Job scratched his head doubtfully. It was to him altogether an affair

of Satanic agencies, and as he left his lord's presence with fresh

orders to continue the search, however hopeless, he again crossed

himself, little dreaming that he and his fellow-searchers had been more

than once that day within a stone's throw not only of the Frenchman's

horse, but of de Coray himself, sitting quietly within the sheltered hut

of Pierre the fool.

It was a grief indeed to Henri d'Estrailles when he heard of the loss of

his favourite horse--that the poor Rollo should be condemned to carry

his master's would-be murderer out of reach of the hand of justice

seemed a fate altogether unworthy of so gallant a beast, and one which

filled d'Estrailles with so keen a sorrow as could not well be

compensated by the generous gift of a splendid grey Arab from the Sieur

de Mereac himself.

The old Breton noble bade his guest a characteristic adieu, bluff,

hearty, yet in no way concealing his satisfaction at his departure.

But though Henri d'Estrailles found little encouragement from his host's

evident, though courteously concealed antagonism, he still clung to hope

as he bade a tender farewell to Gwennola. That love must triumph over

all obstacles is the gospel of youth, and so thought those two as they

looked their last into each other's eyes.

"I shall return," whispered Henri gently as he leant from his saddle bow

to kiss the tears from the beautiful upturned face--"I shall return ere

long, little one, to claim thy promises, and perchance remind thy father

of his, and for troth I shall guard this ring which thou hast given me,

and thy favour, which I shall bind in my helmet in the day of battle."

She smiled at him through her tears.

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

"Have I not?" he replied tenderly. "Nay, sweet, the only guerdon I have

to give is myself, and the heart that thou hast already in thy keeping,

and which I shall surely return anon to claim at thy hands."

"Thou shalt not have it then," she retorted, smiling again as she raised

her blue eyes to meet his dark ones. "For thou hast given it me for all

time, and in place--in place----"

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

"Foolish one!" she cried, with a little laugh which ended in a sob,

"thou knowest very well what heart thou hast in exchange--a heart of

Brittany, monsieur, for whose sake thou must be tender of its

countrymen."

"I swear it," he replied--"I swear it, little Gwennola," and so rode

away through the forest, and out over the wild heaths beyond, on the

road to Rennes.

*CHAPTER XII*

The long-cherished dream of the astute and far-seeing Francois Dunois,

Comte de Longueville, had apparently been brought to an untimely end by

the imperious will of a young girl. In spite of the representations of

her guardian and trusted councillors, as well as those of her faithful

friend, the Count Dunois himself, Anne remained firm in her rejection of

the proposal to unite herself with the King of France, and thus form an

indissoluble bond of union between the kingdom and duchy.

"King Charles," she said, "is an unjust prince, who wishes to despoil me

of the inheritance of my fathers. Has he not desolated my duchy,

pillaged my subjects, destroyed my towns? Has he not entered into the

most deceitful alliances with my allies, the Kings of Spain and England,

endeavouring to overreach and ruin me? And have I not, by the advice of

all of you who now counsel the contrary, just contracted anew a solemn

alliance with the King of the Romans, approved by you and all my people?

Do not believe that I will so falsify my word, nor that I will burthen

my conscience with an act which I feel to be so reprehensible."

In vain her council urged upon her the necessity of yielding to their

suggestions; in vain de Rieux, de Montauban, and the Prince of Orange

joined with Dunois in pleading the state of Britanny, the impossibility

of its defending itself, the certainty of its falling a prey to the

first ambitious neighbour who attacked it, since their Duchess would be

in a distant country, married to a man whose own subjects were

continually in a state of rebellion.

Anne haughtily refused to listen to these arguments. In spite of her

tender years, her will was indomitable, and her mind clear as to what

her actions should be.

"Rather," she replied at length to her discomfited council, "than be

found wanting in the honour and duty I owe to the King of the Romans,

whom I look upon as my husband, I will set forth to join him, since he

finds it impossible to come hither to fetch me."

Such a reply was decisive, and Dunois was fain to ride back chagrined

and discomfited, but not yet baffled, to give Anne's answer of defiance

to her royal wooer.

So also seemed to terminate the vague hopes to which Gwennola de Mereac

had clung during those summer days--days which were bringing, alas!

fresh sorrows to the lonely maiden of the old Breton chateau. For,

scarce two months after her lover's departure, a fall from his horse

during a boar hunt had left her to mourn a father who had ever been

tender and loving to his daughter, although for the past few weeks

somewhat sterner than his wont at her--to him--obstinate refusal to

listen to the command he laid on her to accept the hand--if not the

heart--of the young Comte de Laferriere, a betrothal which might indeed

have been forced upon her had not death intervened to save her from an

unwelcome lover, at the same time that he deprived her of a tenderly

loved parent.

The mourning of those days was long, and sufficiently trying even for

those whose grief was the most sincere; etiquette demanding that a

daughter should retire to bed for six weeks in a funereally draped

chamber, at most only being permitted to rise and sit upon a couch, also

hung with trappings of woe.

Deeply as she mourned her father, Gwennola could not but breathe a sigh

of relief as she stole out into the September sunshine at the conclusion

of the stated period of retirement. How dreary all seemed, she told

herself, and yet,--why, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and after all

life was young, and death,--she shuddered as she glanced down at her

black robe; but even whilst the tears dimmed her eyes, her thoughts,

with the inconsequence of youth, flew back to the lover from whom she

had parted, and wondered when he would come again a-wooing, and what

Yvon would say when he asked her hand of him. Those months of rest and

peace had wrought a great change in her brother. Much of the lost

beauty of youth had returned, and the attenuated limbs had regained

their strength and vigour, but still in the blue eyes there lurked that

vague terror which three years of haunting dread and suffering had

indelibly stamped within them. Neither would Yvon de Mereac ever be the

noble, gallant knight his boyhood had foreshadowed. Cruelty and

mind-torture had crushed and enfeebled a strong, brave nature in their

ruthless clutch, and Gwennola's own eyes would often fill with tears of

sympathy as they met the restless, anxious glance of her brother's,

which betokened a mind still clouded with nervous fears. Yet, in spite

of weakness, Yvon possessed an obstinate determination, when once his

mind was set, from which neither argument nor entreaty would move him,

and it was this vein of obstinacy which Gwennola trembled to evoke by

mention of her lover's name, seeing that her brother inherited all his

father's implacable animosity to their natural foes of France. Still,

the love of brother and sister for each other was strong, and it would

often seem as if Yvon would lean on the stronger nature of Gwennola for

guidance and advice, whilst her own sisterly affection had, at times,

the motherly instinct of protection for one whose mind still became

shadowed with dread of an unseen, indefinable fear.

Accompanied by Marie and the faithful Gloire Gwennola was returning some

few days later from her weekly visit to the now bed-ridden old peasant

dame, Mere Fanchonic, when she was surprised to note the signs of an

arrival at the gates of the chateau. Two strange men-at-arms were

leading away horses, on the backs of which were pillions.

"See, Marie," Gwennola exclaimed, as she hurried forward, "what can it

mean? It is without doubt visitors who have but lately arrived, and

look, pillions also! Verily, what dames can so unexpectedly have

honoured us, here at Arteze?"

"Some travellers doubtless who have lost their way," suggested Marie.

"But see, lady, here cometh Job, with his foolish face all agog with

news."

"Which we are as fain to hear as he to tell," cried Gwennola, laughing

gaily, for her spirits had risen to hail any change which came to break

the monotony of existence; besides, might this strange visit not be in

some way connected with her absent lover?

"Perchance 'tis the Dame of Laferriere come hither with her noble son,"

suggested Marie slyly, as she watched the flush of annoyance which

instantly rose to her young mistress's brow.

"'Tis little likely," retorted Gwennola with some asperity, "seeing that

the good dame hath been as bed-ridden as Mere Fanchonic these past two

years. An thou hast no better suggestion to give, wench, 'twere wisest

to bear in mind the good Father Ambrose's homily on the virtue of

silence, which he delivered last Sunday."

Marie did not reply to this rebuke, though she pursed her rosy mouth,

round which the dimples played, and tossed her dark, comely head with an

air of great sagacity, as one who knew well what lay in her mistress's

thoughts behind the sharp speech.

But the maidens' curiosity was in no way gratified by the worthy Jobik,

who conveyed only the intelligence that a dame had but lately arrived at

the chateau, and that his master had bidden him speedily seek his

mistress and acquaint her with the news.

"A dame? Alone and unattended?" queried Gwennola eagerly. "Tell me

then, good Jobik, what name did she give? and what appearance hath she?

Is she old or young? and hath knowledge of her features?"

To which Job Alloadec responded that to his knowledge the lady had given

no name, and that so closely was she hooded that he had not seen her

features, but that she was tall and slender, and spoke with the air of a

great lady, very haughtily and proudly. For the rest, he knew naught

save that she had come in company with a waiting damsel and three

men-at-arms, and that the Sieur de Mereac had bidden him hasten.

Seeing that it was useless to waste time in further questions, Gwennola

hastened on, wondering greatly what such a visit portended, and who the

lady might be who thus rode in such troublous times with so small an

escort and unattended by any cavalier.

The hall of the chateau was deserted, save for two men-at-arms who

lounged near the lower end, and Pierre the fool, who lay on his stomach

sporting with his ape, and emitting from time to time shrill screams of

merriment in mimicry of his wizened little companion's cries of anger at

being thus mocked, much to the amusement of little Henri, the page, who

squatted opposite him. In reply to his mistress's inquiries, the page

informed her that his master was awaiting her coming in the solar room,

whilst he ran before her to raise the tapestries which hung before the

inner apartment.

The solar room was one in which Gwennola most often sat with her maidens

over her tapestry or embroidery work, and was more sumptuously furnished

than the rest of the chateau; the floor being covered with a fine

Flemish carpet, and the hangings of dark velvet, whilst in the corner

stood a harp and embroidery frame.

Standing by the high, narrow window, his head leaning against the stone

work, as if he strove to see beyond into the courtyard, was Yvon de

Mereac, and Gwennola noted the restless, uneasy expression of his

handsome face as he turned to greet her.

"Fair sister," he began nervously, as he bowed with the courtesy which

in those days of chivalry even brothers paid to their sisters. "Pardon

me for so hasty a summons, but--but----"

"Jobik bade me hasten to greet an unexpected guest," replied Gwennola,

glancing round the room in surprise at seeing no other occupant saving

her brother.

"Ay," replied Yvon with growing uneasiness. "I pray you, my Gwennola,

of your courtesy, greet the lady graciously, for----"

"Nay," retorted his sister with some haughtiness. "Am I then accustomed

to treat guests so unbecomingly, that thou needest to school me in my

manners, Yvon?"

"Nay, nay," he replied anxiously. "Again thy pardon, little sister, but

methought,--methought perchance the name might strike unpleasingly upon

thine ear, did I not first explain."

"The name?" repeated Gwennola wonderingly. "In sooth, brother, I take

not thy meaning."

"It is Mademoiselle de Coray," he muttered hurriedly. "Nay, sister,

look not so angrily; she hath come, poor maid, on an errand of peace."

"Peace!" echoed Gwennola, her face hardening into lines so proud and

cold as to recall the stern look of her father, "a de Coray bound on

peace? Sooner would I trust the serpent who spoke soft words to our

Mother Eve to have come on an errand of love to mankind than the sister

of Guillaume de Coray to be bound on such a mission."

"Nay, thy words are unjust," said Yvon hotly. "But stay, thou shalt not

judge till thou hast seen her, for once look into her eyes and thou

shalt read there such wells of innocence and truth as shall shame thee

of suspicion."

"Innocence and truth!" replied Gwennola scornfully. "So perchance

thought Adam when he looked into Eve's eyes and plucked the apple from

her hand; but tell me, then, what hath brought this paragon of beauty

and perfection to our poor Chateau of Mereac? There must e'en be good

reason to bring so fair a dame across Brittany in these times."

"Thy mocking becomes thee not," retorted Yvon coldly. "As for the

errand of Mademoiselle de Coray, thou shalt judge for thyself whether it

augurs more of deceit than of such sweetness of disposition as I fear me

thou wilt scarce appreciate in thy present wayward mood."

"Wayward mood!" echoed Gwennola indignantly, for a seventeen-year-old

chatelaine could hardly thus calmly brook being chidden as a child.

"Wayward mood, forsooth! but we shall see in good time who is the wise

one. Yet mayhap thou wilt tell me, most wise and well-discerning

brother, of what import the story was? Whereof it was made I wot I know

already."

Perhaps Yvon did not hear the last few words, in his eagerness to

convert his sister to a more amenable mood concerning their guest.

"She had heard," he said, "that our father was no more, and would, in

spite of her brother's opposition, insist straightway on coming to

Mereac, deeming the time a fitting one to heal a sore breach betwixt

loving kinsmen, by an explanation which should have been made long

since."

"Loving kinsmen!" murmured Gwennola, plucking at the girdle round her

waist. "Bah! I would have little of such love, I trow."

"And so," continued Yvon, heeding her not, "she hath come to Mereac, and

told me her story."

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

"Tush! child, thou pratest of what thou knowest not; little like was I

to be deceived. Yet verily there was no deception in the eyes of

mademoiselle; whilst, as for the story, it is simplicity itself."

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

"Truly for the most part I knew it before. My sole enemy was Francois

Kerden, who himself stole upon me in the wood, and would have killed me,

for no reason but wanton cruelty, had not the fouler scheme entered his

head. Yet, even as it came to him, fate furthered the plot, for

Guillaume de Coray, seeing in part what was chancing, sprang to the

spot, and would have revenged my death, as he supposed, on my murderer,

had not the Frenchman intervened and robbed him of his prey and me."

Yvon stopped with a groan as the memory of those three years of

imprisonment returned to him.

"But," said Gwennola coldly, "the story scarce bears the light of truth,

brother, seeing that Henri d'Estrailles saw the traitor blow struck;

besides, if so innocent, why fled this so noble kinsman when he saw thee

appear? and why did he strive to doom to death another, when he saw who

had in reality struck thee down, according to this pretty fable?"

"Nay," said Yvon, knitting his brows, "it is easily explained, didst

thou but listen, girl. It was in this way. Guillaume had already been

wounded, and, faint with loss of blood, could scarce distinguish betwixt

Frenchman or Breton. Both wore closed vizors, and both were near at the

time of my fall; which had struck the blow Guillaume could scarce

realize. The Breton fled, however, and whilst he turned to strike him

down in the act, the Frenchman opened his vizor, and de Coray clearly

saw his features. Methinks it was this that confused him in claiming

that d'Estrailles had done the coward's act, for but one face was

imprinted on his reeling memory, and surely 'twere easy thus to confuse

which of the twain he had seen actually to perform the foul deed. That

it was Kerden himself is shown by the part he afterwards played in so

torturing me."

"Nay," said Gwennola shortly, "the story is false, my brother, and

should not deceive a babe--false as the weaver of it. Did I not kneel

beside this Kerden and listen to his dying words, which fitted so aptly

with those of Monsieur d'Estrailles? It is impossible, Yvon, that for a

moment thou couldest believe so lying a tale, or shelter beneath thy

roof one who proves herself traitress with her first breath."

"Nay, mademoiselle," said a laughing voice in the doorway, and, turning,

brother and sister perceived the object of their conversation standing

there, the tapestry curtain half raised by one arm, as she smiled from

one to the other, as if aware of the dainty picture she thus formed.

That Diane de Coray was beautiful there was no denying, but her beauty

was not of the kind which perchance Gwennola had already imagined her to

possess. No possibility of deceit seemed to lurk in her clear, hazel

eyes, which shone with frankness and merriment. Her rosy cheeks, full

red lips, and delicate features, all combined to give her an appearance

of extreme youth, an embodiment of springtime, in truth, and a fair one

to boot. The hair under the white head-dress was soft and wavy, and of

a rich, dark brown; her figure was slender and tall, set off to

advantage in a sleeveless gown of crimson velvet, edged with lettice, a

fur much in vogue then amongst the fashionable, whilst round her waist

she wore a handsome girdle with jewelled tassels.

As they turned to face her, Diane dropped the tapestry and with a deep

curtsy towards her young hostess advanced with outstretched hands.

"Nay," she cried, still laughing, "thou shalt not thus judge me unheard,

little one. Fie on thee! thy kinswoman a traitress? I pray thee tell

me wherein? See! I come as a hostage for my brother's truth."

"And one that we shall hope to keep for long," responded Yvon

courteously, as he placed a seat for her.

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

so.

"Thy sister would not too warmly echo thy words, fair kinsman," she

replied with a sly glance towards Gwennola.

But Mademoiselle de Mereac was not to be moved by roguish glances,

dimples, or sweet words. She had responded to her cousin's effusive

greeting with a stiff curtsy, taking not the slightest notice of the

outstretched hands.

"Mademoiselle," she replied icily, in answer to Diane's rallying words,

"is as welcome as the sister of Guillaume de Coray is likely to be at

Mereac."

Diane pouted her lips, with the sweet coquetry of a spoilt child; there

would even seem to have been tears in the eyes which she raised first to

Yvon and from him to Gwennola.

"It is cruel," she murmured softly, "that thou wilt not believe my word,

but it is as Guillaume warned me, for oft he hath told me with sorrow of

the hatred you bear him, sweet Gwennola. But no," she cried, springing

from her seat and clasping her slim hands together with a pretty little

air of supplication, "thou shalt be convinced, fair cousin. See, I

swear to thee it is true. Wilt thou not believe me?"

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

inexorably.

"Fly?" echoed Diane innocently. "Nay, cousin, scarcely fly! That he

left in haste it is true; yet not so much from fear as from another

sin--shall I confess it?" Her arch smile was met by Gwennola's grave,

set face, which, however, seemed in no way to abash her. "It was

jealousy," she murmured, glancing up towards Yvon and addressing him

more than Gwennola. "Fie! it is an evil passion. Is it not, monsieur?

but one to which poor mortals are prone. He had verily proved, as he

thought, that Monsieur d'Es--d'Es--monsieur the Frenchman was guilty of

his cousin's blood, and unworthy though it might be, he was the more

glad to see him die as he fancied the lady of his love looked more

kindly on him than he deemed befitting. So, when he found that his

rival was like to be restored to liberty, in a foolish fit of

unreasoning rage he hurried homewards, little dreaming how ill a

construction so weak an act could have placed upon it."

"And how knew he of such construction, seeing he fled in such haste?"

demanded Gwennola shrewdly; but Diane de Coray had suddenly become

afflicted with deafness.

"To such foolishness doth unrequited love lead us," she sighed,

addressing Yvon solely now. "Alas! 'tis a cruel passion at best, is it

not, monsieur? and one better eschewed by the wise."

"Nay," replied he slowly, looking down with undisguised admiration into

her face. "Not when it cometh in the guise of an angel of peace and

love, mademoiselle."

"Peace and love!" whispered Gwennola to herself as she withdrew. "Mary,

Mother, grant that it be not strife and bitter hate; for, alas! she is

false, this demoiselle, false to the heart's core, for all her beauty."

*CHAPTER XIII*

It would seem indeed that Diane de Coray had come,--if come for that

purpose she had,--to play hostage for life against her brother's truth,

for almost imperceptibly she slipped into her niche in the simple,

family life at the Chateau of Mereac.

Not that her presence brought peace in its train, for it seemed that

where she found peace she would fain leave a sword, and many and bitter

were the tears that Gwennola shed in the solitude of her chamber as she

watched her enemy gaining daily more undisputed sway over her pliable

and weak-minded brother. Yes, it was tacitly agreed that it was to be

warfare between these two kinswomen, yet such warfare as only women can

play, the scratching of claws from velvet paws, and the sweet smile

veiling bitter words. Not that Gwennola was an adept at such fencing;

her nature was too straightforward, perhaps also too tempestuous, to

repay veiled insult with veiled insult. She would reply hotly, even

angrily, thus bringing the odium of a quarrel entirely on her own

shoulders, leaving her rival to smile indulgently, as if at the stormy

outburst of a child, till Gwennola could have wept for very

mortification. These unequal trials of strength had, however, the effect

at which Diane aimed; brother and sister grew gradually more estranged,

for Yvon, hot with the infatuation with which his beautiful kinswoman

had inspired him, hesitated not to rebuke his sister, ofttimes with

anger, for replying indignantly to Diane's sugared taunts. So the days

wore on, and Gwennola's heart grew ever heavier, and the hopes which

summer had whispered in her ears faded before the shrill blasts of

autumn.

It had been rumoured that King Charles had taken ill the refusal of the

young Duchess to listen to his proposals, and was even now assembling a

mighty army to march into Brittany and demand by force what could not be

his by pleading.

In face of such rumours the bitter hatred of their overweening and

powerful neighbours became intensified, and Gwennola knew that her rival

would make use of such national indignation to crush her hopes that Yvon

would allow of a betrothal between herself and Henri d'Estrailles.

Indeed, that such was in truth the case, Yvon, all too soon, took no

pains to conceal, telling his sister coldly that since she so resented

the thoughts of a betrothal with Guillaume de Coray, she must choose

between a nun's veil and the bridegroom her father had already designed

for her, Maurice de Laferriere.

In vain Gwennola pleaded her father's promise that, should peace at

length bind the two countries together, her hand might follow the

dictates of her heart. With an obstinacy which, when once aroused, was

immovable, Yvon refused to listen to tears or entreaties, bidding her

choose without delay, seeing that it was time that her destiny should be

settled, and at the same time announcing his own betrothal to Diane de

Coray.

Prepared as she was for this, still, the shock was terrible to the

unhappy Gwennola. The prejudice she had conceived against the sister of

de Coray had ripened during those past weeks into something akin to

hatred, a feeling she felt to be heartily reciprocated by Diane herself.

That young lady, however, was sufficiently mistress of her emotions to

conceal her dislike under a very pretty show of friendship, which

entirely deceived the love-sick Yvon, who felt that his sister only was

to blame in the dissensions which rose from time to time between

chatelaine and guest.

Thus matters stood that October morning, as Diane de Coray entered the

hall of the chateau with her falcon on her wrist, and a smile of triumph

in her hazel eyes.

"Come, Pierre," she said softly, as the fool, who had been crouched

shivering over the fire, at her entrance rose to his feet. "I would

talk with thee yonder, on the terrace path. The Sieur de Mereac will

not yet be ready for the chase, and meantime I have somewhat to say to

thee. Tell me," she added, still further lowering her voice, as she

reached the broad terrace and stood facing her shivering companion,

"hath thy master arrived?"

"He has been for some days past at the hut of Henri Lefroi," muttered

the lad, eyeing his interrogator curiously.

"For some days?" echoed Diane in surprise. "Nay, 'tis strange; to what

purport should he linger thus?"

"I know not," replied Pierre moodily, "that being my master's business,

and none of mine. But what is your will, lady? for methinks I hear

monsieur's voice yonder, calling your name."

"No matter," said Diane lightly; "he can wait for the nonce. But attend

then, little knave: thou must go this day to the house of this Lefroi,

and bid my brother ride hitherward as if he had come from a journey.

Tell him that his welcome is assured from all, except perchance the

little fool Gwennola de Mereac; but tell him on no account to delay

longer, for I am at a loss how to proceed without him." She repeated

the last words emphatically, as if desirous of imprinting them on

Pierre's mind, then with a brief nod she turned from him to welcome with

sunny smiles the young lord of the chateau, who came striding towards

her, his handsome face flushed with pleasure, his blue eyes aflame with

love.

"Nay, sweetheart," he cried reproachfully, "didst not hear me call?

See, I grow jealous even of a fool, who is thus overwhelmed with honour

at receiving one smile from those sweet lips."

Perhaps Pierre the fool, slipping back to his corner by the fire, found

the honour less burdensome than his lord supposed, seeing that he sat

there chuckling at the merry flames that blazed and leapt on the open

hearth. It was manifestly an effort to drag himself away from the warm

glow, out once more into the keen air, yet, so pleasant seemed his

thoughts, that he still chuckled softly, as he trotted along the forest

path with Petit Pierre perched on his shoulder, chattering and scolding

in unison.

The hut of Henri Lefroi bore almost as ill a reputation as the ruined

chapel of the Brown Friar, for, folk said, this was the habitation of a

wizard whose powers in the occult science were so great as to defy both

heaven and hell, wherefore at the name men and women crossed themselves

and repeated an ave, for very fear of incurring the wrath of so dread a

personage.

But it was not to the hut of old Lefroi that Pierre turned his steps,

but rather to the little dwelling-place where Gabrielle, his sister,

would be sitting spinning.

It was two weeks since that her brother had also started spinning, but

not in his case from flaxen thread, but the woof of romance, which had

been born suddenly in his cunning mind. Why should Monsieur de Coray,

he asked himself, come so many days before the time appointed by his

sister? And why, instead of acquainting her with the fact of his

presence, should he strive to conceal it? And also, why should he daily

steal away from Henry Lefroi's dismal abode to spend the long hours of

the autumn days beside the pretty Gabrielle? Aha! a pretty romance that

was, which the little fool watched, safe hidden from prying eyes,

amongst the undergrowth of the thicket. Yes, he told himself, without

doubt Monsieur de Coray had lost his heart to Gabrielle, his sister, and

without doubt the day would come when Gabrielle should be the mistress

of a noble chateau, and he, Pierre the fool, would for ever doff the

motley and play the role of Monsieur Laurent. Ah! how grand it sounded,

how distinguished! Yet for all that he kept jealous guard over those

two, for not altogether did he trust the honour of Monsieur de Coray,

although he marked shrewdly with what respect he spoke to the little

sister, such respect as he had surely not even shown Mademoiselle de

Mereac, the proud, haughty demoiselle of the chateau yonder.

And Pierre, for all his foolishness, was right, for the passion of a bad

and evil man had become purified in the presence of this child of the

forest. He loved her, not as he had loved others, but with a reverence,

such as one has for saints, combined with the passion he felt for the

woman, and, as he sat there, day by day, watching her as she span, or

listening entranced when she sang to him a sweet, simple ballad of

Brittany, filled with the romance and sadness of her land, in a voice

such as the birds might have envied, he swore to himself that this

peasant girl should be his wife, and that for her sake he would do all

things. But the snake of old ever lurks in the fairest garden of dreams,

and so the very purpose of his presence in these forests became one that

he swore to fulfil, evil and cruel as it was, for the sake of this

beautiful child, whose guileless glances had won his sin-hardened heart.

So the devil tempts us. For the sake, we say, of one we love, however

pure and good, we will do evil so that we may lavish its fruits on the

object of our devotion, who, forsooth! would shrink back appalled if it

knew from whence those fruits came.

So in the autumn woods three souls dreamed out their dreams. Pierre the

fool strutting, in his mind's eye, in a suit of velvet and chain of

gold, no longer the jester or object of jest, but "Monsieur Laurent,"

brother, honoured and esteemed, of Madame la Chatelaine. Guillaume de

Coray clasping in his arms the lovely girl whose image had blotted out

so many and so varied dreams of ambitions, and leading her with proud

and triumphant steps to his Chateau of Mereac, won at last by means to

which he involuntarily closed his eyes. And Gabrielle Laurent, seeing

only the face of the man to whom she had given her heart, and whom she

must love for all time, indifferent to whether he were great lord or

simple peasant, with all the pure tenderness of her young heart. Whilst

at night, as she knelt in prayer within her lonely hut, she would thank

the good God and all her guardian saints, with child-like simplicity and

gratitude, for sending into her life one so noble and so good as

Guillaume de Coray, repeating the name softly and reverently to herself,

as though it possessed some charm to drive away all dreams of ill, as

she lay in her wooden bed, watching the flickering moonlight as it fell

across the threshold--the white, beautiful moonlight, which was no purer

than her thoughts as she fell to sleep murmuring her lover's name.

Alas! the poor little Gabrielle!

*CHAPTER XIV*

It was some three hours after Pierre the fool had delivered Diane de

Coray's message that the brother and sister sat together in her chamber

at the Chateau de Mereac.

"So thou hast succeeded?" inquired Guillaume, scanning with curiosity,

not unmixed with admiration, his sister's beautiful face.

"Beyond our expectations."

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

"So," he said, crossing his legs and leaning his elbow against the

table, so that his eyes were bent nearly opposite to hers. "Beyond our

expectations? That is well. And so the poor fool, Yvon de Mereac, loves

you?"

"As warmly as his sister hates me."

"Equally to their own destruction."

She laughed a trifle uneasily.

"The idea causes you amusement?"

His tone was not pleasant.

"Amusement," she said vaguely. Then, changing her tone, "Is it after

all so necessary?"

"Altogether necessary. Remember your oath."

She changed colour, but clung to her point.

"Nay, but seeing--seeing he loves me?"

"Scarcely with such devotion that he would give up his inheritance to

the brother of his adored."

She winced under the sneer.

"But will nothing else content you, mon frere? If I were his wife, I--I

would arrange matters altogether to your will. You shall be lord in all

but name. Consider, he is, after all, but a poor, weak fool, who will

ever do my bidding."

Her words were rapid, and rang with a note of pleading, but Guillaume de

Coray only frowned.

"It is necessary that he shall be altogether removed, or, if plain

speaking be necessary, he must die. The means are already in our

hands."

She shuddered involuntarily.

"Bah!" he said lightly. "Thou surely dost not love this weakling lover

of thine, Diane? Grieve not for him, ma chere; the new Sieur de Mereac

will wed thee to a nobler suitor when he comes to his own."

"I cannot do it," she moaned. "Nay, brother, I sicken at the very

thought. 'Tis not in truth that I love him, but--but----"

"A foolish fancy," quoth her brother mockingly. "Nay, Diane, thou art

not wont to blanch so easily, and bethink thee of thy sweet revenge on

yon proud and scornful maid."

Her hazel eyes grew hard.

"Yes," she said, "I hate her; yes, hate her with all my soul, for she

scorns me, Guillaume, and flouts me too, for all her brother's anger.

Ay, revenge is sweet, and yet----"

"Courage," mocked Guillaume, leaning closer to her across the

table--"courage, little sister. After all----"

He paused, watching her eyes dilate with sudden dread as she filled in

the unspoken words.

"No," she cried at length, and her voice rose in a quick, decisive tone,

"I cannot do it, Guillaume; sooner than be thy tool in this work I

will--I will----"

"Die thyself belike," he said coolly, his eyes never leaving her

changing face. "Think well, Diane, yes, very well, before thou breakest

thine oath--remember the fate that awaits thee, did I so much as breathe

one word concerning thy dealings in matters which have brought many a

fairer maid than thee to the stake, or the torture chamber. Did I

proclaim thee witch, what arm, even of love itself, would be strong

enough in Brittany, ay, and in all France, to save thee?"

"I am no witch," she cried passionately, "as thou knowest well, liar and

coward that thou art."

"No witch," he replied smoothly, "yet sufficiently akin to seal thy

doom, were I to reveal thy secret dealings with one at whose name all

Brittany shudders. And thou thyself hast been no mean pupil, my

sister--therefore----"

The significant pause was sufficient, and the unfortunate girl covered

her face in her hands as she moaned out--

"Nay, spare me the taunt, Guillaume. It is true I have sinned, and yet

I am no witch, before Heaven I am no witch. Did I not flee from the

beldame's accursed dwelling in very terror from such deeds as they would

have me do? Nay, brother, little I knew with what black terror I

played, I, a motherless girl, led astray by one whom I had deemed a

friend."

"A fair friend," he sneered, "truly a fair friend; but enough. That

thou didst flee is known to me; that thou wert _there_ shall be known,

ay, and proved to the world if thou art obstinate, and thou shalt pay

the penalty as surely as if thou wert as truly a servant of Satan as any

hag who gathers nightly on the sands of Seville or around the nut tree

of Benevento."

Diane crossed herself, white to the lips, whilst her eyes crept to his

face with the fear of a dog who looks up in very terror of the lash he

knows he shall see descending.

"What is thy will?" she whispered mechanically, as she read no sign of

relenting in the hard face before her.

He smiled triumphantly.

"Thou wilt obey?"

"I will obey."

"That is well, but for the rest, thou knowest very well my will, and

wherefore thou camest hither."

She shuddered.

"Still," continued her brother, "if thou wilt hear it again I will

repeat our plan, _our_ plan, thou mindest, Diane, which thou helpedst me

to form so cleverly at Pontivy."

"I had not known him then," she cried with a little sob, "and--and he

loves me well."

"So much the better; the less chance of suspicion falling upon us. See,

child, have done with these foolish vapourings, and mark how all falls

in with our purpose. The Sieur de Mereac loves thee--a love which he

will doubtless in time extend in some measure to me, thy brother, seeing

that thou hast set his mind at rest concerning the affair at St Aubin.

All then are at peace and filled with content, saving only Mademoiselle

de Mereac, who, for some unknown reason, is consumed with hatred and

jealousy against her brother's beloved friends, a hatred which, indeed,

also estranges her from her brother. Suddenly, without warning, the

Sieur de Mereac falls ill, wasting away, in some strange and

inexplicable sickness, till in due time it is apparent that death claims

him for a comrade. A whisper is rumoured throughout the house coupling

the name of Gwennola de Mereac with witchcraft; the whisper grows to an

outcry; proofs of guilt are discovered in the maiden's chamber; she is

condemned to death, but it is too late to save her ill-fated brother,

who perishes, a victim to an execrated sister's malevolence, and

Guillaume de Coray, his cousin, reigns in his stead over the broad lands

of Mereac. Voila, my sister, how charming and how simple a history!

And the means, the _means_," he emphasized, "of its fulfilment lie

here."

As he spoke he handed her a small phial containing a dark liquid,

watching her, as the cat does the mouse, as she took it in her trembling

hand.

"You comprehend?" he asked softly.

"I comprehend."

He smiled pensively.

"That is very well, and in due course my delightful history will unfold

itself. For the whisper of mademoiselle's guilt it would be well to

employ the services of the good Jeanne. She is discreet, that girl, and

worthy of reward."

But Diane did not answer; she was still staring in horror at the tiny

phial she held in her hand--the phial that was the price of a life.

"A charming love potion, the dear Lefroi informed me," said de Coray,

spreading out his hands with an airy gesture. "Ah, what a man is that,

and what a dwelling!--a very charnel-house; and yet not without its

amusement. Thou mightest have done worse, my Diane, than stay to listen

to thy fair friend's discourse on the occult science, that night at

Pontivy. But thou dost not agree? Bah! what foolishness!--'tis surely

better to mix one's own potions rather than trust to the discretion of

another. But, as for Lefroi, he is no gossip, and, if one foresaw

danger, a dagger thrust is a sure seal to unruly lips. And now, my

sister, I will bid thee au revoir, seeing that I go to greet the

beautiful demoiselle who did me the honour not long since to become my

betrothed bride. Parbleu! it may well be that ere long she shall regret

having scorned the hand which was once offered her in love and

friendship."

"Love and friendship!" echoed Diane drearily to herself, as with a bow

her brother withdrew. "Thy love and friendship! Merciful heavens!

methinks the love of such an one would but bring damnation in its train,

and I----" A sob choked her whispered words.

"Ah, Yvon! poor Yvon!" she muttered softly, "and thou must die!" Then,

shaking back her hair, which had partly fallen across her face, she drew

herself up defiantly. "At least," she said softly, as she faced her

mirror, and noted the haggard countenance reflected therein--"at least I

shall have revenge on yon proud girl. For her I have no pity--the

scornful one!"

Meantime, so strange is human nature, Guillaume de Coray was standing

looking out from his turret chamber towards the forest with a look so

softened and tender that his sister would have failed to recognise the

man who but a short hour before had planned murder in mocking tones.

Now he was dreaming of the time when he should lead his Gabrielle forth

from those forest shades, a proud and happy bride. In that dream of the

future, when he saw himself at last at the summit of ambition, lord of

the surrounding lands, husband of a woman already adored, it was strange

that he saw himself also attaining to an honour and nobility which he

could never possess. The husband of Gabrielle Laurent, he told himself,

should close for ever the gates of the past which shrouded Guillaume de

Coray, the blood-stained, unprincipled villain who, from serving an evil

master, had afterwards served, more evilly still, his own lusts,

trampling underfoot on his way any who opposed his progress to his goal,

only mindful of his ends, caring no jot by what villainy they were

accomplished. Yes, the gates should be shut on this man, and in the

Sieur de Mereac should arise a new creature, upright, honourable,

knightly, a phantom figure striving to be ever what the woman he loved

had pictured him. Strange freak of complex human nature, seldom found

so lost as to be beyond the pale of redemption; cruel and sin-hardened

as this man was, there must needs have been a heart somewhere buried

deeply within him, which afar off worshipped goodness and truth,--a

heart which had been roused into life, amidst corruption, by a woman's

pure touch. She had believed in him, this simple peasant girl, with the

face and mind of a holy Madonna, and the trust had awakened within him

that long silent chord of chivalry and honour from which love itself had

sprung. In her presence he was no longer the Guillaume de Coray whom

the world knew, but one who strove to cloak that evil presence in a garb

of honour and nobility. And in the deception itself lay the very germ

of a new-born nobler self, a desire to lay aside for ever that hidden

being of sin and become that which he read himself to be in her pure

eyes. He shuddered as he pictured her realization of himself as he was,

and swore that sooner than that this should be he would cast the old

self aside. Yet,--mark the insidious whisper of Satan,--such dreams of

goodness and virtue were garments to be donned after he had accomplished

his purpose. Sin was the necessary tool he must employ to win for his

white dove the fair nest he coveted; therefore sin should be his boon

companion till the work was done, and he almost forgot to shudder at her

uncomely countenance or shrink from the foul whispers of her counsel in

his haste to use her far his will. Afterwards he would spurn her--yes,

afterwards, when Gabrielle reigned at Mereac--afterwards--but not now.

*CHAPTER XV*

The sound of revelry rose high in the great hall of Mereac. On the dais

at the head of the table the young Sieur, with flushed cheeks and

sparkling eyes, raised his goblet of wine and drank deeply as he looked

into the hazel eyes of the beautiful woman beside him. The guests

around the table whispered together that Yvon de Mereac's taste had not

been amiss when he chose the lovely Diane de Coray for his betrothed,

and toasts were freely drunk to the future chatelaine of the castle, and

admiring glances flung towards the youthful beauty who sat there

laughing and smiling so gaily and happily.

Guillaume de Coray laughed too as he pledged the fair dame beside him

and quaffed the choice hippocras which filled his cup. All indeed went

well with those castles in the air which he was so intent on building.

The first seeds were already sown, and his keen glance noted with a

thrill of pleasurable excitement that the flushed cheek and sparkling

eye of his young host wore anything but the bloom of health. His own

eyes roamed slowly round the board as he followed the tenor of his

thoughts, and fell at length on the face of Gwennola de Mereac.

The young girl was sitting silent and pale amongst her brother's guests,

her listless eyes and apathetic replies to the cavalier beside her

telling how far away were thoughts and heart. In vain the Comte de

Laferriere whispered tender words in her unwilling ears. She replied in

accents so cold that they must necessarily have chilled the warmest

admirer; and at length the Count, weary of repulses, turned his

attentions and compliments to a more sprightly damsel on his left, who

seemed only too willing to respond to his wit and gallantry. If he had

thought to chagrin his destined bride, the effect was quite contrary to

his expectations, for Gwennola seemed entirely indifferent, if not

oblivious, to his neglect, but sat in her place, pale, listless, and

indifferent as before, except when for a moment's space she raised her

blue eyes to encounter de Coray's mocking smile, when a flush of anger

swept over her pale cheeks, and for a moment her eyes flashed with their

old scorn and defiance.

In spite of her passionate indignation and pleading, this man had been

welcomed as an honoured guest by her infatuated brother, who listened

with ready ears to the lame and feeble excuses with which de Coray

strove to explain the past. All was forgiven and forgotten to the

brother of the lovely Diane, and it needed but a brief space for de

Coray to attain a firm command over his future brother-in-law's weak and

wavering will. That she should be forced into some hateful marriage or

condemned to a convent cell was Gwennola's daily expectation, but so far

the blow had not fallen. It is true that Maurice de Laferriere still

wooed, but no formal betrothal had taken place. Yet all hopes of a

marriage with her lover were shattered for ever, not only by reason of

France's threatening attitude towards the persecuted duchy, but because

of the bitter enmity of de Coray, who had successfully persuaded de

Mereac that the Frenchman had been the ally of Francois Kerden.

No wonder, therefore, that Gwennola's heart was heavy as she sat,

perforce, alone and solitary, amidst the revelry around.

"A new minstrel!" cried Yvon with a gay laugh. "Nay, my friend, by the

bones of St Yves, thou comest in a fortunate hour. Thy name, good

fellow? and a cup of wine to clear thy throat before thy song."

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

speaker.

"My name, monsieur," he replied in the Breton tongue, "is Jean Marcille,

and my birthplace near to Cape Raz."

"Good," replied the host. "A true Breton; and a Breton ballad of Breton

prowess is ever welcome at the Chateau de Mereac. Eh, old Antoine? A

new strain will be as welcome to us as a rest is to thee; therefore sing

us a stirring lay, Sir Minstrel, and see that its theme be of love and

war, for of such things all true knights make their dreams and fair

ladies welcome."

Again the minstrel bowed, and, taking his vielle in his hand, swept the

chords ere he began his song, glancing as he did so round the long

board, though his eye seemingly rested on none. He himself was a

sufficiently striking figure to cause interest, especially at the lower

end of the table, where the waiting-women eyed with appreciation the

slight, well-formed figure in its corset of scarlet cloth and wide

hanging sleeves, and the cap of velvet, nearly half a yard in height,

set jauntily on the man's dark hair, which well matched his bronzed

complexion and black, merry eyes, which seemed to promise a boon

companion of a gay wit and keen tongue.

The visit of such a vielleur was not uncommon to the chateaux of the

great; for although nearly all possessed a minstrel of their own, a

fresh repertoire was always welcomed, music and singing being an almost

necessary accompaniment to the meal.

Jean Marcille was evidently the possessor of a voice of no mean merit,

and thunderous applause greeted song after song. Wild ballads of

ancient Brittany he sang, telling of the fate of the wizard Myrddyn,

who, for all his wisdom, was beguiled to tell his secret to the

treacherous Vyvyan, knowing all the while of her cruel intention, yet

unable to withstand the siren wiles of her woman's tongue, and so lies

sleeping for ever in his tomb in the forest of Broceliande, under the

fatal stone where his false love has enchanted him. Then, still

pursuing the mournful themes with which Brittany seems to abound, and

which her children hold so dear, he sang of the romantic loves of

Abelard the sage and Heloeise the beautiful--loves which, crushed and

killed in sorrow and despair, bloomed immortally in poetry and song. But

presently his voice rang with a more martial strain, as, sweeping the

chords of his harp, he sang the inspiriting songs of valour--songs

these, perchance, of his own weaving, for they told of the distresses of

the fair young Duchess Anne, of her helpless condition amongst ravening

enemies, of her gallant Bretons rallying around her, of the intrepidity

of Breton heroes, of the siege of Gwengamp, where the brave Captains

Chero and Gouicket defied the traitor Rohan's call, and declared that

whilst there was a Duchess in Brittany they would not give up her towns;

and of Tomina Al-Lean, the wife of Gouicket, who took her husband's

place on the walls when he lay helpless and wounded below.

Such ballads, at such a time, when deeds of chivalry were brave men's

daily acts, and ladies had no smiles for recreant knight or coward

lover, never failed to stir their listeners to a frenzy of enthusiasm,

and knights drew their swords as they sprang to their feet, and, with

goblets in their right hands, drank to their little Duchess, and flung

the shivering glass to the ground.

Only, perhaps, the enthusiasm of Guillaume de Coray was a little forced,

and his lips curved more than once into a mocking smile as he watched

the ring of flushed faces, and reflected how small a concern it was of

his did Duchess or King rule in Brittany, provided his own schemes went

well.

The stranger minstrel needed little pressing to stay at the Chateau of

Mereac, for truly it seemed that he fell almost naturally into his place

in the household. A welcome addition, indeed, to enliven the shortening

and gloomy days, for the voice of old Antoine was growing cracked and

faltering, and his songs became wearisome by reason of oft repetition;

nor had the elder man the facility in weaving new ones which his young

rival seemed to possess--a fact which tended to jealousy, though Antoine

was too wise to let such be apparent.

Meantime, Jean Marcille proved to have as soft and winning a tongue in

speech as in song, and so Marie Alloadec found, as she sat busily

employed in her needlework, whilst the minstrel sat on the wide ledge

beside her with crossed legs and a face bent perhaps a little nearer to

Marie's swiftly flying needle than was judicious.

He was telling her of his home, near the wild and mournful Cape Raz, and

from time to time Marie would allow her work to fall as she listened to

the graphic descriptions of that dreary and romantic coast. The very

name of Raz causes the trembling sailor to pray aloud to his patron

saints as he thinks of the time when his boat must glide by the red

rocks where the hell of Plogoff yearns for its prey. No wonder the

Breton proverbs say, "None pass the Raz without hurt or fright," and

"Help me, great God, at Cape Raz;--my ship is so small, and the sea is

so great."

A terrible dwelling-place this, with a brooding fear in the air and a

melancholy mingled with every legend and fancy which haunts the coast

around. Far away there beyond Dead Man's Bay lies the island of Sein, a

desolate sandbank inhabited by a few compassionate families, who yearly

strive to save the shipwrecked mariners. This[#] island was the abode

of the sacred virgins, who gave the Celts fine weather or shipwreck.

There they celebrated their gloomy and murderous orgies; and the seamen

heard with terror, far off at sea, the clash of the barbaric cymbals.

Yonder, too, watchers may see two ravens flying heavily on the shore:

they are the souls of the dread King Grallo and his daughter; whilst the

shrill whistling, which one would take for the voice of the tempest, is

the _crierien_, or ghosts of the shipwrecked, clamouring for burial.

[#] See Michelet's _History of France_.

"But see," Marie exclaimed, with great eyes grown even greater with

wonder and awe as she listened to the wild tales which Marcille poured

into her ears, "they are gloomy, these tales, and very terrible; and

yet, how is it that you laugh and are gay, and have altogether the air

of joy and happiness?"

"A good conscience," quoth Jean lightly, as with absent fingers he

twanged the strings of his vielle. "Also, mademoiselle, perchance the

good gift of my mother, who came from laughing Touraine, where all sing

and are gay, and where the waters of the Loire dance with the happy

sunshine, instead of being grey with melancholy, as here in Brittany."

"Of Touraine?" questioned Marie, dropping her voice, whilst her bright

eyes searched curiously the dark, smiling face of the minstrel. "And

thy mother came from Touraine? But that perchance was long since, and

thou hast never journeyed so far?"

"I?" laughed Jean Marcille. "Nay, mademoiselle, a minstrel wanders oft

in many lands, and I have seen not only the orchards and meadows of

Touraine, but the blue skies of Italy, and the white mountains of

Switzerland in my day."

"But of Touraine?" persisted Marie. "If thy mother is of that country,

thou knowest perchance much--almost as much as of thy native Brittany?"

"Verily," replied Marcille, with a shrug of his shoulders, "seeing that

my father died long since, when I was but a little lad, and my mother,

wearying of grey skies and the wails of lost spirits, was fain to return

to the sunshine of her own land."

"And so," said Marie, her colour deepening as her eager eyes again

sought his, "you have long dwelt in the land of our enemies, Sir

Minstrel? Aha! but you told not that to our lord yesternight when he

asked from whence you came."

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

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

smile.

"But if perchance mademoiselle fears I am a spy----" He paused,

watching her face as she turned it to him.

"Nay," she murmured, glancing around to be sure that they were unheard;

"I asked,--I asked--because,--because I would have inquired of a noble

monsieur from Touraine who journeyed hitherward in the early summer, and

in whom my mistress took somewhat of an interest."

"For that matter," said her companion, "there is scarce a chateau in all

Touraine whose lord I do not know; for there is ever a flagon of wine

ready for the minstrel bard."

"But not ever for Breton ballads," slyly replied Marie, with a

coquettish side-glance.

"Nay," he laughed, "I suit my songs to my company, mademoiselle, for

'tis a foolish bird that sings only on one note, and there are chansons

and rondeaux of Touraine and Anjou with which I can woo the dimples to

thy cheeks, sweet mistress, as well as ballads of Brittany, to bring

tears to those bright eyes."

"But," she said, shaking her head at him with a dimpling smile to

moderate her rebuke--"but you are foolish, altogether foolish, and I

want no compliments of France, but rather listen to what I would ask of

you. In this fair Touraine, where all laugh and are gay, have you

perchance met one who is named Monsieur Henri d'Estrailles, whose

chateau lies not far from the banks of the Loire?"

"So well I know him," replied Marcille, eyeing her steadily, as if he

would fain read her very heart--"so well I know him, that at his bidding

I am here; pretty maiden, to bring his message to thy fair mistress."

"A messenger from Monsieur d'Estrailles!" gasped Marie, whilst the work

slipped from her hands and lay unheeded on the floor. "A messenger from

Monsieur d'Estrailles!"

"Ay, verily," whispered the minstrel. "But speak not so loudly,

mademoiselle, for, from what I gather, there were short shrift for me

did some here suspect me or my errand."

"But I cannot believe it," murmured Marie, her eyes still round with

wonder. "It is impossible."

For reply Marcille slipped his hand into his vest and brought forth a

small ring which lay safely shrouded in his brown palm.

"It is the token," he said simply. "Do not fear, Mademoiselle Marie;

all is as I say. I am in truth the servant of Monsieur d'Estrailles,

who hath a message for his mistress's ear, but knew too well that he

might not come hither in his own proper person to tell it, seeing that

even now the French army crosses the Breton border, and he feared that

his presence at such a time might be less than welcome."

"Less than welcome!" echoed Marie. "Nay, at the moment I ween it would

be death itself to the gallant knight. But your message shall be

delivered, monsieur, and at once. See, I go with haste to my mistress's

chamber, and it shall be that I will return anon to summon you to her

presence."

So saying, Marie Alloadec, without waiting to gather up her fallen

embroidery, tripped quickly away, to return with haste in a few moments,

softly calling to Marcille to follow her.

Neither of them noticed that close to the embrasure in which they had

been seated knelt the figure of a woman, who withdrew almost behind the

heavy tapestry hangings as they passed. But there was a smile on the

face of Jeanne, the dark-browed waiting-woman of Diane de Coray, as she

watched furtively their departing figures.

*CHAPTER XVI*

The Sieur de Mereac was sick. No longer could there be any disguising

of the fact; he had grown in the past week thin and emaciated, whilst

his great blue eyes, so like his young sister's, looked out of his

sunken face with a pathetic wistfulness which touched a chord of pity in

the hardest heart.

Yet what the reason of so strange and deadly a sickness might be it

seemed impossible to say. Vague suspicions, indeed, seemed to float

like faint and evil breaths upon the air of the chateau; but so

intangible were they, that men scarce dared to look into the thought

which from time to time stirred within them. Gloom had suddenly seemed

to fall upon the household which had before resounded with a mirth

scarcely befitting, seeing that so short a time had elapsed since the

death of the old Sieur. And now it would seem that death again

stretched forth his hand, but not this time to gather to his full garner

one whose head was already white with the snows of age, but to snatch

greedily at youth, with its swift pulsations of joy and life. What did

death here? What place had he at the betrothal board? What right had

his shadow to fall between the sunshine of love and its fulfilment?

Such questions were hard indeed to answer, and by reason of them the

shadow of fear fell on those who pitied, whilst they loved, the young

master, whose footsteps through life had led him in such tragic paths,

and who now seemed, in the dawn of happiness, before unknown, to stand

before the yawning chasm of a grave.

Yet, strangest and most mysterious of all did it seem that Gwennola de

Mereac--she who, in past days, had been so tenderly attached to her

brother--should scarcely heed the fact of his altered appearance, and,

from brooding melancholy, herself assume all suddenly an aspect of

content and happy expectation.

So the retainers of Mereac gazed at the mysterious march of events,

whilst the whisper on the air grew clearer day by day. But Gwennola

suspected none of these things. True, her heart ached for her brother

as she noted his altered looks; yet so wide had grown the gulf which

Diane de Coray had made between them, that her pride refused to allow

her to show the anxious solicitude she felt; whilst Diane herself strove

secretly to make such solicitude the more impossible by her attitude

towards the girl she hated. Yvon was made silently to know that he must

choose between his sister and his lady-love; and there was no hesitation

possible in his mind as Diane bent tenderly over his couch, whilst

Gwennola held coldly aloof, allowing no one to guess the bursting grief

and jealousy which raged in her heart.

But it was not altogether pride alone which set Gwennola's lips into a

calm and serene smile of seeming unconcern for her brother's sickness;

for, setting apart her anxiety for him,--and youth is skilful in

persuading itself that such fears are groundless,--she was rejoicing

secretly in the message brought to her by the hand of Jean Marcille.

Ah! what a joy it had been, and yet how fierce an anxiety brooded behind

it! As she sat by her window, watching the brown leaves of the forest

trees caught and whirled away in the autumn wind, her heart was singing,

yet shuddering, as she thought of the time, but three days hence, when

she should creep forth as she had done months ago and find, under that

forest shade, the lover, faithful and true, who laughed at perils for

the joy of clasping her once more in his arms. How sweet it was to

rehearse over and over again that meeting--the terrors of the woodland

path, the haunting dread of spying eyes, all forgotten and swallowed up

in the glad moment when she should feel those strong arms holding her to

him, and should look up to read the old, old story in eyes so full of

love's deepest tenderness. Then the exquisite joy of the picture faded,

as fears crowded with jeering, mocking faces around the dream. What if

he should be discovered? This time there would, she knew, be no escape.

No shadow of suspicion would be too faint to seal his doom. Revenge,

she knew, was smouldering deeply in de Coray's heart, and the hatred and

jealousy of his sister would but too eagerly seize upon this means of

repaying her rival, whose influence, she knew, would fain have been

exerted to drive her from the chateau gates.

But Marie Alloadec had no such fears. The faithful maiden rejoiced not

only in her mistress's romance, but in one of her own which was being

woven at the same time. The handsome face of Monsieur d'Estrailles'

messenger had already made its impression on the Breton girl's

susceptible heart; and Jean Marcille had been no backward wooer, finding

it altogether to his own pleasure, as well as his master's interests, to

make love to the pretty waiting-woman whilst he attended to her

mistress's commands.

All three were keenly aware of the dangers that beset them; but love

laughs at such dangers, and the happy optimism of Marie and Marcille

comforted, if it did not convince, Gwennola. For Marie it was easy to

be gay, for her lover was beside her; but for her own part, Gwennola

shivered even whilst she smiled, so fearful of ill was she.

But at last the night had arrived, a night so calm, so peaceful, that it

seemed as one born out of time in that wild month of November. True,

there was but a dying moon to light the way through the forest path, and

from time to time even her wavering light was dimmed by the scudding

clouds which obscured her. But this time Gwennola went not to her tryst

unattended; indeed, such a course was fraught with dangers, which had

necessarily multiplied since the summer, for the hungry wolves grew more

importunate than ever for their prey. Shielded, however, by the strong

arm of Jean Marcille, and accompanied by Marie, who pleaded to be

allowed to follow her mistress on her dangerous errand, she felt little

fear of these four-footed enemies; whilst behind, she knew, Job Alloadec

guarded faithfully the open postern gate.

It was, however, only discreet that Jean and Marie should remain behind

in the shadow of the trees, whilst she advanced alone towards the ruined

chapel.

Ah! the memories that thronged around the spot!--memories of terror long

past, as also of that father, so dear and yet so imperious, whose anger

she had braved, and whose forgiveness she had won, all for the sake of

the man who stood now once more before her. No gallant knight was here,

however, as in those other days when the warm summer breezes stirred the

ivy round the grey walls, and the scent of the flowers was sweet on the

night air. The very moonlight seemed to shrink at sight of the tall

figure whose brown cowl was drawn so closely round its head, as it stood

waiting there alone. But as Gwennola, with a little cry, ran forward,

the cowl fell back from a dark head which was assuredly not that of any

spirit of ill, and strong, human arms caught and held her in their warm

embrace, whilst passionate kisses were pressed on the rosy, trembling

lips which whispered over and over again his name. No wonder that the

white owl who sheltered herself amongst the ivy of the ruin fled

shrieking dismally against the sacrilege which thus desecrated with

human love the haunt of her ghostly friends; no wonder that the lizard

which crept up the crumbling wall paused to peep with cunning,

glittering eyes at the scene which his forefathers had watched in the

garden of man's innocence. But at that supreme moment what cared those

two for watching eyes?--so oblivious were they of any other in the wide

world than the ones into which each looked.

True eyes, brave eyes, eyes in which the story of love and faithfulness

was so easy to read! And then once more down to earth and the perilous

present they must come, and leave the all-absorbing joy of that first

moment of oblivion to the past and to the dim, sweet future to which

both were looking with eager longing, the more impatient for that brief

moment of rapture.

But it was no time for love dreams then, with the keen winter wind

whistling around, and the still colder fear of danger which whispered of

separation.

There was so much to tell, so much to hear, so much to plan, and oh! so

short a time for the speaking of it all.

Together they sat there amongst the ruins of a dead past, and built

golden castles for the future; shining, gorgeous castles, all

love-illumined and beautiful. But even as they built them, difficulties

innumerable and insuperable blew them once more to their feet. The

situation was indeed one which well might dismay lovers so devoted. The

vast army of Charles was already advancing towards Rennes; and though it

appeared to menace rather than to attack, still the danger to the duchy

seemed imminent if the Duchess Anne held fast to her determination, as

it seemed only too likely she would do.

In faltering tones Gwennola told the story of the past months: of her

father's death, of the coming of Diane de Coray, of Yvon's fatal

infatuation, of the return of Guillaume de Coray and of the complete

sway he and his sister held over her brother's weak mind; of Yvon's

illness and her own estrangement from him; finally, of Diane's veiled

persecution and her fears for her own future.

A stormy picture, so dark that for the moment it held both lovers

speechless; till, as he bent to look into the face half hidden on his

shoulder, Henri caught sight of a bright tear which trembled on the

drooping lashes.

"Nay, weep not, my darling," he whispered passionately. "Thou shalt not

thus weep and fear such things; it shall not be permitted. Sooner than

that I will mount thee on good Charlemagne yonder, and ride with thee to

Touraine, where we will laugh together at these vile plotters--ay, and

at thy brother too for bringing such unhappiness to his little sister's

heart. Fie on him! hath he forgotten that but for thy bravery he would

even now have been rotting in some foul dungeon?"

"Nay," she whispered, smiling, "but that also was more for thy sake,

Henri, than for his, though well I loved him--ay, and love him still for

all his harshness, for I know that his eyes are, for the time, blinded

by reason of this woman."

"But, say," cried d'Estrailles pleadingly, "is it then so impossible to

aid thee, little one? Would I might go boldly to yonder chateau and

claim thee for my bride, for it seemeth to me but a coward's part to

hide like any evil-doer in such a manner."

"Ah, Henri," she sighed, "what foolishness thou wouldest speak! Surely,

little couldst thou aid me by entering the lion's den, or save me from a

dreary fate by dying as a spy, as thou wouldst surely be dubbed if thou

camest hitherward in thy proper guise."

"The lion's den!" he echoed scornfully. "Rather I would term them

jackals, seeing that their ways are cowards' ways, and their thoughts

the thoughts of traitors. But tell me, sweet, is then my plan so

impossible? or wilt thou fear to trust all,--even thyself,--to my

honour?"

"Fear?" she smiled; "fear!"--and she raised her lips to meet his caress.

"Nay, Henri, 'tis no fear that causeth me to hesitate, but

because--because----"

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

one?"

"Truly, I know not," she whispered softly; "only, perchance 'tis

foolishness, but my mind misgiveth me as to what is best. Let us wait,

my Henri, till to-morrow, and I will ask the advice of dear Father

Ambrose, who loves me well, and who, methinks, hath no more liking for

these de Corays, brother and sister both, than have I. Moreover, I am

assured that he pitieth me, and would fain see me happy, which he

wotteth well I could never be in convent cell or other arms than thine.

So till to-morrow, Henri, let us wait, and it may be--it may be I will

come."

So again they sat there side by side, dreaming of all the bliss that

coming would make, whilst he told her again of the happy, merry life of

Touraine, so vividly that it seemed to Gwennola that she was already

riding by his side through the laughing meadows and sunny orchards

singing rondeaux and virelais gay and sweet as their surroundings, with

no weird melancholy such as every song reverberated with in this grey,

yet for ever dear, land of Brittany. But dreams must fade ofttimes

before the dawn, and erelong they must say farewell, those foolish young

lovers, who found the world so entirely made for them alone. And yet

not farewell, but _au revoir--au revoir_ until the morrow, with,

perchance, Father Ambrose's approval, if not his blessing, on their

flight from troubles and shadows, suspicions and jealousies.

"Au revoir! Au revoir!" The very sweetness of the words made a melody

in Gwennola's heart as she and her attendants hurried homewards, and her

lips trembled in a smiling happiness, warm with the memory of his

kisses. As for Marcille and the rosy-faced little Marie, they also had

found the waiting time less irksome than might have been supposed; for

the example of one's betters, see you, is a fine thing to follow, and

the atmosphere of love is so infectious that perchance it had even

become wafted towards the shadow of the trees where the two waited; and

that may explain, the reason why Marie's rosy lips dimpled too as she

smiled in the darkness and a hand which should have been holding her

cloak slid downwards to meet and be grasped by another hand, strong and

tender, which held it so fast that the smile nearly overflowed into a

merry laugh for the very happiness of youth.

*CHAPTER XVII*

"Alas, poor Yvon! Nay, rest thy head so,--yes, that seemeth better; and

place thy hand in mine. Ah! how cold it is! and how thou shiverest, even

before this warm blaze!"

"Ay, cold as grows my heart when I think of what this sickness

portendeth," groaned Yvon, as he lay back wearily on his couch, looking

up with loving yet wistful eyes into the glowing, beautiful face bent so

close to his. An angel of light and grace did Diane de Coray appear in

her graceful, clinging gown of heavy white material, the long sleeves

and throat edged with gleaming gold, whilst the high head-dress framed a

face fair enough to soothe and gladden any man, and soft hazel eyes

filled with sympathy, tenderness--and perhaps some other vague,

undefined expression impossible to read.

She repeated his name over softly many times as she stroked the thin

hand which lay listlessly at his side.

"Thou wilt be better anon," she said gently at length, in reply to his

weary sigh. "See, Yvon, for my sake thou _must_ be better."

He shook his head sadly. "Nay," he replied, "I fear not, little Diane;

for me there is naught but the grave--the grave in which shall be buried

all the hopes and the great love with which thou hast inspired me. Yes,

little one, weep not, for it is even so, bitter as it seemeth to say

it,--and how bitter the holy saints only know; for death is a sorry

guest when love has stepped in before him. And I love thee, my Diane, I

love thee, with all this poor heart of mine--not worthy of thee, sweet,

nay, not worthy, for suffering and fear have left but a sorry wreck of

the Yvon de Mereac who once was. And yet, Diane, thou hast loved this

poor, weak one, so unworthy of thee! See, thou shalt hold my hands in

thine and say it softly,--thus,--'I love thee, Yvon de Mereac, I love

thee, although thou art but a poor, unworthy lover at best for the

sweetest, fairest damsel that the good God ever made.'"

"Nay!" she cried passionately, dashing away a tear, and bending to kiss

the white, upturned face; "thou knowest well that I love thee, Yvon, the

saints aid me! But thou shalt not die! Listen!--I will tell thee my

secret thoughts, though I fear me thou wilt be angry."

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

"Yes," she said, turning a flushed, half-shamed face to him, and

speaking in a hard, even voice; "thou wilt be angry, Yvon; and yet I

will dare that anger for the love I bear thee."

She glanced around as she spoke, but none were near; only the tapestried

faces met hers as they looked calmly down from the walls as if, lifeless

as they were, they scorned this woman who knelt there, knowing and

hailing her as liar and traitress.

But the swift pang of remorse and fear which held the words trembling on

her lips passed, and, steeling herself to her task, the girl drew close

to the sick man's side.

"Listen," she said softly, "and judge, Yvon, my betrothed. Hath it not

caused thee wonderment, this sore sickness of thine? None can tell its

name; skilled leech as he is, Father Ambrose hath no knowledge of it;

and yet, so deadly is its nature, that truly death seemeth near."

Yvon's blue eyes were fixed curiously on the speaker's face, a vague

horror growing in them as she proceeded.

"Hath all this never struck thee, my Yvon? Hast thou not searched in

vain for the cause of thy suffering?"

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

"Of witchcraft," she said softly but very clearly. "Of witchcraft,

dearest love, which hath been brought to work so evilly upon thee that

death stands already awaiting thee."

She crossed herself, shuddering as she saw the horror deepening in the

wide eyes so close to hers.

"Witchcraft?" he echoed faintly. "But wherefore? and by whose hand

should such spells be wrought?"

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

Instantly the blue eyes blazed, a red, angry flush swiftly dyeing the

pale, sunken cheeks.

"Gwennola! my sister Gwennola a witch! Nay, Diane, thou ravest. Unsay

such words, maiden! By my faith, they shall not be breathed again in my

presence,--the honour of the house of Mereac may not lightly be bandied

by careless lips."

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

"I cannot unsay the truth, Yvon de Mereac, even when thy house's honour

is at stake. Nay! blame not me, but rather her who so cruelly hath

dragged it in the mire."

"But it is a lie," he cried passionately, "a foul and cruel lie. Who

dared speak such words to thee, Diane? I will have him hanged to the

nearest tree for thus smirching the fair name of a noble maiden."

Diane laid a soft, caressing hand on his clenched palm; the eyes she

turned to his sparkling and indignant ones were full of tears.

"Alas! alas! my Yvon!" she whispered. "Should I have dared thus to

speak of thy sister had I not for myself discovered the truth of the

accusation?"

He lay back on his couch, panting and almost breathless with emotion;

but his eyes dilated still with fear and horror as he listened to her

smooth, softly spoken words.

"But for the love I bear thee, Yvon, no word should have crossed my

lips; but because even now it may not be too late to save thee, love

hath unsealed my lips, and I hereby do solemnly declare to thee that thy

sister Gwennola, and she alone, is answerable for this thy deadly

sickness."

"Nay, I cannot believe it," he cried with a quick sob. "What! Gwennola

try to slay me? my father's little Gwennola a witch? It is beyond

reason, I tell thee, Diane."

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

"Gwennola!" he echoed dreamily, as on the instant all the old childish

days seemed to surge forward in his memory--"little Gwennola!"

He was seeing her, a tiny, lovely maiden of five innocent summers, being

held up in his own strong young arms to kiss the forehead of his horse;

and remembering how she turned from loving the black steed to fling a

pair of soft, baby arms round his neck and kiss him again and again.

Then other pictures stole back to him in the darkening room: pictures of

the same child grown into a slim little maiden, beautiful as the flowers

which bent their fair heads to the summer breezes; with great blue eyes

which were always watching for father and brother, whom she must ever

run to greet, if but for the excuse of slipping away from the embroidery

frame and her mother's rebukeful eye. But at the last the pictures

faded, shrivelling up before a poisoned breath--and Diana's voice rang

in his ears, "Gwennola is a witch!"

"No," he cried fiercely, as if to drown the accusing voice; "it is no

truth, but a lie--a lie fashioned in the blackest hell!"

But Diane was not to be moved by his harsh words. She was playing for a

stake, and knew she must win, though in her heart she was the more angry

to find that the love she had hoped to have already destroyed had so

strong a root.

"It is for thine own sake I spoke, my Yvon," she pleaded, with a break

in her soft voice. "Alas! alas! I have but angered thee, and all to no

purpose, seeing thou wilt neither believe nor strive to save thyself

from her spells."

"Nay, sweet one, thou must forgive my angry words," said her lover,

melting to tenderness as his ear caught the sob in the gentle tones.

"Well I know that it is but thy zeal for my welfare which hath led thee

astray in believing such false words. But bethink thee, my Diane, what

proof can these evil tale-bearers bring? what knowledge have they?"

"Ah, me!" moaned Diana, "I must anger thee again, Yvon; and yet, so

cruelly has she deceived and wronged thee, that I will have no pity--no,

for so foul a wrong deserves none, and her sin be on her own head!"

"Speak," muttered Yvon hoarsely, as once more the fear crept into his

eyes; "speak, Diane."

"When my maid, Jeanne Dubois, told me the tale," said Diane softly, "I

bade her be silent; for, for evil tongues there was sharp punishment,

and slanderers, to my thinking, should have small mercy. But the wench

persisted, and so perforce I listened, merely at first to point to her

the danger of such lying falsehoods. Yet the story smacked so vividly

of sincerity that I listened at length with more attention, whilst she

told me that the Demoiselle de Mereac kept strange company, and that

ofttimes passing her chamber door at nightfall she had had reason to

cross herself for very fear of the weird chantings and voices she heard

within. Yet knowing it was naught of her business, the girl said

nothing till, chancing one day to be conversing with Pierre the fool,

the knave whispered somewhat in her ear of his own suspicions, and told

Jeanne that he could also prove to her how that the young chatelaine not

only gathered evil company under the very roof of the chateau, but also

went into the heart of the forest at the midnight hour to celebrate

terrible orgies with her foul friends, and converse with her dread

familiar, who appeareth to her in the garb of a brown friar, who, for

his evil deeds on earth, hath been condemned to haunt the shades of a

ruined chapel and assist still further those whose sins are as black as

those of his own lost soul."

Again Diane looked steadily into Yvon's eyes, and with a thrill of

triumph marked the look of dread which had stolen into them.

"I myself," she said sadly, "have already proved the truth of Jeanne's

words; it remains with thee, Yvon, to also convince thyself of a guilt

which, alas! shineth as clearly as noonday. In very truth, I beg thee

thus to prove the words I have dared to speak, for little doubt is there

in my mind that in this lost maiden's evil practices lies the secret of

thy fatal illness. And because I love thee, Yvon, with all my heart and

soul I pray thee strive to save thyself from these cruel spells, and

even, if need be, tear from its parent-tree this smitten branch and cast

it into the fire."

"Gwennola!--Gwennola!" moaned Yvon; "my father's darling,--his little

Gwennola! Is it possible that thou hast so fallen--art become so lost?

Diane," he cried, turning almost fiercely upon her, "I accept thy word.

Prove to me my sister's guilt, and I will myself light the faggots which

shall purify the honour of the house of Mereac. Yet I warn thee that if

this tale be false, the very love I bear thee shall shrivel and burn

away till nothing be left but the ashes of hatred."

"I will prove it," said Diane, returning his look unflinchingly. "This

very night, with thine own eyes shalt thou behold thy sister clasped to

the arms of one of hell's foulest shades, and with him plotting for thy

destruction."

*CHAPTER XVIII*

It is difficult to realize how tremendous a hold the superstition of

witchcraft had upon the minds of our ancestors from the earliest ages.

And in the fifteenth century the fear of wizards and witches and belief

in their supernatural powers was almost unlimited. Indeed, the repute of

madness was not more fatal to dogs than that of witchcraft to human

beings.[#] So destructive was it, that there is scarcely a hamlet of

ancient date west of the Carpathians wherein crowds of witches have not

been massacred during the middle ages. For a considerable period

Cologne burnt four hundred of these wretches, Paris three hundred, and a

multitude of second-rate towns two hundred a-piece every year. To be

stigmatised as a witch was to be condemned, sooner or later, to the

stake; and so well was this understood, that the malicious had only to

fix that evil name on their victims in order to secure their execution.

A list remains of some hundred and fifty witches slain in three years by

that insignificant place, Wurzburg; and among the sufferers we find

half-a-dozen vagrants, children, and others; a scold, a learned judge, a

skilful linguist, several popular preachers, and "Goebel Babelin, the

prettiest girl in Wurzburg."

[#] See _Witches and their Craft_.

It was a fundamental axiom of the witch-codes, as explained by Bodin,

that no witch might be acquitted unless her innocence shone "as clear as

the noontide sun"; and every care was taken to render that impossible.

But by far the most powerful means of effecting their

conviction--surpassing false witness and torture by an infinite

length--was the infamous scrutiny to which the miserable creatures were

subjected. The search for devil mark and amulet, as prescribed by the

Church, was regarded as worse than death itself, and of the thousands

who perished, a vast proportion died self-accused, preferring the deadly

search of the flame to that of the monkish inquisitors.

Considering how fearfully and inevitably witches were punished, it seems

astonishing that any, much less such myriads, should have professed them

of the craft. But, on the other hand, it must be remembered that the

acquisition of power to inflict storm and devastation, disease and

death, was an irresistible temptation to the savage nature that then

predominated in the lower classes. For everybody sought the fraternity.

Those who suffered, or apprehended suffering, bought their services

equally with those who desired to have suffering inflicted. The latter,

however, were by far the more numerous, and the witches had a very

singular way of gratifying them. One of the strangest was to fashion an

image of the hated individual during the celebration of certain infernal

rites. The simulacrum was usually of virgin wax; but when it was meant

to make the work of vengeance thoroughly sure, the clay taken from the

depth of a well-used grave was generally preferred. The image being

moulded according to rule, and baptized by a properly qualified priest,

whatever injury was inflicted on the model was believed to have a

similar effect on the original. Did they tie up a member of the effigy,

paralysis attacked the corresponding limb of the person represented.

Intense pain and fearful mutilation were thus assumed to be produced;

nor was even death itself beyond the wizard's power. To secure this

fatal result there were several approved recipes. Some pierced the heart

of the statuette with a new needle; others melted it slowly before a

fire; a third set interred it at dead of night in consecrated ground

with horrible burlesque of the burial service; and a fourth gathered the

hair into the stomach of the model, and concealed it in the chamber--if

possible under the pillow--of the intended victim. Such images were

prepared by Robert of Artois for the destruction of his enemies. In

this way Enguerrand de Marigny was said to have slain Philip the Fair.

Thus, too, Eleanor Cobhan, wife of Duke Humphrey, was said to have

attempted the life of Henry VI.

Many and varied were the powers and mischievous contrivances of the

witches and wizards for every possible purpose. A decoction made of a

toad baptized by the name of John, and fed on consecrated wafers, was

thrown under a farmer's table by a witch at Soissons, and all who sat

round the board died immediately. Every witch possessed her agent, or

familiar imp, who on her inauguration into the sisterhood sucked her

blood, thus leaving the fatal "devil-mark."

In Brittany, not more than fifty years before the opening of our tale,

the far-famed and execrable Gilles de Retz had been led to the stake,

there to pay the penalty of his horrible career as wizard, murderer, and

devil-worshipper. The crimes of this fiend of iniquity are too many and

too terrible to bear repetition. His chief delight, however, was to

lure children to his castle by the agency of an old hag named la

Meffraie, who went about the country enticing any children she met, with

false promises, to her master's abode; and from that moment they were

heard of no more. When, after fourteen years, his horrible practices

were disclosed and search was made, there was found in the tower of

Chantoce a tunnel of calcined bones--of children's bones in such number,

that it was supposed there must have been full forty of them.[#] A like

quantity was found in the castle of La Suze and in other places; in

short, wherever he had been. The number of children destroyed by this

exterminating brute was computed to be a hundred and forty, the motive

of the destruction of these unfortunate innocents being more horrible

than the manner of death. He offered them up to the devil, invoking the

demons Barren, Orient, Beelzebub, Satan, and Belial to grant him in

return gold, knowledge, and power. He had with him a young priest of

Pistoia in Italy, who promised to show him these demons; and an

Englishman, who helped to conjure them.[#] It was a difficult matter.

One of the means essayed was to chant the service for All Saints' Day,

in honour of evil spirits. And yet this blood-stained villain, who

revelled in listening to the piteous death-cries of little children and

gloated over their suffering, who from worship of demons had himself

become more devil than man, commended his evil assistant and magician,

who was condemned with him, to the grace of God--Whose living image he

had murdered--in the following terms, "Adieu, Francois, my friend; may

God grant you patience and knowledge, and rest assured, provided you

have patience and hope in God, we shall meet in the joys of Paradise."

The horror inspired by this blasphemous wretch still lingered in the

hearts of the Bretons, and small wonder was it that wizardry or

witchcraft found little mercy at the hands of an ignorant and fanatic

people; although often wizards or witches were allowed to practise their

craft unmolested for many years, the fear of suffering from their

vengeance, even in death, keeping their enemies at bay, whilst they

drove a profitable business with those patrons who desired their aid.

[#] _Depositions of Etienne Corillant_.

[#] Michelet's _History of France_.