"I will be all to you that I can and that you ask me to be."

"I have your word, dear friend?"

"You have my word. If you ask me, I will redeem it." She looked at him still as though she had said a great thing—as though a pledge had passed between them, and a solemn promise from her to him.

What seemed her feeling found an answer in Dieppe. He pressed her for no more promises, he urged her to no more demonstration of affection towards him. But their eyes met, their glances conquered the dimness of the candle's light and spoke to one another. Rain beat and wind howled outside. Dieppe heard nothing but an outspoken confession that left honour safe and inviolate, and yet told him the sweetest thing that he could hear—a thing so sweet that for the instant its sadness was forgotten. He had triumphed, though he could have no reward of victory. He was loved, though he might hear no words of love. But he could serve her still—serve her and save her from the danger and humiliation which, notwithstanding Count Andrea's softened mood, still threatened her. That he even owed her; for he did not doubt that the danger, and the solitude in which, but for him, it had to be faced, had done much to ripen and to quicken her regard for him. As for himself, with such a woman as the Countess in the case, he was not prepared to own the need of any external or accidental stimulus. Yet beauty distressed is beauty doubled; that is true all the world over, and, no doubt, it held good even for Captain Dieppe. He had been loyal—under the circumstances wonderfully loyal—to the Count; but he felt quite justified, if he proved equal to the task, in robbing his friend of the privilege of forgiveness—aye, and of the pleasure of paying fifty thousand francs. He resolved that the Count of Fieramondi should never know of Paul de Roustache's threats against the Countess or of his demand for that exorbitant sum of money.

With most people in moments of exaltation to resolve that a result is desirable is but a preliminary to undertaking its realisation. Dieppe had more than his share of this temper. He bent down towards his new and dear friend, and said confidently:

"Don't distress yourself about this fellow—I 'll manage the whole affair without trouble or publicity." Yet he had no notion how his words were to be made good.

"You will?" she asked, with a confidence in the Captain apparently as great as his own.

"Certainly," said he, with a twirl of his moustache.

"Then I 'd better leave it to you and go home at once."

The inference was not quite what the Captain had desired. But he accepted it with a tolerably good grace. When a man has once resisted temptation there is little to be gained, and something perhaps to be risked, by prolonging the interview.

"I suppose so," said he. "I 'll escort you as far as the village. But what's the time?"

He took out his watch and held it down to the flame of the candle; the lady rose and looked, not over his shoulder, but just round his elbow.

"Ah, that's curious," observed the Captain, regarding the hands of his watch. "How quickly the time has gone!"

"Very. But why is it curious?" she asked.

He glanced down at her face, mischievously turned up to his.

"Well, it's not curious," he admitted, "but it is awkward."

"It's only just seven."

"Precisely the hour of my appointment with Paul de Roustache."

"With Paul de Roustache?"

"Don't trouble yourself. All will be well."

"What appointment? Where are you to meet him?"

"By the Cross, on the road outside there."

"Heavens! If I were to meet him! He must n't see me!"

"Certainly not," agreed the Captain with cheerful confidence.

"But how are we to avoid—?"

"Ah, you put no real trust in me," murmured he in gentle reproach, and, it must be added, purely for the sake of gaining a moment's reflection.

"Could n't we walk boldly by him?" she suggested.

"He would recognise you to a certainty, even if he didn't me."

"Recognise me? Oh, I don't know. He does n't know me very well."

"What?" said the Captain, really a little astonished this time.

"And there 's the rain and—and the night and—and all that," she murmured in some confusion.

"No man who has ever seen you—" began the Captain.

"Hush! What's that?" whispered she, grasping his arm nervously. The Captain, recalled to the needs of the situation, abandoned his compliment, or argument, whichever it was, and listened intently.

There were voices outside the hut, some little way off, seeming to come from above, as though the speakers were on the crest of the hill. They were audible intermittently, but connectedly enough, as though their owners waited from time to time for a lull in the gusty wind before they spoke.

"Hold the lantern here. Why, it's past seven! He ought to be here by now."

"We 've searched every inch of the ground."

"That's Paul de Roustache," whispered the Captain.

"Perhaps he 's lying down out of the storm somewhere. Shall we shout?"

"Oh, if you like—but you risk being overheard. I 'm tired of the job."

"The ground dips here. Come, we must search the hollow. You must earn your reward, M. de Roustache."

The lady pressed Dieppe's arm. "I can't go now," she whispered.

"I 'm willing to earn it, but I 'd like to see it."

"What's that down there?"

"You don't attend to my suggestion, M. Sevier."

"Sevier!" muttered the Captain, and a smile spread over his face.

"Call me Guillaume," came sharply from the voice he had first heard.

"Exactly," murmured Dieppe. "Call him anything except his name. Oh, exactly!"

"It looks like—like a building—a shed or something. Come, he may be in there."

"Oh!" murmured the lady. "You won't let them in?"

"They sha'n't see you," Dieppe reassured her. "But listen, my dear friend, listen."

"Who 's the other? Sevier?"

"A gentleman who takes an interest in me. But silence, pray, silence, if you—if you 'll be guided by me."

"Let's go down and try the door. If he 's not there, anyhow we can shelter ourselves till he turns up."

There was a pause. Feet could be heard climbing and slithering down the slippery grass slope.

"What if you find it locked?"

"Then I shall think some one is inside, and some one who has discovered reasons for not wishing to be met."

"And what will you do?" The voices were very near now, and Paul's discontented sneer made the Captain smile; but his hand sought the pocket where his revolver lay.

"I shall break it open—with your help, my friend."

"I give no more help, friend Sevier—or Guillaume, or what you like—till I see my money. Deuce take it, the fellow may be armed!"

"I did n't engage you for a picnic, Monsieur Paul."

"It's the pay, not the work, that's in dispute, my friend. Come, you have the money, I suppose? Out with it!"

"Not a sou till I have the papers!"

The Captain nodded his head. "I was right, as usual," he was thinking to himself, as he felt his breast-pocket caressingly.

The wind rose to a gust and howled.

The voices became inaudible. The Captain bent down and whispered.

"If they force the door open," he said, "or if I have to open it and go out, you 'd do well to get behind that straw there till you see what happens. They expect nobody but me, and when they 've seen me they won't search any more."

He saw, with approval and admiration, that she was calm and cool.

"Is there danger?" she asked.

"No," said he. "But one of them wants some papers I have, and has apparently engaged the other to assist him. M. de Roustache feels equal to two jobs, it seems. I wonder if he knows whom he's after, though."

"Would they take the papers by force?" Her voice was very anxious, but still not terrified.

"Very likely—if I won't part with them. Don't be uneasy. I sha'n't forget your affair."

She pressed his arm gratefully, and drew back till she stood close to the trusses of straw, ready to seek a hiding-place in case of need. She was not much too soon. A man hurled himself violently against the door. The upper part gave and gaped an inch or two; the lower stood firm, thanks to the block of wood that barred its opening. Even as the assault was delivered against the door, Dieppe had blown out the candle. In darkness he and she stood waiting and listening.

"Lend a hand. We shall do it together," cried the voice of M. Guillaume.

"I 'll be hanged it I move without five thousand francs!"

Dieppe put up both hands and leant with all his weight against the upper part of the door. He smiled at his prescience when Guillaume flung himself against it once more. Now there was no yielding, no opening—not a chink. Guillaume was convinced.

"Curse you, you shall have the money," they heard him say. "Come, hold the lantern here."



CHAPTER VII

THE FLOOD ON THE RIVER

That Paul de Roustache came to the rendezvous, where he had agreed to meet the Count, in the company and apparently in the service of M. Guillaume, who was not at all concerned with the Count but very much interested in the man who had borrowed his name, afforded tolerably conclusive evidence that Paul had been undeceived, and that if either party had been duped in regard to the meeting it was Captain Dieppe. Never very ready to adopt such a conclusion as this, Dieppe was none the less forced to it by the pressure of facts. Moreover he did not perceive any safe, far less any glorious, issue from the situation either for his companion or for himself. His honour was doubly involved; the Countess's reputation and the contents of his breast-pocket alike were in his sole care; and just outside the hut were two rascals, plainly resolute, no less plainly unscrupulous, the one threatening the lady, the other with nefarious designs against the breast-pocket. They had joined hands, and now delivered a united attack against both of the Captain's treasured trusts. "In point of fact," he reflected with some chagrin, "I have for this once failed to control events." He brightened up almost immediately. "Never mind," he thought, "it may still be possible to take advantage of them." And he waited, all on the alert for his chance. His companion observed, with a little vexation, with more admiration, that he seemed to have become unconscious of her presence, or, at best, to consider her only as a responsibility.

The besiegers spoke no more in tones audible within the hut. Putting eye and ear alternately to the crevice between door and door-post, Dieppe saw the lantern's light and heard the crackle of paper. Then he just caught, or seemed to catch, the one word, said in a tone of finality, "Five!" Then came more crackling. Next a strange, sudden circle of light revolved before the Captain's eye; and then there was light no more. The lantern had been lifted, swung round in the air, and flung away. Swift to draw the only inference, Dieppe turned his head. As he did so there rang out a loud oath in Guillaume's voice; it was followed by an odd, dull thud.

"Quick, behind the trusses!" whispered Dieppe. "I 'm going out."

Without a word she obeyed him, and in a moment was well hidden. For an instant more Dieppe listened. Then he hurled the wooden block away, its weight, so great before, seemed nothing to him now in his excitement. The crack of a shot came from outside. Pulling the door violently back, Dieppe rushed out. Two or three paces up the slope stood Guillaume, his back to the hut, his arm still levelled at a figure which had just topped the summit of the eminence, and an instant later disappeared. Hearing Dieppe's rush, Guillaume turned, crying in uncontrollable agitation, "He 's robbed me, robbed me, robbed me!" Then he suddenly put both his hands up to his brow, clutching it tight as though he were in great pain, and, reeling and stumbling, at last fell and rolled down to the bottom of the hollow. For an instant the Captain hesitated. But Guillaume lay very still; and Guillaume had no quarrel with the Countess. His indecision soon ended, Dieppe ran, as if for his life, up the slope to the top of the hill. He disappeared; all was left dark and quiet at the hut; Guillaume did not stir, the lady did not stir; only the door, released from its confinement, began to flap idly to and fro again.

The Captain gained the summit, hardly conscious that one of those sudden changes of weather so common in hilly countries had passed over the landscape. The mist was gone, rain fell no more, a sharp, clean breeze blew, the stars began to shine, and the moon rose bright. It was as though a curtain had been lifted. Dieppe's topographical observations stood him in good stead now and saved him some moments' consideration. The fugitive had choice of two routes. But he would not return to the village: he might have to answer awkward questions about M. Guillaume, his late companion, there. He would make in another direction—presumably towards the nearest inhabited spot, where he could look to get more rapid means of escape than his own legs afforded. He would follow the road to the left then, down the zigzags that must lead to the river, and to some means of crossing it. But he had gained a good start and had the figure of an active fellow. Dieppe risked a short cut, darted past the Cross and straight over the road, heading down towards the river, but taking a diagonal course to the left. His intent was to hit the road where the road hit the river, and thus to cut off the man he pursued. His way would be shorter, but it would be rougher too; success or failure depended on whether the advantage or disadvantage proved the greater. As he ran, he felt for his revolver; but he did not take it out nor did he mean to use it save in the last resort. Captain Dieppe did not take life or maim limb without the utmost need; though a man of war, he did not suffer from blood fever. Besides he was a stranger in the country, with none to answer for him; and the credentials in his breast-pocket were not of the sort that he desired to produce for the satisfaction and information of the local custodians of the peace.

The grassy slope was both uneven and slippery. Moreover Dieppe had not allowed enough for the courage of the natives in the matter of gradients. The road, in fact, belied its cautious appearance. After three or four plausible zig-zags, it turned to rash courses and ran headlong down to the ford—true, it had excuse in the necessity of striking this spot—on a slope hardly less steep than that down which the Captain himself was painfully leaping with heels stuck deep in and body thrown well back. In the result Paul de Roustache comfortably maintained his lead, and when he came into his pursuer's view was no more than twenty yards from the river, the Captain being still a good fifty from the point at which he had hoped to be stationed before Paul came up.

"I 'm done," panted the Captain, referring both to his chances of success and to his physical condition; and he saw with despair that across the ford the road rose as boldly and as steeply as it had descended on the near side of the stream.

Paul ran on and came to the edge of the ford. Negotiations might be feasible since conquest was out of the question: Dieppe raised his voice and shouted. Paul turned and looked. "I 'm a pretty long shot," thought the Captain, and he thought it prudent to slacken his pace till he saw in what spirit his overtures were met. Their reception was not encouraging. Paul took his revolver from his pocket—the Captain saw the glint of the barrel—and waved it menacingly. Then he replaced it, lifted his hat jauntily in a mocking farewell, and turned to the ford again.

"Shall I go on?" asked the Captain, "or shall I give it up?" The desperate thought at last occurred: "Shall I get as near as I can and try to wing him?" He stood still for an instant, engaged in these considerations. Suddenly a sound struck his ear and caught his attention. It was the heavy, swishing noise of a deep body of water in rapid movement. His eyes flew down to the river.

"By God!" he muttered under his breath; and from the river his glance darted to Paul de Roustache. The landlord of the inn at Sasellano had not spoken without warrant. The stream ran high in flood, and Paul de Roustache stood motionless in fear and doubt on the threshold of the ford.

"I 've got him," remarked the Captain simply, and he began to pace leisurely and warily down the hill. He was ready for a shot now—ready to give one too, if necessary. But his luck was again in the ascendant; he smiled and twirled his moustache as he walked along.

If it be pardonable—or even praise-worthy, as some moralists assert—to pity the criminal, while righteously hating the crime, a trifle of compassion may be spared for Paul de Roustache. In fact that gentleman had a few hours before arrived at a resolution which must be considered (for as a man hath, so shall it be demanded of him, in talents and presumably in virtues also) distinctly commendable. He had made up his mind to molest the Countess of Fieramondi no more—provided he got the fifty thousand francs from M. Guillaume. Up to this moment fortune—or, in recognition of the morality of the idea, may we not say heaven?—had favoured his design. Obliged, in view of Paul's urgently expressed preference for a payment on account, to disburse five thousand francs, Guillaume had taken from his pocket a leather case of venerable age and opulent appearance. Paul was no more averse than Dieppe from taking a good chance. The production of the portfolio was the signal for a rapid series of decisive actions; for was not Dieppe inside the hut, and might not Dieppe share or even engross the contents of the portfolio? With the promptness of a man who has thoroughly thought out his plans, Paul had flung away the lantern, hit Guillaume on the forehead with the butt of his revolver, snatched the portfolio from his hand, and bolted up the slope that led from the hut to the summit; thence he ran down the road, not enjoying leisure to examine his prize, but sure that it contained more than the bare ten thousand francs for which he had modestly bargained. A humane man, he reflected, would stay by Guillaume, bathe his brow, and nurse him back to health; for with a humane man life is more than property; and meanwhile the property, with Paul as its protector, would be far away. But now—well, in the first place, Dieppe was evidently not a humane man, and in the second, here was this pestilent river flooded to the edge of its banks, and presenting the most doubtful passage which had ever by the mockery of language been misnamed a ford. He was indeed between the devil and the deep sea—that devil of a Dieppe and the deep sea of the ford on the road from Sasellano. What was to be done?

The days of chivalry are gone; and the days of hanging or beheading for unnecessary or unjustified homicide are with us, to the great detriment of romance. Paul, like the Captain, did not desire a duel, although, like the Captain, he proposed to keep his revolver handy. And, after all, what was called a ford must be at least comparatively shallow. Give it a foot of depth in ordinary times. Let it be three or four now. Still he could get across. With one last look at the Captain, who advanced steadily, although very slowly, Paul de Roustache essayed the passage. The precious portfolio was in an inner pocket, the hardly less precious revolver he grasped in one hand; and both his hands he held half outstretched on either side of him. The Captain watched his progress with the keenest interest and a generous admiration, and quickened his own pace so as to be in a position to follow the daring pioneer as rapidly as possible.

As far as depth was concerned, Paul's calculation was not far out. He travelled a third of his way and felt the ground level under him. He had reached the bottom of the river-bed, and the water was not up to his armpits. He took out the portfolio and thrust it in between his neck and his collar: it gave him a confined and choky feeling, but it was well out of water; and his right hand held the revolver well out of water too. Thus prepared, yet hoping that the worst was over, he took another forward step. Breaking into a run, the Captain was by the edge of the stream the next moment, whipped out his revolver, pointed it at Paul, and cried, "Stop!" For although one does not mean to fire, it is often useful to create the impression that one does.

The action had its effect now, although not exactly as Dieppe had anticipated. Flurried by his double difficulty, Paul stopped again and glanced over his shoulder. He saw the barrel aimed at him; he could not risk disregarding the command, but he might forestall his pursuer's apparent intention. He tried to turn round, and effected half the revolution; thus he faced down-stream, and had his back to the full force of the current. Although no deeper than he had feared, the river was stronger; and in this attitude he offered a less firm resistance. In an instant he was swept off his feet, and carried headlong down-stream, dropping his revolver and struggling to swim to the opposite bank.

"I can't afford to have this happen!" cried Dieppe, and, seeing how the current bore his enemy away, he ran swiftly some fifty yards down the bank, got ahead of Paul, and plunged in, again with the idea of cutting him off, but by water this time, since his plan had failed on land.

Here it is likely enough that the two gentlemen's difficulties and activities alike would have ended. Paul went under and came up again, a tangled, helpless heap of legs and arms; the Captain kept his head above water for the time, but could do nothing save follow the current which carried him straight down-stream. But by good luck the river took a sharp bend a hundred yards below the ford, and Dieppe perceived that by drifting he would come very near to the projecting curve of the bank. Paul was past noticing this chance or trying to avail himself of it. The Captain was swept down; at the right instant he made the one effort for which he had husbanded his strength. He gathered his legs up under him, and he stood. The water was only half-way up his thigh, and he stood. "Now for you, my friend!" he cried. Paul came by, quite inanimate now to all appearance, floating broadside to the current. Leaning forward, the Captain caught him by the leg, throwing his own body back in an intense strain of exertion. He lost his footing and fell. "I must let him go," he thought, "or we shall both be done for." But the next moment he felt himself flung on the bank, and the tension on his arms relaxed. The current had thrown the two on the bank and pursued its own race round the promontory, bereft of its playthings. Drenched, huddled, hatless, they lay there.

"A very near thing indeed," said the Captain, panting hard and regarding Paul's motionless body with a grave and critical air of inquiry. The next moment he fell on his knees by his companion. "Perhaps he carries a flask—I 've none," he thought, and began to search Paul's pockets. He found what he sought and proceeded to unscrew the top.

Paul gasped and grunted. "He 's all right then," said the Captain. Paul's hand groped its way up to his collar, and made convulsive clutches. "I 'd better give him a little more room," mused Dieppe, and laid the flask down for a minute. "Ah, this is a queer cravat! No wonder he feels like choking. A portfolio! Ah, ah!" He took it out and pocketed it. Then he forced some brandy down Paul's throat, and undid his collar and his waistcoat. "A pocket inside the waistcoat! Very useful, very useful—and more papers, yes! Take a drop, my friend, it will do you good." Thus alternately ministering to Paul's bodily comfort and rifling his person of what valuables he carried, Dieppe offered to the philosophic mind a singular resemblance to a Finance Minister who takes a farthing off the duty on beer and puts a penny on the income tax.

The moon was high, but not bright enough to read a small and delicate handwriting by. The Captain found himself in a tantalising position. He gave Paul some more brandy, laid down the packet of letters, and turned to the portfolio. It was large and official in appearance, and it had an ingenious clasp which baffled Dieppe. With a sigh he cut the leather top and bottom, and examined the prize.

"Ah, my dear Banque de France, even in this light I can recognise your charming, allegorical figures," he said with a smile. There were thirty notes—he counted them twice, for they were moist and very sticky. There was another paper. "This must be—" He rose to his feet and held the paper up towards the moon. "I can't read the writing," he murmured, "but I can see the figures—30,000. Ah, and that is 'Genoa'! Now to whom is it payable, I wonder!"

"What the devil are you doing?" growled Paul, sitting up with a shiver.

"My friend, I have saved your life," observed the Captain, impressively.

"That's no reason for robbing me," was Paul's ungrateful but logically sound reply.

The Captain stooped and picked up the bundle of letters. Separating them one from another, he tore them into small fragments and scattered them over the stream. Paul watched him, sullen but without resistance. Dieppe turned to him.

"You have no possible claim against the Countess," he remarked; "no possible hold on her, Monsieur de Roustache."

Paul finished the flask for himself this time, shivered again, and swore pitifully. He was half-crying and cowed. "Curse the whole business!" he said. "But she had twenty thousand francs of my money."

The Captain addressed to him a question somewhat odd under the circumstances.

"On your honour as a gentleman, is that true?" he asked.

"Yes, it's true," said Paul, with a glare of suspicion. He was not in the mood to appreciate satire or banter; but the Captain appeared quite grave and his manner was courteous.

"It's beastly cold," Paul continued with a groan.

"In a moment you shall take a run," the Captain promised. And he pursued, "The Countess must not be in your debt. Permit me to discharge the obligation." He counted twenty of the thirty notes and held them out to Paul. After another stare Paul laughed feebly.

"I am doing our friend M. Guillaume no wrong," the Captain explained. "His employers have in their possession fifty thousand francs of mine. I avail myself of this opportunity to reduce the balance to their debit. As between M. Guillaume and me, that is all. As between you and me, sir, I act for the Countess. I pay your claim at your own figures, and since I discharge the claim I have made free to destroy the evidence. I have thrown the letters into the river. I do not wish to threaten, but if you 're not out of sight in ten minutes, I 'll throw you after them."

"If I told you all the story—" began Paul with a sneer.

"I 'm not accustomed to listen to stories against ladies, sir," thundered the Captain.

"She 's had my money for a year—"

"The Countess would wish to be most liberal, but she did not understand that you regarded the transaction as a commercial one." He counted five more notes and handed them to Paul with an air of careless liberality.

Paul broke into a grudging laugh.

"What are you going to tell old Guillaume?" he asked.

"I'm going to tell him that my claim against his employers is reduced by the amount that I have had the honour to hand you, M. de Roustache. Pardon me, but you seem to forget the remark I permitted myself to make just now." And the Captain pointed to the river.

Paul rose and stamped his feet on the ground; he looked at his companion, and his surprise burst out in the question, "You really mean to let me go with five and twenty thousand francs!"

"I act as I am sure the lady whose name has been unavoidably mentioned would wish to act."

Paul stared again, then sniggered again, and pocketed his spoil.

"Only you must understand that—that the mine is worked out, my friend. I think your way lies there." He pointed towards the road that led up from the ford to Sasellano.

Still Paul lingered, seeming to wish to say something that he found difficult to phrase.

"I was devilish hard up," he muttered at last.

"That is always a temptation," said the Captain, gravely.

"A fellow does things that—that look queer. I say, would n't that odd five thousand come in handy for yourself?"

The Captain looked at him; almost he refused the unexpected offer scornfully; but something in Paul's manner made him cry, quite suddenly, almost unconsciously, "Why, my dear fellow, if you put it that way—yes! As a loan from you to me, eh?"

"A loan? No—I—I—"

"Be at ease. Loan is the term we use between gentlemen—eh?" The Captain tried to curl his moist, uncurlable moustache.

And Paul de Roustache handed him back five thousand francs.

"My dear fellow!" murmured the Captain, as he stowed the notes in safety. He held out his hand; Paul de Roustache shook it and turned away. Dieppe stood watching him as he went, making not direct for the Sasellano road, but shaping a course straight up the hill, walking as though he hardly knew where he was going. So he passed out of the Captain's sight—and out of the list of the Countess of Fieramondi's creditors.

A little smile dwelt for a moment on Dieppe's face.

"I myself am very nearly a rascal sometimes," said he.

Crack! crack! The sound of a whip rang clear; the clatter of hoofs and the grind of a wheel on the skid followed. A carriage dashed down the hill from Sasellano. Paul de Roustache had seen it, and stooped low for a moment in instinctive fear of being seen. Captain Dieppe, on the other hand, cried "Bravo!" and began to walk briskly towards the ford. "How very lucky!" he reflected. "I will beg a passage; I have no fancy for another bath to-night."



CHAPTER VIII

THE CARRIAGE AT THE FORD

The direct issue between her Excellency and the innkeeper at Sasellano had ended as all such differences (save, of course, on points of morality) should—in a compromise. The lady would not resign herself to staying at Sasellano; the landlord would not engage to risk passenger, carriage, and horses in the flood. But he found and she accepted the services of a robust, stout-built fellow who engaged with the lady to drive her as far as the river and across it if possible, and promised the landlord to bring her and the equipage back in case the crossing were too dangerous. Neither party was pleased, but both consented, hoping to retrieve a temporary concession by ultimate victory. Moreover the lady paid the whole fare beforehand—not, the landlord precisely stipulated, to be returned in any event. So off her Excellency rattled in the wind and rain; and great was her triumph when the rain ceased, the wind fell, and the night cleared. She put her head out of the rackety old landau, whose dilapidated hood had formed a shelter by no means water-tight, and cried, "Who was right, driver?" But the driver turned his black cigar between his teeth, answering, "The mischief is done already. Well, we shall see!"

They covered eight miles in good time. They passed Paul de Roustache, who had no thought but to avoid them, and, once they were passed, took to the road and made off straight for Sasellano; they reached the descent and trotted gaily down it; they came within ten yards of the ford, and drew up sharply. The lady put her head out; the driver dismounted and took a look at the river.

Shaking his head, he came to the window.

"Your Excellency can't cross to-night," said he.

"I will," cried the lady, no less resolute now than she had been at the inn.

The direct issue again! And if the driver were as obstinate as he looked, the chances of that ultimate victory inclined to the innkeeper's side.

"The water would be inside the carriage," he urged.

"I 'll ride on the box by you," she rejoined.

"It 'll be up to the horses' shoulders."

"The horses don't mind getting wet, I suppose."

"They 'd be carried off their feet."

"Nonsense," said she, sharply, denying the fact since she could no longer pooh-pooh its significance. "Are you a coward?" she exclaimed indignantly.

"I 've got some sense in my head," said he with a grin.

At this moment Captain Dieppe, wishing that he were dry, that he had a hat, that his moustache would curl, yet rising victorious over all disadvantages by virtue of his temperament and breeding, concealing also any personal interest that he had in the settlement of the question, approached the carriage, bowed to its occupant, and inquired, with the utmost courtesy, whether he could be of any service.

"It 's of great importance to me to cross," said she, returning his salutation.

"It's impossible to cross," interposed the driver.

"Nonsense; I have crossed myself," remarked Captain Dieppe.

Both of them looked at him; he anticipated their questions or objections.

"Crossing on foot one naturally gets a little wet," said he, smiling.

"I won't let my horses cross," declared the driver. The Captain eyed him with a slightly threatening expression, but he did not like to quarrel before a lady.

"You 're afraid for your own skin," he said contemptuously. "Stay this side. I 'll bring the carriage back to you." He felt in his pocket and discovered two louis and two five-franc pieces. He handed the former coins to the driver. "I take all the responsibility to your master," he ended, and opening the carriage door he invited the lady to alight.

She was dark, tall, handsome, a woman of presence and of dignity. She took his hand and descended with much grace.

"I am greatly in your debt, sir," she said.

"Ladies, madame," he replied with a tentative advance of his hand toward his moustache, checked in time by a remembrance of the circumstances, "confer obligations often, but can contract none."

"I wish everybody thought as you do," said she with a deep sigh.

"Shall I mount the box?"

"If you please." He mounted after her, and took the reins. Cracking the whip, he urged on the horses.

"Body of the saints," cried the driver, stirred to emulation, "I 'll come with you!" and he leaped up on to the top of a travelling-trunk that was strapped behind the carriage.

"There is more good in human nature than one is apt to think," observed the Captain.

"If only one knows how to appeal to it," added the lady, sighing again very pathetically.

Somehow, the Captain received the idea that she was in trouble. He felt drawn to her, and not only by the sympathy which her courage and her apparent distress excited; he was conscious of some appeal, something in her which seemed to touch him directly and with a sort of familiarity, although he had certainly never seen her in his life before. He was pondering on this when one of the horses, frightened by the noise and rush of the water, reared up, while the other made a violent effort to turn itself, its comrade, and the carriage round, and head back again for Sasellano. The Captain sprang up, shouted, plied the whip; the driver stood on the trunk and yelled yet more vigorously; her Excellency clutched the rail with her hand. And in they went.

"The peculiarity of this stream," began the Captain, "lies not so much in its depth as in—"

"The strength of the current," interposed his companion, nodding.

"You know it?" he cried.

"Very well," she answered, and she might have said more had not the horses at this moment chosen to follow the easiest route, and headed directly downstream. A shriek from the driver awoke Dieppe to the peril of the position. He plied his whip again, and did his best to turn the animals' heads towards the opposite bank. The driver showed his opinion of the situation by climbing on to the top of the landau.

This step was perhaps a natural, but it was not a wise one. The roof was not adapted to carrying heavy weights. It gave way on one side, and in an instant the driver rolled over to the right and fell with a mighty splash into the water just above the carriage. At the same moment Dieppe contrived to turn the horses in the direction he aimed at, and the carriage moved a few paces.

"Ah, we move!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

"The driver 's fallen off!" cried the lady in alarm.

"I thought we seemed lighter, somehow," said Dieppe, paying no heed to the driver's terrified shouts, but still urging on his horses. He showed at this moment something of a soldier's recognition that, if necessary, life must be sacrificed for victory: he had taken the same view when he left M. Guillaume in order to pursue Paul de Roustache.

The driver, finding cries useless, saw that he must shift for himself. The wheel helped him to rise to his feet; he found he could stand. In a quick turn of feeling, he called, "Courage!" Dieppe looked over at him with a rather contemptuous smile.

"What, have you found some down at the bottom of the river? Like truth in the well?" he asked. "Catch hold of one of the horses, then!" He turned to the lady. "You drive, madame?"

"Yes."

"Then do me the favour." He gave her the reins, with a gesture of apology stepped in front of her, and lowered himself into the water on the left-hand side. "Now, my friend, one of us at each of their heads, and we do it! The whip, madame with all your might, the whip!"

The horses made a bound; the driver dashed forward and caught one by the bridle; the lady lashed. On his side Dieppe, clinging to a trace, made his way forward. Both he and the driver now shouted furiously, their voices echoing in the hills that rose from the river on either side, and rising at last in a shout of triumph as the wheels turned, the horses gained firm footing, and with a last spring forward landed the carriage in safety.

The driver swore softly and crossed himself devoutly before he fell to a rueful study of the roof of the landau.

"Monsieur, I am eternally indebted to you," cried the lady to Dieppe.

"It is a reciprocal service, madame," said he. "To tell the truth, I also had special reasons for wishing to gain this side of the river."

She appeared a trifle embarrassed, but civility, or rather gratitude, impelled her to the suggestion. "You are travelling my way?" she asked.

"A thousand thanks, but I have some business to transact first."

She seemed relieved, but she was puzzled, too. "Business? Here?" she murmured.

Dieppe nodded. "It will not keep me long," he added gravely.

The driver had succeeded in restoring the top of the landau to a precarious stability. Dieppe handed the lady down from the box-seat and into the interior. The driver mounted his perch; the lady leant out of the window to take farewell of her ally.

"Every hour was of value to me," she said, with a plain touch of emotion in her voice, "and but for you I should have been taken back to Sasellano. We shall meet again, I hope."

"I shall live in the hope," said he, with a somewhat excessive gallantry—a trick of which he could not cure himself.

The driver whipped up—he did not intend that either he or his horses, having escaped drowning, should die of cold. The equipage lumbered up the hill, its inmate still leaning out and waving her hand. Dieppe watched until the party reached the zigzags and was hidden from view, though he still heard the crack of the whip.

"Very interesting, very interesting!" he murmured to himself. "But now to business! Now for friend Guillaume and the Countess!" His face fell as he spoke. With the disappearance of excitement, and the cessation of exertion, he realised again the great sorrow that faced him and admitted of no evasion. He sighed deeply and sought his cigarette-case. Vain hope of comfort! His cigarettes were no more than a distasteful pulp. He felt forlorn, very cold, very hungry, also; for it was now between nine and ten o'clock. His heart was heavy as he prepared to mount the hill and finish his evening's work. He must see Guillaume; he must see the Countess; and then—

"Ah!" he cried, and stooped suddenly to the ground. A bright object lay plain and conspicuous on the road which had grown white again as it dried in the sharp wind. It was an oval locket of gold, dropped there, a few yards from the ford. It lay open—no doubt the jar of the fall accounted for that—face downwards. The Captain picked it up and examined it. He said nothing; his usual habit of soliloquy failed him for the moment; he looked at it, then round at the landscape. For the moonlight showed him a picture in the locket, and enabled him to make out a written inscription under it.

"What?" breathed he at last. "Oh, I can't believe it!" He looked again. "Oh, if that 's the lie of the land, my friend!" He smiled; then, in an apparent revulsion of feeling, he frowned angrily, and even shook his fist downstream, perhaps intending the gesture for some one in the village. Lastly, he shook his head sadly, and set off up the hill in the wake of the now vanished carriage; as he went, he whistled in a soft and meditative way. But before he started, he had assured himself that he in his turn had not dropped anything, and that M. Guillaume's partially depleted portfolio was still safe in his pocket, side by side with his own precious papers. And he deposited the locket he had found with these other valued possessions.

A few minutes' walking brought him to the Cross. The exercise had warmed him, the threatened stiffness of cold had passed; he ran lightly up the hill and down into the basin. There was no sign of M. Guillaume. The Captain, rather vexed, for he had business with that gentleman,—an explanation of a matter which touched his own honour to make, and an account which intimately concerned M. Guillaume to adjust,—entered the hut. In an instant his hand was grasped in an appealing grip, and the voice he loved best in the world (there was no blinking the fact, whatever might be thought of the propriety), cried, "Ah, you 're safe?"

"How touching that is!" thought the Captain. "She has a hundred causes for anxiety, but her first question is, 'You're safe?'" This was she whom he renounced, and this was she whom the Count of Fieramondi deceived. What were her trifling indiscretions beside her husband's infamy—the infamy betrayed and proved by the picture and inscription in the locket?

"I am safe, and you are safe," said he, returning the pressure of her hand. "And where is our friend outside?"

"I don't know—I lay hidden till I heard him go. I don't know where he went. What do you mean by saying I'm safe?"

"I have got rid of Paul de Roustache. He 'll trouble you no more."

"What?" Wonder and admiration sparkled in her eyes. Because he was enabled to see them, Dieppe was grateful to her for having replaced and relighted his candle. "Yes, I was afraid in the dark," she said, noticing his glance at it. "But it 's almost burnt out. We must be quick. Is the trouble with M. de Roustache really over?"

"Absolutely."

"And we owe it to you? But you—why, you 're wet!"

"It's not surprising," said he, smiling. "There 's a flood in the river, and I have crossed it twice."

"What did you cross the river for?"

"I had to escort M. de Roustache across, and he 's a bad swimmer. He jumped in, and—"

"You saved his life?"

"Don't reproach me, my friend. It is an instinct; and—er—he carried the pocket-book of our friend outside; and the pocket-book had my money in it, you know."

"Your money? I thought you had only fifty francs?"

"The money due to me, I should say. Fifty thousand francs." The Captain unconsciously assumed an air of some importance as he mentioned this sum. "So I was bound to pursue friend Paul," he ended.

"It was dangerous?"

"Oh, no, no," he murmured. "Coming back, though, was rather difficult," he continued. "The carriage was very heavy, and we had some ado to—"

"The carriage! What carriage?" she cried with eagerness.

"Oddly enough, I found a lady travelling—from Sasellano, I understood; and I had the privilege of aiding her to cross the ford." Dieppe spoke with a calculated lightness.

"A lady—a lady from Sasellano? What sort of a lady? What was she like?"

The Captain was watching her closely. Her agitation was unmistakable. Did she know, did she suspect, anything?

"She was tall, dark, and dignified in appearance. She spoke slowly, with a slight drawl—"

"Yes, yes!"

"And she was very eager to pursue her journey. She must have come by here. Did n't you hear the wheels?"

"No—I—I—was n't thinking." But she was thinking now. The next instant she cried, "I must go, I must go at once."

"But where?"

"Why, back home, of course! Where else should I go? Oh, I may be too late!"

Unquestionably she knew something—how much the Captain could not tell. His feelings may be imagined. His voice was low, and very compassionate as he asked:

"You 'll go home? When she 's there? At least, if I conclude rightly—"

"Yes, I must go. I must get there before she sees Andrea, otherwise, all will be lost."

For the instant her agitation seemed to make her forget Dieppe's presence, or what he might think of her manner. Now she recovered herself. "I mean—I mean—I want to speak to her. I must tell her—"

"Tell her nothing. Confront her with that." And the Captain produced the gold locket with an air of much solemnity.

His action did not miss its effect. She gazed at the locket in apparent bewilderment.

"No, don't open it," he added hastily.

"Where did you get it?"

"She dropped it by the river. It was open when I picked it up."

"Why, it 's the locket— How does it open?" She was busy looking for the spring.

"I implore you not to open it!" he cried, catching her hand and restraining her.

"Why?" she asked, pausing and looking up at him.

The question and the look that accompanied it proved too great a strain for Dieppe's self-control. Now he caught both her hands in his as he said:

"Because I can't bear that you should suffer. Because I love you too much."

Without a doubt it was delight that lit up her, eyes now, but she whispered reprovingly, "Oh, you! You the ambassador."

"I had n't seen that locket when I became his ambassador."

"Let go my hands."

"Indeed I can't," urged the Captain. But she drew them away with a sharp motion that he could not resist, and before he could say or do more to stop her she had opened the locket.

"As I thought," she cried, hurriedly reclasping it and turning to him in eager excitement; "I must go, indeed I must go at once!"

"Alone?" asked Captain Dieppe, with a simple, but effective eloquence.

At least it appeared very effective. She came nearer to him and, of her own accord now, laid her hands in his. Shyness and pleasure struggled in her eyes as she fixed them on his face.

"I shall see you again," she murmured.

"How?" he asked.

"Why, you 're coming back—back to the Castle?" she cried eagerly. The doubt of his returning thither seemed to fill her with dismay.

The Captain's scruples gave way. Perhaps it was the locket that undermined them, perhaps that look to her eyes, and the touch of her hands as they rested in his.

"I will do anything you bid me," he whispered.

"Then come once again." She paused. "Because I—I don't want to say good-bye just now."

"If I come, will it be to say good-bye?"

"That shall be as you wish," she said.

It seemed to Dieppe that no confession could have been more ample, yet none more delicately reserved in the manner of its utterance. His answer was to clasp her in his arms and kiss her lips. But in an instant he released her, in obedience to the faint, yet sufficient, protest of her hands pressing him away.

"Come in an hour," she whispered, and, turning, left him and passed from the hut.

For a moment or two he stood where he was, devoured by many conflicting feelings. But his love, once obedient to the dictates of friendship and the unyielding limits of honour, would not be denied now. How had the Count of Fieramondi now any right to invoke his honour, or to appeal to his friendship? Gladly, as a man will, the Captain seized on another's fault to excuse his own.

"I will go again—in an hour—and I will not say good-bye," he declared, as he flung himself down on one of the trusses of straw and prepared to wait till it should be time for him to set out.

The evening had been so full of surprises, so prolific of turns of fortune good and evil, so bountiful of emotions and changeful feelings, that he had little store of surprise left wherewith to meet any new revolution of the wheel. Nevertheless it was with something of a start that he raised his head again from the straw on which he had for a moment reclined, and listened intently. There had been a rustle in the straw; he turned his head sharply to the left. But he had misjudged the position whence the noise came. From behind the truss of straw to his right there rose the figure of a man. Monsieur Guillaume stood beside him, his head tied round with a handkerchief, but his revolver in his hand. The Captain's hand flew towards his breast-pocket.

"You 'll particularly oblige me by not moving," said Monsieur Guillaume, with a smile.

Of a certainty a man should not mingle love and business, especially, perhaps, when neither the love nor the business can be said properly to belong to him.



CHAPTER IX

THE STRAW IN THE CORNER

There was nothing odd in M. Guillaume's presence, however little the lady or the Captain had suspected it. The surprise he gave was a reprisal for that which he had suffered when, after the Captain's exit, he had recovered his full faculties and heard a furtive movement within the hut. It was the inspiration and the work of a moment to raise himself with an exaggerated effort and a purposed noise, and to take his departure with a tread heavy enough to force itself on the ears of the unknown person inside. But he did not go far. To what purpose should he, since it was vain to hope to overtake the Captain or Paul de Roustache? Some one was left behind; then, successful or unsuccessful, the Captain would return—unless Paul murdered him, a catastrophe which would be irremediable, but was exceedingly unlikely. Guillaume mounted to the top of the eminence and flung himself down in the grass; thence he crawled round the summit, descended again with a stealthiness in striking contrast to his obtrusive ascent, and lay down in the dark shadow of the hut itself. In about twenty minutes his patience was rewarded: the lady came out,—she had forgotten to mention this little excursion to the Captain,—mounted the rise, looked round, and walked down towards the Cross. Presumably she was looking for a sight of Dieppe. In a few minutes she returned. Guillaume was no longer lying by the hut, but was safe inside it under the straw. She found Dieppe's matches, relighted the candle, and sat down in the doorway with her back to the straw. Thus each had kept a silent vigil until the Captain returned to the rendezvous. Guillaume felt that he had turned a rather unpromising situation to very good account. He was greatly and naturally angered with Paul de Roustache: the loss of his portfolio was grievous. But the Captain was his real quarry; the Captain's papers would more than console him for his money; and he had a very pretty plan for dealing with the Captain.

Nothing was to be gained by sitting upright. In a moment Dieppe realised this, and sank back on his truss of straw. He glanced at Guillaume's menacing weapon, and thence at Guillaume himself. "Your play, my friend," he seemed to say. He knew the game too well not to recognise and accept its chances. But Guillaume was silent.

"The hurt to your head is not serious or painful, I hope?" Dieppe inquired politely. Still Guillaume maintained a grim and ominous silence. The Captain tried again. "I trust, my dear friend," said he persuasively, "that your weapon is intended for strictly defensive purposes?" The candle had burnt almost down to the block on which it rested (the fact did not escape Dieppe), but it served to show Guillaume's acid smile. "What quarrel have we?" pursued the Captain, in a conciliatory tone. "I 've actually been engaged on your business, and got confoundedly wet over it too."

"You 've been across the river then?" asked Guillaume, breaking his silence.

"It 's not my fault—the river was in my way," Dieppe answered a little impatiently. "As for you, why do you listen to my conversation?"

"With the Countess of Fieramondi? Ah, you soldiers! You were a little indiscreet there, my good Captain. But that's not my business."

"Your remark is very just," agreed Dieppe. "I 'll give that candle just a quarter of an hour," he was thinking.

"Except so far as I may be able to turn it to my purposes. Come, we know one another, Captain Dieppe."

"We have certainly met in the course of business," the Captain conceded with a touch of hauteur, as he shifted the truss a little further under his right shoulder.

"I want something that you have," said Guillaume, fixing his eyes on his companion. Dieppe's were on the candle. "Listen to me," commanded Guillaume, imperiously.

"I have really no alternative," shrugged the Captain. "But don't make impossible propositions. And be brief. It 's late; I 'm hungry, cold, and wet."

Guillaume smiled contemptuously at this useless bravado, for such it seemed to him. It did not occur to his mind that Dieppe had anything to gain—or even a bare chance of gaining anything—by protracting the conversation. But in fact the Captain was making observations—first of the candle, secondly of the number and position of the trusses of straw.

"Are you in a position to call any proposition impossible?" Guillaume asked.

"It's quite true that I can't make use of my revolver," agreed the Captain. "But on the other hand you don't, I presume, intend to murder me? Would n't that be exceeding your instructions!"

"I don't know as to that—I might be forgiven. But of course I entertain no such desire. Captain, I 've an idea that you 're in possession of my portfolio."

"What puts that into your head?" inquired the Captain in a rather satirical tone.

"From what you said to the Countess I—"

"Ah, I find it so hard to realise that you actually committed that breach of etiquette," murmured Dieppe, reproachfully.

"And that perhaps—I say only perhaps—you have made free with the contents. For it seems you 've got rid of Paul de Roustache. Well, I will not complain—"

"Ah?" said the Captain with a movement of interest.

"But if I lose my money, I must have my money's worth."

"That 's certainly what one prefers when it's possible," smiled the Captain, indulgently.

"To put it briefly—"

"As briefly as you can, pray," cried Dieppe; but the candle burnt steadily still, and brevity was the last thing that he desired.

"Give me your papers and you may keep the portfolio."

The Captain's indignation at this proposal was extreme; indeed, it led him to sit upright again, to fix his eyes on the candle, and to talk right on end for hard on five minutes—in fact as long as he could find words—on the subject of his honour as a gentleman, as a soldier, as a Frenchman, as a friend, as a confidential agent, and as a loyal servant. Guillaume did not interrupt him, but listened with a smile of genuine amusement.

"Excellent!" he observed, as the Captain sank back exhausted. "A most excellent preamble for your explanation of the loss, my dear Captain. And you will add at the end that, seeing all this, it cannot be doubted that you surrendered these papers only under absolute compulsion, and not the least in the world for reasons connected with my portfolio."

"My words were meant to appeal to your own better feelings," sighed the Captain in a tone of despairing reproach.

"You betray the Count of Fieramondi, your friend; why not betray your employers also?"

For a moment there was a look in the Captain's eye which seemed to indicate annoyance, but the next instant he smiled.

"As if there were any parallel!" said he. "Matters of love are absolutely different, my good friend." Then he went on very carelessly, "The candle 's low. Why don't you light your lantern?"

"That rascal Paul threw it away, and I had n't time to get it." No expression, save a mild concern, appeared on Captain Dieppe's face, although he had discovered a fact of peculiar interest to him. "The candle will last as long as we shall want it," pursued Guillaume.

"Very probably," agreed the Captain, with a languid yawn; again he shifted his straw till the bulk of it was under his right shoulder, and he lay on an incline that sloped down to the left. "And you 'll kill me and take my papers, eh?" he inquired, turning and looking up at Guillaume. He could barely see his enemy's face now, for the candle guttered and sputtered, while the moon, high in heaven, threw light on the dip of the hill outside, but did little or nothing to relieve the darkness within the hut.

"No, I shall not murder you. You 'll give them to me, I 'm sure."

"And if I refuse, dear M. Guillaume?"

"I shall invite you to accompany me to the village—or, more strictly, to precede me."

"What should we do together in the village?" cried Dieppe.

"I shall beg of you to walk a few paces in front of me,—just a few,—to go at just the pace I go, and to remember that I carry a revolver in my hand."

"My memory would be excellent on such a point," the Captain assured him. "But, again, why to the village?"

"We should go together to the office of the police. I am on good terms with the police."

"Doubtless. But what have they to do with me? Come, come, my matter is purely political, they would n't mix themselves up in it."

"I should charge you with the unlawful possession of my portfolio. You would admit it, or you would deny it. In either case your person would be searched, the papers would be found, and I, who am on such friendly terms with the police, should certainly enjoy an excellent opportunity of inspecting them. You perceive, my dear Captain, that I have thought it out."

"It's neat, certainly," agreed the Captain, who was not a little dismayed at this plan of Guillaume's. "But I should not submit to the search."

"Ah! Now how would you prevent it?"

"I should send for my friend the Count. He has influence; he would answer for me."

"What, when he hears my account of your interview with his wife?" Old Guillaume played this card with a smile of triumph. "I told you that the little affair might perhaps be turned to my purposes," he reminded Dieppe, maliciously.

The Captain reflected, taking as long as he decently could over the task. Indeed he was in trouble. Guillaume's scheme was sagacious, Guillaume's position very strong. And at last Guillaume grew impatient. But still the persistent candle burnt.

"I give you one minute to make up your mind," said Guillaume, dropping his tone of sarcastic pleasantry, and speaking in a hard, sharp voice. "After that, either you give me the papers, or you get up and march before me to the village."

"If I refuse to do either?"

"You can't refuse," said Guillaume.

"You mean—?"

"I should order you to hold your hands behind your back while I took the papers. If you moved—"

"Thank you. I see," said the Captain, with a nod of understanding. "Awkward for you, though, if it came to that."

"Oh, I think not very, in view of your dealings with my portfolio."

"I 'm in a devil of a hole," admitted the Captain, candidly.

"Time's up," announced M. Guillaume, slowly raising the barrel of his revolver, and taking aim at the Captain. For the candle still burnt, although dimly and fitfully, and still there was light to guide the bullet on its way.

"It's all up!" said the Captain. "But, deuce take it, it's hardly the way to treat a gentleman!" Even as he spoke the light of the candle towered for a second in a last shoot of flame, and then went out.

At the same moment the Captain rolled down the incline of straw on which he had been resting, rose on his knees an instant, seized the truss and flung it at Guillaume, rolled under the next truss, seized that in like manner and propelled it against the enemy, and darted again to shelter. "Stop, or I fire," cried Guillaume; he was as good as his word the next minute, but the third truss caught him just as he aimed, and his bullet flew against and was buried in the planking of the roof. By now, the Captain was escaping from under the fourth truss, and making for the fifth. Guillaume, dimly seeing the fourth truss not thrown, but left in its place, discharged another shot at it. The fifth truss caught him in the side and drove him against the wooden block. He turned swiftly in the direction whence the missile came, and fired again. He was half dazed, his eyes and ears seemed full of the dust of the straw. He fired once again at random, swearing savagely; and before he could recover aim his arm was seized from behind, his neck was caught in a vigorous garotte, and he fell on the floor of the hut with Captain Dieppe on the top of him—Dieppe, dusty, dirty, panting, bleeding freely from a bullet graze on the top of the left ear, and with one leg of his trousers slit from ankle to knee by a rusty nail, that had also ploughed a nasty furrow up his leg. But now he seized Guillaume's revolver, and dragged the old fellow out of the hut. Then he sat down on his chest, pinning his arms together on the ground above his head.

"You enjoyed playing your mouse just a trifle too long, old cat," said he.

Guillaume lay very still, exhausted, beaten, and defenceless. Dieppe released his hands, and, rising, stood looking down at him. A smile came on his face.

"We are now in a better position to adjust our accounts fairly," he observed, as he took from his pocket M. Guillaume's portfolio. "Listen," he commanded; and Guillaume turned weary but spiteful eyes to him. "Here is your portfolio. Take it. Look at it."

Guillaume sat up and obeyed the command.

"Well?" asked Dieppe, when the examination was ended.

"You have robbed me of twenty-five thousand francs."

The Captain looked at him for a moment with a frown. But the next instant he smiled.

"I must make allowances for the state of your temper," he remarked. "But I wish you would carry all your money in notes. That draft, now, is no use to me. Hence"—he shrugged his shoulders regretfully—"I am obliged to leave your Government still no less than twenty-five thousand francs in debt to me."

"What!" cried Guillaume, with a savage stare.

"Oh, yes, you know that well. They have fifty thousand which certainly don't belong to them, and certainly do to me."

"That money 's forfeited," growled Guillaume.

"If you like, then, I forfeit twenty-five thousand of theirs. But I allow it in account with them. The debt now stands reduced by half."

"I 'll get it back from you somehow," threatened Guillaume, who was helpless, but not cowed.

"That will be difficult. I gave it to Paul de Roustache to discharge a claim he had on me."

"To Paul de Roustache?"

"Yes. It 's true he lent me five thousand again; but that 's purely between him and me. And I shall have spent it long before you can even begin to take steps to recover it." He paused a moment and then added, "If you still hanker after your notes, I should recommend you to find your friend and accomplice, M. Paul."

"Where is he?"

"Who can tell? I saw him last on the road across the river—it leads to Sasellano, I believe." Dieppe kept his eye on his vanquished opponent, but Guillaume threatened no movement. The Captain dropped the revolver into his pocket, stooped to pull up a tuft of grass with moist earth adhering to it, and, with the help of his handkerchief, made a primitive plaster to stanch the bleeding of his ear. As he was so engaged, the sound of wheels slowly climbing the hill became audible from the direction of the village.

"You see," he went on, "you can't return to the village—you are on too good terms with the police. Let me advise you to go to Sasellano; the flood will be falling by now, and I should n't wonder if we could find you a means of conveyance." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the road behind him.

"I can't go back to the village?" demanded Guillaume, sullenly.

"In my turn I must beg you to remember that I now carry a revolver. Come, M. Guillaume, we 've played a close hand, but the odd trick 's mine. Go back and tell your employers not to waste their time on me. No, nor their money. They have won the big stake; let them be content. And again let me remind you that Paul de Roustache has your twenty thousand francs. I don't think you 'll get them from him, but you might. From me you 'll get nothing; and if you try the law—oh, think, my friend, how very silly you and your Government will look!"

As he spoke he went up to Guillaume and took him by the arm, exerting a friendly and persuasive pressure, under which Guillaume presently found himself mounting the eminence. The wheels sounded nearer now, and Dieppe's ears were awake to their movements. The pair began to walk down the other side of the slope towards the Cross, and the carriage came into their view. It was easy of identification: its broken-down, lopsided top marked it beyond mistake.

An instant later Dieppe recognised the burly figure of the driver, who was walking by his horses' heads.

"Wonderfully convenient!" he exclaimed. "This fellow will carry you to Sasellano without delay."

Guillaume did not—indeed could not—refuse to obey the prompting of the Captain's arm, but he grumbled as he went.

"I made sure of getting your papers," he said.

"Unlooked-for difficulties will arise, my dear M. Guillaume."

"I thought the reward was as good as in my pocket."

"The reward?" The Captain stopped and looked in his companion's face with some amusement and a decided air of gratification. "There was a reward? Oh, I am important, it seems!"

"Five thousand francs," said Guillaume, sullenly.

"They rate me rather cheap," exclaimed the Captain, his face falling. "I should have hoped for five-and-twenty."

"Would you? If it had been that, I should have brought three men with me."

"Hum!" said the Captain. "And you gave me a stiff job by yourself, eh?" He turned and signalled to the driver, who had now reached the Cross:

"Wait a moment there, my friend." Then he turned back again to Guillaume. "Get into the carriage—go to Sasellano; catch Paul if you can, but leave me in peace," he said, and, diving into his pocket, he produced the five notes of a thousand francs which Paul de Roustache, in some strange impulse of repentance, or gratitude, had handed to him. "What you tell your employers," he added, "I don't care. This is a gift from me to you. The deuce, I reward effort as well as success—I am more liberal than your Government." The gesture with which he held out the notes was magnificent.

Guillaume stared at him in amazement, but his hand went out towards the notes.

"I am free to do what I can at Sasellano?"

"Yes, free to do anything except bother me. But I think your bird will have flown."

Guillaume took the notes and hid them in his pocket; then he walked straight up to the driver, crying, "How much to take me with you to Sasellano?"

The driver looked at him, at Dieppe, and then down towards the river.

"Come, the flood will be less by now; the river will be falling," said Dieppe.

"Fifty francs," said the driver, and Guillaume got in.

"Good!" said the Captain to himself. "A pretty device! And that scoundrel's money did n't lie comfortably in the pocket of a gentleman." He waved his hand to Guillaume and was about to turn away, when the driver came up to him and spoke in a cautious whisper, first looking over his shoulder to see whether his new fare were listening; but Guillaume was sucking at a flask.

"I have a message for you," he said.

"From the lady you carried—?"

"To the Count of Fieramondi's."

"Ah, you took her there?" The Captain frowned heavily.

"Yes, and left her there. But it's not from her; it's from another lady whom I had n't seen before. She met me just as I was returning from the Count's, and bade me look out for you by the Cross—"

"Yes, yes?" cried Dieppe, eagerly. "Give me the message." For his thoughts flew back to the Countess at the first summons.

The driver produced a scrap of paper, carelessly folded, and gave it to him.

Dieppe ran to the carriage and read the message by the light of its dim and smoky lamp:

"I think I am in time. Come; I wait for you. Whatever you see, keep Andrea in the dark. If you are discreet, all will be well, and I—I shall be very grateful."

The driver mounted the box, the carriage rolled off down the hill, Dieppe was left by the Cross, with the message in his hand. He did not understand the situation.



CHAPTER X

THE JOURNEY TO ROME

It was about ten o'clock—or, it may be, nearer half-past ten—the same night when two inhabitants of the village received very genuine, yet far from unpleasant, shocks of surprise.

The first was the parish priest. He was returning from a visit to the bedside of a sick peasant and making his way along the straggling street towards his own modest dwelling, which stood near the inn, when he met a tall stranger of most dilapidated appearance, whose clothes were creased and dirty, and whose head was encircled by a stained and grimy handkerchief. He wore no hat; his face was disfigured with blotches of an ugly colour and, maybe, an uglier significance; his trousers were most atrociously rent and tattered; he walked with a limp, and shivered in the cold night air. This unpromising-looking person approached the priest and addressed him with an elaborate courtesy oddly out of keeping with his scarecrow-like appearance, but with words appropriate enough to the figure that he cut.

"Reverend father," said he, "pardon the liberty I take, but may I beg of your Reverence's great kindness—"

"It 's no use begging of me," interrupted the priest hurriedly, for he was rather alarmed. "In the first place, I have nothing; in the second, mendicancy is forbidden by the regulations of the commune."

The wayfarer stared at the priest, looked down at his own apparel, and then burst into a laugh.

"Begging forbidden, eh?" he exclaimed. "Then the poor must need voluntary aid!" He thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out two French five-franc pieces. "For the poor, father," he said, pressing them into the priest's hand. "For myself, I was merely about to ask you the time of night." And before the astonished priest could make any movement the stranger passed on his way, humming a soft, and sentimental tune.

"He was certainly mad, but he undoubtedly gave me ten francs," said the priest to his friend the innkeeper, the next day.

"I wish," growled the innkeeper, "that somebody would give me some money to pay for what those two runaway rogues who lodged here had of me, their baggage is worth no more than half what they 've cost me, and I 'll lay odds I never clap eyes on them again."

And in this suspicion the innkeeper proved, in the issue, to be absolutely right, about the value of the luggage there is, however, more room for doubt.

The second person who suffered a surprise was no less a man than the Count of Fieramondi himself. But how this came about needs a little more explanation.

In that very room through whose doorway Captain Dieppe had first beheld the lady whom he now worshipped with a devotion as ardent as it was unhappy, there were now two ladies engaged in conversation. One sat in an arm-chair, nursing the yellow cat of which mention has been made earlier in this history; the other walked up and down with every appearance of weariness, trouble, and distress on her handsome face.

"Oh, the Bishop was just as bad as the banker," she cried fretfully, "and the banker was just as silly as the Bishop. The Bishop said that, although he might have considered the question of giving me absolution from a vow which I had been practically compelled to take, he could hold out no prospect of my getting it beforehand for taking a vow which I took with no other intention than that of breaking it."

"I told you he 'd say that before you went," observed the lady in the arm-chair, who seemed to be treating the situation with a coolness in strong contrast to her companion's agitation.

"And the banker said that although, if I had actually spent fifty thousand lire more than I possessed, he would have done his best to see how he could extricate me from the trouble, he certainly would not help me to get fifty thousand for the express purpose of throwing them away."

"I thought the banker would say that," remarked the other lady, caressing the cat.

"And they both advised me to take my husband's opinion on the matter. My husband's opinion!" Her tone was bitter and tragic indeed. "I suppose they 're right," she said, flinging herself dejectedly into a chair. "I must tell Andrea everything. Oh, and he 'll forgive me!"

"Well, I should think it's rather nice being forgiven."

"Oh, no, not by Andrea!" The faintest smile flitted for an instant across her face. "Oh, no, Andrea does n't forgive like that. His forgiveness is very—well, horribly biblical, you know. Oh, I 'd better not have gone to Rome at all!"

"I never saw any good in your going to Rome, you know."

"Yes, I must tell him everything. Because Paul de Roustache is sure to come and—"

"He 's come already," observed the second lady, calmly.

"What? Come?"

The other lady set down the cat, rose to her feet, took out of her pocket a gold ring and a gold locket, walked over to her companion, and held them out to her. "These are yours, are n't they?" she inquired, and broke into a merry laugh. The sight brought nothing but an astonished stare and a breathless ejaculation—

"Lucia!"

The two ladies drew their chairs close together, and a long conversation ensued, Lucia being the chief narrator, while her companion, whom she addressed from time to time as Emilia, did little more than listen and throw in exclamations of wonder, surprise, or delight.

"How splendidly you kept the secret!" she cried once. And again, "How lucky that he should be here!" And again, "I thought he looked quite charming." And once again, "But, goodness, what a state the poor man must be in! How could you help telling him, Lucia?"

"I had promised," said Lucia, solemnly, "and I keep my promises, Emilia."

"And that man has positively gone?" sighed Emilia, taking no notice of a rather challenging emphasis which Lucia had laid on her last remark.

"Yes, gone for good—I 'm sure of it. And you need n't tell Andrea anything. Just take all the vows he asks you to! But he won't now; you see he wants a reconciliation as much as you do."

"I shall insist on taking at least one vow," said Emilia, with a virtuous air. She stopped and started. "But what in the world am I to say about you, my dear?" she asked.

"Say I 've just come back from Rome, of course," responded Lucia.

"If he should find out—"

"It 's very unlikely, and at the worst you must take another vow, Emilia. But Andrea 'll never suspect the truth unless—"

"Unless what?"

"Unless Captain Dieppe lets it out, you know."

"It would be better if Captain Dieppe did n't come back, I think," observed Emilia, thoughtfully.

"Well, of all the ungrateful women!" cried Lucia, indignantly. But Emilia sprang up and kissed her, and began pressing her with all sorts of questions, or rather with all sorts of ways of putting one question, which made her blush very much, and to which she seemed unable, or unwilling, to give any definite reply. At last Emilia abandoned the attempt to extract an admission, and observed with a sigh of satisfaction:

"I think I 'd better see Andrea and forgive him."

"You 'll change your frock first, won't you, dear?" cried Lucia. It was certainly not desirable that Emilia should present herself to the Count in the garments she was then wearing.

"Yes, of course. Will you come with me to Andrea?"

"No. Send for me, presently—as soon as it occurs to you that I 've just come back from Rome, you know, and should be so happy to hear of your reconciliation."

Half an hour later,—for the change of costume had to be radical, since there is all the difference in the world between a travelling-dress and an easy, negligent, yet elegant, toilette suggestive of home and the fireside, and certainly not of wanderings,—the Count of Fieramondi got his shock of surprise in the shape of an inquiry whether he were at leisure to receive a visit from the Countess.

Yet his surprise, great as it was at a result at once so prosperous and so speedy, did not prevent him from drawing the obvious inference. His thoughts had already been occupied with Captain Dieppe. It was now half-past ten; he had waited an hour for dinner, and then eaten it alone in some disquietude; as time went on he became seriously uneasy, and had considered the despatch of a search expedition. If his friend did not return in half an hour, he had declared, he himself would go and look for him; and he had requested that he should be informed the moment the Captain put in an appearance. But, alas! what is friendship—even friendship reinforced by gratitude—beside love? As the poets have often remarked, in language not here to be attained, its power is insignificant, and its claims go to the wall. On fire with the emotions excited by the Countess's message, the Count forgot both Dieppe and all that he owed to Dieppe's intercession; the matter went clean out of his head for the moment. He leapt up, pushed away the poem on which he had been trying to concentrate his mind, and cried eagerly:

"I 'm at the Countess's disposal. I 'll wait on her at once."

"The Countess is already on her way here," was the servant's answer.

The first transports of joy are perhaps better left in a sacred privacy. Indeed the Count was not for much explanation, or for many words. What need was there? The Countess acquiesced in his view with remarkable alacrity; the fewer words there were, and especially, perhaps, the fewer explanations, the easier and more gracious was her part. She had thought the matter over, there in the solitude to which her Andrea's cruelty had condemned her: and, yes, she would take the oath—in fact any number of oaths—to hold no further communication whatever with Paul de Roustache.

"Ah, your very offer is a reproach to me," said the Count, softly. "I told you that now I ask no oath, that your promise was enough, that—"

"You told me?" exclaimed the Countess, with some appearance of surprise.

"Why, yes. At least I begged Dieppe to tell you in my name. Did n't he?"

For a moment the Countess paused, engaged in rapid calculations, then she said sweetly:

"Oh, yes, of course! But it's not the same as hearing it from your own lips, Andrea."

"Where did you see him?" asked the Count. "Did he pass the barricade? Ah, we 'll soon have that down, won't we?"

"Oh, yes, Andrea; do let 's have it down, because—"

"But where did you and Dieppe have your talk?"

"Oh—oh—down by the river, Andrea."

"He found you there?"

"Yes, he found me there, and—and talked to me."

"And gave you back the ring?" inquired the Count, tenderly.

The Countess took it from her pocket and handed it to her husband. "I 'd rather you 'd put it on yourself," she said.

The Count took her hand in his and placed the ring on her finger. It fitted very well, indeed. There could be no doubt that it was made for the hand on which it now rested. The Count kissed it as he set it there.

At last, however, he found time to remember the obligations he was under to his friend.

"But where can our dear Dieppe be?" he cried. "We owe so much to him."

"Yes, we do owe a lot to him," murmured the Countess. "But, Andrea—"

"Indeed, my darling, we must n't forget him. I must—"

"No, we must n't forget him. Oh, no, we won't. But, Andrea, I—I 've got another piece of news for you." The Countess spoke with a little timidity, as if she were trying delicate ground, and were not quite sure of her footing.

"More news? What an eventful night!"

He took his wife's hand. Away went all thoughts of poor Dieppe again.

"Yes, it's so lucky, happening just to-night. Lucia has come back! An hour ago!"

"Lucia come back!" exclaimed the Count, gladly. "That's good news, indeed."

"It 'll delight her so much to find us—to find us like this again, Andrea."

"Yes, yes, we must send for her. Is she in her room? And where has she come from?"

"Rome," answered the Countess, again in a rather nervous way.

"Rome!" cried the Count in surprise. "What took her to Rome?"

"She does n't like to be asked much about it," began the Countess, with a prudent air.

"I 'm sure I don't want to pry into her affairs, but—"

"No, I knew you would n't want to do that, Andrea."

"Still, my dear, it 's really a little odd. She left only four days ago. Now she 's back, and—"

The Count broke off, looking rather distressed. Such proceedings, accompanied by such mystery, were not, to his mind, quite the proper thing for a young and unmarried lady.

"I won't ask her any questions," he went on, "but I suppose she 's told you, Emilia?"

"Oh, yes, she 's told me," said the Countess, hastily.

"And am I to be excluded from your confidence?"

The Countess put her arms round his neck.

"Well, you know, Andrea," said she, "you do sometimes scoff at religion—well, I mean you talk rather lightly sometimes, you know."

"Oh, she went on a religious errand, did she?"

"Yes," the Countess answered in a more confident tone. "She particularly wanted to consult the Bishop of Mesopotamia. She believes in him very much. Oh, so do I. I do believe, Andrea, that if you knew the Bishop of—"

"My dear, I don't want to know the Bishop of Mesopotamia; but Lucia is perfectly at liberty to consult him as much as she pleases. I don't see any need for mystery."

"No, neither do I," murmured the Countess. "But dear Lucia is—is so sensitive, you know."

"I remember seeing him about Rome very well. I must ask Lucia whether he still wears that—"

"Really, the less you question Lucia about her journey the better, dear Andrea," said the Countess, in a tone which was very affectionate, but also marked by much decision. And there can be no doubt she spoke the truth, from her own point of view, at least. "Would n't it be kind to send for her now?" she added. In fact the Countess found this interview, so gratifying and delightful in its main aspect, rather difficult in certain minor ways, and Lucia would be a convenient ally. It was much better, too, that they should talk about one another in one another's presence. That is always more straightforward; and, in this case, it would minimise the chances of a misunderstanding in the future. For instance, if Lucia showed ignorance about the Bishop of Mesopotamia—! "Do let's send for Lucia," the Countess said again, coaxingly; and the Count, after a playful show of unwillingness to end their tete-a-tete, at last consented.

But here was another difficulty—Lucia could not be found. The right wing was searched without result; she was nowhere. On the chance, unlikely indeed but possible, that she had taken advantage of the new state of things, they searched the left wing too—with an equal absence of result. Lucia was nowhere in the house; so it was reported. The Count was very much surprised.

"Can she have gone out at this time of night?" he cried.

The Countess was not much surprised. She well understood how Lucia might have gone out a little way—far enough, say, to look for Captain Dieppe, and make him aware of how matters stood. But she did not suggest this explanation to her husband; explanations are to be avoided when they themselves require too much explaining.

"It's very fine now," said she, looking out of the window. "Perhaps she's just gone for a turn on the road."

"What for?" asked the Count, spreading out his hands in some bewilderment.

The Countess, in an extremity, once more invoked the aid of the Bishop of Mesopotamia.

"Perhaps, dear," she said gently, "to think it over—to reflect in quiet on what she has learnt and been advised." And she added, as an artistic touch, "To think it over under the stars, dear Andrea."

The Count, betraying a trifle of impatience, turned to the servant.

"Run down the road," he commanded, "and see if the Countess Lucia is anywhere about." He returned to his wife's side. "One good thing about it is that we can have our talk out," said he.

"Yes, but let 's leave the horrid past and talk about the future," urged the Countess, with affection—and no doubt with wisdom also.

The servant, who in obedience to the Count's order ran down the road towards the village, did not see the Countess Lucia. That lady, mistrusting the explicitness of her hurried note, had stolen out into the garden, and was now standing hidden in the shadow of the barricade, straining her eyes down the hill towards the river and the stepping-stones. There lay the shortest way for the Captain to return—and of course, she had reasoned, he would come the shortest way. She did not, however, allow for the Captain's pardonable reluctance to get wet a third time that night. He did not know the habits of the river, and he distrusted the stepping-stones. After his experience he was all for a bridge. Moreover he did not hurry back to the Castle; he had much to think over, and no inviting prospect lured him home on the wings of hope. What hope was there? What hope of happiness either for himself or for the lady whom he loved? If he yielded to his love, he wronged her—her and his own honour. If he resisted, he must renounce her—aye, and leave her, not to a loving husband, but to one who deceived her most grossly and most cruelly, in a way which made her own venial errors seem as nothing in the Captain's partial, pitying eyes. In the distress of these thoughts he forgot his victories: how he had disposed of Paul de Roustache, how he had defeated M. Guillaume, how his precious papers were safe, and even how the Countess was freed from all her fears. It was her misery he thought of now, not her fears. For she loved him. And in his inmost heart he knew that he must leave her.