MAY WYNNE

AUTHOR OF

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

_POPULAR EDITION

with

FRONTISPIECE BY H. M. BROCK_

LONDON

GREENING & CO., LTD.

1909

(_All rights reserved_)

Dedicated

TO

MY MOTHER

*MAID OF BRITTANY*

*CHAPTER I*

"A spy--a French spy! tiens, monsieur! but it is assured." The speaker,

a man of about thirty years of age, dressed in hunting costume, was

standing by his horse's side, looking down, with flushed face and

knitted brows, upon a figure which lay stretched on the ground before

him, the figure of a man also young, but even in unconsciousness of far

more prepossessing appearance than he who stood frowning over him.

Gathered at a short distance and watching the scene with keen interest

stood a hawking party, fresh from their chase, and consisting of a

broad-shouldered, handsome old man of some seventy summers, a young

girl, whose beautiful face wore a compassionate look as she bent forward

on her palfrey to catch a glimpse at the unconscious stranger, and

several attendants bearing trophies of the chase, and carrying hooded

falcons on their wrists.

"Nay, then, Guillaume," interposed the girl, before her father could

reply, "but wherefore such assurance? Surely he is no spy, for see, the

golden spurs upon his heels proclaim his knighthood."

"Ay," replied her cousin mockingly, as he pointed to a horse standing

with bent head and distended nostrils by the prostrate man's side. "As

plainly, fair cousin, as yonder steed's docked ears and mane proclaim

him Brittany's enemy."[#]

[#] It was the fashion at the time for French knights to cut off their

horse's ears and manes, as also never to ride mares.

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

her father.

"At least," she urged, as if pleading against some unspoken verdict, "we

judge no man unheard. See, my father, there may be many explanations of

his presence here; it is surely so, for assured I am that he is no spy.

Nay, cousin, your wits are too keen in this case, for a spy would not

thus proclaim his nationality, if a horse's mane speaks so plainly."

"Tush, Gwennola!" reproved her father with a smile. "This is no matter

for woman's interference that thou shouldst argue like a wandering

scholar. Still, there is fairness in what thou sayest, and I would lief

tender mercy with justice even to a Frenchman, though, if he be a spy,

by the bones of St Yves, he shall hang as fast as any acorn to the

nearest oak."

So saying, and in spite of his kinsman's obvious disapproval, he ordered

two of his servants to dismount and raise the unconscious object of

their argument.

It was clear that a fall from his horse had stunned the stranger, and

the cause was not far to seek in the twisted roots of the trees partly

concealed by grass and fern, which might well prove dangerous to an

unwary rider.

As they raised him the young man moaned, half opening his dark eyes,

then closing them again in a fresh swoon.

"He is hurt," said Gwennola compassionately. "See, he groans again: be

careful how thou liftest him, Job. Yes--on thy shoulders--so, and bid

them prepare the eastern room for his reception: I will myself attend to

his hurts when I return."

"A good Samaritan, fair mistress," observed her cousin with a sneer, as

he vaulted again into his saddle. "Yet, be warned, lest the hand that

nourishes it is bitten by the viper of treachery."

"Nay," said her father, with a smile towards his daughter, "Gwennola is

right, though over-forward for a maid, due, I fear me, to her old

father's spoiling. Is it not so, my Nola? Methinks the stranger were

best left to Father Ambrose's ministrations, so there shall be the less

fear of the truth of Guillaume's ill prophecies."

Gwennola allowed her palfrey to draw even closer to her father's steed

as she raised a smiling face to his.

"Nay, my father," she said tenderly. "'Tis but that I love justice as

thou dost, and, moreover, my heart tells me that yon poor knight, even

if he be a Frenchman, is no spy."

"Nevertheless," said her father sternly, "a Frenchman is the enemy of

the Breton; he comes not by chance to the forest of Arteze, my child,

and, though I fail not in hospitality to a sick man, yet scant welcome

will the servant of the King of France find under the roof of a soldier

of the Duchess Anne."

"Better the welcome of the halter for the spy, without more ado," said

Guillaume de Coray with a malicious smile. "Remember St Aubin du

Cormier, monsieur, and be warned by one who tells you that yonder false

caitiff is a spy, for all his golden spurs and fair looks," he added,

with another meaning look towards his cousin, "which have gone so far to

soften the heart of my sweet mistress here."

"Nay," said the old man sternly, "I will abide by what I have said. The

Frenchman shall have justice, but no more--the nearest tree for the spy,

and short shrift too, if he cannot bring good account of his presence

here."

Gwennola sighed. "He is no spy," she whispered to herself, but to her

father she dared return no answer, but bent low over the beautiful bird

attached to her wrist by a slender golden chain, to hide perchance the

tears in her blue eyes rather than from any desire to gaze at her pet's

bright plumage, or count the tiny golden bells on its hood. So in

silence they rode through the forest glades and up through the long

avenue of whispering oaks where the sunshine of a June evening shed

slanting rays of golden glory through the rustling foliage overhead.

The Chateau de Mereac stood on the outskirts of the forest of Arteze,

not many leagues distant from the little Breton town of Martigue. The

country on this side of Rennes had from time immemorial been the

debatable land between Brittany and her overweening sister France;

countless feuds raged constantly between the peoples, such as were

fought in the Middle Ages, and even later, along our own Scottish

border, and every Breton eyed his French neighbour as a natural and

implacable enemy. But, in the year 1491, this natural animosity had

grown from a smouldering antagonism into active flame of bitter hatred;

for some years past the red angel of war had stood between the two

countries with a blood-stained sword in her hand. Ever since the

accession of Charles VIII., the rich prize of Brittany had been coveted

by his ambitious sister and gouvernante, Anne of Beaujeu, now Duchesse

de Bourbon, in all but name mistress of France. French armies had from

time to time devastated the domain, but still Brittany, stubborn,

gallant, untameable, had resisted the greedy hand outstretched to seize

her. With enthusiastic loyalty the Bretons had rallied round their

little Duchess, left an orphan at the age of thirteen, to face the

perils of her exalted position alone. Her beauty, her helplessness, but

above all her courage, appealed to the love and chivalry of her

indomitable people. It is true that amongst the great nobles there were

traitors to her cause, waverers who proffered allegiance first to one

side then the other, disappointed suitors, who, like the Comte d'Albret,

vented his spleen at a child's scorn by betraying his country; yet

amongst the vast majority of her subjects Anne was worshipped, and her

name inspired deeds of chivalry and devotion which had hitherto kept the

all too greedy foe at bay. But her case was desperate, and well every

Breton knew it; the armies of France might sweep across their borders at

any moment, bringing destruction and devastation with them. What wonder

that a Frenchman's name was poison to a Breton's ear? What wonder if

those dwelling, as it were, under the shadow of the great and powerful

enemy meted out scant mercy to their foes when opportunity arose?

Yet for the moment a lull had fallen on the strife; the attitude of

France seemed, for the present, to be quiescent, if not friendly. It

was rumoured that the Count Dunois, cousin to the French King, and

friend of the Duchess Anne's, as he had been of her father, was striving

to unite the two countries in bonds of peace. Already he had succeeded

in bringing about the release of his friend Louis of Orleans, the bitter

enemy of the Duchess of Bourbon, and some said the lover of the Duchess

of Brittany, for all her tender years, and the fact that he was already

the husband of Yeanne, the deformed younger daughter of Louis XI., whom

her royal father had forced him to marry.

The air was, in fact, thick with rumours and intrigues, with the ominous

thunder of war growling threateningly in the distance. It was said that

the bond Dunois proposed was the holy one of matrimony between France's

King and Brittany's Duchess, yet the rumour ran vaguely and doubtfully,

and was scarcely credited by those who remembered that Anne was already

married by proxy to the King of the Romans, whose little daughter was

also affianced, at the tender age of two, to Charles VIII.

It was a time, therefore, when men went warily, mistrustfully, with eyes

glancing to right and left for fear of enemies, and ears open to listen

to the breath of treachery. Above all, on the borders of Brittany was

such watchfulness needed. What wonder then if the Sieur de Mereac,

riding homewards from the chase with his daughter and kinsman beside

him, pondered first on the counsel of one and then of the other, finally

deciding that the Frenchman's fate must be tempered with justice, but

small mercy, and that the rope end was the best meed for the enemy of

the Duchess Anne?

*CHAPTER II*

With the vague wonderment of returning consciousness, Henri d'Estrailles

lay striving, at first feebly, then with growing clearness, to recall

the events which had preceded his fall. From out of the mists of

elusive shadows, which seemed to paralyse his brain, he remembered how

he had set out for Rennes in the train of the Count Dunois, who went on

an embassy to the young Duchess from the King of France; of how he had

lost his way on the preceding day, wandering aimlessly over vast heaths

and landes, through valleys and forests, till the stumbling of his good

horse Rollo brought a blank to his train of thought. Then, as the mists

cleared still more from his weary brain, came the further wonderment of

his present situation. He was lying on no mossy sward, with Rollo

nozzling his face with dumb endearments, but instead, in a bed of which

the fine linen and rich hangings bespoke a seigneur's castle rather than

a peasant's hut, whilst, as the pain in his side caught his laboured

breath, he became aware that he had been bandaged by no unskilled hand.

Too weak to rise, he lay, still vaguely conning over those last hours of

consciousness, and striving in vain to fit them in to the present, till

at last, outwearied, he closed his eyes and would have slept, had he not

been aroused by the soft withdrawal of the heavy curtain at the foot of

the bed, and his eyes, in opening, fell, he told himself, on the fairest

vision they had ever beheld. It was the figure of a young maiden, slim

and tall; the high, heart-shaped headdress, with its long dependent

veil, framing a beautiful, childish face, for the bloom of early youth

was on the soft colouring of her cheeks and rosy lips, and a look of

innocent bashfulness in the great blue eyes which looked down, half

smiling, into his wondering brown ones; the red gold of the curls which

peeped beneath the stiff headdress contrasting with the dark green of

her tight-fitting bodice and long hanging sleeves. For full a minute

the sick man gazed with all the boldness of one whose brain had yet

scarcely realised whether it were vision or substance that he saw, and

as the blue eyes met his eager glance they drooped, the colour rose in a

wave of soft crimson to the girl's cheeks, and the curtain was allowed

to slip to its place.

He was alone once more, but no longer did Henri d'Estrailles desire

sleep; his pulses still beat with the emotions created by the vision;

more than ever he desired to know where fate had led him. 'Twas no

unkindly destiny, he told himself, but verily the star of Venus herself

which had so unwittingly guided him. His restless excitement boded ill

for his hurts, as he tossed from side to side, and his face was already

flushed with fever, when again the curtain was drawn aside, and he

caught back his breath with disappointment, as this time, instead of the

beautiful face of his dreams, there appeared the wrinkled, kindly face

of a priest in the black robe of a Benedictine.

"Ah, my son," he murmured gently, as he drew back the curtain by the

side of the patient's bed and seated himself by his side, "it is well.

I see that you have already benefited by my salves and ointments, and

perchance"--he paused, smiling, as he read the hundred questions in the

eager face turned to him--"you are doubtless as anxious, my son," he

added kindly, "to know under whose roof you are resting, as we are to

inquire what brought a stranger to wander unattended in our forest of

Arteze?"

There was no hiding the anxiety in the old man's eyes as he awaited the

answer to his question, and the sick man smiled as he replied--

"Perchance you had e'en taken me for a spy of the King of France? No,

no, father, the d'Estrailles of d'Estrailles have never yet stooped to

so vile a task, and, by our Lady's help, will never so soil one of the

proudest scutcheons in France; my errand here in Brittany was the Count

Dunois' business, for I rode in his train to Rennes on an embassy to

your Duchess from my master, but losing my way in this so dreary and

perilous country, I had nearly met my fate at the hand of an unruly tree

stump, had it not been, I ween, for the unknown benefactor who has

played the good Samaritan."

Father Ambrose drew a sigh of relief. "'Twill be good news to my lord,"

he said heartily, "as also to the fair Demoiselle de Mereac, who pleaded

so prettily with her father that you were no spy, that he was fain to

spare you from the hanging which Monsieur de Coray deemed your fittest

end."

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

"Parbleu!" he cried softly, "Breton justice indeed, to hang an

unconscious man because, forsooth! he rides unattended and cannot speak

for himself! This monsieur----"

"Nay," interrupted the priest, laying a soothing hand upon the other's

clenched fist. "Calm yourself, my son, or I fear you will suffer ill

from fever to your hurts. Be patient, and I will tell you how it

chanced, as the demoiselle herself told me," he added, smiling.

"And the demoiselle?" questioned d'Estrailles eagerly, as the priest

concluded his tale of the brief episode which had been so near to

terminating his career. "She is without doubt the angel who anon looked

down upon me as I lay a-wondering, and who did so far entangle my

thoughts that I deemed I must have reached Paradise itself?"

"She is a good maid and a beautiful," said the old priest, with a touch

of asperity in his tones. "Moreover," he added, with a smiling glance

askance at his interrogator, "she is betrothed to her kinsman, Monsieur

Guillaume de Coray."

"De Coray?" echoed the young Frenchman with scorn. "What! the hound who

would have strung me to the first tree because, parbleu! I had not the

honour of his acquaintance? Nay, father, so sweet and gentle a maid

would ill mate with so unknightly a spouse!"

Father Ambrose sighed. "It is the will of her father, monsieur," he

said, "and therefore it is a thing that must be--though from small

choice, I ween, on the part of the Lady Gwennola."

"Gwennola," murmured d'Estrailles, lingering tenderly over the

syllables. "It is a name altogether suited to one so

beautiful--Gwennola. Ah, my father, although I have but seen her for a

moment, my heart grows bitter when I think of her betrothed to one whose

knightly instincts can well be no higher than a butcher's scullion; but

tell me, if you can indeed spare the time to a stranger such as I, hath

this Sieur de Mereac no other child but this fair maid?"

The priest shook his head, sighing heavily. "Alas!" he replied, "none

now, monsieur; although scarce three years since he rejoiced in the

possession of as gallant a son as father might desire; handsome,

noble-minded and brave, it seemed impossible but that Yvon de Mereac

should become a great knight whose name should resound throughout

Brittany; but, alas! alas! the holy saints had not so willed it--he

fell, monsieur, this gallant youth, scarce twenty years of age, in the

bloody battle of St Aubin du Cormier, and the hopes which had gathered

so fondly round the budding promise of his noble manhood were quenched

in the darkness of the grave; not even was it possible to recover his

body, though long and terrible search was made amongst the mangled slain

on the battle-field, and since that day when Guillaume de Coray brought

news of his death, the Sieur de Mereac has been an old and heart-broken

man, ever cherishing his anger in wrath and bitterness against the

French who thus worked the ruin of his hopes."

"'Tis a sad tale," said d'Estrailles. "Yet, my father, after all, 'tis

the risk all soldiers must run; some are born to fight a hundred battles

and come scathless through all, whilst another, like yon poor boy,

perishes ere he had dyed his maiden sword in the blood of his enemies.

Such is Fate, and we must fain abye it. For the rest, it appears to me

that this Monsieur de Mereac might well mourn his living heir rather

than his dead son, if he is to be succeeded by this poltroon knave who

would hang noble knights in cold blood."

"Yes," sighed the priest, "the inheritance falls indeed to this same

Guillaume de Coray, and therefore it becomes plain to you, my son, that

of necessity he marries Gwennola de Mereac; so the old inheritance comes

back again to the child of her father, and in their turn his grandsons

may yet rule over the lands of Mereac."

But to this d'Estrailles replied not, seeing that to him it was a thing

impossible to dream of, that poltroon lips should touch those rosy ones

that had smiled down so short a while since into his heart. The very

thought kept him tossing feverishly upon his bed long after the old

priest had left him and he lay in darkness.

"Gwennola," he whispered to himself, "Gwennola," and fell to wondering

when he might see the vision of her beauty once more.

*CHAPTER III*

The Chateau de Mereac stood on a slight elevation, overlooking, on one

side, the forest of Arteze, whilst far away on the other stretched vast

heaths and landes covered with patches of gorse and whin, briars and

thistles, whilst here and there huge boulders of rock lay scattered

about. A very land of desolation this, yet grand and even beautiful in

its rugged, mournful way, for there is a vein of poetry which runs

throughout Brittany, even in its loneliest and most desolate parts, a

poetry which finds its expression in the history of its people, set as

it is to the music of its wild winds, waves, and rugged moorlands, music

in a minor key wailing across wastes and through valleys and forests,

music which sings of love and passion, the free untamable spirit of the

Celt, with all its romance and love of the supernatural. Like their

Scottish brethren, they revel, these people, in legend, folklore, and

hero-worship, over which for ever reign King Arthur and his fairy

Morgana to inspire chivalry, passion, and love ideals. The keen air and

salt spray of their shores act, too, as an inspiration to these

great-hearted men and women, bracing them up to deeds of heroism and

glory--glory such as their ancestors fought for and won in the olden

days.

A river ran in front of the old Chateau de Mereac, with orchards and

gardens sloping down to the water's edge, and it was here that, that

June morning, walked the Demoiselle de Mereac with an attendant maiden,

both, it would seem, intent on their devotions, seeing that they raised

not their heads from their livres d'heures even when a man's shadow

crossed the path of the young chatelaine. But when the shadow became

stationary substance, she was fain to look up, though with a frown on

her smooth white brow, and a most decidedly unfriendly glance in her

blue eyes. The accompanying maiden discreetly withdrew to the distance

as the cavalier made his obeisance before the lady.

"I crave thy pardon, sweet mistress," he observed, smiling, "for

disturbing thy devotions. Methought I heard the very rustle of angels'

wings on the air as I approached."

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

flashing eyes.

"You do well, monsieur," she retorted coldly, "to observe that they

departed on your arrival."

Guillaume de Coray shrugged his shoulders.

"Nay, sweet," he observed coolly, "I came not to discourse on angels,

though I ventured to intrude upon one, but rather because I would fain

speak with you anent the stranger who lies so sorely sick yonder," and

he pointed towards the chateau.

"My father, monsieur," replied Gwennola haughtily, "would, methinks,

best reply to any questions concerning Monsieur d'Estrailles. Doubtless

he has already informed you," she added scornfully, "that he is

satisfied that he is no spy, this French knight, but a noble gentleman

of the train of the Count Dunois."

"So I have heard," retorted her kinsman. "But it is also my habit,

sweet mistress, to believe little that is not proved. Moreover, I am

well assured that this fellow has less right than you dream of to your

father's mercy. Were I," he added in a low, menacing tone, "to tell him

all I knew, the nearest branch and short shrift would be the hospitality

extended to him by the Sieur de Mereac."

"Indeed, monsieur," replied the girl, her face flushing crimson with

anger, "you are very wise; but wherefore spare to strike so crushing a

blow?--not for love, I trow, of the poor knight who lies sick yonder."

"Nay," he returned, trying to soften his tones, till they resembled the

angry purr of a cat, "but rather for love of thee, sweet Gwennola, for

well I know how grieved thy tender heart would be to see yon miscreant

meet his just doom."

"Just doom!" she retorted, the crimson once more dyeing her cheeks.

"Nay, monsieur, surely it comports not with knightly honour to hint at

what it is difficult to assert or prove--nay, I will hear no more of

your base insinuations against a brave man. Begone, monsieur, and leave

me to my devotions."

"Nay," he snarled, "surely, sweet, 'tis no time for devotions when the

star of Venus is on high; let us walk together, and, since it pleases

thee not to talk of sick traitors and spies, let us converse on sweeter

themes: of our love, fair lady, and of the day when thou shalt be my

bride."

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

her.

"No, monsieur," she replied, "have done with mockery; you know well my

will with regard to our betrothal--as for marriage----"

She checked herself, startled by a sudden change of expression on his

face; instead of the suave, mocking smile it had grown grave and hard,

whilst the cruel mouth tightened over his gums till his teeth showed

white below them, but into the eyes had crept an unmistakable look of

fear, as he gazed across the river towards the forest beyond; then, with

a quick side glance at her and her maiden, he murmured some excuse for

leaving them to their prayers, and with a hurried bow turned and walked

swiftly towards the castle.

"What can it be? Saw you aught, Marie?" asked Gwennola, as her maiden,

seeing her alone, hastened towards her. "What was it that so startled

Monsieur de Coray?--he turned as pale as if he had seen a spirit from

the other world."

Both girls crossed themselves, Marie adding that she fancied she had

seen a man's figure amongst the trees, but it had disappeared so swiftly

that she could not be sure.

"At least it has rid us of an unwelcome intruder," smiled Gwennola.

"See, Marie, let us gather some violets and then return to Mass; I would

fain demand of the good father how his patient is this morning. Last

night he feared fever from the wound in his side where the poor knight's

own sword pierced him; only a hair's-breadth more and it would have

entered his lung. I must in truth offer three candles at the shrine of

our Blessed Lady for sparing so gallant a knight. Think then, my Marie,

a hair's-breadth and he had been no more!"

The maid smiled slyly. "The saints be praised, mistress," she replied,

adding beneath her breath that the hair's-breadth might well have been

passed had the accident befallen _some_ knights, whereat both laughed

and fell to picking the violets with light hearts.

It was indeed a fair dawn, and the fragrance and sweetness of it seemed

to have entered the turret room where Henri d'Estrailles lay, with the

presence of the young chatelaine of the castle.. No fleeting vision

this morning, but verily a living presence, stately, smiling, beautiful

as she stood by his side, inquiring of Father Ambrose how his patient

fared.

In spite of her childish appearance--she was scarce seventeen

summers--Gwennola bore herself with all the stately airs befitting to

the lady of a great house, for, since her mother's death, she had filled

the post of chatelaine at Mereac, and had grown, it must be confessed,

from a spoilt child to a wilful maiden, whose self-importance sat so

sweetly upon her that her father could find no word of chiding for his

oft-times wayward darling. Only, alas! in one matter had he proved

firm, and that concerned her betrothal to her kinsman, and even

Gwennola, indulged as she was beyond the custom of those stern days of

parental authority, dared not oppose herself against the decree, though,

with all the strenuous force of her womanhood, she would fain have

striven against it, had she dared, ever more too as the months showed

her a lover so contrary to all her maiden dreams. How well she knew

that for all his empty phrases and mocking vows this kinsman of hers had

no love in his heart for her; his very endearments were an insult

against which her hot, impetuous young nature revolted. Bitter were the

tears shed in secret, and none to see or comfort her but Father Ambrose

and her maiden, Marie Alloadec, her trusted friend and companion. And,

after all, it was surprising how ill they comprehended, these two. The

good father would strive to comfort her with a homily on the necessity

of obedience and submission to Heaven, and would only shake his head

gravely when she replied, weeping, that Heaven could have no share in

breaking a maiden's heart, or else suggest, half hesitatingly, that

perhaps her father might listen to her entreaties to enter the cloister.

But this latter suggestion found small favour in the eyes of one whose

warm young life shrank back appalled from the cold vocation of a nun's

monotonous existence. Surely, she told herself, there was some other

way, some other loophole of escape from the fate in store for her.

Marie Alloadec's consolations were more congenial than the worthy

father's, but even they fell short of Gwennola's need; sympathy was all

her foster sister held out to her, hope there seemed none. With all the

tragedy of youth and all the young girl's exaggerations of woe, Gwennola

saw herself condemned to an early grave or broken heart. But somehow,

as she stood there, glancing shyly from time to time towards the sick

man, the rosy finger of hope seemed busy at the locked door of her

heart, which beat swiftly at the messenger's knock, for all her outward

calm. And so it came that she lingered in the turret-room, passing from

questions of his wound to talk, hesitatingly at first, but with growing

curiosity, of that distant home of his in fair Touraine, sunny, laughing

Touraine, with its langorous breezes and fair meadows, its fruits and

flowers, and the dancing waters of the Loire, so different to their own

grey Vilaine. Then, as if half ashamed of her eagerness, or because the

brown eyes that looked up into hers brought the blushes to her cheeks

and a sudden inexplicable thrill to her beating heart, or because she

had caught a grave reproof in Father Ambrose's face which seemed to warn

her of unmaidenliness, she became of a sudden the quaintly-stiff little

chatelaine once more, speaking to the priest instead of to the patient

concerning salves and ointments and such like with the air of a matron

of fifty.

"The wound heals favourably," said Father Ambrose, and for all his

reverent estate there was a twinkle of amusement, or perhaps sympathy,

in his kind old eyes as he glanced from the flushed, childish face, with

its framing of red-gold curls and white headdress, to the eager one on

the bed, which looked up with such an admiring gaze at the now averted

face of his fair visitor. "Monsieur will doubtless be able to continue

his journey in a week's time, but he must be careful, for the reopening

of an old wound is ever more dangerous than a new one."

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

Gwennola turned, answering the smile half shyly, half coquettishly, as

she replied: "But Monsieur's heart is unscathed? The sword----"

"Truly, mademoiselle is right; the sword spared my heart, but nathless I

fear it has not gone unscathed, for what is a sword point compared to a

maiden's eyes--if," he added softly, "those eyes be cold?"

Gwennola's face flushed again, and the blue eyes in question drooped, to

hide perchance a tell-tale light which shone in them, but Father

Ambrose's gentle voice interrupted the conversation.

"Nay, nay, monsieur," he urged reprovingly, "French compliments suit ill

to a Breton maiden's ears; for the rest, it is not well that you should

talk too long, lest the threatened fever of last night overcome you; if

you would be again in the saddle before a week has passed you must e'en

be obedient."

"Verily," sighed Henri d'Estrailles with a faint grimace, "your words

are doubtless golden, my father, though scarcely sweet to the ear, yet I

must e'en obey, seeing that I do ill to grasp too greedily at

hospitality which must needs be more pain than pleasure to bestow."

"Nay, monsieur," interrupted Gwennola gently, "we of Mereac grudge no

man our hospitality, but----"

"Ay, the but," replied d'Estrailles wistfully. "Mademoiselle, believe

me, my gratitude is unbounded, yet I cannot but comprehend how

distasteful is the presence of a Frenchman to a family bereaved as the

good father here has told me, nor would I linger one moment longer than

it is necessary to my hurt; though," he added softly, "I must needs

leave behind me for ever somewhat that I had dreamed to keep my own for

all time."

She did not reply, only met his pleading glance with one which was half

wonder, half glad comprehension, the look of a child who sees before it

joys hitherto undreamt of, yet gazes, doubting whether they be for him.

The look lingered in her eyes even when she had left the sick man's

chamber, and gone slowly down the winding stairway into the great hall.

"Ah, my Nola, so there thou art. Comest thou not with thy old father

to-day a-hawking?"

The Sieur de Mereac stood by the long table booted and spurred, his

falcon on his wrist, his cloak flung over his shoulder, a gallant

figure, in brave attire, his kindly, keen grey eyes fixed questioningly

on his daughter. She ran to him, curtsying and smiling, and slipped one

slim arm round his caressingly.

"I knew not that it was your pleasure, monsieur my father," she replied,

smiling up at him with loving eyes. He stroked back her ruddy curls

fondly as he looked down into the beautiful face.

"Thy father always wants thee, little one," he said tenderly, "as thou

knowest very well, spoilt child as thou art. And so thou dost not want

to come and see me try my new gerfalcon! Donna Maria? tiens! look then

how beautiful a bird she is!"

"She is altogether perfect," murmured Gwennola, stroking the bird's soft

plumage, "and to-morrow thou shalt again take her hawking, my father,

and I will accompany thee on my little Croisette. Say, is it not so?"

"But why not to-day, little bird?" he asked, half impatiently. "See,

the sun shines, and the air is glorious. Fie, then! is it because

Guillaume is not here?"

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

"No, my father," she said in a low voice; "that thou knowest very

well,--oh, father!"--and once again she clung to him with a sudden,

new-born tenderness--"thou knowest that I want none but thee,--only thee

for always."

"Nay, child," he replied, patting her cheek kindly "that would never do;

but see, when thou art married to Guillaume we shall still be together;

there will come no stranger lord to carry my little sunbeam away from

Mereac, leaving it cold and grey for ever. Say then, little one, is that

not well?--thou and Guillaume, and the old father here? Tiens! give me

a kiss, my Gwennola, for her Spanish Majesty waxes as impatient as my

good Barbe without. Adieu, petite, and be kind to the poor Guillaume

when he returns."

But Gwennola did not reply; perhaps her voice was too choked with tears

just then to make answer to her father's words, but, if so, she quickly

dashed the bright drops from her eyes as she met the curious gaze of a

youth who sat perched on a stool by the side of the empty hearth: a

narrow-faced, undersized lad clad in a fool's motley, his quick beady

eyes roving restlessly from his young mistress to watch the gambols of a

small ape, which, dressed in quaint imitation of his master, chattered

and clambered about, first over the rush-strewn floor, then up the dark

tapestries, finally alighting between the outstretched forms of two

wolf-hounds, which lay dreaming doubtless of the chase, for, as the

impudent little jester sprang to their side, they raised their heads

with an ominous growl, and might in sleepy anger have terminated a

mischievous career, had not the little creature with an agile bound

sprung over their bodies on to the knee of his master, where he sat

gibbering and chattering like some mocking imp of darkness, whilst the

fool rocked himself backwards and forwards on his stool, chuckling

shrilly.

"Silence, Pierre!" commanded Gwennola, the more sharply because she had

with difficulty regained her composure; "and go quickly, bid Marie and

Job Alloadec come hither; tell them that I would have them accompany me

to Mereac to see old Mere Fanchonic. And bid Marie bring the warm wrap

I promised the old woman."

Pierre obeyed sullenly enough, for it displeased him to have his sport

thus interrupted, but Gwennola paid no heed to his frowns, but stood

awaiting her attendants with a little smile hovering around her lips,

though why she smiled she could not have told, unless it were that she

recalled to mind Father Ambrose's shocked face when the Frenchman spoke

of maidens' eyes. Tiens! what harm then was it? It was true,--so she

supposed,--but could it also be true that her eyes----? She broke off,

blushing crimson at the unmaidenly thought, then sighed as, instead of

Henri d'Estrailles' handsome face, she recalled another face which had

looked so mockingly into hers that very morn, yonder on the terrace, a

cruel, evil face, with sallow cheeks and pale, cold eyes, the

recollection of which started another train of thought. What had it

been that had so startled Guillaume de Coray? Why had he been absent

since that moment when he had parted from her so suddenly? She was

still wondering vaguely when the entrance of Marie and Job Alloadec

broke in on her meditations.

"Come," she said, a little impatiently, "I have been awaiting thee this

long time, my Marie; it grows late, and I would fain be home before the

twilight deepens; but, ma foi, what ails the good Jobik?"

It certainly appeared as if somewhat greatly ailed the poor retainer;

his usually ruddy cheeks were flabby and pale, and his blue eyes glanced

from side to side, with the nervous stare of one who has been badly

frightened. Marie crossed herself, paling too as she replied--

"Ah, mademoiselle, pardon, it is true that I delayed, but poor Job was

at first so fear-stricken that I deemed he would verily have become

crazed outright."

Gwennola stamped her foot impatiently. "Foolish one!" she cried, though

there was a ripple of laughter mingled with the anger in her tones.

"Say then what has befallen? has the poor Jobik seen the same vision

that affrighted Monsieur de Coray this morning?"

"Truly, I know not," replied Marie in a whisper. "But he says--nay,

lady, he says--tiens, Job! tell the Lady Gwennola what thou sawest

yonder in the forest."

For reply the poor Breton poured forth a mumbled string of vows and

prayers, from amongst which Gwennola at last extracted the startling

fact that, as he stood by the river bank, he had seen amongst the trees,

on the other side, a vision of Yvon de Mereac, his young lord, who had

perished on the bloody field of St Aubin du Cormier nearly three years

since.

Even Gwennola grew pale as she devoutly crossed herself, murmuring a

prayer to her patron saint before she faltered out an inquiry as to the

manner of the vision. It was this, it appeared, which had so puzzled

the faithful Jobik, who had worshipped his young master with all a

Breton's devotion: he had not stood before him clad in armour as he had

fallen, but in ragged and poor attire, with wasted cheeks and eyes at

once haunting and terrible, as if, so Job averred, the tortured spirit

were in some great peril, from which it pleaded with Job to release it.

In vain Gwennola strove to convince the poor fellow that the vision

could be naught but some phantasy of the brain, or that the figure seen

was that of some wandering madman who bore a likeness to her dead

brother. Job clung to his tale, at last breaking down utterly in his

terror and perplexity, and sobbing out prayers to every saint in the

calendar to enlighten him as to what the vision would have him do.

It was some time before all were sufficiently calm to set out on their

expedition, an expedition from which Marie in vain strove to dissuade

her mistress. The thought of so immediately entering the now

horror-haunted forest was agony to the poor waiting woman; but in spite

of her own inward qualms, Gwennola was firm in her purpose. Truth to

tell, the young mistress was inclined to be of an obstinate and

tenacious disposition, and, having decided on her plan of action,

carried it through in spite of opposition, so that Marie, knowing well

her wilful temper, was fain to yield to her wishes, and strive, if

vainly, to conquer her fears.

Gwennola, on the contrary, gave no outward sign of her misgivings; some

strange elation seemed suddenly to have over-mastered them, and her

merry laugh rang cheerily through the sunlit glades as she challenged

Marie to a race.

Mere Fanchonic's humble dwelling was reached at last, and the young

chatelaine's gracious sympathy and kindly words brought many a blessing

down on her head from the old woman ere they departed once more on their

homeward way, Mere Fanchonic herself hobbling slowly to the door to

scream shrill injunctions to Job to guard well his young mistress, for,

though the way was short, there were perils on all sides.

That such was the case in those lawless times Gwennola knew only too

well, but she possessed the daring spirit of her race, and her father

had ever yielded to her more licence than was deemed fitting for a young

girl in those days. Therefore Gwennola had been accustomed from

childhood to wander in the woods around Mereac, accompanied only by the

faithful Job and Marie, or perchance by her father, or brother. The

thought of that brother, so dear and so long mourned, brought a sadness

afresh to her bright face as she turned her steps towards the chateau.

The thrill of elation had gone, and a sudden gloom seemed to have

plunged her from unaccountable mirth to melancholy; neither could she

altogether explain what oppressed her, unless indeed it could be Job

Alloadec's strange vision.

Twilight was creeping with stealthy footsteps upon them, in spite of

their haste, as they passed swiftly along the narrow woodland path, and

Marie had shrunk closer to her mistress's side, when a sudden crackling

of boughs in a thicket close by caused both girls to scream aloud in

fear, as a man leapt out from the wood on to the path in front of them.

Flesh and blood without doubt was the intruder, no hollow-eyed

apparition of the dead, such as they had half dreaded: a man, short,

thick-set, with a red stubbly beard and hard, reckless eyes, which

stared now into theirs with a fierce, yet frightened defiance.

"Monsieur de Coray?" he gasped, and looked eagerly behind the girls

towards Job, who had hurried up to his young mistress's side.

"De Coray?" questioned Gwennola, who was the first of the three to

regain her self-possession, signing at the same time to Job to keep by

her side. "Is it then Monsieur de Coray with whom you desire speech?"

"Yes--no," stammered the man, glancing from right to left. "Pardon,

mademoiselle, I feared--nay--methought----" And then, with the gasp of

one who sees safety but in flight, he sprang once more into the

brushwood, and disappeared, as suddenly as he had come, amongst the

trees.

"Nay," said Gwennola de Mereac gently, as Job, with a suspicious grunt,

made as though he would set off in pursuit, "there was no harm; the poor

man is half crazed with fear or something worse. Besides," she added

with a smile, "thou wouldest not leave us alone, good Job, to find our

way home through these twilight woods. Parbleu! it was well that yon

poor, frightened rogue had no business with us, for he wore an ugly

look, and it is possible that he hath friends, beside Monsieur de Coray,

in yon dark forest. Come, my Marie, tremble not now danger is past, but

let us return the more quickly, seeing that perchance my father even now

grows anxious."

"'Twas a strange knave," muttered Job as he followed his sister and her

mistress on their way. "But, by the beard of the holy St Gildas! I had

liefer meet two such than----" And the gallant Job crossed himself

devoutly, though he did not complete his sentence.

*CHAPTER IV*

The shadows fell heavily in the great hall of the Chateau de Mereac. In

one corner the fool Pierre had lain himself down on the rushes to sleep,

clasping his smaller namesake to his narrow chest. By the empty hearth

Gaspard de Mereac leant back in his great chair, half dozing after his

hawking, the gay gerfalcon perched on the back of the seat, preening

herself with stately grace, as one who would say, "See one who has

proved her worth and won the praises of all who beheld her prowess." At

their master's feet lay the wolf-hounds, Gloire and Reine, the former

raising his stately head from time to time to softly lick the hand which

hung over the oaken chair. A step coming hastily across the hall roused

the lord of the castle into a sudden, irritated wakefulness, for well he

knew it was not the gentle tread of his little Gwennola, but instead, as

one sleepy glance told him, his nephew Guillaume de Coray. Something

however, in the latter's disordered dress and pale face roused him from

his dreams of gallant hawks and screaming herons to demand abruptly what

had chanced.

"Chanced?" echoed de Coray vaguely. "Chanced, monsieur my uncle? Nay,

naught hath chanced, but----" He paused, as if striving to collect a

train of wandering thoughts, leaning his chin on his hand as he sat down

on a bench opposite to his interrogator.

"Where hast been all day?" demanded de Mereac, stretching out his legs

with a sleepy yawn and pausing to pat Gloire's faithful head as he

raised himself in his seat. "Verily thou hast missed as fair a day's

sport as I have had for many a day. De Ploeernic rated not his fair

Spaniard too highly after all. Seldom have I seen so straight a flight;

but thou shalt judge for thyself on the morrow, for I have promised to

take the little Gwennola with me, and thou, too, Guillaume, wilt

doubtless accompany us?"

"Doubtless," replied the younger man, but his listless tone and moody

face drew fresh inquiries from his uncle as to his day's doings. De

Coray replied evasively, still preserving the same gloomy manner, whilst

his knitted brow seemed to speak of perplexity and indecision.

"What ails thee, man?" cried de Mereac heartily, "thou art as gloomy as

any fat abbot on a fast day. Say then, has my lady been flouting thee?

A plague on the little rogue, she hath scarce been near me this day!"

De Coray glanced sideways towards his uncle, then downwards, whilst a

sinister smile played round his mouth.

"Perchance the French knight's wounds have needed too much of my fair

mistress's care," he said maliciously, noting with satisfaction how the

shaft went home, from the old man's sudden start and angry frown. Then,

dropping his hesitating manner, he leant forward, speaking slowly but

emphatically. "Monsieur," he said softly, "it is in my mind that I

should tell you clearly that which I alone have knowledge of; perchance

you will blame me for not having spoken sooner, but knightly honour

forbade me. Now, however, the necessity seemeth to me greater even than

any false sense of magnanimity, seeing that we cross not swords with the

viper, but rather crush him under heel before he does us mortal ill, and

so----" He paused, to give perhaps greater weight to his words,

narrowly watching the stern, set face opposite him, which seemed to have

stiffened into an iron mask.

"Speak thy mind, man," demanded the old noble curtly. "If there is ill

to tell, tell it me--the saints know I have borne such before--but cease

to prate of that which is beside the purpose, as is the way with women

and fools--not men."

"Nay," said de Coray, flushing under the reproof, "there is that to tell

which will be hard for you to hear, monsieur, and I would but prepare

you for the tale; as you may well guess, it concerneth this Frenchman

whom fate, by strange trickery, cast at your gates."

De Mereac's jaw closed with a snap.

"He hath satisfied me that he is no spy," he replied sternly. "I have

accepted his knightly word, and though it be bitter for me to extend

hospitality to the enemy of my country and one of my son's slayers,

still, by all the laws of knighthood and chivalry he goes free as soon

as he is fit to travel."

"So," said de Coray, "he hath satisfied you, monsieur? That may well

be, since he knew not the name of his victim, and yet I may well wonder

how he trains his tongue to speak smooth words in a Breton's ear when he

remembereth St Aubin du Cormier."

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

"Yes, St Aubin du Cormier," repeated de Coray, moving a little nearer,

as if he feared his words might be overheard. "Listen, monsieur, and

you will understand why, at sight of yon dog lying under the greenwood,

I cried to you to yield him no mercy, but to mete out to him the dog's

death he deserved."

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

"The battle was a bloody one, as you may well remember," began de Coray.

"We of Brittany fought gallantly, as we ever do, and the English archers

of Lord Woodville yielded only to the French with their lives; for

myself, I had escaped throughout the fight, and towards evening found

myself driven back, close to a wood, by the side of the Prince of

Orange, who, seeing the chances of the day had gone against us, tore

from his breast the black cross of Brittany, urging us, his followers,

to do the same, for that nothing remained to us but flight. His words

were true, but, for all that, no true Breton amongst us tore the cross

from his tunic, though we sought flight readily enough amongst the

trees, and in so doing it chanced that I became separated from the rest,

and, wandering alone through the wood, came suddenly in sight of a man

clad in the armour of a Frenchman, who walked stealthily; for an instant

I paused, and, alas! monsieur, before I could conceive the meaning of

the situation, it was too late. A Breton knight, whom I recognised on

the instant as my cousin Yvon, was standing spent and weary by his

horse's side, whilst the animal drank greedily of the water from a brook

which ran hard by. Yvon's vizor was up, and I could see he was pale

with excitement and exhaustion, though methinks unwounded. His back was

turned towards his enemy, and before I could cry a word of warning, the

cowardly traitor had sprung forward and cloven him from brow to chin, so

that he fell dead by his horse's side. I sprang forward also, with a

cry, but the Frenchman was true to his colours; for one instant he

looked at me, then, fearing doubtless that friends of mine and the dead

man's might be near, he drove fiercely at me with his sword, and fled,

so that in the twilight I missed him, though, so thirsty grew my own

good blade for his blood, that I searched till darkness fell and all

hope of finding him was gone."

"And?" groaned de Mereac.

De Coray smiled pensively. "Monsieur," he added, "the French traitor's

vizor was also raised, so that I read well the features which I saw not

again till I beheld them yonder in the forest."

With a bitter curse the old man sprang to his feet with such vigour that

Gloire and Reine raised their great heads with a short bark of

excitement.

"He?" cried de Mereac, his voice quivering with fury, "he?--the man

whose life I spared? the man who has partaken of my hospitality and

eaten my salt? He? the base murderer of my Yvon?--my boy--my boy!" In

spite of his anger his voice broke over the last words; then a fresh

tempest seized him. "Fool!" he cried, gripping de Coray by the shoulder,

"wherefore didst thou not tell me this when we found him yonder?

wherefore prolong by an hour the life of so foul a thing?"

"Nay," faltered de Coray, paling before the storm he had evoked.

"Methought--the Lady Gwennola----"

"Gwennola!" shouted the old man. "Thrice double fool! thinkest thou

there would be one throb of pity in her pure maiden's heart for such an

one as the murderer of her brother? Ay, murderer he is, and as such

shall die. Hie thee, varlet, bid come hither on the instant Job and

Henri. Ay! and bid them drag down yon foul thing from the chamber where

he lieth so softly, and he shall learn what Breton justice is. Bah! the

rope that should hang him would be for ever a thing dishonoured; rather

would I give him to my good hounds yonder to tear limb from limb;

though, by the bones of St Yves, such death even were too gentle and

easy a thing for him."

Pierre the fool, thus roughly roused from slumber to be sent in search

of Job and his comrade, stood gaping and gasping before his master's

anger, whilst the ape from his shoulder grinned and gibbered in mocking

imitation of its lord's wrath; but before de Mereac's fury could burst

forth again upon the head of his witless retainer, a voice beside him

turned the swift current of his thoughts into another channel. It was

his daughter Gwennola who stood before him, pale but resolute, with no

look of fear in her blue eyes as they met his stormy frown, but rather

returning look for look, boldly and bravely.

"My father," she said steadily, laying one white hand upon the sleeve of

his long furred gown, "I have heard what"--her voice trembled--"what

Monsieur de Coray has been saying, and," she added, turning a blazing

face of indignation towards the younger man, who stood leaning against

the tapestry near, "I call him coward and liar to his face!"

There was an instant's pause, de Mereac's brows drawn ominously down as

he glanced from his daughter to de Coray, whose mocking smile seemed to

sting the girl to fresh anger.

"Liar and coward!" she cried, stamping her little foot, her blue eyes

still ablaze. "Ah, monsieur my father, it is incredible that you

believe him."

"Incredible?" said the old man slowly, "and wherefore, child? More

incredible to me that my daughter should take the part of a foul

murderer, an enemy to her country and house, rather than the word of her

betrothed husband."

De Coray's smile deepened. "Monsieur," he said, with a mocking bow,

"you asked me why I told a traitor's secret now rather than

yesterday--perhaps monsieur is answered."

De Mereac's eyes sought his daughter's face sternly, but again she met

them with a glance almost defiant, then softening, as she read a dumb

agony behind the anger, till her own blue eyes brimmed with tears.

"Oh, my father!" she cried, drawing nearer to his side with outstretched

hands, "in the name of justice listen to me, and heed not the words of

yon cruel man. See, my father, if Monsieur d'Estrailles has done this

thing, willingly would my hands tie the knot which bound the rope round

his coward's throat, but, my father, is it justice? is it a thing of

honour to strike like the adder in the dark? I, yes, I, Gwennola de

Mereac, challenge you, Guillaume de Coray, to repeat your lying tale

before the man you accuse, and let my father judge between true knight

and false."

De Coray's smile faded as he met her fearless gaze, then glanced

sideways towards de Mereac, who stood hesitating, eagerly, it seemed,

awaiting his answer.

"So be it, my fairest law-giver," he said at last, with a forced smile.

"To-morrow will be as good a hanging day as to-night, and perchance, as

you suggest, the office shall fall to your own fair hands."

She did not reply, but turned, curtsying gravely to her father as she

quitted the hall.

Not another word was spoken between the two men left standing there

amongst the shadows. De Mereac, whose transport of rage seemed to have

died down, since his daughter's interference, into a sullen moodiness,

soon strode away, leaving Guillaume alone. The young man's meditations

seemed perchance to be scarcely of a soothing nature, for, till darkness

fell, he continued pacing up and down the hall, lost in thought, till a

hand touching his roused him with a startled curse, and, looking down,

he saw to his surprise the thin, shrewd face of Pierre the fool looking

wistfully up into his.

"Monsieur," said the boy softly, "I am monsieur's slave; if I may be

allowed to serve monsieur, perchance I can do much."

Guillaume de Coray looked thoughtfully down into the oblique, uncanny

eyes, then he smiled. "A friend," he quoth lightly, "is at times a

necessity, and should not be refused, mon Pierre, even when the friend

is but a fool. Yes, I will accept, and," he added, drawing a piece of

money from his pocket, and placing it in the lad's outstretched palm, "I

will pay the price of true friendship, mon ami. See, there is already a

service you can render me." He drew Pierre as he spoke into a recess,

dropping his voice, as if fearing that the pictured figures on the

tapestry had ears to hear. "Yonder in the forest," he said softly,

"there wanders a man whom I would fain have speech with, a man, short,

thick-set, with a red beard and black eyes; tell him," he added,

speaking slowly and impressively, with both hands on Pierre's shoulders,

"that his _friend_, his _friend_, mark you, boy, Guillaume de Coray,

would have speech with him; that there is naught to fear and much to

gain, and that to any rendezvous he may appoint I will come alone."

Pierre's black eyes shone as he looked up into de Coray's pale face,

nodding slowly. "Pierre understands," he muttered. "Monsieur has

trusted to Pierre the fool, who is now the friend of monsieur, and

therefore it is understood that the man with the red beard shall be

found. Is it not so, mon choux?" he added, caressing the ape, which he

still carried in his arms. "Tiens! it is clear that Pierre the fool

will soon be rich and great, and the little Gabrielle far away in the

forest shall no more weep for hunger." And as he turned away, the boy

looked lovingly down at the piece of leather money with its small centre

of silver which de Coray had given him. "Without doubt monsieur has a

great heart," he murmured softly. "As for the Lady Gwennola, I have no

love for her, though she be fair as the dawn, for she has no love for

monsieur, and none also for petit Pierre. Is it not so, mon petit?

Bah! we shall be great soon, thou and I, mon Pierrot, very great."

*CHAPTER V*

"Ah, Marie, Marie, what shall I do? Tiens! petite, canst say no word to

comfort me? Bah! with thy great eyes thou hast no more sense than the

owls which cry all night in the forest yonder. Nay! forgive me, Marie,

and comfort me, because, because----"

"Nay, lady," sighed the waiting-maid, "I fear me there is little to be

said, for see, you tell me that on the morrow Monsieur de Mereac----"

"Ah, listen then, Marie, and I will explain all to thee," said Gwennola,

clasping her hands as she looked piteously across into Marie's

sympathetic face.

"Monsieur de Coray, viper that he is, has for some reason I know not

conceived a hatred for Monsieur d'Estrailles, therefore he has told to

monsieur my father many false lies, saying that Monsieur d'Estrailles

foully murdered the poor Yvon, whose soul rest in peace, at the battle

of St Aubin du Cormier, three years since; but Marie, it is false

Monsieur d'Estrailles could do no such unknightly deed--nay, I am

assured of it."

"But wherefore, mistress?" demanded Marie stolidly. "We know nothing of

this French monsieur; it may be that his tongue is no smoother than his

heart false. Jobik hath ofttimes bid me beware if a Frenchman cross my

path, for they are altogether children of the devil in their deceitful

ways."

"Jobik is a fool!" declared his young mistress tartly, "and thou also

art lacking in all sense, my Marie, to listen to him. See then how many

noble Frenchmen have been true friends to Brittany; think of Monsieur

d'Orleans and Monsieur the Count Dunois, who even now seeks to aid our

sweet Duchess; but all such talk is foolishness. Be assured, Marie,

that I, thy mistress, am convinced that Monsieur d'Estrailles is a good

and true knight, and yet, alas! alas! to-morrow morn it may well chance

that he will hang as if he were some cowardly traitor or foul

murderer--for see then, Marie, it is the word of a Frenchman against a

Breton, and though the latter be thrice times a traitor knave, yet well

I know he hath the trick of lying with as smooth a brow as any guileless

babe, and so--and so--my father will believe him. Alas! alas!" and the

young girl broke down into a flood of tears.

Marie stood watching her mistress's distress, tears brimming in her own

brown eyes, although in her heart was still some doubting of the

Frenchman's honour. But, after all, what maid of any age is proof

against romance? and the fact that Gwennola was deeply interested in the

handsome stranger was apparent enough to the waiting-woman's eyes. And

what wonder, seeing that fate had hitherto offered naught but so sorry a

lover as Monsieur de Coray? There was no love for the latter in Marie's

heart, which went the farther in his rival's favour.

"Alas! my lady," she murmured, with a sob, "'tis grievous to think of,

and that he should die, this poor monsieur, at dawn, on the word of such

an one as Monsieur de Coray! If it had been that he were not injured,

we might even have helped him to escape, but alas----"

"Alas!" sobbed Gwennola, "with such a wound 'twere death to attempt it.

No, Marie, he will die, and I, it may be, will find shelter in a

convent, as Father Ambrose hath ofttimes suggested, for well I wot I

would marry no murderer, liar and coward, such as Guillaume de Coray."

The passion of her hatred against her betrothed husband for the moment

had roused Gwennola from her grief. Now she dried her tears, and,

rising, began slowly to pace the room, her head thrown back, and a light

gradually dawning in her blue eyes. The wild untamable spirit of daring

which had raced so madly through the veins of countless generations of

ancestors had lifted her from the weak and unavailing grief of

womanhood.

"I will save him," she said slowly, as she faced Marie Alloadec; "yes,

it is possible. See, little one," she added, pointing reverently to a

small figure of the Madonna placed on a table near, "it is the Holy

Mother herself who has shown me how to do it; but go, my Marie, for

there is little time to lose, even in prayers, go, tell Father Ambrose

that I would see him now, quickly, if may be, in the chapel."

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

Gwennola laid both hands firmly on the other's shoulders, looking down

kindly but commandingly into the frightened brown eyes upraised to hers.

"Listen, Marie," she said quietly; "thou must obey without questioning.

A noble knight's life hangs perchance in the issue, therefore 'tis no

time for woman's fears or weakness; but what I purpose doing I tell

neither to thee nor any other, seeing that it were ill for any save

myself alone to refuse to answer when my father commands; only this

thing I ask thee: go, tell Father Ambrose that I await him in the

chapel, see that he fails me not, and, for the rest, be silent. Nay,"

she added, as tears rose in the girl's eyes, "'tis not that I doubt thy

faithfulness, child, but that I would spare thee pain, ay, and myself

too, though one thing more there is I would ask of thee which I had

well-nigh forgotten. Bid Job lead the stranger's horse from the stables

in an hour's time and tether him within the wood close by the river's

bank; let none see him do it, neither let him speak of what he does.

Also, should he fancy he seeth a figure pass him by whilst he standeth

on guard at the outer postern, let him cross himself and deem 'tis a

spirit, such as he already dreamt to see to-day, and take heed that he

goeth not to inquire too closely as to whether there is aught of flesh

and blood about it, for to-morrow mayhap it will have been well for him

to have been somewhat blind and deaf."

Marie curtsied, not daring to reply, as she saw the determination in her

mistress's face. Nevertheless, as she sped on her errand, she muttered

many an ave to her patron saint, knowing well what the fury of the lord

of the chateau would be did his daughter succeed in her daring

intention.

It may have been that even Gwennola's heart half failed her as she sank

on her knees in the dimly lighted chapel of the castle. Wrapped in a

long hooded cloak, she might well have passed for a shadow amongst the

shadows which the moonlight flung around. Involuntarily the young girl

crossed herself as she watched the cold, clear beams which fell long and

pale across the altar, streaming down in flickering waves of light

towards where she knelt in one of the stalls; for, high-born as she was,

the superstitions of the day ran riot in her mind, and well she knew the

baneful influence of the moon on the destiny of the Breton, and yet--as

she argued to herself--the evil omen of the ghostly light might be

averted, seeing that he whom she would fain succour was no Breton; and

with the thought came others, more mocking and bewildering. Why did she

thus dare brave her father's anger, and outrage her maiden modesty for

the sake of a stranger and an enemy? The burning blushes which

overspread her cheeks at the thought of the plan she had conceived might

have convinced her, but the mad whirl of her mind refused to be analysed

too closely. In vain she argued with herself that it was but her own

keen sense of justice, so certain was she that the tale of Guillaume de

Coray was false. But why should it be false? That she could not reply

to, except by the illogical, but all-convincing, sense of her woman's

intuition. A false quantity that in a hall of justice. Gwennola

shuddered as she felt the frailty of such an argument, shuddered as she

saw how fast the net of fate had immeshed this stranger. There was a

little sob in her throat as she bowed her head in her hands, a sob

which, like her deeper thoughts, she refused to analyse. Surely it was

but a note of pity for an innocent man whom jealous hatred or some

passion she could not divine was condemning to death? A hand laid on

her shoulder roused her, and with a little frightened cry she sprang to

her feet, but it was only Father Ambrose, that good father who had known

and loved her ever since she had first lisped out baby confessions of

infantine sin and wickedness at his knee. Yes, it had been a happy

thought to send for him, though for his own good she must deceive him as

to her intentions.

"The hour is late, my daughter," said the old priest gently. "What

wouldest thou with me, child? Surely 'tis no time," he added with a

smile, "even for confessions?"

"Nay, my father," she said softly, "'tis no confession, but perchance

more of pity for one unjustly condemned to death that moves me to crave

thy help."

"To death?" he echoed, glancing keenly at her. "Nay, daughter, but what

hath chanced? and who in the chateau of thy gallant father may dare to

condemn unjustly?"

"Nay," she replied, "listen, my father, and thou shalt judge for

thyself," and in a few hurried sentences she told her tale.

Father Ambrose listened with bent brows, narrowly watching the fair face

of the narrator as she spoke.

"Yes," he said gently, when she had finished, "I too am of thy opinion,

my child, for I have watched by this sick man's side for many hours, and

methinks truly he is a brave and loyal knight, with no such cruel smirch

of treachery lying at his heart; but for all that, daughter, we have

scarce known him for two days, and it may well be that we are deceived,

for wherefore should Guillaume de Coray conceive so terrible a tale in

falseness?"

"Nay, that I know not," replied Gwennola, sighing, "except that he is

false, father, false to the heart's core, and speaketh lies as easily as

he who is the father of them. Nay, father, reprove me not, for never

husband of mine shall he be, by the grace of St Enora herself I swear

it; rather would I die, far, far rather bury myself behind convent walls

than marry a traitor and coward."

"Nay, daughter," rebuked Father Ambrose, "talk not so wildly, though in

the life of the convent there be much peace and happiness for those who

find little without; but thou, my child," he added with a shrewd smile,

"wert no more born to be a nun than to be the wife of a traitor. But

see, the night grows apace, and methinks we do little good in speaking

ill of thy kinsman; better it were to pray for the soul of this poor

gentleman who dies with the morrow's sun, or rather, that if it please

the holy saints to alter so sad a destiny, to send succour to one whom

we, at least, do look upon as innocent of this black crime whereof he is

accused."

"Pray for his soul?" murmured Gwennola with a sigh; then a half smile

parted her lips. "Nay, father," she murmured, "surely 'twill be a

fairer division between us if thou prayest for his soul and I for his

body. But nay, look not reprovingly, dear father, but listen to the

prayer of thy little Gwennola, who called thee hither to crave a favour,

besides telling thee of this sad work of the morrow."

"And that, my daughter?" questioned the old priest with a whimsical

smile, well knowing the coaxing tones with which she pleaded.

"That," she whispered, whilst the colour surged back into her pale

cheeks, "is to bring hither Monsieur d'Estrailles, that I myself may

tell him of his danger and--and bid him farewell, for I will not be

present on the morrow to see a noble knight suffer such cruel

injustice."

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

thoughtfully.

"Child," he said at last, "this knight is but a stranger who scarcely

knoweth thee. Deemest thou it be seemly or maidenly on thy part thus to

crave audience with such an one, alone, at night?"

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

"Nay, father," she said steadily, "deem me not unmaidenly. Hast ever

found thy little Gwennola aught but discreet and jealous of her honour?

Nay, father, had I known this poor knight better, I could not have

craved such an interview, but seeing he is but a stranger whom--whom I

pity, surely there were no harm!"

"But wherein the good?" questioned the priest. "Surely it were best for

me to seek Monsieur d'Estrailles' chamber and tell him all; then, when I

have shriven him, we may well pass the night in prayer for his soul, and

that the saints may give him fortitude for the morrow."

"Nay, father," whispered Gwennola pleadingly, "I too am praying for the

good knight's body, as thou didst agree, and I would fain give him one

word anent the preserving of it, which can be but for his ears alone.

Nay, dear father, thy little Gwennola pleads with thee not to deny so

trifling a boon. What ill can befall? A few simple words of comfort and

farewell to a poor stranger who to-morrow must die, and then for the

rest of the night thou mayest wrestle alone with him in needful prayer

for his soul."

"Nay, child, but 'tis scarce seemly," sighed Father Ambrose. "And didst

thy father hear of it, methinks my office of confessor would be held but

a brief space. Still----"

"Still," urged Gwennola softly, "thou wilt not deny me so small a

boon--but ten minutes, my father, and then thou and he may spend the

hours that remain in making peace with Heaven."

"I fear me," sighed the priest heavily, "that thou hast inherited the

spirit of our first mother, my daughter, and temptest man with fair

words as she did with pleasant fruit. Yet--well I wot thou art

discreet, child, and thy heart is soft and warm with pity,

doubtless,--nay, there can be no warmer feeling in thy breast for this

poor knight. 'Twere impossible that love can find an entrance in so

brief a space." He looked curiously into the flushed, smiling face as

he spoke.

"Nay, father," laughed Gwennola softly. "Fie on thee! Am I not

betrothed to my cousin?"

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

last words.

"I pray our Blessed Lady that I do no harm," he murmured, crossing

himself devoutly. "Methinks there can be little ill in so kind a

thought of pity, and it may be that the poor monsieur will regard more

thy words than mine. Mary, Mother, have pity on his soul!"

"And his body," whispered Gwennola. "See, father, we say amen to both

petitions; and now, haste thee quickly, for the time, as thou sayest,

draws on apace."

Slowly shaking his head, as if still beset with doubts as to his wisdom

in thus yielding to what he considered a wild, if generous whim, Father

Ambrose went his way, leaving Gwennola to pace the chapel with eager

steps, finally flinging herself down before the great crucifix which

stood upon the little altar. But even prayers at that moment were little

better than a wild, incoherent cry, so great a turmoil raged in the

young girl's heart. Now fears beset her as to the folly of an

undertaking as perilous as it was daring; only the thought of de Goray's

cruel triumph on the next day goaded her forward to persevere in what

had been the impulse of a moment, and even this thought scarcely held

her to a purpose which of a sudden seemed to grow impracticable,

unmaidenly, almost unseemly. Girt round as the young girls of the

period were with a host of restrictions and proprieties, the part she

now proposed to play seemed almost impossible; only the daring blood of

a Breton maid would have made such a thought conceivable, and now

outraged modesty rang a host of warnings in her ears. This stranger

knight, what would he think of such a suggestion? What would he deem

her, thus boldly to seek an interview, herself unsought? She had been

mad to have thought of such a possibility of escape, and now perhaps he

would scorn her for her unmaidenly forwardness.

The burning blush which swept over her cheeks had scarce had time to

cool when her quick ear caught the sound of footsteps, halting and slow,

as if their owner walked with difficulty, and at the sound her woman's

pity forgot the false sense of shame which had agonized within her. Ay,

and she forgot too to question wherefore she took such interest in a

stranger, as he stood before her, and her quick heart throb told her

swiftly that it was more than pity and love of justice which had brought

her to dare risk so much for his sake.

Only ten minutes, and a life weighing in the balances! Parbleu! was it

a time for maiden coyness and false bashfulness? He stood still in the

moonlight, looking towards her with an eager, questioning glance in his

dark eyes. How handsome he was and noble, and yet how pale! Ah! that

unhealed wound in his side--doubtless he suffered much, and yet----

She was at his side now, her hood slipping back from her flushed face;

for even at that moment she was a woman, and the ill-omened moonlight

had no grudge against the gleaming tresses of her hair.

"Monsieur," she whispered. "Ah, monsieur, think me not unmaidenly, but

it was your life that was in danger, which is----"

"Unmaidenly?" he interrupted gently. "Nay, mademoiselle, to me, though,

alas! I have known you so short a space, you must always be the

embodiment of all that is most fair and lovely in womankind; but," he

added, seeing that though the colour on her cheeks deepened, she had too

much to say to listen to tender words, "you would fain have speech with

me, mademoiselle, on a matter of much gravity, the good father saith?"

Rapidly she told the tale, with every now and then a catch in her breath

of sheer excitement, but when she would have gone on to what was deepest

in her heart, he checked her with a little imperative gesture of

command.

"Nay, mademoiselle," he said firmly, "before aught else let me clear

myself of this foul calumny. Ma foi! that this accursed wound prevents

me from driving the lie down the dog's throat. Pardon, mademoiselle,

but it is hard for a d'Estrailles to listen to so deep an insult and yet

wear his sword sheathed; but no--well I understand how matters lie--the

word of a Frenchman is naught against that of a Breton whose face hath

not yet been unmasked. Nay, mademoiselle, with your father there rests

no blame save blindness of sight perhaps in not reading traitor in false

eyes; but to you, whose pure heart hath read so truly, it were but right

to tell the tale as it stands, though methinks 'tis no easy one to read

in all its blackness. Yet at the battle of St Aubin du Cormier I saw

that chance of which your kinsman has made so tangled a story; 'tis for

you to help me to spell its meaning. The battle was over, and, as yon

villain truly saith, the Prince of Orange was taken prisoner in a

neighbouring wood, whilst Louis of Orleans was found wounded amongst the

slain. It chanced, as we searched for other prisoners of less note, that

in this self-same wood I lighted on a man who wore the black cross of

Brittany struggling with a soldier of France, but as I came near the

Frenchman was overcome, and the Breton knight was about to turn aside,

when another, wearing the same black cross as himself, stole swiftly up

behind and smote him a foul blow which caused him to fall, methinks a

corpse, almost at my feet. Enraged at such treachery, I strove mightily

with the murderer, inflicting, however, but a flesh wound on his left

arm, and another of less import which clove his lower lip, his vizor

being raised; but before I could slay or take him prisoner he dealt me a

caitiff's blow which stunned me for a moment, and before I could recover

he had fled through the trees."

Gwennola's face had grown white to the lips, as d'Estrailles told his

tale, but her blue eyes blazed, as she cried with a sob--

"Monsieur, it is plain, the murderer was de Coray himself. Oh, mon

Dieu! mon Dieu! and I might even have married him." Then, drawing her

cloak round her, she signed to the young man to follow her. "There is

no time for further speech," she whispered softly; "all explanations,

monsieur, I must tell you afterwards; for though it is clear to me that

your story needs must be true, yon viper with his crooked tongue may

well ensnare my father's wit and cruel injustice be done. Yet it shall

not be; I, Gwennola de Mereac, will save you, monsieur, because--because

I love justice, and will not see foul murder done again by yon false and

evil man."

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

The good father----"

"The good father knoweth not everything," she replied imperiously; "for

the rest, monsieur, you may ask questions later, but at present we have

but four minutes ere the too anxious father returns to bear you off to

confession."

She smiled up at his questioning face, and the beauty of it, seen but

dimly from under the now close-drawn hood, set his pulses tingling and

his heart throbbing in a way to which even the sense of his present

perilous position had failed to stir them.

Silently, however, in obedience to her command, he followed the slender,

cloaked figure, though his surprise deepened as the raising of a piece

of heavy tapestry disclosed a small postern door.

"Do not speak," whispered Gwennola's soft voice in his ear, "until I bid

you, and keep close beside me, monsieur, for your life."

Out into the moonlight they crept as she finished speaking, a waning

light now as the great silver orb sank westwards, flinging more fickle

shafts of pale glory over the shadowed landscape. Yet treacherous and

fickle though she was, the Queen of Night smiled kindly for once on the

two fugitives, and sent no searching rays to inquire wherefore those

blacker shadows amongst shadows moved so haltingly down the broad

terraces and across the little bridge which spanned the river. How

still the night was and how beautiful!

So fascinating indeed had Job Alloadec found the contemplation of the

starry heavens overhead that he had no eyes for shadows, stationary or

otherwise, and so enchanting were the low, weird cries which filled the

forest yonder, where bird and beast sought their nightly prey, that the

good Job's ears were equally deaf to the sound of stealthy footsteps

which passed him by, though, as the tail of one vaguely innocent eye

glanced sideways towards the river, Job crossed himself, murmuring: "By

our Blessed Lady, it cannot be that it is the little mademoiselle

herself?" And thereafter his faithful ears listened the more keenly for

any sound other than the distant cries of the wolves and low melancholy

note of the owl which rose from time to time from the neighbouring

woods.

"Tiens! monsieur," murmured Gwennola, as they paused at last under the

safe shelter of the thicket. "Let us pause; your wound--ah, monsieur,

it, I fear me, causes you much pain."

"Nay," muttered d'Estrailles with white lips. "'Tis only a passing

spasm; but, mademoiselle, the pain is naught compared to my wonderment,

my gratitude, yet----" He hesitated, as Gwennola, throwing back her

hood, laughed merrily up into his astonished yet doubting face.

"See, monsieur," she cried, the dare-devil light of triumph dancing in

her blue eyes. "You doubt! you wonder! You say to yourself, 'She is

mad, this demoiselle of Brittany, who brings a sick man into a desolate

forest, from whence it is impossible to flee from his enemies'; and yet,

monsieur, though doubtless it is mad, this scheme of mine, it is more

sensible than it appears. Yonder then is your horse, whom we must

approach cautiously, for I would not that he proclaimed his master's

presence. 'But,' you say to yourself, 'what use is even my good horse

to me in this present plight? for, did I attempt to mount, my wound

would give me such pain that I should fall swooning to the ground.'

Doubtless monsieur is right. But, see, I do not say, 'Mount, ride,

monsieur, it is finished, my scheme.' No, I say instead, 'Let us hasten

a little way through this dreary forest, you and I and the good steed,

and it will chance that we come in time to a spot more lonely and

desolate than any in all the region round; here we shall find

shelter--poor and strange it may appear, but the gracious saints will

have monsieur in their fair keeping, and so it shall be that he will be

safe from his enemies until such time as he is able to mount and ride on

his way.'"

"Mademoiselle," stammered d'Estrailles, as he raised her little hand to

his lips. "Ah, mademoiselle, I am overwhelmed at such goodness, such

generosity! Surely it is an angel in the garb of fairest womanhood whom

the Blessed Mother hath sent to aid me from so black a snare!"

"Nay, monsieur," she cried softly, smiling through the tears which

filled her soft eyes, "'tis no angel, but only a poor Breton maid who

loveth justice and bravery, and who hateth a lie and a false coward.

But," she added with a glance half coquettish, half doubtful, "monsieur

thanks me too soon; it may be that he will find his refuge less to his

liking than his prison, for truly if monsieur hath the fears of

many----" She paused, smiling still as she looked at him, hesitating;

but as his smile met hers the indecision in her manner passed. "See,

monsieur," she said, "I will explain; though let us not delay, lest

darkness fall too soon. This refuge to which I take monsieur is but a

ruin at best, a ruin of what once was a chapel, very renowned, very

beautiful, but for many years, ah! very many, it has ceased to be

visited, save by the bats and owls, by reason of a very evil legend,

which tells how one of the monks of a monastery hard by committed there

a very evil and terrible deed, in punishment of which, seeing he escaped

the justice of men, he is condemned to wander for ever in ghostly shape

around the chapel where in his days on earth he served as the good God's

servant, and so terrible is the sight of the poor brown friar that none

dare pass within sight of the chapel walls, nay, not even in the broad

light of day, for fear of encountering so dread a spectre; therefore

monsieur will be safe if, if----"

"I fear the monk's spectre less than thy kinsman's treachery and thy

father's rope," smiled Henri d'Estrailles. "Nay, mademoiselle, how can

the sight of so harmless a spirit affright when I wear so sweet an

amulet?"

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

"Ay," he replied softly, "the amulet, mademoiselle, of a brave maiden's

aid and the tender memory of sweet eyes."

"Nay," she said hastily, drawing her hood over her hair again, with a

shy bashfulness, to hide perchance her blushes, "monsieur must remember

that I but aid him, because--because----"

"Ay--because?" he questioned eagerly, as he bent to look into the

downcast face. "Because?"

"See, monsieur," she said hastily, pointing towards an opening in the

path which they were treading; "yonder is the place. Mary, Mother,

protect us!" and she crossed herself rapidly as, with half-scared looks,

she pointed to the rugged outline of a half-ruined chapel which stood on

the very outskirts of the forest, sheltered only by a thick belt of

trees from a wide stretch of moorland which lay, scarcely visible from

where they stood, on their left. Behind them, in the rapidly darkening

thicket, rose the murmurous cries of the forest creatures; but in the

open space around the ruin the flickering rays of the waning moon shone

clear. Wild and desolate was the spot, ghostly and weird the hour, yet

Henri d'Estrailles smiled as he turned from scanning the refuge thus

found to the trembling girl at his side.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "what can I say to tell you of my gratitude?

how prove my devotion for one who has at such risk sought to save me

from my enemies? Truly, methinks, I may safely abide in such a shelter

without fear of too bold intruders; the very presence of monsieur the

good priest, my friend, seems to haunt such a fitting dwelling-place.

Nay, I do not jest, though I thank the saints I have not the fears which

prove so strong a safeguard against my foes, for who could fear, I again

demand, with such an amulet as you have given me?"

"Nay," she whispered fearfully, "speak not lightly, monsieur, for though

I--I have little fear, seeing that the saints ever have the innocent,

Father Ambrose saith, in their keeping, still, 'tis ill speaking thus at

midnight of the spirits of the dead, be they good or ill, and, and," she

continued, trying to speak more bravely, "I have yet to show you your

lodging, monsieur." She stepped forward as she spoke, glancing back for

him to follow, with a look in her blue eyes which might well have

haunted those of martyr times, so brave yet so fearful it was.

"See," she whispered, as she led the way towards the ruin, "Yvon and I

discovered the secret in our childhood's days, and none other know it, I

ween, for Yvon, ever fearless of aught, would ofttimes make me play here

with him against my will, and so it chanced one day that we lighted on a

chamber beneath the ruined altar. 'Tis but a narrow, evil place,

monsieur, but at least a safe one."

"And the horse?" questioned d'Estrailles eagerly, for now for the first

time hope seemed verily to be opening a way of escape before him.

"Nay," sighed Gwennola, "'tis our chiefest difficulty; but there is

beyond the chapel yonder a small shed, monsieur, a shed also ruined, it

is true, as the chapel, but 'twill serve as shelter, and, should the

poor beast be discovered, still you may well lie hid in safety and

security."

The underground chamber, perchance in bygone days the chapel crypt, was,

as the girl had said, small and ill lodging, but a man in extremity

needs not to lie softly, and to Henri d'Estrailles it was more welcome

in his need than a palace chamber might have been. Yet the young man

found it difficult with so full a heart to stammer forth his gratitude.

"Nay," smiled Gwennola, her courage returning as he held her hands in

his and she met the glance of his dark eyes, "'tis small thanks I need,

monsieur, seeing I owed it to my father to save him from a crime of

which he wots little; but now, monsieur, I must say farewell, do I

desire to return ere the moonlight fades from the forest," and she made

a laughing grimace of misgiving as she pointed towards the gloomy path.

"To-morrow e'en," she added, "food shall be brought to you, monsieur, if

not by my hand, then by that of a faithful servant; till then I fear me

your fare must be frugal, for Marie could bring me no more than this,"

and with an apologetic smile she laid upon the ground a small basket

containing bread and a flask of wine, which she had carried beneath her

cloak.

"Nay," exclaimed d'Estrailles vehemently, "mademoiselle, I cannot permit

that you shall return alone and unattended through yon dark forest.

Shame would it be on my knighthood and my honour to allow one who has

already dared for me far beyond my deserts to run so terrible a risk."

"Indeed," she pleaded, "I have no fear. Nay, monsieur, I lay my

commands upon you not to advance one step; already you faint with the

pain of your wound, also it would be impossible that you should retrace

your steps to this place. Adieu, monsieur, I shall have reached the

chateau ere ten minutes have passed."

"Pardon, mademoiselle," he replied gently, but resolutely, holding her

little hand so firmly in his that she could not escape him, "but it may

not be; weak though I am, and but poor protection, I have at least my

sword; as for finding my way, I have hunted too often in my own woods of

d'Estrailles not to be able to follow any trail; for the rest,

mademoiselle, I shall accompany you."

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

under her hood.

"I would fain return alone, monsieur," she reiterated with the

persistence of a wilful child. "'Tis but a short distance, and little

ill is likely to betide."

"The shorter to return," he replied coolly. "As for ill, there will, I

ween, be less likelihood with me beside you, mademoiselle."

She yielded with an ill grace, though glad, as women ever are, to be

mastered, for all her rebellion, and so, till they came to the river

bank once more, there was silence between them.

"And now perchance it may be your pleasure to let me go forward alone,

monsieur," she cried with a toss of her pretty head, as they halted

within the shadow of the trees, "seeing that the good Job awaits me

yonder by the bridge. Au revoir, therefore, monsieur, though methinks I

had better say adieu, for small likelihood is there, I fear, that you

will chance to retrace your footsteps in safety through yon black

darkness."

"I have no fear, mademoiselle," replied d'Estrailles, bowing low over

her hand, "seeing that the light of your eyes would guide a man safely,

however gloomy his path. Nay," he said gently, still holding her hand

in his, "pardon me, mademoiselle, if I allow the gratitude of an

overfull heart too free a speech, or that I speak to the betrothed of

another of what should remain for all time the secret of my heart."

"Nay," she said, "monsieur has already spoken too much of gratitude for

a service which after all was but a duty; though," she added softly, as

she withdrew her hand, "as for being betrothed to Monsieur de Coray, it

is a thing no more to be spoken of; a de Mereac mates not with a

murderer, monsieur, least of all the murderer of a brother; methinks

rather the convent walls shall find shelter for one whose life seems

destined to be shrouded in so much of sorrow."

"Nay," said d'Estrailles, still detaining her hand, "fairest lady, speak

not of convent walls; too much of sunshine dwells in those tender eyes

to be quenched in the gloomy grave of a convent life. Believe me,

troubles are but as passing clouds, which come but to make the sun more

joyous when it shines again, and methinks that very surely behind the

clouds the sunshine of true love awaits one so gracious and beautiful;

happy knight is he who shall inspire it: nay, could I but dream that

such destiny might be mine for but one instant, it would be verily the

opening of the gates of Paradise."

"Nay, monsieur," she laughed softly, a roguish dimple deepening in her

cheek, though her eyes grew tender as they looked half shyly into his.

"The gates of such a Paradise are ever on the latch for the gallant and

the brave." And before he could reply, she had slipped her hand away

and was gone, flitting like some dark shadow from out of the forest

shade and across the little bridge which led through the orchard to the

outer postern of the chateau, where Job still gazed in vague fascination

towards the darkening sky with watchful ears and an anxious heart.

*CHAPTER VI*

Again at early morn Mademoiselle de Mereac walked in the chateau gardens

with her maiden by her side. It was the same book of hours over which

her head was bent in seeming devotion, whilst one hand strayed

listlessly over the black rosary she wore; but the devotions were, alas!

but in the seeming, the words and illuminations which danced before her

eyes conveyed not the slightest intelligence to the reader's mind.

How strange it was that only yesterday she had paced up and down this

very path, read the same words, viewed the same flowers, breathed the

same air, and yet between that day and this a whole lifetime seemed to

yawn!

"Ah, Marie," the girl sighed, as at last, giving up the impossible task,

she closed her book and flung herself down on the grassy sward which

sloped riverwards, "I cannot read, nor certainly pray, to-day, except to

say the same words which run like chariot wheels through my head, and

which I fear me will shock poor Father Ambrose when I confess them. But

come, let us talk!--sing!--laugh!--do somewhat! for if thou sittest with

so grave a face I shall deem--nay, I know not what I shall deem," and,

unclasping her hands, Gwennola began picking the pink-tipped daisies

from the grass beside her, threading them into a fantastic chaplet with

feverish fingers.

Marie Alloadec eyed her mistress with solemn, curious eyes. Of a

temperament less excitable and impetuous, the slower train of her mind

was seeking vainly to find a clue for this eccentric and wayward mood.

Of her mistress's nocturnal adventure she had not ventured a question,

though ever since Job's whispered hints concerning the shadow which had

flitted by him in the moonlight, she had been devoured with curiosity.

But for once Gwennola was reticent, and only gave evidence of the

anxious stirrings of her mind by her variable and uncertain moods: now

plunged in melancholy, now bursting forth into a wild hilarity which

surprised, if it did not shock, her staid handmaiden.

"See!" cried Gwennola, holding up her chain for admiration. "Is it not

altogether charming? I must e'en make another. Gather me some more

flowerets thou idle wench, seeing that thy tongue seemeth somewhat tied

this gay morn."

"Nay," sighed Marie lugubriously, "I thought, my mistress, rather of the

fate of the poor knight in yonder turret room than of the sunshine."

"And wherefore shouldst thou think of him?" laughed Gwennola teasingly,

as she bent forward, either to gather a more deeply-tinted daisy which

caught her fancy, or to hide a sudden wave of colour which flushed her

cheeks. "Fie on thee, Marie! heardest thou not that he is a foul

traitor and murderer to boot?"

Marie gaped, but ere she could open her mouth for a reply, a shadow

falling athwart the grass between them warned her of the reason for her

mistress's high-pitched words of virtuous reproof.

"Ah, my cousin, a fair morrow to thee," cried Mademoiselle de Mereac, as

she sprang lightly to her feet to face the new-comer. "What! another

gloomy brow? 'Tis certain that you and Marie both must have walked on

the weed of straying yesternight and seen more unwelcome visions in

yonder forest."

De Coray's face grew more sullen than before at her mocking words, as he

glanced from one to the other.

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

chanced."

"Chanced?" she echoed innocently, cutting short his speech with a gay

little laugh. "Nay, mon ami, naught hath chanced to my knowledge this

morn, save that I have made this chaplet of flowers to crown the head of

wisdom, justice, and mercy." And she made as though she would have

flung him the daisy wreath.

"A truce to such folly," he snarled. "Well enough you know, maiden, of

what is in my mind, and dost strive therefore to hide knowledge behind

the mask of foolery."

"Nay," she cried again, her blue eyes flashing at him, though she still

smiled. "Truly, I forgot my reverence to so illustrious a personage.

Marie, my child, thy best curtsy to monsieur, the high chief executioner

and hangman of Mereac." And she swept a deep and mocking obeisance, her

eyes still on his face.

"Ay," he retorted, scowling at her this time without disguise. "But

better the executioner of a foul traitor and murderer than a----"

She checked him with an imperious gesture.

"Have a care, monsieur," she said in a low voice, which trembled

nevertheless with anger as she read the insult in his eyes. "Have a

care lest I tell my father your words, ay, and not only of words,

monsieur, but of deeds done in that dark wood at St Aubin du Cormier."

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

"Your opportunity has already come then, mademoiselle," he replied

sneeringly, "for your father hath bidden me summons you to his

presence."

Again she swept him a curtsy, but this time with statelier grace, as she

turned and walked onwards alone towards the chateau, ignoring altogether

his proffered arm. Her face had grown paler, but her blue eyes were

bright and undaunted as her spirit rose to the ordeal before her;

perhaps it was steeled as she glanced wistfully towards, the forest and

stood once more in fancy under yonder oak tree, looking up with swiftly

beating heart into dark eyes which told their tale so far more

eloquently than their owner's halting words.

The Sieur de Mereac stood erect in the midst of the great hall, his tall

form towering there like some giant figure of old as he swept an eagle

glance over the little group of retainers who stood, scared and

panic-stricken, in the background, and whom he waved aside with an

imperious gesture as his daughter, as erect as himself, with her face

upraised, pale, but proud, came slowly forward, curtsying silently as

she stood before him, but without attempting to embrace or smile at him,

as she had ever done before.

Unconsciously the old man sighed as his stern glance met hers. Was this

his little Gwennola?--the child with the ruddy curls and laughing eyes,

who so short a time since would scramble up on to his knee, and, laying

her shining head against his breast, plead with all a spoilt child's

boldness for a tale of his battles with the cruel French.

Alas! the child had gone. For the first moment he realized it, and in

her place stood this pale, defiant woman, who, he bitterly told himself,

had deceived him so cruelly.

Perchance it was the memory of the blue-eyed child running to meet him,

hand in hand with that tall, handsome youth, his lost Yvon, which

steeled his proud, passionate heart against her; or perhaps it was that

he read the reflection of his own indomitable will and dauntless courage

in her clear eyes. To him it seemed more meet that womankind should

bend, humbly and submissively, to his sovereign will, little dreaming

that this slim girl from her cradle had, instead, bent him to hers, till

the two imperious tempers had chanced to clash on so dire a field.

"Child," said the old man hoarsely, "what is it that thou hast done?

that thou--daughter of mine--hast dared to do? Nay," he cried, his

voice breaking in a cry of almost piteous entreaty, "'tis impossible

that thou hast done so treacherously, my Gwennola, my little Gwennola!

Tell me then, child, and I will believe thy word, though all the angels

in heaven, ay, and the devils in hell witness against thee--tell me that

thou hast not done this thing; that the escape of this thrice accursed

murderer of thy brother is not known to thee; that thou hast had naught

to do with so evil a deed."

"Father," cried the girl, clasping her hands, whilst her blue eyes

brimmed with tears at the note of pleading anguish in his voice. "My

father, listen to me. Verily, I have had naught to do with the escape

of my brother's murderer, seeing that he standeth here, yet will I not

deny that I, and I alone, aided the escape of a noble and gallant

knight, whose life might well have been forfeit to the foul slander of

his enemies."

As she spoke she would have drawn nearer to her father's side, have

taken the trembling hand which played with the girdle of his long robe,

but that he motioned her back with a fierce gesture, half despair, half

loathing.

"A noble knight!" he cried furiously. "A noble knight indeed to blacken

the honour not only of my daughter, but of his just accuser, for well I

can guess the lies with which his viper's tongue hath filled thy foolish

ears. Nay, girl, speak no more, but rather go from my presence ere my

hand strike down the child who hath stooped so low to save the murderer

of her only brother, and a lying traitor."

"Nay, monsieur," murmured de Coray smoothly, as he stepped forward,

"surely you would not thus leave so grave a matter, painful as it must

be to your noble heart to unveil so black a story; but it may be," he

added softly, glancing towards the young girl's bowed figure, "that the

righteous wrath of a just parent hath brought remorse to a daughter's

heart; perchance her eyes are opened to what may well have been but the

foolish impulse of a generous heart, and now that she seeth her act in

its true light, she may be able to guide us in our search for the

traitor."

At the words, through whose silky softness it were easy for a keen ear

to detect the note of bitter mockery, Gwennola flung back her head with

a gesture of angry pride; her cheeks were flushed, and her blue eyes

sparkled with an indignant fury.

"Liar and traitor!" she cried bitterly, "viper, monsieur, that you are,

thus to strive to poison the fame of a noble knight, because, forsooth!

he chanced to witness the foul deed whereof you accuse him; but be

warned, monsieur, sin wings its homeward way to the heart that brought

it forth, and foully shall perish the hand that sought thy kinsman's

life, and the tongue that strove to tarnish his sister's name."

"Peace, woman!" snarled de Coray angrily, though his face grew pale as

her words rang in the rhythm of a curse; then, turning to de Mereac with

a shrug of his shoulders, "Monsieur my uncle sees," he said, his voice

trembling with suppressed anger; "verily it would seem as though this

Frenchman had bewitched the poor lady; perchance a little solitary

confinement would best bring her to see the error of her ways, whilst

we, monsieur, strive to undo what at worst might well be a foolish

maiden's mad whim, by seeking in yonder forest for the murderer, who

doubtless could scarce ride far, if it be true that his wound was so

sore."

"Go to thy chamber, girl!" commanded de Mereac of his daughter sternly,

"and seek repentance of thy waywardness and sin in prayer; it may be

that if thy heart still remaineth obdurate, a convent cell shall be made

to cure it."

"Nay," interrupted de Coray with a smile; "methinks 'twere wiser, mon

oncle, to give to me the sweet task. When I have the felicity to call

mademoiselle my wife, be assured that I shall take good care to teach

her how much foolishness there is in such acts which leave even the

shadow of reproach upon so fair a fame."

He looked for a tempest of anger or scorn doubtless from the girl beside

him; but this time he was mistaken. White to the lips, Gwennola curtsied

silently to her father, and without so much as a glance towards de

Coray, walked with head erect and proud step down the long hall and up

the narrow winding stairway which led to her own apartment. But

coldness and pride vanished as, in a tempest of tears, she flung herself

into Marie's arms.

"Would I were dead," she sobbed passionately. "Oh, Marie, Marie, such

cruel words my father flung at me, and he scorned me, Marie--me, his

little Gwennola, till I thought my very heart would break; and oh! the

bitterness of it when that foul traitor, my kinsman, stood near, pouring

forth his venomous lies into my father's open ears; and he believed him,

Marie. Ah! the shame of it, he believed him rather than trusting the

fair honour of his daughter."

"Ah, mademoiselle," cried Marie, whose rosy face was pale also with

fear, and whose eyelids were swollen with the tears of sympathy she had

already shed for her young mistress, "how terrible a mischance is here!

But, mademoiselle, 'tis, I warrant me, much the doing of that evil imp,

Pierre the fool, for Job hath been telling me what chanced whilst we

were out yonder plucking daisies and dreaming little of the ill in store

for us."

"Pierre the fool?" echoed Gwennola, drying her tears and looking at her

handmaiden in surprise. "Nay, what hath the saucy varlet to do in the

brewing of such pickle?"

"He loveth well Monsieur de Coray," said Marie, nodding her head wisely,

"and hath as little liking for thee, sweet lady, as he hath for aught

that is good and true and unlike his own crooked person and soul; and so

it chanced that last night, instead of sleeping beside Reine and Gloire,

as any well-ordered Christian fool should have done, he poked and pryed

into what concerned him not, and, creeping softly in the darkness down

the chapel steps, because, forsooth! he thought to hear voices, he

cometh so suddenly upon Father Ambrose--who, for some purpose of which

the saints alone wot, was waiting there near the chapel door--that the

poor priest fell backwards in his alarm down the two steps that

remained, and so cracked his head that he hath lain unconscious ever

since, and cannot be questioned, which perchance is well for him, as it

may be that my lord's anger against him will have time to cool, as he

suspects him of aiding you also, dear lady, seeing that the mischievous

Pierre, not content with well-nigh killing the good father, goeth into

the chapel, where, failing to find aught to account for voices, he

further pryeth till it seemeth he picked up your kerchief on the very

steps of the altar, and this with his lying tale he carries to his

master at dawn, whereupon Monsieur de Coray laid his accusations upon

you for the escape of the French monsieur."

"Nay," said Gwennola quietly. "That were a tale I must needs have told,

were it but for the saving of the poor Father Ambrose, of whose sorry

plight I grieve to hear. Fain would I to his side, Marie, but that even

is forbidden me, for here must I bide a prisoner, whilst, alas! alas! it

may be that even now they discover the hiding-place of--of----" She

checked herself, meeting Marie's curious eyes. "Nay, wench," she said

sharply, "heed not my foolish words; and yet, oh, Marie, Marie! my heart

breaks with fears and sorrow. Was ever maid so unhappy as thy poor

mistress?"

"Nay, dear lady," said the girl affectionately, laying her hand softly

on her mistress's. "Courage! it may yet be that all will be well. See,

we will pray to our Blessed Lady, whose protection and aid will most

surely be vouchsafed to the persecuted and innocent."

But in her distress and excitement even prayer proved small solace to

the impatient spirit of the unhappy maiden. To and fro she paced with

all the restless agony of a newly caged, wild creature, now weeping, now

crying to Marie to aid her, though in what she neither said nor seemed

to know. But presently the paroxysm of her passion passed, and after

kneeling for a lengthy space before the carved figure of her patron

saint, she rose and smiled more calmly into Marie's anxious face.

"I was distraught," she said simply, "methinks with very weariness as

well as grief. Now go, Marie, leave me to compose myself in sleep; last

night I rested little and my eyes are heavy for need of slumber. Go

then, little one, and glean for me what news thou canst anent the return

of my father; 'twill be a fruitless quest, I wot well, on which they

ride, seeing that the holy saints have him I love in their keeping."

Her foster-sister, with wide eyes of wonder, not unmingled with dismay,

echoed her last words.