, behind me, in a voice of terror, at the first swift clash of our weapons.

"Fear not for me, mademoiselle!" I cried, catching Montignac's blade again with my dagger, and giving a thrust which he avoided by leaping backward.

"Good, Montignac!" cried La Chatre, looking on from the window. "He cannot reach you! If you cannot kill him, you may keep him engaged till the troops come back!"

"I shall kill him!" was Montignac's reply, while he faced me with set teeth and relentless eyes.

"Listen, monsieur!" cried mademoiselle. "If you die, I shall die with you!" And she ran from behind me to the centre of the chamber, where I could see her.

"And if I live?" I shouted, narrowly stopping a terrible thrust, and stepping back between the table and the bed.

"If we live, I am yours forever! Ernanton, I love you!"

At last she had confessed it with her lips! For the first time, she had called me by my Christian name! My head swam with joy.

"You kill me with happiness, Julie!" I cried, overturning the table towards Montignac to gain a moment's breath.

"I shall kill you with my sword!" Montignac hurled the words through clenched teeth. "For, by God, you shall have no happiness with her!"

His white face had an expression of demoniac hate, yet his thrusts became the more adroit and swift, his guard the more impenetrable and firm. His body was as sinuous as a wild beast's, his eye as steady. The longer he fought, the more formidable he became as an adversary. He was worth a score of Vicomtes de Berquin.

"Ernanton," cried mademoiselle, "you know all my treachery!"

"I know that you would have saved your father," I answered, leaping backward upon the bed, to avoid the secretary's impetuous rush; "and that I have saved him, and that, God willing, we shall soon meet him in Guienne!"

"If he meets you, it will be in hell!" With this, Montignac jumped upon the bed after me, and there was some close dagger play while I turned to back out between the posts at the foot.

At this moment La Chatre gave a loud, jubilant cry, and mademoiselle, looking out of the window, uttered a scream of consternation.

"The troops at last!" shouted La Chatre. "Hold out but another minute, Montignac!"

So then I had heard aright. Alas, I thought, that the river road to Maury should be so much shorter than the forest road; alas, that the governor's troops should have had time to return ere Blaise had reached the junction of the roads!

"My God, the soldiers have us in a trap!" cried mademoiselle, while I caught Montignac's dagger-point with a bed-curtain, and stepped backward from the bed to the floor.

"And mademoiselle shall be mine!"

As he uttered these words with a fiendish kind of elation, Montignac leaped from the bed after me, releasing his dagger by pulling the curtain from its fastening, while at the same time his sword-point, directed at my neck, rang on my breast-plate.

"You shall not live to see the end of this, monsieur!" I replied, infuriated at his premature glee.

And, having given ground a little, I made so quick an onslaught that, in saving himself, he fell back against a chair, which overturned and took him to the floor with it.

"Help, monsieur!" he cried to La Chatre, raising his dagger just in time to ward off my sword.

The governor now perceived the sword that stood by the fireplace, took it up, and thrust at me. Mademoiselle, who, in her distress at the sight of the troops, had run to the prie-dieu and fallen on her knees, saw La Chatre's movement, and, rushing forward, caught the sword with both hands as he thrust. I expected to see her fingers torn by the blade, but it happened that the sword was still in its sheath, a fact which in our excitement none of us had observed; so that when La Chatre tried to pull the weapon from her grasp he merely drew it from the sheath, which remained in her hands. By this time I was ready for the governor.

"Come on!" I cried. "It is a better match, two against me!"

And I sent La Chatre's sword flying from his hand, just in time to guard against a dagger stroke from Montignac, who had now risen. Julie snatched up the sword and held the governor at bay with it.

For some moments the distant clatter of galloping horses had been rapidly increasing.

"Quick!" shouted La Chatre through the window to the approaching troops. "To the rescue!"

And he stood wildly beckoning them on, but keeping his head turned towards Montignac and me, who both fought with the greatest fury. For I saw that I had found at last an antagonist requiring all my strength and skill, one with whom the outcome was not at all certain.

The tumult of hoofs grew louder and nearer.

"Ernanton, fly while we can! The soldiers are coming!"

Mademoiselle threw La Chatre's sword to a far corner, ran to the door leading from the stairway landing, closed it, and pushed home the bolt.

"They are at the gate! They are entering!" cried the governor, joyously. "Another minute, Montignac!"

There was the rushing clank of hoofs on the drawbridge, then from the courtyard rose a confused turbulence of horses, men, and arms.

Again my weapons clashed with Montignac's. Julie looked swiftly around. Her eye alighted on the dagger that lay on one of the chairs. She drew it from its sheath.

"If we die, it is together!" she cried, holding it aloft.

There came a deadened, thumping sound, growing swiftly to great volume. It was that of men rushing up the stairs.

"To the rescue!" cried La Chatre. "But one more parry, Montignac!"

There was now a thunder of tramping in the hall outside the door.

"Ay, one more—the last!" It was I who spoke, and the speech was truth. I leaped upon my enemy, between his dagger and his sword, and buried my dagger in his neck. When I drew it out, he whirled around, clutched wildly at the air, caught the curtain at the window, and fell, with the quick, sharp cry:

"God have mercy on me!"

"Amen to that!" said I, wiping the blood from my dagger.

A terrible pounding shook the door, and from without came cries of "Open." Mademoiselle ran to my side, her dagger ready for her breast. I put my left arm around her.

"And now, God have mercy on you!" shouted La Chatre, triumphantly; for the door flew from its place, and armed men surged into the chamber, crowding the open doorway.

"Are we in time, my captain?" roared their leader, looking from the governor to me.

And La Chatre tottered back to the fireplace, dumbfounded, for the leader was Blaise and the men were my own.

Julie gave a glad little cry, and, dropping her dagger, sank to her knees exhausted.

"Good-night, monsieur!" I said to La Chatre. "We thank you for your hospitality!"



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE RIDE TOWARDS GUIENNE

I ordered the men to return to the courtyard, and, supporting Julie, I followed them from the chamber, leaving M. de la Chatre alone with his chagrin and the dead body of his secretary.

In the hall outside the governor's chamber, we found Jeannotte and Hugo, for Blaise had brought them with him, believing that we would not return to Maury. The gypsies had accompanied him as far as Godeau's inn, where we had first met them. He had even brought as much baggage and provisions as could be hastily packed on the horses behind the men. The only human beings left by him at Maury were the three rascals who had so blunderingly served De Berquin, but he had considerately unlocked the door of their cell before his departure.

I begged mademoiselle to rest a while in one of the chambers contiguous to the hall, and, when she and Jeannotte had left us, I told Blaise as much of the truth as it needed to show mademoiselle as she was. I then explained why he had found the draw-bridge down, the gate open, the chateau undefended. He grinned at the trick that fate had played on our enemies, but looked rather downcast at the lost opportunity of meeting them at Maury.

"But," said he, looking cheerful again, "they will come back to the chateau and find us here, and we may yet have some lively work with them."

"Perchance," I said, "for I fear that mademoiselle cannot endure another ride to-night. If she could, I would start immediately for Guienne. Our work in Berry is finished."

"Then you shall start immediately," said a gentle but resolute voice behind me. Mademoiselle, after a few minutes' repose, had risen and come to demand that no consideration for her comfort should further imperil our safety.

"But—" I started to object.

"Better another ride," she said, with a smile, "than another risking of your life. I swear that I will not rest till you are out of danger. It is not I who most need rest."

She looked, indeed, fresh and vigorous, as one will, despite bodily fatigue, when one has cast off a heavy burden and found promise of new happiness. When a whole lifetime of joy was to be won, it was no time to tarry for the sake of weary limbs.

So it was decided that we should start at once southward, not resting until we should be half-way across the mountains. As for my belated foragers, we should have to let them take their chances of rejoining us; and some weeks later they did indeed arrive at the camp in Guienne with rich spoil, having found Maury given over to the owls and bats as of yore.

The men cheered for joy at the announcement that we were at last to rejoin our Henri's flying camp. In the guard-house we found Pierre and the other guardsman, both securely bound by Frojac. We released Pierre and sent him to his mistress. I put Blaise at the head of my company, and we set forth, half of the troop going first, then mademoiselle and I, then Jeannotte and the two boys, and lastly the other half of my force. Looking back, I saw the lighted window of the governor's chamber, that window whence I had looked out at Frojac and whence La Chatre had mistakenly taken my men for his own. Doubtless he still sat in his chamber, dazed and incapable of action, for after leaving him alone there I neither saw nor heard him. Nor did we see any more troops or any servants about the chateau. Some hasty scampering in distant apartments, after the entrance of my men, was the only indication of inhabitants that we had received. If there were other troops in the chateau than the six we had disposed of, they followed the example of the servants and lay close. As for the soldiers at the town guard-house, they must have heard my men ride to the chateau, but they had wisely refrained from appearing before a force greater than their own. I shall never cease to marvel that the very night that took me and my men to Clochonne by one road took La Chatre's guards and the town garrison to Maury by another.

When I sent Blaise to the head of the troops, I told him to set a good pace, for the governor's men had indeed had time sufficient to have gone to Maury, discovered their mistake, and come back, so much shorter is the river road than the forest way. There was a likelihood, therefore, of their reaching the point of junction, on their return, at any minute, and I wished to be past that point and well up the mountain-side before they should do so.

Julie rode very close to me, and as soon as we were out of the gate she began in a low tone to speak of a thing that required no more explanation to me; yet I let her speak on, for the relief of her heart. So, in a few minutes, as we rode with the soldiers in the night, she eased her mind forever of the matter.

"When I received word in Bourges," she said, "that my father was in prison, I thought that I would die of grief and horror. They would not let me see him, told me that his crime of harboring a Huguenot was a grave one, that he had violated the King's edict, and might be charged even with treason. The thought of how he must suffer in a dungeon was more than I could endure. Only M. de la Chatre, they told me, could order his release. La Chatre had left Fleurier to go northward. I started after him, not waiting even to refresh my horses. When we reached the inn at the end of the town, I had become sufficiently calm to listen to Hugo's advice that it would be best to bait the horses before going further. I began to perceive, too, that myself and Jeannotte needed some nourishment in order to be able to go on a journey. Thus it happened that I stopped at the inn where La Chatre himself was. He had not gone immediately north from Fleurier, but had been visiting an estate in the vicinity, and it was on regaining the main road that he had tarried at the inn, without reentering the town. I had never seen him, but the girl at the inn told me who he was.

"When I fell on my knees, and told him how incapable my father was of harm or disloyalty, he at first showed annoyance, and said that my pleading would be useless. My father must be treated as an example, he said. To succor traitors was treason, to shield heretics was heresy, and there was no doubt that the judges would condemn him to death, to furnish others a lesson. He was then going to leave me, but his secretary came forward and said that I had come at an opportune moment, an instrument sent by Heaven. Was I not, he asked the governor, some one who had much to gain or much to lose? Then La Chatre became joyful, and said that there was a way—one only—by which I might free my father. Eagerly I begged to know that way, but with horror I refused it when I learned that it was to—to hunt down a certain Huguenot captain, to make him trust me, and to betray him. For a time I would not hear his persuasions. Then he swore that, if I did not undertake this detestable mission, my father should surely die; and he told me that you were a deserter, a traitor, an enemy to the church and to the King, I had heard your name but once or twice, and I remembered it only as one who had worked with daring and secrecy in the interests of the Huguenots. He described my father tortured and killed, his body hanging at the gates of Fleurier, blown by the wind, and attacked by the birds. Oh, it was terrible! All this could be avoided, my father's liberty regained, by my merely serving the King and the church. He gave his word that, if I betrayed you, my father should be released without even a trial. You can understand, can you not? You were then a stranger to me, and my father the most gentle and kindly of men, the most tender and devoted of fathers."