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

"Nay, Marie, be not too ready with thy offers, for, alas! what would the

poor Job say"--she dropped her voice to a whisper--"did I bid him go by

moonlight to the Chapel of the Brown Friar?"

"Merciful saints!" gasped Marie, paling as she crossed herself. "Nay,

lady, you do but jest; it is not possible that a noble knight could find

so fearful a resting-place?"

"I say nothing," smiled Gwennola, "because, little curious one, it is

better for thee not to be too wise; but verily it is truth that I must

to the forest, this night, alone, to take food and wine to this gallant

knight."

Marie hesitated; the thought of her young mistress going alone into the

dark and lonely forest was terrible, but honest and steadfast as was the

girl's devotion, she would a hundred-fold rather have faced death itself

than the grim spectre of the haunted chapel.

"I beseech you, sweet mistress," she murmured through rising

tears--"nay, I implore you--it is not possible that you, Mademoiselle de

Mereac, should go alone, at midnight, through yon forest, for the sake

of--the sake of----"

"One whom I love," whispered Gwennola, half shyly, half defiantly.

"Nay, maiden, chide me not; the name of Gwennola de Mereac shall lose

none of its honour by so daring; and for cruel tongues, see you, my

Marie, there will be none. Fie on thee, child! dost not know yet, or

hast listened to minstrel lays in vain, that love hath no fear so long

as it reigns in purity and virtue?--and therefore such love shall be my

amulet, did the Brown Friar himself strive against me."

Again Marie crossed herself, with pale cheeks and frightened eyes, yet

silenced by her mistress's glance more than her words, for well she knew

by the compression of those small, rosy lips, and the sparkle in those

bright eyes, that there was no resisting the proud young will.

"An this be love," murmured the handmaiden as she turned aside, "may the

holy St Catherine protect me from such spells! for verily my lady is

distraught with it to dream of so mad an enterprise. The saints

preserve us from the wrath of my lord should some evil chance reveal

it!"

*CHAPTER VII*

Softly the moonlight stole through the interlacing branches of the

trees, like white-robed fairies who come earthward to kiss the sleeping

flowers into fresh beauty for the morrow's sun. Darkly against the

silver sheen stood out the rugged, ivy-grown walls of the forest chapel.

It was a spot sufficiently romantic for the youngest and tenderest of

lovers, and yet not without its thrill of that gloom and foreboding

which seems to haunt the land of Brittany, where such stern shadows seem

indissolubly mingled with the wild beauties of poetry and romance.

But, for the moment at least, shadows had fled into the darkness of the

surrounding forest, and romance reigned clear and beautiful as the Queen

of Heaven, who shed her silver beams down so softly on the two lovers

sitting there amongst the ruins which superstition had clad with such

terror and awe.

It was the third night that Gwennola had successfully stolen out from

her father's chateau, leaving two faithful hearts to beat in anxious

fear for her safety until her return. So little dreamt any of such an

undertaking, that the task had been less difficult than she had

supposed, and so, night after night Job had watched with gloomy fear the

dark, hooded figure slip past him and vanish like some grim shadow into

the grimmer blackness of the forest, and there, divided betwixt love and

the overpowering fear of superstition, he had been fain to watch for her

return, whilst the moments dragged by leaden-footed, till more than once

love overcame fear, and he started from his post in search of his young

mistress, only to come to a halt midway down the terrace path, whilst

the beads of perspiration stood thickly on his brow as he muttered aves

and paters, and finally with a groan of terror fled back to his place as

he recalled the dread vision which had already looked at him,

hollow-eyed and beseeching, from amongst the trees, till his knees

knocked together in a perfect frenzy of terror.

But no such fears now troubled Gwennola, for love had bidden such

phantom terrors a mocking adieu. Yes, they were lovers now, not bowing

and curtsying to each other, with eyes more bold and eloquent than the

stiff phrases of their tongues; there was no more speech of gratitude or

duty, or the many foolish subterfuges by which love must first hide

himself, but instead all the glamour and passion of first love, which

exaggerates itself and its dreams of sentiment and finds in itself so

sweet a delirium that it forgets all else and mocks gaily at staid

middle age, which shakes its head so wisely at such quaint fantasies and

preaches truisms against its tender madness which are listened to with

deaf ears; for youth must have its way and dream its dreams of love and

fair ideals, which clothe it in all its springtide of beauty, little

recking of the winter that must perchance disperse all, or sober them

down to greyer tints.

"Ah, sweet," whispered d'Estrailles as he bent down to look into the

blue eyes raised so happily to his; "what shall I say to prove to thee

the devotion with which thou hast inspired me, or thank thee for the

tender heroism which brings thee thus to me through such perils?"

"Nay," she replied gaily, "speak not of thanks, my Henri, but rather of

our love. What fear have I, my beloved, save for thy safety? Ah," she

cried, clasping her hands with a sudden gesture of pain, "every time my

father rides forth my heart beats with terror for fear that by some

unlucky chance he should discover thy hiding-place, for his heart is

still bitter against thee, my Henri, for de Coray still distilleth his

poisoned words into his ears; neither will he so much as look on me, his

daughter; whilst for the poor Father Ambrose, he hath sworn to send him

back to his monastery in disgrace so soon as his sickness is healed."

"Nay, weep not, little one," said d'Estrailles gently, as he drew her

into his embrace, "but let us rather dream of the days when all this

suffering and wrong be past, and when thou, sweet Gwennola, art my wife,

and ridest with me to our chateau on the gay Loire, where I will give

thee sunshine and mirth, beauty and laughter instead of these dreary

forests and grey gloom, which seem fitting surroundings for traitor

hearts and sad forebodings."

"Nay," she said with a sigh, "it is of my Brittany thou speakest, dear

heart, and I would not that thou shouldst find it so ill a place, for I

love it dearly, ay, so dearly!" she whispered, clinging to him, "though

perchance in time thy chateau of sunshine shall be more dear, my Henri,

because of thy presence; but I would have thee also to love in some

measure the Chateau of Mereac, and in time, it may be, my father, who is

good--ah! so good, so noble, so brave!--although now it would seem his

ears are closed and his eyes blinded by a treacherous foe."

"Nay," said her lover tenderly, "I was wrong, sweet, to speak of gloom

where I found such sunshine as hath before never lighted the fairest

spot of fair Touraine. See then, it shall be that which thou lovest, I

love, and what thou hatest----"

He broke off to turn swiftly in the direction of the forest, his hand on

his sword, as though he had caught a sound other than the constant

murmur of cries from bird and beast which arose in plaintive cadences

around.

"What is it?" breathed Gwennola, with a little gasp of fear, as she bent

forward to gaze in the same direction as that in which his eyes were

still turned.

"Methinks 'twas but a fancy," he replied softly; "and yet--see, sweet,

what is that which moves yonder? Nay, 'tis naught, but some animal,

or----"

But Gwennola's face had grown white with terror, as with horror-stricken

eyes she gazed across the open space towards where, in a bright patch of

moonlight, sat a small, wizened creature perched on its haunches, the

very impersonation of some imp of darkness, which, after pausing one

brief instant to mouth at them in seeming mockery, fled nimbly back into

the forest with a shrill cry.

"Bah," murmured d'Estrailles, devoutly crossing himself, "'tis verily a

spirit of evil, little one, that fled at the glance of thy sweet eyes."

"Nay, rather," faltered Gwennola tremulously, "'twas the ape of Pierre

the fool, and verily the spirit of evil was doubtless lurking unseen in

the shadows behind," and in a few brief words she told her lover of

Marie's tale and the devotion of the fool to Guillaume de Coray.

"Fly, Henri, fly!" she pleaded. "Surely there is yet time; thy wound

heals well, and methinks even at some pain 'twere better to fly before

discovery overtakes us. Alas, alas, how evil grows our case when it

seemed to promise so fairly!"

"Nay," laughed d'Estrailles undauntedly, "'twere better first to strive

to teach fools their foolishness," and without awaiting her reply he

plunged into the forest, only to emerge some moments later crestfallen

and indignant. "Truly the knave is in league with de Coray's own

master," he said with a grimace of discomfiture. "Not a trace of him is

to be seen. But come, sweet, wear not so troubled a brow; methinks the

danger is as little pressing as heretofore, seeing that none know of yon

snug chamber, where I may well mock their vigilance for many days."

"Nay, Henri," entreated Gwennola, as she clung afresh to him. "Go, I

beseech thee, whilst there is yet time. Oh, what agony shall I endure

till thou art in safety!"

But for all her pleading he refused to be turned from his purpose of

lingering another day, yet less, perchance, from selfish motives as from

fear of what might befall her did the fool's tale move her father's

anger more mightily upon her.

"To-morrow eve," he cried, laughing at her fears, as he held her two

white hands in his, and kissed her on her quivering lips. "Courage,

little one, 'tis but a terror that will pass with the dawn, and if thou

fearest the malice of this crooked fool, why, smile upon him with thy

sweet eyes, and thou must needs make him thy slave for ever."

So, perforce, seeing he was a man and wilful, she was fain to yield,

though her blue eyes still looked into his with wistful foreboding as

she entreated him to be careful, and remain in the safe shelter of his

hiding-place. So back through the forest they went together till they

caught sight of Job Alloadec's broad figure standing stiff and straight

by the outer postern of the wall, when they bade each other once more a

tender adieu.

"Farewell, little one," whispered d'Estrailles, the more gaily as he

felt his cheek wet with a stray teardrop which had fallen from her soft

lashes. "Fear not yon impish fool, who dared thus insolently to look

within the gates of Paradise; seal his tongue with sweet looks, and

perchance a silver piece, and to-morrow----"

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

"Ay, alas indeed," he murmured, "since I must needs, it seems, bid

farewell to my sweet lady, and yet not farewell, but only au revoir,

dear love, for if thy father relents not, nor opens his eyes to

treachery and falsehood, I shall very speedily return to steal thee

away, since till thy coming there will be no sunshine in the Chateau

d'Estrailles, and the hours will go slowly for the very weariness of the

waiting."

She smiled sadly back into his face.

"Ah, my Henri," she murmured, "what lies between those days and these?

Verily my heart groweth heavy in wondering whether they will ever be."

"Nay," he cried boldly, with all a man's insistence and scorn of

danger's shadows, "they must needs be, sweet one, since love demands

it."

"Our Lady grant it," said she, and passed on her way towards the gloomy

chateau, leaving him to ponder on what lay so dimly and mysteriously

before them on the path of life; for verily it seemed that the course of

true love was little likely to run smoothly for Breton maid and French

noble in those days of bitter enmity and danger.

*CHAPTER VIII*

The next day was at last drawing to a close. All through the long hours

Gwennola had sat waiting in torturing suspense for what news Marie might

bring her. Still a prisoner in her chamber, she had seen none save her

foster-sister and brother since the day of Henri d'Estrailles'

mysterious disappearance. Had it not been for de Coray's insistent

suggestions of ill, the Sieur de Mereac's heart would long since have

softened towards his cherished daughter, and he would, perchance, after

the fashion of love, have found some excuse for conduct which his inmost

heart told him had some other motive than those maliciously suggested by

de Coray's evil tongue; as it was, the latter so successfully kept the

warmth of his anger stirred within him that he fiercely shunned any

suggestion either of seeing or being reconciled to Gwennola, whilst upon

Father Ambrose's innocent head were heaped the bitterest invectives of

his fury.

But even the news of her father's unrelenting anger towards her failed

to move Gwennola's heart. All thought, all feeling, was for the time

being centred on her lover, after the manner of foolish and wayward

maidens who, in the awakening of such passion, forget the love which has

sheltered them from childhood; and in the case of Gwennola de Mereac

such forgetfulness might in some measure be excused, seeing that love

had been born with her twin-sister pity for a sick and innocent man, and

such pity roused to the depths the finer fibres of her woman's heart.

The instinctive feeling of protection towards one who was helpless had,

even more than the vague, unnamed whisperings of love, steeled her to

her purpose and inspired her courage in defiance of what she felt to be

foul injustice to an innocent man. But now pity was

forgotten--submerged, as it were, in her passionate love, for Gwennola

was a true daughter of Brittany, strong to hate as to love, undaunted,

brave with that powerful tenacity of purpose which seems inherent in

these people whose whole lives are set, as it were, against the adverse

forces of nature, which strive for the mastery of that grey, bleak

shore. She had given her love to Henri d'Estrailles, and for that

love's sake all ties were swept aside, save only those which upheld her

own pure young soul and guarded the honour which must ever be more

cherished even than love itself in a noble woman's heart. Yet honour

itself seemed to call her now to act the part she had set herself,

honour not only her own but her father's, who little knew the part that

fate was striving to force upon him.

So it was with a clear conscience that Gwennola knelt in prayer before

the little shrine of the Virgin Mother, asking help in her secret

enterprise.

"And oh, Blessed Mother of Heaven," she cried with a sob, as she buried

her face in her hands, "grant that all may be well, and that the saints

may have him in their good keeping till we meet again." But even with

the words her heart grew chill as she pondered how that meeting might

be, and how, even did he escape present danger, they, whom circumstances

had called to enmity rather than love, might hope to meet to plight

their troth in happier days. Instead, there uprose before her eyes the

mocking, cruel face of Guillaume de Coray, and when she turned with

loathing from it, there seemed to meet her only the sunless gloom of

grey, convent walls.

"At least," whispered hope and youth, "there is still to-night; once

more his arms shall hold thee in his tender embrace, and thou shalt read

fresh vows of love in those dark eyes which speak only of faith and

constancy; surely it will be that love hereafter shall find another way

in the darkness of the future."

So she comforted herself, and listened also to Marie's cheering words of

confidence with a smile on her lips; but the smile faded as amongst the

dark shadows of the trees gloomy forebodings gathered once more and

pressed their weight of sad presentiment on her beating heart as she

hurried along the narrow path.

How foolish it was to pause with a fresh throb of fear as from the

thicket near the rustle of a scurrying rabbit startled her ear! And why

should she tremble so violently when a great white owl almost swept her

cheek with its soft wings as it vanished into the darkness with a low

melancholy hoot? So overstrung indeed were the poor girl's nerves that

she must have fled homewards in sheer terror of she knew not what, did

not a stronger emotion impel her forward.

At last, however, the outskirts of the wood were reached; yonder through

the trees she caught a glimpse of the grey, ivy-covered walls. How

still all seemed! Even for the moment the distant cries of birds and

beasts were hushed; the sound of her own footsteps alone broke the

silence--a silence which had oppressed her ever since she had left the

slumber-bound chateau. Her heart bounded as she hurried forward,

looking, with eager eyes, to see the tall figure standing there with

outstretched arms and welcoming whispers of love. It was strange that

he had not heard her approach and hurried forth to greet her, as he had

before, but still----

The wondering thought was suddenly checked as she stepped from the

shadow of the trees into the moonlit space surrounding the forest

chapel. All was as silent and untenanted as that first night when she

and her lover had stood there glancing with half-scared looks towards

the weird old ruin.

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

and clear, "Henri!"

A vague note of terror rang in the cry as she hurried with panting

breath towards the ruin itself, telling herself that he might perchance

have fallen asleep in his hiding-place. But no; no answer was returned

to her cries; the chamber under the altar was empty and deserted. For a

moment she stood there, paralyzed with fear, yet scarcely realizing what

could have happened. It could not be that he was taken? She put the

idea from her in agony. No, no, not that! How foolish she was!--how

could he have been taken without the knowledge of Job or Marie? All day

neither her father nor de Coray had left the castle, not even for their

favourite hawking or boar hunting; no whisper of suspicion had been

breathed in the hearing of either of her faithful servants; it had

seemed, so Marie said, that all thought--if they thought at all--that

the French knight had long since ridden away far beyond pursuit. Then a

hundred eager suggestions filled her mind: he had gone to meet her as

she came, and had missed his way; or perhaps, learning of some new

danger, had been forced to fly without awaiting her coming. But a

hurried search of the shed close by convinced her at least of the

futility of this last idea, for Rollo still stood in his place, turning

with a low whinny of inquiry to see if it was his master who had come

with his evening meal.

"Alas! alas!" moaned Gwennola, fresh fears assailing her, as she turned

once more towards the gloomy ruin, "what hath chanced? Oh, wherefore

heeded he not my warning to fly yesternight? Ah, if----" She had

stooped, with the last words on her lips, and, with the confirmation of

her fears before her, raised from the ground a tiny cap decorated with

one tiny bell--it was the cap of Petit Pierre, the fool's ape. "He is

taken," whispered the girl to herself in a dull, unrealizing tone; "he

is taken."

With dawning comprehension she gazed round with a shiver, picturing the

scene which, like the vision of a crystal-gazer, began slowly but

clearly to rise before her.

Here he had waited for her, unconscious of danger, with a smile on his

lips and the love-light in his eyes, perchance in his folly humming the

air of a ballad, as he had yesternight. Then through the trees

treachery had stolen upon him, and where he had looked to see love,

death himself had stalked grimly on the scene. She shuddered, covering

her face with her hands, as if to shut out the sight of some terrible

phantom. Yet for all that her restless brain conjured up before her

unwilling eyes fresh scenes of terror; her father, stern, implacable,

revengeful, as he remembered the fair-haired boy so cruelly done to

death in that far-off wood of St Aubin, and beside him the true

perpetrator of the deed, smiling, triumphant, full of cruel and evil

suggestions and words, with the cunning, vacant face of Pierre the fool,

gleeful at the part he had been doubtless paid to play, at his elbow;

whilst the background was filled up with grim, curious faces, pitiless,

for the most part, save where Job and Marie Alloadec stood fearful, and

perchance weeping, yet not for his sake, but for hers. Alas! not one

there to pity _him_, to look kindly on _him_; he was alone, surrounded

by cruel enemies, with death standing in the shadows beside him--death,

in all its hideous garb, without even the golden glamour of glory to

hide its mocking features. A resolve to hasten back to the chateau and

to stand beside the man she loved overcame the sense of faintness which

at first threatened her, but even as she rose, with that aching pain of

sorrow, too deep for tears, at her heart, a cold touch on her hand sent

the blood throbbing back with a sudden frenzy of fear. The memory of

the unrepentant friar who so grimly strolled around the earthly scene of

his sins came vividly before her, and as she bent her eyes she fully

expected to see them rest upon the shadowy cowl of the chapel's ghostly

inhabitant. Instead it was the lean, grey form of the wolf-hound Gloire

on which her eyes fell, meeting the beast's dumb, affectionate gaze with

the thrill which sympathy in distress ever brings, even if that sympathy

is but a dog's--perchance at times a truer and more helpful one than his

human master's.

"Gloire," she whispered, bending down with a sudden impulse to kiss the

shaggy, faithful head. "Ah, Gloire, how camest thou hither? Was it

because thou knewest--wise beast!--that thy mistress was in sore need of

a comforter, and alone in this terrible place, with a heart which, I

fear me, must break ere dawn?"

The great animal whined as it licked her face, then suddenly drew back

with a low, ominous growl as a rustle of branches near caught their

ears. In an instant Gloire was transformed from the sympathizer into

the outraged guardian, his grey hairs bristling, his teeth gleaming

white from drawn-back gums, his whole aspect one of angry antagonism.

But the quick footsteps, instead of coming up the path towards them, had

turned aside, as if their owner were hastening towards the open heath

beyond the forest. But Gloire was not minded to let even an unseen

intruder go without his passport of approval, and, breaking loose from

the gentle, restraining hand of his mistress, leapt forward, with an

angry bay, in pursuit.

"Gloire, Gloire, come back!" cried Gwennola softly, in much alarm, as

she hastened forward in the direction which the great hound had taken.

"Shame on thee, Gloire! return instantly."

But Gloire was little minded to obey the gentle command, for he had

already reached the open, and his quarry was in view.

It was a wild, picturesque scene, with a weird grimness in it which was

to remain ever imprinted on Gwennola's memory. The clear moonlight

shone over the vast tract of heath with the radiance of day, clumps of

broom and gorse here and there casting black shadows in the white light.

No sign of habitation was visible, naught seeming to flourish in this

desolate region saving only briars and thistles. Here and there piles

of stone, almost druidical in shape, lay scattered about, these, the

people of the country affirming to be the houses of the Torrigans or

Courils, wanton dwarfs, who at night bar your road, and force you to

dance with them until you die of fatigue, whilst others declare that

they are fairies, who, descending from the mountains, spinning, have

brought away these rocks in their aprons. For the most part these

shapeless monuments consisted of three or four standing stones with

another laid flat on the top, and, seen by moonlight, presented a

fantastic appearance, dotted as they were over the barren heath.

From the forest, where Gwennola stood, the ground stretched away in a

sharp declivity, to rise again beyond, thus forming a small valley. It

was down this valley that the figure of a man was seen flying, it would

seem for very life, as indeed he was, though, perchance, scarcely yet

aware of the fact, for behind him, swift upon his track, came Gloire, a

gaunt, grey figure of doom, seen thus in the moonlight.

For a moment Gwennola stood uncertain, swiftly weighing in her mind what

she had best do, but the man's peril decided her, and in imperious tones

she called the hound to return. At the sound of her voice both man and

dog paused, turning towards her for an instant, and with a throb of

alarm the girl recognised in the clear moonlight the features of the man

who had so suddenly sprung on to her path the day she returned through

the forest from her visit to Mere Fanchonic.

It was not a face to be easily forgotten, with its red, stubbly beard,

broad, flat nose, and bold, insolent eyes, and Gwennola, with an

instinctive cry, had stepped back towards the shadow of the forest, when

Gloire, with a sudden bay of fury, leapt forward, and, before he had

time to spring aside or draw his sword, had borne the man backwards upon

the ground, with his mighty fangs fixed firmly into his flesh.

Forgetful of herself at sight of the unexpected tragedy which was going

forward before her eyes, Gwennola sped down the valley, crying

frantically to Gloire to leave his unfortunate victim; but a very demon

of rage seemed to have entered the great beast, and he continued

furiously to rend his quarry, until, at Gwennola's approach, he crouched

with a whine, which was half a growl, crept aside, and lay panting on

the heath with gory jaws, and eyes which pleaded almost defiantly the

excuse that he had done but his duty in defending her.

Meantime, with a shudder of horror, Gwennola knelt beside the mangled

figure, even then her thoughts flying back in agony to that judgment

hall at the Chateau de Mereac. But torn as she was with the desire to

be beside the man she loved, her womanly pity forbade her to forsake the

obviously dying wretch who lay panting out his life before her.

With her dainty kerchief she softly wiped away the froth of blood upon

his lips, and hastily fetched water from a pool close by to bathe his

brow, for it was evident that, dying as the unfortunate man was, he

fought stubbornly to regain power of speech before he passed out into

the land of silence and mystery.

It was a terrible sight to the poor girl, scarcely more than a child, to

witness this death-struggle of a strong man, brought thus swiftly to his

end, and the terror was enhanced by the eeriness of both time and place.

But Gwennola was no nervous, timorous woman to start at her own shadow;

born of a hardy, undaunted race, in rough and warlike times she did not

shrink from the spectacle of death, grim and terrible as it was. The

nervous fears of superstition, too, which had haunted her an hour ago,

had passed with this awful reality of suffering.

Presently the man's gasping breath became calmer, and though the death

sweat stood out thickly on his brow, he appeared to be capable of both

thought and speech.

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

"De Mereac," she said gently, raising his head and resting it upon her

knee, whilst she, wiped the sweat from his brow. "Is there aught you

would tell me, poor fellow? or shall we not rather pray together for

your soul, since here is no priest to shrive you?"

"My soul," muttered the man with a groan. "He had that long since--my

soul," and he smiled mockingly into the fair face bent over him. "Nay,"

he continued with another groan; "'tis ill to jest in death's own face,

though I have laughed in outwitting him many a time before, but yon

devil hath brought me to bay at last, though I'll not go without my

revenge."

He muttered the last words over several times, as if trying to recollect

something, then continued to speak rapidly and pantingly, as one who,

having raced, would fain deliver his message without delay; and, verily,

it was a grim race he ran, with death swift on his heels to cut the tale

short.

"Guillaume de Coray," he muttered, "he was my master, I, his slave, body

and soul, mistress--body and soul. Ah! I could tell you stories, but

there is not time, suffice to say that he was the tool--the thing--of

the tailor of Vitre[#]--and I--well, no matter, the past is dead, but

there is still revenge..... It was the battle of St Aubin--the son of

de Mereac was there--his heir--my master was the next in succession.....

He slew young Yvon, as he thought, in the wood there .... by treachery,

and came to Mereac to be welcomed as the heir, and to marry the sister

of the slain youth. Is it not so, mademoiselle? Ah! I read it in your

eyes that the bridegroom was not to your pleasing, for your eyes are

true and his .... Well, Guillaume de Coray rode to Mereac, but before he

did so, it chanced that he had found that he had no more occasion for my

services, therefore he had bidden another to hasten my departure to

another land, from whence no tales return to inconvenience monsieur; but

he who was so clever made a mistake..... The man was my friend..... He

told me his mission..... We drank to each other's health and the

confusion of our master. So it came to pass that when he fled from that

wood at St Aubin with a murderer's fear in his heart, I sought the body

of Yvon de Mereac. He was not dead .... nay, he was not dead. Merciful

God! why then does he haunt me with those eyes? Nay .... was it not I

who saved him, and tended him for months?--aye years?--for, for long the

blow on his head had rendered him little better than a fool. Then, when

understanding returned, he demanded many things...... Ah! but he was

proud and impatient .... that youth .... perchance I pleased him not for

a guardian..... He commanded to be set free .... he raved at times ....

foolish one .... saying that I kept him prisoner to murder him .... I,

who but bided my time till the fruit was ripe for the picking..... But

he escaped from my safe shelter. I was angry .... I followed him

quickly. What, mademoiselle, after these years was I to be robbed of my

reward? Grand Dieu! not so, I arrived whilst he still wandered in the

forest, so far still distraught that he had lost his way. I found him

.... but ere I did so was myself seen by ill fate by my enemy, Guillaume

de Coray. It became impossible that I should escape too hastily with my

friend, therefore we concealed ourselves .... de Coray and his devil's

imp seeking us all the time..... To-night"--the blood in his throat

well-nigh choked him as he spoke--"to-night--we--we...."

[#] The nickname of Pierre Laudais, the hated and infamous minister of

Francois II., Duke of Brittany. The angry nobles at last took justice

into their own hands, and hanged the miscreant who had ruined their

country.

He stared vaguely up at the moon--already the finger of death was

resting on his shoulder.

"But my brother--Yvon--he lives? Oh, where--where is he?" cried

Gwennola, whose emotions had scarcely been controlled during the gasping

confession which seemed to foreshadow forth so grim a tragedy. "Speak!"

But already death had sealed those lips with his cold kiss, only with a

convulsive effort the man raised his arm and pointed towards one of the

heaps of piled stones which gleamed white in the moonlight halfway up

the opposite slope. Then a spasm seized him, and he lay in the last

dread struggle, with his black eyes fixed upwards in horror, as if

around him he saw crowding the reproachful victims of a sinful life,

gathering about to arraign him before the dread Judge Who awaited him

beyond the veil.

Falling on her knees, Gwennola whispered a prayer into the dying ears,

till, with one last gasping groan, the jaws relaxed, the dark eyes,

still terror-haunted, became fixed, and a soul fled forth in shame and

awe into the silence of eternity.

With a sob--the outcome of overwrought nerves--the young girl rose to

her feet, and stood looking from the dead man at her feet towards the

rude cairn which seemed to form so poor a clue to her search. And yet

her heart beat rapidly as she thought of what that search might mean,

and recalled that not only a brother's but a lover's life lay as a

guerdon for success. Then with a low breathed prayer she hastened to

turn and scramble up the slope towards the spot indicated by the dead

man's finger.

*CHAPTER IX*

For a few minutes Gwennola's heart sank; in spite of a rapid but careful

search, the possibility of a human presence anywhere in the

neighbourhood of that rough pile of stones seemed impossible. But once

again Gloire was to come to her assistance, and retrieve his lost

character, which he seemed to feel instinctively had seriously suffered

in the late encounter,--though why he should be reproached for thus

ridding the world of one whom canine sagacity had recognised as a

black-hearted villain, he could not altogether realize. Nevertheless,

the sound of his mistress's reproving voice had damped poor Gloire's

self-congratulations, and he had followed her with drooping tail and

melancholy mien towards the reputed home of the mischievous dwarfs.

Here, however, his spirit of inquiry was freshly aroused, and with a

short yelp of excitement he proceeded to investigate a hole, partly

concealed by gorse, partly by a slab of stone which had apparently

slipped from the pile near.

Attracted by his excitement, Gwennola ran to his side, and, after some

moments of desperate tugging and pulling, succeeded in rolling the stone

aside.

Yes! the dead man's clue was a true one; the opening obviously led into

one of those natural caves so often found in Brittany. Gloire, with

cocked ears and wagging tail, stood by the side of the aperture,

evidently only awaiting his mistress's bidding to continue his

investigations. But Gwennola waved him back, and, bending low, looked

down eagerly into the darkness.

"Yvon," she called softly, her voice trembling as she pronounced the

long-unused name, "Yvon--brother--are you there?"

In the silence that followed she could hear only the panting of Gloire's

breath close to her ear.

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

Then faint but clear came back the answer, in the voice of a man who

answers as in a trance--

"Gwennola."

"Mother of Mercies, I thank thee!" cried the girl, tears of joy

streaming down her cheeks, as without hesitation she scrambled quickly

through the aperture. All was darkness within, although she gathered

from the faint glimmer of moonlight at the cave's mouth that she was in

a small subterranean chamber. In breathless suspense she called her

brother's name again, and this time the reply came from somewhere close

beside her, almost, it would seem, at her feet. But still the voice

which spoke upwards through the darkness was that of a man who speaks as

one who replies rather to some inward call than answering to his name

from the lips of a fellow-creature.

"Where art thou, Yvon?" cried Gwennola, sinking on her knees and

spreading forth her hands vaguely in the darkness. "Brother, brother,

is it indeed thou?"

"Gwennola--my sister." This time the voice beside her rang with a

sudden feeble exultation, as of one who, for the first time, realized

that his name had verily been pronounced by a denizen of earth.

"Gwennola, Gwennola! nay, it is impossible. Hence, mocking demon, and

taunt me not in my last hours!"

But already, groping in the darkness, guided by the feeble voice, the

girl had found the object of her search, and bent over the prostrate

figure, weeping and laughing in a very paroxysm of joy.

"Yvon, Yvon!" she cried, as she clung to him, pressing her warm young

lips to the damp brow. "Ah, my brother, whom for these past years we

have mourned as dead, is it possible that thou livest? What mystery is

here? what foul and terrible plot? But, what is this?--thou art bound

and helpless? a prisoner! Oh, tell me, Yvon, tell me all! and yet no,

we must not linger one instant in this terrible place, for already a

still fouler wrong is being done to one altogether innocent."

"Nay," groaned Yvon de Mereac faintly, "in that thou speakest wisely,

little sister, if it indeed be thou thyself, as these tears and kisses

assure me, rather than one of the mocking fiends of delirium which ever

haunt me, for truly the chief fiend himself will return anon, and

then----"

Gwennola felt the shudder that ran through the gaunt frame, and the

thought of Gloire's vengeance seemed to her less terrible than

heretofore.

"He is dead!" she cried, divining swiftly of whom he spoke. "Gloire

hath killed him but now, on the heath without; but ere he died methinks

he repented of the ill he did thee, which the rather took the form of

vengeance to another, even blacker-hearted than himself, than from

hatred to thee."

"Dead?" echoed Yvon with a sob of sudden joy. "Francois Kerden dead? and

thou here, little Gwennola, to save me? Nay! tell me not it is a dream,

but rather free me from these bonds, and let me breathe once more the

pure air of heaven."

"These bonds?" cried Gwennola in dismay, as her slender hands felt the

tight thongs which bound the helpless man beside her. "Nay, but how

shall I unloose them, Yvon? They are too strong for me to break, and,

alas! I have no dagger."

Yvon groaned. "Can naught be done?" he sighed. "I faint for very

longing of the cool night breezes; for days have I lain here, little

sister, waiting for death, but he delayed; yon fiend suffered me not to

die, though he kept me looking ever down into the abyss, and now----"

His voice quivered, as with the feeble insistence of a child he repeated

his plea to be liberated.

"Ay, verily," cried Gwennola joyfully, a sudden inspiration coming to

her, "and so thou shalt, my Yvon; tarry but one instant, and I wot well

I shall find what we seek."

"Ah, go not," cried her brother in despair, "lest thou return not, but

instead that evil one with his cruel eyes and sharp dagger."

"Nay," laughed the girl, stooping once more to smooth and kiss the

clammy brow, "'tis indeed his dagger which lieth yonder on the hillside

that I go to seek. Peace, brother, have no fear; he will return no more

to fright thee, and speedily shall thy cruel bonds be cut and we will

return home."

He echoed the last word softly, as one whose brain is too weary to take

in its full meaning, but he did not again seek to detain her as she

groped her way towards the glimmer of light which was already growing

fainter as the moonlight faded. To her surprise, Gloire stood not at

the cave's mouth as she emerged, and for a moment she looked round her

with a thrill of fear, wondering what new foes might not have arisen to

fight against. But Gloire's absence was not far to seek, seeing that

the wolves from the forest had already scented their human feast, and

had crept stealthily forth to rend it, and as Gwennola stood there in

the dim light, she perceived two gaunt forms flit in swift pursuit of

one another across the hill towards the shadow of the trees, and

shuddered, well guessing what they meant.

Daggers there were in plenty in the dead man's leathern belt, and

Gwennola hastened to draw a small keen weapon forth and hurry back, for

it was ill work to bend so over a dead man's body, and feel the close

stare of sightless eyes. But Gwennola's nerves were re-strung now to

meet the desperate necessity of her case, for well she knew that the

moments fled swiftly and already the sands of an innocent man's life

were running low, and not only of one innocent of crime, but her own

true lover, without whom life must be as dark and gloomy as yon forest

from whence came the yelping howls of beasts of prey, kept back by fear,

for the nonce, from their evening feast.

One by one the tight leathern thongs were severed, and Yvon with a cry

of thankfulness rose slowly to his knees, though so cramped were his

limbs that even after the space of some minutes he could but crawl to

the entrance of his prison on hands and knees. But the cool night air

revived him, like a draught of wine, as he sank down on the heath

without. Gwennola could ill repress a cry of dismay as the feeble

moonlight revealed a face which, but for the eyes, it were difficult to

recognise as that of the handsome boy who, but three short years ago,

had left the chateau in all the pride and glory of youth and noble

manhood. The rosy cheeks were sunken, and so emaciated that the skin

seemed but drawn over the high cheek-bones; the smooth chin was covered

with a short, unkempt beard; and the fair golden curls were long,

matted, and discoloured; but the eyes, blue as Gwennola's own, were the

same as they looked up into hers, and yet, with a sob in her throat, she

realized they were not the same, for the glad, merry light with which

youth faces life had gone, and instead there seemed to lurk within them

an almost vacant look of terror, such as one sees in a frightened child.

It was a face which told its own tragedy without need of words, and with

a shudder of pity his sister bent, raising him tenderly as he struggled

vainly to his feet, passing a strong, protecting young arm around him,

and softly bidding him lean on her.

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

"It was there I wandered," he said faintly. "I could not remember the

way, but I had found it at last, and had stood already in sight of the

chateau itself, when I saw him creeping upon me; then, like a mad fool,

I fled once more into the forest, instead of crying for help from the

soldier who stood sentry near the gateway."

"And who took thee for a spirit of the dead," smiled Gwennola,

remembering Job Alloadec's terror, "and small blame, I trow; but dwell

not on past years, my brother; yonder lies the miscreant dead, in just

reward for the evil he did, and we may not delay seeing what passeth at

the chateau."

The poor girl was indeed a prey to feverish emotion, the thought of what

injustice might even now be doing weighing like lead upon her heart, and

yet she might not speed on her way as she desired, seeing that salvation

to the man she loved came only with halting and painful steps, stopping

from time to time for very faintness and weakness. And not only was

their progress slow, but dangerous, as Gwennola knew well, for the

yelping howls from the forest grew ever more importunate. Did the

wolves escape Gloire's vigilance and break in a pack into the open,

death awaited them both, for Gloire, gallant hound as he was, could be

no match against numbers on that bare heath side, whilst within the

forest he could dodge and worry his enemies, thus keeping many times his

number at bay.

Yvon was walking more steadily as they came at length to the outskirts

of the trees; his limbs were less cramped, his brain clearer, as the

shadow of death, which had haunted him for so long, was dispelled by

Gwennola's bright voice and tender care. Still, even so, he seemed

little to realize their present danger, which grew ever more terrible.

Already Gwennola could see through the nearly total darkness the gleam

of cruel eyes shining on them from out of the thicket, and once a dark,

wolfish form leapt out on to the very path before them, only to be

driven back by the faithful Gloire, who, bleeding but undaunted, kept

gallant guard around them. Many of the beasts had gone unrestrainedly

now to fight for the meal awaiting them on the heath, but with appetites

whetted they would return anon, and then----

"Canst walk but a little faster, Yvon?" whispered Gwennola with a gasp,

as the howls and yelps grew nearer and more insistent on every side.

But Yvon shook his head; indeed, in the very attempt to obey her

petition he nearly stumbled, and would have fallen, had it not been for

her arm. "Alas!" she cried, with a sob of terror, "Yvon, we are

lost--the wolves----"

A short bark of anger from Gloire changed suddenly into a glad yelp of

welcome, and Gwennola echoed it with a little cry of surprise as a man

bearing aloft a flaming torch came hurrying towards them, stopping

indeed to echo her cry as he perceived the two figures standing before

him.

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

saved--we are saved!"

"Yvon--Monsieur Yvon!" stammered Job, his eyes fixed in wonder, not

unmixed with horror, on his young master's face. "Monsieur Yvon!

Mother of Heaven! it is impossible!" And so violent was the fear that

overcame the honest fellow, that he nearly let fall the torch, and with

it their safety, for the wolves, scared, as they ever are, by the light,

had fled, howling with disappointment, back into the forest.

"Nay," said Yvon, smiling faintly, "'tis I myself, good Job, though more

in the bone than the flesh, I warrant me."

"Monsieur Yvon," still repeated Job, with undiminished wonder in his

eyes--"Monsieur Yvon." Then, as he realized that in some miraculous way

it was indeed his beloved master who stood before him, he fell a-weeping

for very joy, repeating the name over and over again, as though to

convince himself of what was apparently beyond reason or understanding.

"Nay, foolish fellow," cried Gwennola sharply, being in no mood just

then, with nerves stretched to breaking, for idle tears. "Cease such

maundering, or wait till fitter time and place to give vent to thy joy.

Wouldst have tears verily to take the place of laughter by delaying,

when--when----" She broke off abruptly, adding in a lower key, "And

Monsieur d'Estrailles?--the French knight--what of him? Nay, stand not

gaping, there, as if thou awaitest the moon to swallow thee up, as she

did poor Pierre Laroc, but take the arm of Monsieur Yvon, who is weak,

as thou seest. There, support him well, good Job, and let us hasten

onwards whilst thou tellest me."

Her heart beat fast as she waited, all eagerly, for the answer which she

so dreaded to know that she was fain to stop her ears or fly from

hearing into the forest. But Job's wits were still astray for very joy

and wonder, as he felt Yvon's gaunt form lean against his stout arm, and

read recognition in the great blue eyes, which had stared so

despairingly into his, scarce a week back, from the forest shade.

It was not till Gwennola had impatiently repeated her question that the

former events of that strange night came back to his slowly revolving

brain.

"The French knight?" he repeated. "Ah, yes, mademoiselle, it was Marie

herself who sent me in search of you, because, forsooth! it would seem

you had gone to bid farewell to one in the forest who came instead, but

sorely against his will, to the chateau to bid farewell to life."

"How chanced it? How came he thither? Who discovered his hiding-place?

Nay, thou shalt not tell me he is already sped," cried Gwennola

passionately.

"How chanced it?" echoed Job, clinging to the first question. "Nay,

mistress, that I know not. I was on guard at the outer postern when,

scarce two hours agone, Marie cometh to me, weeping. 'He is taken,' she

cried. 'Alas! the poor monsieur is taken, and mademoiselle will die.'

Thou knowest, mademoiselle, the foolish tongue of my sister. At first I

could comprehend nothing, but at last it appeared that Monsieur de Coray

had learnt, by some means, of which I know naught, that the French

knight lay hidden in the forest; he divined also his hiding-place, but

of this no word did he say to my lord, only commanding six soldiers, as

by my lord's order, to be ready shortly before midnight to accompany him

secretly, and without telling their comrades one word of what they did.

It would appear then that Monsieur de Coray led them to this so secret

hiding-place and captured the poor knight, whom they brought back to the

chateau.

"The foolish Marie was distraught with grief, and for mademoiselle's

sake, I will confess, my heart was also heavy, but a soldier hath his

duty, and therefore I remained where I was until a short half hour ago,

when Marie returneth to me, white and weeping still more sorely.

'Alas!' she saith, 'the poor monsieur--the lover of mademoiselle--is

condemned to death; only hath he been given time for the good father to

shrive him of his sins, and then, alas! he will be hanged, even ere

dawn.' After which the foolish one wept upon my shoulder, and I--I also

wept for the sake of mademoiselle, for of the sins of this monsieur I

comprehended naught, except that he was falsely accused of murdering

Monsieur Yvon. But anon, Marie drieth her tears, and biddeth me light

my torch speedily and go in search of you, mademoiselle, for she feared

greatly for your safety, seeing that two hours had passed and you had

not returned. At first I refused, for I am a soldier, mademoiselle, who

must think of his post, but when Marie represented to me your danger,

and promised to guard well my post till my return, I hesitated no

longer, for, for myself, I also had my fears as I listened to the

howlings of the wolves. And so, mademoiselle, I came, and the holy

saints directed my footsteps in the way."

"And he is not dead?" whispered Gwennola, with a quick gasp for breath,

as she hurried forward. "He is not dead?"

It was the only point which remained in her memory of all the honest

Breton's preamble.

"Nay!" said Job slowly. "He was given time to be shriven, and Father

Ambrose, being sick, had to be brought carefully from his bed, and

methinks the good priest is little like to hurry over the last

confessions of one who goes to death; nay, mistress, methinks he will

surely yet live."

"Merciful Mother of God, grant it!" cried Gwennola in agony. "Ah, see,

Yvon, we are near at last; there, yonder, is the chateau; a few

minutes----"

No more was spoken as the three hurried swiftly onwards. Job almost

bearing Yvon in his stalwart arms, whilst Gwennola held aloft the

flaring torch. A strange trio truly the yellow light gleamed on: the

sick man's thin, emaciated features and drooping form; the thickly-set,

dark-browed Breton soldier with his honest, wondering eyes and bushy

beard; and the slender, dark-robed figure with pale, agonized face,

eager eyes, and a tumbled mass of red-gold curls, from which the hood

had fallen.

No word was spoken even as they passed the outer postern, where the

wondering Marie still held impatient guard, but swiftly onwards they

sped through the darkness of the little chapel, till they stood at

length to pause and listen in the shadow of the tapestries which hung

around the great hall. The flaring light of the torches fastened in the

iron cressets on the walls revealed a strange scene. By the long table

sat the Sieur de Mereac, and close to his side Guillaume de Coray, the

former, stern, implacable judge, the latter, mocking, triumphant

accuser; in the foreground, a small group of soldiers surrounding the

tall, slender figure of the condemned man, his hands bound tightly

behind him, even now on his way to execution, and by his side the

black-robed form of the old confessor.

Although d'Estrailles' back was towards them, those standing there in

the shadows could see the proud bearing of his mien as he listened to

his judges last words.

"Henri d'Estrailles," said the old man sternly, "you are found guilty

and condemned to die; murderer and traitor that you are, the death of a

felon is fitting ending to such a life. My son's life you spared not to

take by foul and cruel means, and still more, in reward for the

hospitality I all unwittingly bestowed upon you, you have robbed me of a

daughter's soul. Coward and villain! have you made your peace with

God?--if so, it were well, for even in death the hand of every true and

upright man shall be against you."

"Nay, my son," interrupted Father Ambrose gently, "beware how you pass

unjust sentence on a man whom my soul telleth me is innocent. Nay,

frown not, but listen to the warning of an old man, who from early youth

hath learnt to read men's hearts. Have I not but now listened to the

confessions of one about to pass to the judgment of One with Whom no

deception is possible? and in the face of eternity itself would he look

back upon his fellow-men with lies upon his lips? I tell thee, no,

Sieur de Mereac, no, a hundred times! And so I tell thee, that having

read the secrets of this man's soul, I find him innocent of the crime

whereof he is accused."

"Nay, my father," interrupted de Coray with a sneer, "you speak well,

but, bethink you, it was _I_ who saw this man strike the very blow which

he so glibly denies; _I_ who saw him creep so treacherously behind my

poor kinsman--the noble young Yvon--and cleave him from brow to chin ere

he could turn to see his foe; _I_----"

"Liar!"

The single word rang down the hall like the challenging blast of a

trumpet, as all turned to see standing there against the tapestry the

tall, gaunt figure of a man.

*CHAPTER X*

For a few minutes there reigned a breathless silence. All eyes seemed

indeed riveted on that strange, emaciated figure, which half leant, as

if for support, against Gwennola's slender form as she stood beside him,

her pale face flushed now rosy red with joy and triumph, as she glanced

from the bound, helpless figure between the soldiers towards her father.

The Sieur de Mereac had risen, and was standing, one trembling hand

clutching the back of his chair, the other shading his eyes, as if the

flickering torchlight blinded his sight, as he gazed in mute wonder

towards the speaker. Then, as the blue eyes met the black with an

up-leaping light of recognition, another cry, more faltering, yet

trembling with a very wonderment of joy, rang out in the silence--

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

For the time all were forgotten: prisoners, accusers, false and true; to

the old man striding forwards with outstretched arms, the world, for the

moment, contained nothing but that haggard, dishevelled figure, and the

blue eyes of his long-lost, long-mourned son.

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

"Father, at last!"

De Coray had sprung to his feet with an oath, half fury, half dismay, as

Yvon de Mereac sent down his challenge through the hall.

Little as he had dreamt that his blow had not been fatal in that dark

wood of St Aubin du Cormier, he was sufficiently keen-witted to vaguely

guess the sequel, his conclusion being more easily drawn from the fact

of the unexplained presence of his old comrade and late enemy, Francois

Kerden. Without giving himself time or trouble to fit into its place

every piece of the puzzle, he grasped the meaning of the whole, and

realized that it was indeed Yvon de Mereac who stood before him, and

also that his own position was one of imminent danger.

These calculations passed like lightning through his ready mind as he

looked eagerly round for means of escape. None noticed him or his

movements, all attention being fixed on the two central figures of the

little drama. All indeed but one, for, as he turned, he encountered the

sympathetic and comprehensive gaze of Pierre the fool. That the

strange, dwarfed jester had evinced an unaccountable devotion for him

had puzzled de Coray more than once, little used as he had ever been to

be loved for his own sake, and he was more than half inclined to treat

the little fellow's overtures with suspicion. But in the present crisis

it would be well to have even a fool for a friend rather than an enemy,

and de Coray, obeying Pierre's obvious signs, crept unseen behind the

tapestry.

"Quick, monsieur!" whispered the boy in his ear. "You are as yet

unperceived, but we must not delay. To your right, monsieur, so--there

is a passage there which leadeth to the chapel. Methinks few know it

but I myself. The outer postern is unguarded; we can escape to the

forest."

Not unwilling to be guided by so ready an ally, de Coray followed, his

hand, however, on his sword, ready to draw it should he have cause to

suspect treachery. But Pierre had apparently no such intention, and ere

many minutes had elapsed they had both reached the shelter of the

forest.

Scarcely knowing whither he went, de Coray hurried along by the boy's

side, black rage in his heart as he recalled how swiftly the tables had

been turned upon him by the girl whom he had intended to force into

marriage with him, and how complete had been her triumph. Only five

minutes more, and at least one witness against him would have been

removed from his path, the only witness indeed that he need have feared,

trusting to his ready wit to weave some fresh fiction to account for his

error in supposing Yvon de Mereac dead. Now, he felt, even in the

moment of flight, that by so escaping he was severing the last

possibility of deceiving his uncle into disbelief of the Frenchman's

word, coupled as it was by Yvon's reappearance. Yet he dared not stay,

for behind all lay the risk of Kerden's discovery and subsequent

confession, which might well damn him beyond hope of redress, and

perchance bring him within reach of the noose which he had hoped to see

tightening round the neck of an innocent man.

Well might de Coray feel blank despair clutching him as he began the

more clearly to realize the hopelessness of his position were he

captured--and yet such capture was imminent. Once persuaded of his

treachery, he was assured that de Mereac would leave no stone unturned

to find and bring him to justice, and that such persuasion would be easy

he doubted not, seeing that his own flight sealed his guilt.

"Fool," he cried angrily, as he suddenly halted on the forest path which

they were treading, "where dost thou lead me? I tell thee that there

will be pursuit, and I, wandering on foot here, alone, must needs be

captured without hope of escape." And in his fury he turned on the

dwarfed lad, who stood looking up at him with a face on which cunning

and fear were mingled with a strange, half-comic expression of dog-like

devotion.

"Nay, monsieur," said Pierre deprecatingly, as he spread forth his hands

as if to arrest the movement which de Coray made to draw his sword.

"Fool though I be, monsieur shall find that I have yet some wisdom in

this thick skull of mine." And he nodded his head gravely as he tapped

his forehead. "Yes," he said thoughtfully, "Pierre the fool has eyes,

also ears, and he says to monsieur, 'Hasten, quickly, for there is

safety only in flight.'"

"Safety!" echoed de Coray bitterly; "ay, fool's safety, I trow, such as

I merit for entrusting myself to thy guidance. How, forsooth, Sir Wise

Fool, wouldst have me escape de Mereac's fleet steeds and keen blades?

Thinkest thou that he and his retainers are as dull of wit and sight as

thou art, thou ape of iniquity?"

The lad shrank back as if struck by a lash, putting up his thin hands as

though to protect himself from a blow.

"Ah, monsieur, listen," he moaned, "and be not angry with one who would

die for you. Nay!" he added eagerly, stung by de Coray's sneer,

"monsieur _shall_ believe. See, far in the depths of the forest is a

hut, small but well sheltered; it is there that my sister Gabrielle

dwells, who blesses monsieur's name nightly in her prayers for the money

which saved us from misery when the hunger-wolf knocked loudly at the

door but a few days since. In this hut monsieur will be safely hidden

for, perchance, a few hours only, whilst Pierre the fool watcheth to see

whither his enemies ride; then, when danger lies with her back to him,

monsieur will mount and ride to where he will be in safety."

De Coray's brow cleared, though he looked doubtfully into the puckered,

upturned face, as if still suspicious.

"If thou betrayest me thou shalt die, boy," he said menacingly; then, in

a kinder tone, "nevertheless, if all goes as thou sayest, and I escape,

Guillaume de Coray shall be found neither an ungenerous nor forgetful

master."

With a shrewd smile the jester stooped to kiss the hand outstretched to

him, then, drawing himself up, said, with the simple dignity of his

race, be they noble or peasant--

"Monsieur, I too am a Breton."

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

The wolves, which still howled dismally in distant parts of the forest,

did not molest the two travellers as they hurried on their way, though

from time to time de Coray started with all the nervousness of a guilty

man as a bough or twig snapped under their feet or a night bird brushed

their faces in the darkness with her wings.

Dawn was already faintly tinging the sky in the far east when Pierre

halted before the door of a hut so quaintly built against an overhanging

crag of rock as to be easily passed by unobserved.

"See, monsieur," he said thoughtfully, "it will not be well to enter

now; it may be that ere long the enemies of monsieur will think of the

hut of Pierre the fool, for there are those who know not only of it, but

of the love I bear you; therefore it were best to seek shelter till day

arrives in a secure hiding-place. Tenez, monsieur, behold such an one as

will mock those who pursue!" And with pride the boy showed a deep

fissure in the crag close by, so carefully concealed that a man might

lie in perfect safety between the two high boulders without fear of

detection. "Monsieur will rest here till danger has passed," observed

Pierre, waving a lean hand towards the fissure of rock with the air of a

host who invites his guest to partake of his sumptuous hospitality, "and

afterwards the little Gabrielle will keep watch, as also she will tend

to the needs of monsieur."

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

The jester shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands with a

gesture of self-importance.

"For myself, monsieur, I return to the chateau, for it were not well

that I should be missed. Be assured, monsieur, that my ears and eyes

will be open, so that in the evening when I return there may be news

which will guide you on your journey."

"Journey!" exclaimed de Coray bitterly; "a long and safe journey, I

trow, with neither horse nor provision for the way; 'twill be a journey

into the arms of my good uncle, I ween, and, by the beard of St Gildas,

I trow his embrace will be scarce to my liking."

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

"Monsieur misjudges me," he said reproachfully. "Pierre the fool is

surely less fool than the words of monsieur imply. This evening when I

return I will bring a horse fleet and sure-footed, also news of the

pursuit of monsieur's enemies; the rest, if monsieur rides with caution,

will be altogether easy."

The lad's words were reassuring, his manner simple and straightforward,

and, in spite of the inward misgivings, which must ever haunt a man

whose own ways are crooked when they are fain to entrust themselves to

the honour of another, de Coray was forced, for very necessity, to

accept Pierre's apparently honest promises of assistance. Yet, shut up

in his gloomy hiding-place, the traitor felt the inward qualms and fears

growing rapidly, coupled as they were with the dread of capture. A

swift review of his broken schemes showed him how small a hope of mercy

there must needs be did he fall into his outraged kinsman's hands.

The tissue of lies which he had woven around d'Estrailles and Gwennola

de Mereac would now wing themselves against him and prove fresh voices

of accusation as his true motives and own deadly deeds were brought to

view. As he thought of all he could not but glance with some vague

dread on that shrouded past of his. Little did any guess the traitor's

way he had trodden so blithely since youth. With a shame which was yet

half-mocking pride at his own shrewdness and cunning, he recalled how

he, a noble of Brittany, had been content to become a tool in the hands

of the infamous Landais, and yet, whilst earning a rich reward for his

services, had escaped sharing his low-born master's fate, when an

outraged and too long-suffering people had taken the law into their own

hands and hanged the tyrant in defiance of their Sovereign Duke. Then

he recalled, lying there looking back over the past, how he had

bethought him of his kinsfolk of Mereac, and, riding westward, had come,

like some ill-omened bird, to prey on an inheritance which he found well

to his liking. The treacherous death of the young heir had seemed to

him a master stroke of cunning, and no sooner had he deemed it safely

accomplished than he set to work to ingratiate himself with the old

Sieur and his daughter.

But Gwennola had proved a stumbling-block to his ambitions, and

conceiving that her father, who was devoted to this sole surviving

child, would be likely to leave her whatever fortune it was possible to

divide from the inheritance of his lands, he decided to wed her--not

that he loved her; but, bah! what did that matter? Neither did it

concern him that the maiden took no pains to conceal her hatred of him.

It pleased the inherent cruelty of his nature to cause pain, and it

delighted him to watch the shudder that shook her when he alluded, with

mock devotion, to their union. For the scorn he endured at her hands he

promised himself a charming and protracted revenge when she was his

wife. Now, to his chagrin, his dreams were in an instant shattered,

and, instead of the presumptive heir and honoured guest, he found

himself a hunted murderer, condemned already without trial, and all, he

bitterly told himself, through the machinations of a puling girl and her

lover--a lover whom he had been on the brink of consigning to a felon's

grave as reward for his inopportune presence at Mereac.

Thus pondering, de Coray fell into a heavy slumber, out-wearied by the

events of a long and unpleasantly exciting day, nor did he awake till

the warm rays of the sun struck downwards, sending long, bright shafts

of light almost to the heart of the dark shadows of his hiding-place.

Consumed with hunger and thirst, still it was some time before he could

summons up sufficient courage to creep forth from his lair. It was a

day of dazzling sunshine, which illuminated even the depths of that grey

and gloomy forest, and for a moment de Coray stood there, blinking, like

some suddenly disturbed owl, before his sight grew accustomed to the

brilliant glare. Presently, however, he became aware of a girl's slim

figure seated in the doorway of the hut, beside her spinning wheel. A

pretty enough picture was thus formed--the dark background of forest,

the quaint and dilapidated woodland hut, and stray rays of golden glory

lighting up the figure in the foreground, in its picturesque dress and

cap of a Breton peasant girl, a dress which set off to perfection the

beauty of the face bent low over the humming wheel. It was in fact the

face rather of a Madonna than a mere peasant, for the beauty lay not

only, or chiefly, in the delicate oval of her cheeks, the regularity of

her features, or the glossy luxuriance of the long plaits of black hair

which fell over her shoulders, but in the soft and tender expression of

her lips and dark eyes, which were swiftly raised to meet de Coray's

curious gaze.

A sudden flush of joy, rather than maidenly bashfulness, crimsoned the

girl's cheeks as she rose hastily, and with a deep curtsy welcomed her

visitor.

To his surprise, de Coray found himself treated with a respect and

gratitude wholly unlocked for. It was evident that her brother had

breathed no word of his patron's true character or the reason of his

present difficulties, but instead had sung such praises into his simple

sister's ears that she looked upon de Coray in the light of some poor,

persecuted saint.

If is a strange experience thus to be taken for what one is too

obviously not, and de Coray listened, half amused, half pleased, to her

shy, faltering words of gratitude.

The suspicions which had lurked around his heart as to the

trustworthiness of his little ally faded away before the clear truth of

his sister's dark eyes, and involuntarily he made an effort to assume

the role which she had given him so innocently. It was the wolf in

sheep's clothing once more, but this time the wolf was more anxious to

hide his own dark skin than to devour the trusting lamb.

So, after the meal was over, they sat there together, those two

ill-assorted companions, whilst in still shy but more confiding

sentences Gabrielle related to her visitor the simple story of her life.

It was so simple, so humble, yet, as he sat there by her side, watching

the innocent beauty of her face and listening to her murmured words,

interrupted as they were by an occasional burst of bird song from the

whispering woodlands around, it seemed a very idyll of beauty.

The glamour of an entirely new experience had crept over the cruel,

scheming man of many crimes as he sat there waiting for the twilight to

fall, the glamour which hangs around the days of early childhood and

innocence, and seems to whisper of things holy and beautiful. It

thrilled him with a new sense of what life might be, and made him shrink

back appalled from what his had already been.

It was shame, and yet not without its sweetness, to see himself mirrored

in this peasant girl's eyes as a noble knight whose goodness and

untarnished honour had been already the theme of her girlish thoughts,

and he almost shivered as he pictured how the light of reverence and

admiration would fade from her sweet face did she know the truth.

"Ah, monsieur," murmured Gabrielle as she paused in her busy work to

look across to where he was sitting, "my heart aches to think of the

cruelty of those who seek to do you harm, nor can I conceive how one so

good and noble as the Sieur de Mereac could be so deceived by lying

tongues."

De Coray shrugged his shoulders. "Nay, mademoiselle," he said

carelessly, "doubtless in time the noble Sieur will find out his error

and regret his hasty judgment; for the rest, if I can but ride in safety

to my own chateau at Pontivy, I shall not forget the succour which you

and your brother have bestowed."

"Nay," cried the girl softly, "monsieur must not speak of reward for

what it has been our joy to give; monsieur has already saved us from

want, for, see, I was sick--I could do but little spinning--and my

brother had but small money to bestow on me, until monsieur, in the

generosity of his heart, gave him much silver, for which may our Lady

and all the saints for ever bless you, monsieur, and deliver you from

the hands of cruel men."

"Nay," said de Coray gallantly, "methinks, fair maid, one of the

sweetest saints hath already undertaken my deliverance."

She looked at him innocently, not comprehending the compliment he

intended to convey, seeing that her thoughts were not of herself, but

for him.

And so they sat there, talking softly, as the spell and glamour of the

moment bade them, and she told him with the simplicity of a child how

she lived here alone in the forest hut, all alone, spinning for the most

part, for she was lame and could walk but little, and how her brother

Pierre would come often to see her, when it was possible. And at

Pierre's name her eyes grew tender, for her love for him was great. Ah!

the poor little Pierre!--he who would have been so gallant a soldier had

it not been for his affliction. The poor Pierre! It had been long ago

that the Sieur de Mereac, hunting in his forests, had passed the little

hut where Francois Laurent lived with his wife and two children, and

alas! the little Pierre, playing out there in the sunshine, had paused

to gaze at the gay trappings of the cavalcade rather than run to the

safe shelter of his mother's arms, so that one of the horses had struck

him down underfoot and injured his spine.

That was the story of poor Pierre; that was why instead of a

strong-limbed, gallant man, he must shuffle through life as the crooked,

puny Pierre the fool. It is true the Sieur de Mereac regretted what had

happened, and when Pierre was old enough he had taken him into his

service, and finding the sharp-faced lad had a wit of his own, had made

him jester, with Petit Pierre the ape for company.

But for herself? de Coray asked. Had she no fear dwelling alone in so

desolate a hut, with nothing but the howlings of wolves and the wailings

of the wind to keep her company?

The little Gabrielle smiled. Surely not! How could she fear, when the

Blessed Mother of God and all the holy saints were near to protect her

from evil? So simple, childish innocence argued with guilt and crime,

which go ever hand in hand with fear and terror; and again, de Coray,

looking into her great, dark eyes, felt a thrill of joy that she did not

know him for what he was; for truly, had he spent that long day of

secret fears and suspense with an angel from heaven, no softer or more

purifying hand could have been lain on the hardened blackness of his

heart, causing it to leap with a sudden vague, yet momentary yearning

towards what was pure, noble, and good.

So the twilight fell, and neither Pierre nor his enemies had come; but

as the dim, mysterious time of shadows passed into the darkness of

night, the two watchers saw through the trees the approaching figure of

a boy leading a horse by its bridle.

"It is Pierre!" cried Gabrielle joyfully, and rose from her work, though

she waited still in the doorway till her brother came towards her,

smiling his welcome first into her flushed, glad face, before he turned

to de Coray.

"Monsieur," he said, bowing low with a sweep of his tall fool's cap,

which seemed more mockery than deference, though perchance he meant it

not--"monsieur, all is well. The enemies of monsieur ride towards

Nantes and Angers; it is evident that they have forgotten so humble an

abode as that of Pierre the fool. Moreover, methinks they scarce

suspect me of assisting you, seeing that I was found sleeping this

morning between the good hounds Gloire and Reine."

"And the forest?" questioned de Coray eagerly.

"That also they have searched, monsieur, though it is evident not yet

with sufficient care; my lord indeed hath commanded that every corner of

Brittany be searched till you are found, and hath offered a goodly

reward for your capture, but for the present he himself is too much

occupied with attending upon Monsieur Yvon to direct the search in

person."

De Coray smiled, casting a side glance towards Gabrielle, who had

entered the hut to prepare supper, as he added in a lower key--

"Heardst aught, my friend, of one Kerden? In their search for me did

they light, perchance, on a man who bears that name, who methinks might

even now be haunting yon woods?"

Pierre glanced up to meet his patron's inquiry with a look as shrewd as

de Coray's own.

"Monsieur," he said simply, "it appears that this Kerden will no longer

haunt the forest of Arteze in the flesh, and if all be true of which men

talk at the chateau, the devil will have been too swift in bearing off

his spirit to its own place to leave it chance of roaming yonder at

nightfall."

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

sure of it?"

"Verily," retorted Pierre, "if the word of mademoiselle, and the bloody

jaws of Gloire are sufficiently to be trusted. The hound killed him, so

'tis said, out yonder on the heath, where the courils dance on moonlit

nights; but monsieur will be wise to delay no longer. See, the horse is

a good one, and fresh too; there are also provisions for a journey,

though methinks they were prepared for other jaws to consume than those

of monsieur, but they will taste none the less sweet for that." And the

strange lad chuckled gleefully over his jest.

"Nay, 'tis the steed of the Frenchman!" exclaimed de Coray, as his eye

glanced over the bay horse which Pierre held by the bridle. "Tiens! my

friend, I know it by its white star and cropped ears. But how came you

by it, little knave? Methinks monsieur yonder would scarce have such

ardent desire for my escape as to lend me his own steed?"

"Nay," replied Pierre wisely, "in that you speak truth, monsieur; but I

will explain. The horse of the French knight I discovered two days

since, when Petit Pierre and I went at midnight in the footsteps of

mademoiselle; it was stabled close to the chapel of the brown friar, and

hath there remained till the present. Methinks in his expected exit

from the present life, monsieur's thoughts were too busy with the next

to remember his poor steed; and so this morning, ere I returned to the

chateau, I visited the shed and unloosed the poor beast, and, after

giving him a meal, I led him to a distant part of the forest, where I

tethered him, trusting in the saints that none should chance to pass

that way. Also near the chapel I discovered a basket of provisions which

the thoughtful care of the beautiful mademoiselle had prepared for her

lover; these also I appropriated for the needs of monsieur, therefore

methinks that for a fool I have done right well. Is it not so,

monsieur?"

"Nay," said de Coray warmly, "thou hast done right gallantly, my friend,

and great shalt be thy reward in due time, though for the present an

empty gratitude must be thy guerdon; but when fortune smiles once more

on me, then there shall be golden smiles for thee too, my manikin, as

also for thy sweet sister here."

"Ay," replied Pierre, drawing himself up proudly, as he led the way into

his humble abode, "peasants though we be, monsieur, still there is

nobility too in the blood of the Laurents of Arteze, for truly in the

veins of our ancestors ran the blood of King Arthur himself, and the

renowned Morgana. Is it not so, Gabrielle?"

The girl smiled from one to the other.

"Nay, my brother," she replied softly, "so our parents told us, but I

wot well that there is better truth in the words of our father, that

nobility is of the soul rather than the body, and it little matters who

our ancestors were, so long as we ourselves wooed honour and virtue for

our spouses."

"Mademoiselle is wise," said de Coray smoothly, as his glance met hers.

And, to his shame perchance, his own fell not beneath the steadfast

gaze, but met it, as if he too cherished the ideals imprinted on her

pure young brow.

Nevertheless, perhaps his heart, false though it was, reproached him as

he rode away into the darkness of the night, bearing with him the memory

of an upturned face full of sweet, confiding trust and reverence, and

eyes which hailed him by a name he had never known.

*CHAPTER XI*

"And so we say farewell, my Henri?" sighed Gwennola mournfully, and

there were tears in the blue eyes raised to Henri d'Estrailles' dark,

handsome face.

"Nay, rather, 'au revoir,' sweet," he replied tenderly, "though I trow

that be hard enough to say."

They were standing, those two, on the terrace path close by the river

side. Beyond them lay the grey gloom of the forest, with its air of

tragedy and mystery, and behind them the chateau, standing on the

outskirts of a dreary heath, grim and forbidding. But around them life

took a gladder note; the sunshine of summer played amongst flowers and

orchard blossoms, and birds sang sweetly in the boughs overhead. Above

all youth and happiness smiled the glad story, old and for ever new, of

love and devotion, into each other's eyes. Yet, even in the tender

beauty of the present, the music of joy struck a minor note in the sad

word of farewell.

It was hard--so hard--to part, when love was but newly born, and yet

part they must. The Sieur de Mereac was inflexible in his decision.

Convinced of d'Estrailles' innocence, he had offered his injured guest

the courteous apologies due to him, apologies as sincere as they were

hearty, though perchance small blame could be attached to his conduct,

seeing what had passed; whilst apologies would have been of small value

had Yvon de Mereac appeared in the hall of judgment a few moments later.

Great and bitter had been the old noble's anger and mortification at

finding that his own kinsman should have played so base a part, and

terrible was the retribution which he swore to repay him with.

But even in his desire to offer amends for an injustice so nearly

consummated, Gaspard de Mereac turned a deaf ear to d'Estrailles'

pleadings concerning his daughter. To him it was a thing altogether

beyond comprehension that a Mereac should mate with the natural enemy of

her country, for here, on the borderland of the distracted dukedom,

hatred of France was drawn in with the first breath of life.

Only at last, yielding most unwillingly to his cherished darling's

entreaties, did he agree to temporize. Did the mission of the Count

Dunois meet with success, and the bond between mutual enemies be

cemented in one of love and marriage, then perchance, if Gwennola were

still unchanged, natural prejudice should give way and a betrothal

between the two be permitted. Yet even this temporizing would scarce

have been, had not de Mereac convinced himself of the certainty of his

Duchess's rejection of any offer of union betwixt herself and the man

whom she must needs regard as her bitterest foe, in defiance of the

troth she had already plighted to the King of the Romans.

So the wily old Breton, yielding no whit in his purpose to mate his

daughter to none but her own countryman, outwardly consented to

conditions little likely of fulfilment, and so silenced the

importunities of the child he adored and the man whom he had so nearly

condemned unjustly to death. But to Yvon he confided his secret

purpose.

"'Tis but the passing whim of a foolish maid," he said lightly, "and one

not to be regarded seriously, my son; yet 'tis wisest to yield in

outward seeming, for, did I oppose her will, the little Gwennola would

sigh and weep as any love-lorn maiden of romance, such as our minstrels

picture wherewith to turn the heads of other silly maids; but if she

have her way, she will soon forget a stranger when another noble lover

comes a-wooing. Nay, nay, the child is too true a Mereac to long love a

French lover; another shall soon steal the fancy from her heart and

leave a truer one in its place. Alain de Ploeernic seeks a bride, and

where shall he find a fairer or a sweeter than the demoiselle of

Mereac?"

So the old father built his schemes, all unwitting of his daughter's

mind, dreaming; that maids, forsooth! must needs be all of one pattern,

and ready enough to change lovers at a father's command, or because,

perchance, the name of one sounded ill in a father's ear, little recking

that here was a slip from his own stern, iron-willed stock, which,

having found its mate, responded not to the call of any other, even at

the command of a parent, however beloved.

So on the terrace walk the lovers, so ill assorted, yet so faithful,

pledged undying constancy and truth, and in the hall of the chateau the

Sieur de Mereac smiled at his new-found serpent's wisdom, then

altogether dismissed from his mind the ill thought of Gwennola's

unwelcome lover, to turn instead to think of the man to whom he had

pledged his daughter's troth, and to swear vengeance on the subtle brain

which had so nearly wrought the undoing of his house. Even in his

racial hatred he could not but admit that Henri d'Estrailles claimed his

gratitude in striving, even though vainly, against the coward hand which

had struck the traitor's blow on his Yvon. And so, from thoughts of

that scene in the wood of St Aubin, once more the old man's wandering

reflections went back with a shuddering fury to the tale which Yvon

himself had so haltingly told them as he stood there in the dim hall,

with his father and sister beside him, his hands--such thin, trembling

hands!--locked in theirs as he spoke.

And the tale itself! Ah! why had the chief actor in it gone so

summarily from justice--his justice? Almost he could find it in his

heart to quarrel with the faithful hound that had done its work of

retribution so swiftly and so well. At first it had been almost

impossible to believe that this broken, feeble-minded man with Yvon's

eyes could really be the gallant youth on whom his fond hopes had been

set. And then he had heard--yes, heard of the little cellar chamber in

the old house at Rennes where his son had awaked from his long

unconsciousness and found it so hard to struggle back through the

shadowland of delirium into realization of where he was, and in whose

keeping. And the realization, too, when it came, how terrible and how

bitter! The father, conning over the tale, could well fit in the bare

outline of it all, with lurid touches of imagination. As he stared,

leaning his elbow on the table before him, with unseeing eyes on the

faded tapestries of the wall, he could picture that dark cell, the sick,

fevered man, whose youth struggled so madly within him for life; then

the mocking, jeering face of his captor as he told him the truth which

there was no need to hide--the truth that he was to lie there as this

villain's trump card, the instrument with which he was to work on

another's fears; how indeed that he was to be kept there to pine and

languish, but not to die, until his kinsman should enter upon his

inheritance, when his captor would be able to use him as a constant

menace to the unlawful Sieur de Mereac, wherewith to extort gold and

favour for himself. Oh, it was a cunning scheme! and how gleefully the

originator of it would have laughed as he unfolded it to his victim!

And then the long waiting time, the dragging by of month after month, in

which death indeed must have been yearned for as the best good, and yet

came not at his call. Then the delirious fancy, born of that terrible

captivity, that his gaoler was ever waiting an opportunity to come

creeping into his cell with his murderous dagger. And even though he

had prayed for death and longed for her restful kiss, yet the terror of

this swift and bloody end must have become unendurable. Then, when hope

seemed dead, the sudden fresh upleaping of it in the pity and friendship

of the old crone who brought him food, and, on rare occasions, fresh

garments--the resolve for flight, the breathless excitement of creeping

up those long and winding flights of stairs, with the old hag muttering

and sobbing out fears that her master would kill her when he heard the

truth, then the mad joy of drawing in once more the pure draught of

outer air, and finally the ill-timed escape--an escape so nearly

successful, however, that he had reached the river side and stood in

very view of the chateau, when the sight of his cruel captor had

unbalanced the weak, cowed spirit once more, and he had incontinently

fled into the forest, only to be easily overtaken and overpowered by

Kerden, who with oaths and blows threatened torture and punishment for

his temerity when once more he had brought him back to his prison. But

here the ruffian had been himself outwitted, for, in his search for his

victim, he had himself been seen and recognised by his late master, and

anxious, not only to elude, but put the latter off his scent entirely,

he had determined to lie low until de Coray's suspicions were allayed.

Accordingly he had carried Yvon to the cave he had found on the

hillside, and had secreted himself beside him, only to steal out at

night in search of provisions, which he procured from the peasants of

Mereac and the little town of Martigue close at hand. That very night

he had told Yvon of his intention of fetching his horse and returning to

Rennes, leaving his trembling prisoner in suspense as to his own fate.

Whether he had changed his mind, or whether the vigilant search of

Pierre the fool had alarmed him, it was impossible to say, seeing that

death had so swiftly overtaken the heartless schemer; but as de Mereac

recalled the terror-haunted face of his son as he told his story, he

brought down his clenched fist on the table before him with a fierce

curse on the soul of the man who had done this deed.

"My son," said a gentle voice at his side, "saith not the Holy Script,

'Forgive, as we forgive to others their trespasses'?"

De Mereac turned swiftly with outstretched hand towards the black-robed

figure standing by his chair.

"Ambrose!" he cried softly. "Nay, it does me good to hear thee speak of

forgiveness, seeing how much I need at thy hands."

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

shoulder.

"Nay," he replied, "it is not for thee to crave my forgiveness, Gaspard,

for in very truth methinks I was to blame for yielding to a maiden's

whim, albeit a generous one."

"Bah!" laughed de Mereac heartily, as he drew forward a chair and gently

pushed the old priest into it. "Thou wert not to blame for that, my

friend. Gwennola, I fear me, is her father's own daughter, and when she

setteth her mind to a thing there is no rest till it is performed. But

truly all was ordered for the best, and my little maid's judgment was

not ill, though whether she defied her father from love of justice, or

because she so hated the man whom in my folly I would have had her wed,

I know not."

Father Ambrose's smile was somewhat whimsical, for from his window he

had seen the two figures by the river side.

"Nay, old friend," he said gently, "perchance 'twas neither altogether

justice nor hatred that made a heroine of romance of the child, but a

stronger power than both, namely, love, which ever moveth a maid to

strange deeds and fancies."

De Mereac stared across at the priest for a moment with knitted brow,

then, as he divined his meaning, he frowned.

"A foolish whim," he retorted shortly, "and one that I trow well will

fade fast enough when this Frenchman hath taken his departure, which,

thanks be to Mary! he doth speedily. I would sooner the maid became a

dismal nun, all prayers and melancholy, than the wife of a French

robber."

"Truly to be a bride of Heaven is a happy and exalted vocation," said

Father Ambrose reprovingly, "though," he added, with a twinkle in his

keen old eyes, "methinks scarcely fitted for our Gwennola."

"Nay," replied de Mereac bluffly, "the maid hath too high a spirit and

too warm blood to endure the cramping life of a convent cell. A noble

maid, father, a noble maid, and one who shall be as nobly wed. I have

thought of young Alain de Ploeernic or Count Maurice de la Ferriere,

both worthy mates for the dove of Arteze, who, alas!" he added with a

shrug of his shoulders, "was so nigh to falling a prey to yonder bloody

hawk, whose neck I would fain wring ere the morrow's sun. False

caitiff! Nay, father, speak not to me of forgiveness, when I remember

yon lying tongue and think that I might have given my daughter's hand

into the red one which had thought to slay my son."

"Peace, Gaspard," said the priest soothingly, as de Mereac leapt from

his seat to stride wrathfully up and down the hall, "and rather than

vengeance think of the mercies vouchsafed to thee in that thou hast son

and daughter safely restored to thine arms."

"Restored!" cried de Mereac bitterly. "Nay, Ambrose, think of yon poor

lad's face and drooping form, all haggard and terrible, and recall the

morning when young Yvon rode forth so blithely across the bridge,

calling back to me, as I lay, cursing my ill luck in being unable to

move with rheumatic pains, that he would bring back our banner in

triumph with fresh laurels twined around it."

"It may yet be that he will recover," said Father Ambrose gently. "But

now, I left him sleeping peacefully; he is young, and life still runs

swiftly in his veins; here at Mereac, with love and friends surrounding

him, we may well hope to blot out those years which would altogether

have crazed one less strong and courageous."

"My poor Yvon! my poor son!" moaned the father. "My curses on these, his

all but murderers. Nay, father, reprove me not, for curse them I must

and will; I grow verily weary of delay when I think of de Coray even now

escaping my justice. Nay, father, your pardon, for whilst I thus rave I

forget to ask after thy hurts. Thou art still pale and worn; methinks

it were not well to rise so soon from thy couch."

"Nay," said the priest with a smile, "'twas but a cracked pate, which

truly somewhat acheth still, but which I trow will soon mend. Better a

pain in the head, my son, than one at the heart; therefore listen to thy

old friend's advice, and pray rather for thine enemies' souls than for

the destruction of their bodies."

"Nay, that will I not," retorted de Mereac sturdily, "for I would not

rob the devil of such choice morsels.--How now, Job, what news dost thou

bring? Where is thy prisoner?"

"Nay, my lord," faltered Job Alloadec, as he advanced, sweating and

abashed, towards his irate master, "I fear me that he hath escaped, for,

though we searched the forest from the chateau walls to Martigue itself,

we could find no trace of the miscreant."

"Curses on him!" growled de Mereac. "But I know thy searchings, knave,

with one eye shut and the other gazing upwards, as if thou expectest thy

quarry to drop like a ripe nut from the boughs overhead. Why, the

fellow must needs be within reach, since he had no steed to carry him."

"Nay, monsieur," replied the soldier with a perplexed stare at his

master, "craving your pardon, methinks he found a steed awaiting him

yonder in the forest, for when we rode to the ruined chapel" (Job

involuntarily crossed himself) "to fetch hitherward Monsieur

d'Estrailles' steed, which he told us was harboured close by, we found

no trace of it, though we searched not only the shed but the ruins too."

"By the beard of St Efflam, the villain hath escaped!" growled de Mereac

furiously, "the fiends verily having assisted him, for else, how knew he

where to find the Frenchman's horse?"