It will be the more easily understood from these foregoing remarks how

skilfully Diane de Coray had woven the web of her plot around her

unfortunate victim, who remained in total ignorance of her danger, the

retainers of the chateau having been before instructed by the wily

Jeanne to breathe no word of their suspicions into the ears of those

likely to warn her. Therefore it was with no presentiment of coming ill

that Gwennola de Mereac stole forth to her lover's trysting-place once

more, full of happy thoughts and a heart the lighter by very contrast

with its weary heaviness of so many weeks past. Little did she or her

attendants guess what sharp eyes had been watching their movements, or

what stealthy feet had already crept after them through the forest

shade.

It was the maid Jeanne Dubois who had been the first to discover the

identity of the wandering minstrel whose advent had been hailed with so

much joy by the young Sieur de Mereac. Hiding in the shadow of the

heavy tapestries, she had heard what had passed between Marie Alloadec

and her would-be lover, and had hastily carried the news to her

mistress. The clue thus given had been carefully followed up, but it

was Pierre the fool whose cunning had discovered the fatal rendezvous

and pierced the disguise of the cowled figure. So the threads of the

web were gathered more surely around the weavers' fingers, and now the

time drew near to prove their strength.

A cold wind whistled through the bare trees overhead, but so close grew

the undergrowth of the thickets around the ruined chapel as to shelter

any watchers not only from the keen blast but from curious or inquiring

eyes. But Gwennola's eyes and thoughts were far from suspicion of

treachery or evil. She was thinking, as she hurried on her way, of

Father Ambrose's kind and tender counsel. He had promised, the good old

man, to use his influence to the utmost with Yvon to persuade him either

to allow his sister to wed the man she loved, or at least to leave her

unmolested by unwelcome suggestions of betrothal till it could more

clearly be seen how matters fell out between the two contending

countries. If Yvon were still obdurate--well, it might be that Father

Ambrose would be willing to risk the anger of his lord for the sake of

the little maid he loved so tenderly; but she must be patient--very

patient--whilst he prayed that his way might be made clear before his

eyes.

So gentle, so loving had the old man been, with such tears of fatherly

fondness had he besought her, that Gwennola had listened to his

pleadings, and had promised to wait with patience for his further

counsel, instead of lending an all too willing ear to her lover's

importunity in urging the hasty flight which had appeared in so

favourable a light to her eyes as he whispered eloquent reasons to the

heart which readily responded to his entreaties. Yet her step grew

slower as she neared her trysting-place, as if she found her promise

weighing almost too heavily upon her as she pictured the disappointment

in the dark eyes which would look down their eager inquiry into hers.

Marie and Jean Marcille lingered behind their mistress as they had done

yesternight. They had their own concerns, these two, which perhaps--and

who may blame?--dulled their ears and clouded the watchfulness of their

eyes. Very certain it is that neither of them saw amidst a clump of

trees not far from where they stood, four cloaked figures bending low,

as if furtively watching those who already stood in the waning moonlight

close by the ivied ruins.

"It is enough," whispered Yvon de Mereac in a low, stifled voice as he

raised himself and stood facing the woman at his side. "It is enough."

Yes! he had been convinced where he felt conviction to be impossible, by

the evidence of his own eyes; for, stooping there, he had seen,

shuddering in horror, the shadowy outline of a tall, monkish figure, and

even as he crossed himself in fear, he had seen another figure, slender

and hooded, steal from amongst the trees to be clasped in the close

embrace of the Brown Friar himself; and, as the feeble moonlight

straggled downwards from behind a passing cloud, the hood had slipped

back, revealing the red-gold curls and pale face of Gwennola.

Diane de Coray was a skilful conspirator. To linger there might

speedily reveal to the agonized brother that his sister's lover was

verily in the flesh and no ghostly agent from the unseen world; and so,

with murmurs of sympathy, she hastened back with him towards the

chateau, followed by her brother and Pierre the fool. But to her

whispered words Yvon de Mereac answered not at all; the blow had been so

sudden, so overpowering, that his weak spirit reeled under it. To a

Breton honour stands even before love itself, the Duchess Anne voicing

the sentiments of her people in her chivalrous motto, "Death is

preferable to dishonour." And now dishonour in its blackest form was to

fall on the fairest flower of his house! No wonder that the poor, weak

brother groaned in helpless bewilderment at such a fate. Paralysed with

the horror of what he had seen, his failing brain refused at first to

realize what his outer senses told him, and he allowed himself to be led

back to the chateau by his apparently sympathizing friends; nor, till he

sank down once more on his couch and drank from the goblet of wine which

the tender Diane raised to his lips, did his mind become sufficiently

clear to understand the full meaning of that midnight adventure.

"Gwennola a witch!" he whispered, with a hoarse sob, at length. "The

little Gwennola a witch! Holy Mother of God! what shall I do? Alas!

what shall I do? The little Gwennola!--the little Gwennola!"

"Nay," said Diane, speaking in a low, clear voice, as she bent over him

where he lay moaning out his sister's name again and again, "she

deserves no pity, Yvon. She is lost,--ay, lost,--bethink thee of her

sins,--of the awful sin against thee, my Yvon. For my sake, since I live

but for thee, she must pay the penalty of her crime, so that thou mayest

once more be restored to health."

Her beautiful face was close to his; he could feel her warm breath stir

his hair, which lay damp with sweat on his forehead; her hazel eyes

seemed to burn her very will into his numbed brain and to force him to

it as if with magnetic power. Weak and helpless, he was as utterly in

her hands as if he had been indeed but a yearling babe; and as his eyes

followed hers he slowly repeated her words as if she drew them from him.

"She is a witch, and as a witch she must die--for thy sake, Diane,--for

thy sake."

*CHAPTER XIX*

"Thou, Marcille? In the name of the blessed saints, what dost thou

here?--and thus!"

The grey dawn of a November day was creeping slowly upwards in the east,

but the air was damp and chill with frost and dew, and the men who stood

there looked into each other's faces through a vaporous mist. The face

of Jean Marcille was blanched with fear, and his dark eyes looked into

his master's with an expression of terror and dismay.

"How now, varlet!" cried d'Estrailles anxiously, "hath aught of ill

befallen the demoiselle? Why hast thou come thus with such fear in thy

looks?"

"Alas, my master!" gasped the man. "Alas! how can I tell you? ill

indeed has befallen the noble lady, such ill as men dread to speak of

and Marie saith----"

"Peace, fool," cried d'Estrailles angrily, "what care I for the words of

Marie or any other; tell me only, and instantly, what ill hath chanced

to mademoiselle, or I will go without wasting more words on thee to the

chateau."

"It was thus," muttered Marcille, as he stood, still panting for breath,

and with head thrust forward, as if he were awaiting a blow. "We

journeyed in safety through the forest, but as we neared the chateau,

who should come running towards us, with wide eyes and mouth agape, but

the honest fool, Job Alloadec, brother to the pretty Marie. 'Nay,

mistress,' he cried, barring our progress, 'go no step forwards, for

naught but evil awaits thee,' and, so saying, he fell a-sobbing like any

foolish maid, so that his sister was fain to upbraid him roundly, and

bid him tell his news in brief. But that was more than the good Jobik

could essay, and it was some time ere we could gather from his tale what

had chanced, and even then 'twas but a tale's shadow. The Sieur de

Mereac, it appeared, had been ill at ease all day, but towards nightfall

he had seemed calmer and bade all a good night's rest as he retired.

But scarcely had the midnight hour struck than the great bell pealed

forth a summons for all to assemble, and behold, there, in the hall,

stood Monsieur de Coray, dressed and cloaked, with his sister, Pierre

the fool, and Jeanne Dubois beside him. His face, the good Job added,

was bent in a terrible frown, and as he spake to those around it grew

still sterner. But for his words, monsieur, Job saith they were ten

thousand times more terrible than his face, for he bade the retainers

hear of how their master, whose sickness they had all watched with so

much dread, had been seized with a fit, and that Father Ambrose, who was

with him, despaired of his very life; then with smooth words and

well-simulated horror and indignation, he told of how this sickness was

the work of witchcraft, and of how such witchcraft, to the incredible

dismay of his sister and himself, had been proved beyond all doubt to

have been practised by Gwennola de Mereac, their mistress and

chatelaine. And at his words there was a confusion of voices, for some

cried this, and some that, and some called for death to the witch who

had slain their master, and some that it was false and that the

demoiselle was an angel of light and not of darkness. But the answer of

Monsieur de Coray--or rather I will say, Monsieur le Diable--was that

all should be proved, and bade two of the maidens go with Jeanne Dubois

to their mistress's room and fetch thither the lady and her

waiting-woman, Marie Alloadec. On hearing which, Job came in haste to

tell the news and to warn us of the danger ere we set foot in the

chateau."

"And mademoiselle?" muttered d'Estrailles hoarsely.

Marcille groaned. "Alas, monsieur!" he said. "Mademoiselle has the

courage of a man. She stood there, in the darkness, so that we who were

near could scarce see her face; but her voice was steady and calm as she

replied that, though she thanked the good Job with all her heart, her

place was there, in the hall of the Chateau, to prove her innocence of

the foul crime of which she had been so maliciously accused, and if

possible to save her brother from the cruel clutches of his false

friends. In vain Marie entreated her, whilst I also could not refrain

from showing the many dangers to which she might be exposed; but she

would not be shaken from her purpose by tears or warnings, protesting

that a maid's innocence and honour were dearer to her than life itself,

and that she would uphold them before the bitterest foes, knowing that

God would not forsake her cause. Nevertheless, monsieur, she did not

forget you, but bade me conceal myself in safety and return with the

first streak of light to bid you escape before the cunning of your

enemies discovered you; for well did she guess that soft-footed

treachery must have long crept in her shadow. Also did she strive to

persuade Marie to seek safety in flight with Job; for if the charge of

witchcraft were truly brought against her, there might be much danger

for her too, seeing that such fiends would be little likely to spare the

torture they were at liberty to inflict in the hopes of wringing a false

confession from lips which writhed in agony till twisted to their will.

But the brave Marie was also firm, declaring that if her mistress were

to die she would die with her, for it would be impossible that she

should forsake her; but, as at length we went forward, she bade me wait

close there by the river side, and that before dawn she would contrive

to bring or send me news of her lady's case and her own. Therefore,

monsieur, in much fear I waited, for it is little to an honest man's

liking to thus skulk in safety behind trees when perchance the maid he

loves is in danger of her life; but I knew it was no work then for

muscles, but for wisdom, and so with sore heart I lay watching for dawn;

and in due time from the shadow of the Chateau walls there stole forth a

man who came swiftly to where I waited, and I perceived that it was once

more the good friend Job, though by his distraught appearance I augured

ill even before he spake. And ill it was, such ill that methought hell

itself must be already yawning for the plotters of such villainy; for it

appeared that they were clever, these devils, so clever that the plight

of mademoiselle and the little Marie was terrible indeed. It was

already rumoured throughout the Chateau that Monsieur de Mereac was

dead; and whether that were the case or not, Monsieur de Coray assumed

very speedily his place, whilst the false demoiselle his sister, with

the black-browed wench her maiden, and Pierre the fool, whose neck

should long since have been wrung, told their lying tale. Ah! how he

wept, the poor Job, monsieur, as he repeated it! Such a ring of evil,

cruel faces, said he, full of Satan's own malice, and opposite them the

Demoiselle de Mereac, beautiful, calm, innocent as an angel, looking at

these her accusers with the proud scorn of a noble lady who sees the

canaille howling execrations at her from below. And yet, calm and

innocent as she was, even she blanched to hear the foul lies with which

these slanderers blackened her fair name, and to see with what skill

they had plotted for her life. It was the lying wench Jeanne Dubois who

brought the first false statements against her, speaking of voices she

had heard talking at midnight in mademoiselle's closet, of weird

laughter and chantings and such-like foolishness, till even de Coray

himself cut her short, seeing the discontent on the faces of the men

around, who looked, Job said, little pleased to see their young mistress

in such a plight, and on such slender grounds. But the next to speak was

the devil's imp Pierre the fool; and when he told of the Brown Friar

with whom the lady talked and walked at midnight by the chapel, there

were many who looked askance and crossed themselves. But no word spoke

mademoiselle herself, only standing there in all the purity and pride of

her innocence, facing her accusers with contempt. But it was now the

turn of Mademoiselle de Coray herself, and, as she spoke to those

gathered around, even the heart of Job himself sank, for the very tones

of her voice possessed the fascination which engenders belief. In

mournful tones she dwelt on the love she had possessed not only for

Monsieur de Mereac, but for his sister also; of how sorrow had filled

her heart at the sudden and mysterious sickness which had laid so low

the one to whom she was already betrothed; of Mademoiselle Gwennola's

strange behaviour; of her own suspicions; of her scorn, however, of

Jeanne's allegations and the story of Pierre the fool until she had

proved the truth for herself. In a few vivid words she pictured the

meeting of mademoiselle with you, monsieur, declaring you to be the

agent of evil by whose aid she worked her hideous spells; the horror of

her lover at discovering also for himself the infamous dealings of his

sister; his fierce denunciation of her, and command that she should be

brought to death, ere a fresh seizure robbed him of speech and, she

feared, of life. Finally, amidst the murmured execrations from those

around, she produced a small waxen figure, bearing a vague resemblance

to Monsieur de Mereac, which had apparently been partly melted before a

fire, and which she declared had been discovered in the accused's own

chamber. Yet in spite of the loud murmurs of horror and loathing which

now rilled the hall, Mademoiselle Gwennola flinched not at all. 'I am

innocent,' she said once, loudly and clearly. 'May our Lord and Lady

forgive you, Diane and Guillaume de Coray, for the false tale you have

brought against me.' But Mademoiselle Diane only laughed, pointing to

the black hood and cloak which were damp with night dews. 'A lie!' she

cried in mockery, so that Job would fain have struck her down as she

stood there, mouthing and grinning. 'A lie, sayest thou?--witch and

murderess that thou art. Whence comest thou, then, honest maiden, with

the dews of night around thee, instead of from thy slumbers? Thy

chamber was empty when they went to search for thee, and anon thou

comest to us fresh from thy unholy revels, and darest thus to upbraid me

with a lie! Nay! thou canst not thus hope to hoodwink justice, girl,

with the signs of thy guilt clinging around thee, or turn outraged love

from its righteous vengeance!' But mademoiselle replied not at all,

only drawing her cloak more closely around her, as if to guard her

secret the safer; and truly, as Job said, the words of Mademoiselle de

Coray savoured of truth to those who knew not the sequel."

"Alas! alas!" cried d'Estrailles passionately, "why was I not there to

proclaim that truth? Better a hundred deaths than that one breath of

such shame should soil the purity of such a maiden's honour! But it is

not too late,--fool that I was to delay! Let us hasten then, quickly,

Jean, and tell to these foolish ones the truth."

"Nay, master," said Marcille, laying a detaining hand on his master's

arm; "methinks 'twould little benefit the lady to run your head into a

sure and certain noose. Moreover, even so the charge would still stand

good, so craftily have they contrived it. Besides, already are the poor

demoiselle and the pretty Marie on their way to Martigue under the

escort of Monsieur de Coray himself, who declared that ere dawn they

should be delivered to justice."

"To justice?" echoed d'Estrailles, whilst his eyes stared in horror

before him, as if he were indeed viewing already the dread picture which

the significant words brought before him. "To justice?"

"Ay," groaned Marcille with a sob; "they would fain burn her as a witch,

my master; and alas! perchance also the little Marie beside her,--devils

that they are!"

But Henri d'Estrailles had as yet scarcely grasped the full import of

the stunning blow which had fallen so swiftly upon the sweetness of

love's dream. As vaguely as Yvon de Mereac himself he repeated the

words to himself, "Gwennola a witch!--to be burnt as a witch!--She!"

His voice choked in a sudden wild rush of emotion and fury, as his

imagination conjured up the terrible picture of his beloved standing

alone and helpless amongst her enemies. He could see her, ah! so

vividly, with her proud, girlish figure drawn to the utmost of its

slender height, and the great, blue eyes challenging haughtily her false

accusers,--those eyes which had so short a time ago looked with love and

tenderness into his, and which--Holy Mother of God shield him from the

thought!--might ere long be staring in the agony of death from amidst

the smoke and flames of the cruel stake.

But, though his blood leapt madly in his veins to ride in all the

strength of his love and anger and wrench her single-handed from her

enemies' hands, he knew the thought was too hopeless, such a scheme so

impossible that it would but seal afresh her doom. Yes!--doom! For full

well he knew how inexorably it was written already; well he knew that

with such evidence to hand there would be short shrift for the noblest

or the fairest, more especially with the powerful hand of the new Sieur

de Mereac behind to push his victim forwards to the flames awaiting her.

The situation was indeed desperate. So closely were the threads of the

web woven that there was no breaking them. Did he come forward and

reveal the identity of the Brown Friar, there would still be the deadly

evidence of the waxen image and the unaccountable and mysterious death

of Yvon de Mereac. Clear as the plot of de Coray was to him, its very

boldness rendered the plotter's position impregnable, and all

d'Estrailles might expect to gain by attempting to disclose his rival's

perfidy and murderous schemes was the death of a French spy caught

wandering in disguise within the borders of Brittany.

Only one last desperate hope there seemed, and to this hope he turned

with the energy of despair. He would ride to Rennes with all speed,

where, close to the city, lay the passive armies of the King of France.

Seeking his master, the Count Dunois, he would pray to be allowed to

take a body of French troops wherewith to ride to Martigue in the hopes

that by threats, backed with military power, he might induce the

authorities to deliver up their prisoners. A wild hope, so wild that he

dared not glance too closely at its shadowy outline; yet the only one to

which he might cling in his extremity.

"Farewell, Marcille," he cried, as, doffing robe and cowl, he sprang

into his saddle. "Nay, my friend, I will not take thee, and short time

I ween is there for instructions. All I can bid thee is to watch, and

should immediate peril threaten thy lady, ride with loose rein towards

Rennes. Thou shalt find me on the road, I warrant; and can I not beg a

company from Dunois, I will e'en steal one, for, by the faith of a

French knight, I swear to save her!"

But there were tears in the eyes of Jean Marcille as he watched his

impetuous young master's retreating form, as with spurs struck deep into

his horse's sides Henri d'Estrailles galloped madly away, over the heath

where the morning mists still hung heavily.

"Alas!" he sighed, as he turned back towards the forest, "it is of no

avail; and not only mademoiselle, but also the little Marie will perish;

and for me there will be nothing left but revenge."

*CHAPTER XX*

The wizard Lefroi lived alone in his little hut in the forest of Arteze.

It was very lonely, that hut, and within it had an appearance altogether

execrable. But that was the purpose of his trade; for, what! you would

not go to inquire into mysteries from the grave, or seek means of

conveying your enemies to the latter, in a parlour clean and bright and

orderly, with the pure sunshine of heaven pouring in through the

windows, and perchance flowers of purity and innocence blooming within?

No! the abode of sorcery and evil must necessarily be dim and gloomy,

with the usual accessories of the trade surrounding one. The hut of old

Lefroi was not lacking in this way. The light of a taper burnt low and

dim indeed that wild November night, as the wizard bent, absorbed, over

his nocturnal incantations. He was wise, this old man, with the wisdom

of many ages, learnt, some said, from his master the devil, and others

that he had been taught by some of those wandering Bohemians and

sorcerers who were so often to be met with at that time in France.

These sons of Egypt had been kindly treated in the little forest hut,

and for reward they had imparted to the owner, it was affirmed, not only

knowledge of the stars, but the secrets of many wonderful and deadly

drugs which were found often so useful by old Lefroi's customers, and

did not always partake of the nature of love-philtres. Perhaps he was

even now decocting some of his noxious draughts as he bent over his

crucible, for his wizened old face was drawn together into a twisted

mockery of a smile, which gave it still more the appearance of crinkled

parchment. His costume was effective, being a long, loose wrapper

embellished with numerous quaint cabalistic signs and hieroglyphics. On

his head he wore the usual skull-cap; whilst by his side perched the

familiar black cat, whose purrings played a suitable accompaniment to

the bubbling of the pot into which a huge black raven peered with

curious eyes from her master's shoulder. Altogether the picture was a

familiar one, such as might have been seen in any abode of those

jugglers and quacks of the age who practised the occult science and grew

rich on the superstitions of the ignorant.

A tap at the wooden door roused the old man from his absorbing

occupation, and with a muttered curse he hobbled across to withdraw the

bolt and peer out into the darkness.

The visitor, however, waited for no invitation to enter, but pushed in

almost rudely, as if fearing that the owner of the hut might wish to

refuse admittance. It was a woman, who lost no time in flinging back her

hood and facing her companion.

"I am Diane de Coray," she said briefly, "and have been sent in haste by

my brother, whom you know, old man, to ask of you the antidote for the

poison you gave to him some time since."

Lefroi peered curiously into the pale, beautiful face which looked down

so anxiously into his. Then he nodded.

"It is very well," he observed shrewdly, "it is very well; but how am I

to know, fair mistress, that you are indeed she whose name you give, for

in truth you resemble monsieur, your noble brother, not at all?"

"Fool!" she cried impatiently, "I swear to you I am Diane de Coray--is

that sufficient? Give me the antidote quickly, else it will be too

late."

Still he eyed her furtively, hesitating to do her will.

"Indeed, I know not of what you speak, mistress," he whined at length.

"Poison? I know of no poison. A love-philtre, mistress--a love-philtre

or the prediction of the horoscope now----"

"Have done!" she cried angrily, and he noted the gleam of despair in her

eyes. "Have done, old foolish one; I have no time to lose, and well

thou knowest of what I speak: the poison that was to be administered

drop by drop, which was so slowly yet so surely to do its work. What!

should I know all this were I not indeed the sister of the man to whom

you gave it?"

"But wherefore," he questioned, half convinced and yet still doubtful,

"wherefore doth the noble lord require an antidote? Was the draught too

slow, or too quick? did it not fulfil its purpose as I predicted?"

"Ay! but too surely," cried the girl, with a shudder. "But there is yet

time, old man; quick, give me the antidote, and thou shalt have

gold--yes, gold."

She drew forth a bag as she spoke, and in the dim light the wizard's

keen eyes sparkled as he caught the gleam of the glittering coins. Yet

still he held back another instant.

"Gold cannot purchase the secrets of life," he muttered with a grin.

"Can it not?" she pleaded, and in a moment was kneeling on the grimy

floor pouring forth a stream of golden coins on to the seat near her.

The temptation was strong, yet its very strength made him hesitate

again.

"But wherefore dost thou need the antidote?" he persisted. "And how

know I that it is thy brother who sent thee? If there be a trick in

this, he will have his revenge upon me, who am but a poor, innocent old

man who----"

"Innocent!" she cried, rising to her feet; then changing her scornful

tones, she turned a pleading face towards her companion.

"I swear to thee that there is no trick, I swear by all the saints in

heaven, or"--she added bitterly as she noted the suspicion in his

eye--"by all the devils of hell, if that be an oath more in keeping with

this abode."

He laughed softly, turning a tender eye on the gold, then on the face

above it, finally on the closed door.

As if divining a menace in the glance, the girl placed her hand within

her dress, and the ominous glitter of steel warned the man that this was

no occasion for foul play, did he meditate such.

"Nay," he said, as if suddenly yielding to the temptation which lay

glittering before him, "I will trust thee, maiden; thou shalt have the

phial. But the price is high."

He repeated the last words softly, glancing again from her face to the

pile of gold.

"Gold!" she cried, flinging the word from her in scorn; "yes, you shall

have gold--see, more gold than this,--much more; I have it here,--only

hasten, hasten, else it will be too late."

He watched her with greedy eyes as she poured forth more money upon the

already goodly pile. No leather money this, the impoverished coin of an

impoverished land--but good gold,--French gold, warm-hued and

glittering.

"And so he still liveth," quoth the wizard slowly, as he bent once more

over his crucible. "I had heard--nay, what matter what I heard? The

wind singeth strange songs in yon sere branches, and the night owls

bring many a false tale. And so he lives?--and you, fair lady, are glad

that death hath not yet taken him from your warm embrace? Ah! it is

good to love in youth. See, once also I was young too, and I remember;

that is why I prepare here my love-charms for the young and joyous,

although for me the branches of the forest bear no green leaves and my

arms are empty."

But Diane de Coray made no reply to the mocking words, only standing

there, pale and fear-stricken, yet with a defiance in her dark eyes

which seemed to challenge death itself to mortal combat.

"Love and hate," maundered the old man, half to himself, as he stirred

the drugs he held in a tiny crystal bowl; "love and hate, love and hate,

they are strong masters, mistress, strong masters, and lead by strange

paths. It is I who know--aha! who so well? There have been secrets

whispered in these ears--have they not, my Pedro? Yes, such secrets as

might well blanch those fair cheeks yonder; but she shall not hear--no,

no, for secrets have their price. Yes, a goodly price!"

The raven croaked dismally, as if in reply to its master's words, and

rubbed its beak against the skull-cap in weird caress; whilst the cat,

as though jealous, rose, purring, to push her sleek body against his

legs. But Diane's eyes were fixed only on the dark drops of liquid

which, with steady hand, were being slowly poured into the phial.

"It is ready," said Lefroi, as he handed it to her. "Tell thy noble

brother that I send it with my most humble salutations. Also, if later

thou requirest a love-potion for thine own use, sweet maiden, thou wilt

not forget Henri Lefroi, the magician."

"Forget," muttered the girl hysterically. "Forget!" She said no more,

but seizing the phial eagerly, drew her cloak around her, quitting the

hut with no further word of thanks or farewell.

*CHAPTER XXI*

"He lives?" whispered a soft voice, which trembled nevertheless with

fear.

Father Ambrose raised a grave, anxious face, looking with some surprise

into the pale one bent close beside him. But Diane de Coray's eyes were

looking not at him for answer, but at the drawn, white face which lay

back amongst the cushions of the great bed. There were ominous blue

lines round the closed mouth and under the sunken eyes, whilst one

burning spot of colour on each cheek but intensified their pallor. It

was the face of a man who hovers on the brink of death, and already the

curls which lay thick on the white forehead were damp with the death

sweat, whilst the thin hands which strayed aimlessly over the coverlet

plucked at it from time to time, as if some spasm contracted them.

"He lives," replied the Benedictine mournfully; "but already, daughter,

is his soul winged for flight. Leave him in peace, so that, if

consciousness return ere the last, his thoughts may be fixed rather on

the confession of his sins and the eternal love to which he goes forth

than to the perishing flame of human passion."

But Diane shrank back no whit at the reproof, or the priest's cold

manner.

"Nay," she cried piteously, "he shall not die, father; see, I,--I have

prayed to the holy saints, and it shall be that they will save him."

"Hush, my daughter," said Father Ambrose, in a sterner tone. "Rebel not

at the Divine Will, nor bring in opposition to it thine own unavailing

and perishing love. Yvon de Mereac is dying, and no power of thine

shall prevail to drag him back from the grave to which he hastens."

"Will it not?" she cried softly, and the light of challenge and defiance

which had shone in her eyes in the wizard's hut brightened them again,

as they met the rebukeful glance of the priest. Then, changing her tone

to one of gentle pleading, "Father," she cried, "forgive one who is mad

belike for very grief; and yet I pray thee not to say that Yvon shall

die by the will of Heaven; for, see, he shall live in answer to my

prayers. I----" her voice faltered--"I,--I have here a draught given me

by a skilled and learned leech--a very elixir of life, father;--give it

to him now,--now, ere it be too late, and truly thou shalt prove the

truth of my words."

The old man took the tiny phial, gazing suspiciously the while from it

to the pale, agonized face near his own. "Daughter," he said solemnly,

"what meaneth this? Whence came this phial?"

"Nay, ask me not," she cried passionately, "but give it to him,

now,--now! See, his eyes unclose, he knows me! Yvon! Yvon!"

The blue eyes of the sick man shone faintly with the light of

recognition; then, even as she sank on her knees beside the bed, closed

heavily again.

"Delay not, delay not, father!" cried the girl imploringly, "or it will

be too late. See, he gasps for breath! he,--nay, he _shall_ have it,"

and snatching the phial from the Benedictine's fingers, she raised

Yvon's head and poured a few drops of the contents down his throat.

Then, with a sigh, she let the sick man sink back amongst the supporting

cushions, and turned with flushed face to meet the priest's stern look.

"Daughter," he said slowly, "what hast thou done?"

The accusing note rang out sharply in the quiet chamber, and

involuntarily Diane glanced towards the bed; but the sufferer stirred

not--even the restless fingers were still, his breathing came already

more easily.

"He will live!" cried Diane, clasping her hands; "he will live, father!"

But Father Ambrose replied not; instead, he was looking with curious,

thoughtful eyes into the half-emptied phial which the girl had yielded

into his outstretched hand. But whatever the thoughts that stirred in

the old man's brain, they were at present too intangible to resolve into

words; the shadow of suspicion was too vague, his mind in too chaotic a

whirl, for him to realize what this strange happening portended. He,

the friend of the little Gwennola, who had loved her from a child with

an affection almost paternal, had long watched with concern and

suspicion the machinations of this woman against his darling. But with

regard to her dealings with Yvon he was more perplexed; from the first

he had doubted her love for the young Sieur de Mereac, and readily

guessed that she acted a part under the influence of her brother. As for

that brother, it is to be confessed that there was little of the spirit

of charity in the gentle old man's breast towards this man whose

presence had proved ever so baneful to those under whose roof he lived,

and who had won his love. It was the same natural repulsion of a human

creature to some gliding, treacherous snake, which he watched in fear

and suspicion, knowing that where the reptile coils most lovingly around

its object it is but in preparation to strike a fatal blow. And now the

blow had fallen, but so unexpectedly that it seemed impossible that it

should have been struck by the serpent in question. That Gwennola was

innocent Father Ambrose would have staked his soul; but who was the

guilty, if guilty one there were? Was not this illness, perhaps, rather

the finger of Heaven? Puzzled and bewildered by the very contrariety of

his thoughts, this fresh development completely mystified the good man.

If this woman were guilty of the apparently wanton act of poisoning her

lover, wherefore this distress, this simulated agony of love and

devotion? As for the draught, what was it? A fresh potion from the

sorcerer? A love-philtre? or what? Did it bring death or healing with

the quaffing? His experienced eye saw, to its infinite surprise, that

already a change had stolen over his patient. The drawn, pinched look

had gone; the blue lines, around lips, nose, and eyes, were fading into

a more healthful white; the breathing was more regular and less

laboured. And, whilst still wondering at the apparent miracle, Father

Ambrose turned to speak to his strange visitor, behold! her place was

empty, and he heard the soft swish of the tapestry curtain as it fell

again into its place.

There was a smile on the lips of Diane de Coray as, a few hours later,

she stood gazing out of her window in the chamber which had been set

aside for her use. She was meditating deeply, it would seem, on things

pleasant and joyful, for she did not hear the door softly open, nor was

she aware that she was no longer alone till a hand grasped her shoulder.

"Guillaume!" she cried, facing him with the rich colour surging swiftly

to her cheeks; but it had faded again, leaving them the paler by

contrast, before he spoke.

"It is I, Diane."

"So I may well see for myself," she laughed, but the laugh flickered a

little tremulously as her eyes fell before his.

"He is not dead," he said in a low, menacing tone; "what means it,

Diane?"

"Means it?" she echoed vaguely. "What should it mean? Perchance the

drug was less potent than Lefroi told thee, or Yvon too strong to

succumb beneath its power."

"Thou knowest it is neither," he hissed. "Traitress and fool that thou

art, but now Father Ambrose told me, with shrewd looks of suspicion,

that the noble Sieur lay at the point of death, but that, since he had

partaken of a draught given him by the lady, my sister, he had rallied

in a manner truly miraculous."

She laughed merrily and stood there defying him, seeing that concealment

of her act was useless.

"And the old man speaks truth," she cried gaily; "I have saved

him--saved him! Ah! thanks be to the holy saints that I have done

so!--saved him, Guillaume, my brother! And wherefore? askest thou.

Why, because I love him--love him with all my heart and soul; because

riches, greatness--all--would be nothing to me if he lay cold and silent

in the grave. Dost thou not understand? Cannot thy cold heart learn

what such love is?--what fires it kindles in the breast, what passion it

arouses? Nay! I care little for thy anger--I love him, I tell thee."

"Fool!" he snarled, "and thrice times fool for thy pains! Dost think

that I shall be balked by thy puling fancy, now, on the eve of all my

plans' fulfilment? Love! ay, perchance I also know the flame that burns

within, and which shall consume all else which stands as barrier to its

fulfilment. But to compare my love with thine----!" He broke off with

a scornful laugh, changing his tone to one of cold sarcasm.

"And so thou lovest him, this weak fool whom thou plottedst to destroy?

Nay, blanch not, but picture to thyself how great will be his love to

thee when he knoweth the truth! Picture to yourself his rage, his

despair, his agony, when he learns that his sister perished in

innocence, and the woman who dragged her to the stake, the woman whose

arms clung around his neck, whose warm kisses were passed to his lips,

whose siren tongue whispered of faith and devotion, was also the one to

pour into the betrothal cup the deadly drops that should send the proud

bridegroom to keep festival with Death!"

She covered her face with her hands, shuddering.

"Would he love thee?" mocked Guillaume de Coray; "would his arms again

seek to clasp so foul a bride to his heart? Would he woo thy kisses to

his lips when the death-cries of his sister rang in his ears?"

"But it is not yet too late," cried Diane passionately. "Alas! alas! my

sin hath been great,--the sin which thou didst conceive, cruel demon

that thou art; but I will yet save her--I will tell all,--all; and it

may be that he will forgive me, even though he cannot love me again."

"Not so," replied de Coray softly, as with a sudden spring he caught her

in his arms; "not so, fair lady. Nay, struggle not with me, else will it

be the worse for thee." And, clasping her with one arm, he placed his

hand before her mouth, bearing, or rather dragging, her towards the bed

as he did so. She was powerless in his grasp, and after a few vain

attempts to free herself lay passive as he gagged and bound her.

"So," he said softly, as he stood over her, meeting the helpless glare

of her eyes with a mocking smile, "thy wings are clipped for the

present, my bird. So thou thoughtest to cross the path of thy dear and

well-beloved brother, didst thou, sweetest maiden? Alas! I fear me

'twas rash--too rash. Adieu, little one, adieu! All will, I am

assured, regret to hear of the sudden and dangerous sickness of

mademoiselle; it will be altogether clear to them that she has been

bewitched--alas! poor maid! In the meantime I must bid thee rest,

Diane; thou art weary--so weary. 'Tis too long and too perilous a walk

for one so tender and so innocent, to Henri Lefroi's hut,--fie on thee

for so forward and unmaidenly an undertaking! What wouldst have done

hadst thou met the Brown Friar himself? Nevertheless, I will not

distract thee with reproaches, but will leave thee to thy orisons, or

perchance to still sweeter meditations,--of thy lover, it may be, or of

thy brother. In the meantime, have no fear that the dear Yvon shall

miss thy tender care; I will myself usurp thy place for very love's

sake. Ah! I will tend him right well, my Diane; he also shall have

rest, such peace and rest! Slumber is good for the sick, say the

leeches; therefore he shall sleep--so long, so well, I fear me it will

need warmer kisses than thine, my sister, to rouse him again. But I go

at once, for it seemeth that thou carest little for my presence. Take

comfort, for I swear none shall disturb thee, not even the worthy

Jeanne, and anon I will myself bring thee food and wine; for if in truth

thou art bewitched, the evil spirit may not leave thee till the hot

flames have devoured her who had so ill a will upon thee."

With a sinking and agonized heart the unhappy girl saw the mocker turn

away, heard the bolts shoot back into their places, and knew that she

was as close a prisoner as any who languished in dungeon cell.

"Yvon!--Yvon!--Yvon!" It was the dumb cry of pain and terror which

surged within her so helplessly, so passionately. Bound and gagged as

she lay, she could neither move nor cry aloud; and, in the midst of all

her agony, came the fatal intuition that even now, once again, death

would be awaiting her lover. Terrible hours those; the limits of human

endurance stretched to their utmost on the rack, not only of love's

fears but the crudest torture of remorse. Vividly there came before the

eyes of Diane de Coray the picture of her life,--a picture so sad, so

melancholy, so pathetic, that the tears of self-pity and sympathy

splashed down her pale cheeks.

An orphan from earliest youth, she had been left under the guardianship

of a brother little fitted to govern so tender a maid. Himself the tool

of an infamous scoundrel, his friends were little likely to be fitting

companions to a young girl of gentle birth; and so Diane had grown up

amidst wild and reckless surroundings, courted and flattered for her

beauty and sparkling wit by men with whom she should never have been

associated. For friends of her own sex she had neither taste nor

inclination; and, of the few she possessed, one had so ill an influence

over her as had successfully placed her in her brother's power.

Ignorant girl that she was, she had yet shrunk back appalled from the

practice of the black art of which she was invited to be a devotee; but,

even in escaping from the peril, the smirch of contamination had

sufficiently soiled the whiteness of her honour to lead her to believe

that her brother, if he chose, might denounce her as a witch.

And so terrible had been the thought, that she had been willing to

accede to any command of his which would insure his silence. Brought up

to regard lightly all sorts of treachery, the plan conceived by de Coray

for his own enrichment and revenge struck her with no pangs of horror,

and she had started on her journey comparatively light of heart. But

all had fallen out so strangely beyond her expectations. The gentle,

tender Yvon de Mereac, with his weak, wavering will, but chivalrous

heart, had by degrees inflamed her with a passion hitherto unknown. From

contempt at first had sprung pity, and, from pity, love itself; not the

calm, sweet love of the smoothly-flowing stream, but the mad, tumultuous

rush of the mountain torrent, which sweeps aside all obstructions, and

dashing blindly over rocks and boulders flings itself with exhausted

passion into the deep, still pool below. The mutual dislike between

Gwennola and herself had risen, on her own part, from inborn jealousy.

She hated instantly this proud, pure girl who had never looked on

temptations such as had beset her path, or been lured into such danger

as had nearly ended in her own destruction; and as she met the glance of

the clear, blue eyes it seemed that Gwennola must read, perforce, her

guilty secret. Yet she had hardened herself against shame or the first

mysterious whisperings of her own heart. Goaded by Gwennola's cold

contempt, she had for long continued to do her brother's will, and it

was only the rush of the last few days' terrible events that had opened

her eyes to the intensity of her passion, and inspired her with the

resolution to save her lover at all risks--ay! even at the price of her

own life; even,--and this was hardest of all,--even at the risk of

losing for ever the love which had grown so precious a thing. And

now,--now when she had seen hope burst radiant and glorious upon the

darkness of night--hope, love, and life itself seemed as suddenly

quenched; and all that she could do was to moan forth short, agonized

prayers for succour, in her despair, to Him Who alone could still

protect the doomed house of Mereac.

*CHAPTER XXII*

The chamber in which Diane de Coray lay had grown light at last,--light,

at least, as the grey dawn of a November day could make it as it crept

through the narrow slits which served as windows. Yet there were

shadows everywhere; she could see them as she moved her weary eyes to

look through the opening where her brother's hand had rudely torn aside

the bed hangings. Half-fainting with suffocation and the strain on her

over-burdened heart, she felt no throb of surprise or fear as she saw

the feeble light swiftly blotted out by a dark-robed figure. Yet, as

the figure moved, coming quickly to her side with a low exclamation of

horror, her senses began to return to her, and her eyes looked up in

joyful recognition to meet the stern but puzzled glance of Father

Ambrose.

"Daughter," said the old man gravely, "what meaneth this?"

He had severed her bonds and removed the gag, helping the poor girl,

whose limbs at first were cramped and useless, to raise herself into a

sitting posture.

For reply Diane stared vaguely into the troubled eyes bent upon her; her

brain was cramped too with the long agony of those terrible hours, but

at last comprehension slowly returned as the stinging blood began once

more to circulate in her numbed members.

"How came you hither, father?" she questioned faintly, staring from her

unexpected visitor to the closely barred door.

"Suffice that I am here," was the enigmatical reply. "Yet time presses,

daughter, and I must have an answer to my question. Alas! it may even

now be too late!"

"Too late?" she echoed, a fresh fear striking its chill to her heart.

"Nay, tell me, father--he lives?--he is better?--he will recover?"

"I spake not of Yvon de Mereac," said the priest in a stifled tone, "but

of the pure and innocent maid, his sister, who hath been condemned

falsely by wicked men, to suffer death at noon; and yet," he added

slowly, fixing a piercing glance on Diane's pale face,--"I can see

already that there lieth much behind this. Speak, maiden, without

delay--confess all thou knowest of this plot, and save thy soul from the

blood of the innocent."

"To die!" whispered Diane slowly; "to die!"

On the instant the whole picture of her guilt flared before her eyes,

and the words of her brother rang in her ears: "Picture to yourself his

rage, his despair, his agony, when he learns that his sister perished in

innocence, and the woman who dragged her to the stake, the woman whose

warm kisses were pressed to his lips, whose siren tongue whispered of

faith and devotion, was also the one to pour into the betrothal cup the

deadly drops that should send the proud bridegroom to keep festival with

Death."

"To die!" she cried again, flinging out her hands as if in supplication

to the priest, who stood there stern, grave, and immovable. "To

die!--and for my sin! Merciful Virgin, Mother of Help! save her!--save

her!--for she is innocent!"

She had sunk on to the ground at the old man's feet, at the last words,

and, clinging to his robe, sobbed out her terrible confession. In the

remorse and shame of her agony she hid nothing; and as he listened,

Father Ambrose's stern face relaxed into a softer expression of pity.

"Daughter," he said gently, as he raised the weeping girl from the

floor, "Daughter, be of good comfort; to one also who had greatly sinned

were words of pardon spoken for love's sake, and it may be that

repentance hath not come too late. But," he added, his face hardening,

"we may not delay; come, child--see, I will trust thee to play thy part

in the salvation, not only of the innocent, but of the man whom thou

lovest. Come speedily, for it may be that that man of blood and

treachery,--upon whose soul shall rest the curse of God and whose

damnation shall be quick,--may come hither to bring thee food. But we

shall yet escape the snare and pluck the innocent lamb in time from the

cruel death prepared for her."

As he spoke he was supporting the weeping Diane across the room,

pressing back an unseen door, cunningly secreted from view in the shape

of a sliding panel, through which he passed, still guiding her carefully

as they descended a winding, spiral stair which led downwards to another

part of the chateau.

"Child," he said again softly, as they paused, close to the tapestry

curtain which separated them from Yvon's room--"child, the way of

repentance is no easy one. Confession must be made, not only to God,

the Judge of all, but to him whom thou hast so injured, and against whom

thou plannedst this ill. I leave to thee this task, so terrible yet so

necessary, weak and sick though he be, for the sake of one whose life I

go to save, if the will of the Lord and our Lady permit it, as I well

wot shall be, seeing that they ever guard the innocent from the snares

of the evil-doers."

"But it will kill him," moaned Diane; "it will kill him, father! Oh!

say that I may wait until he grows stronger,--then I will confess

all--yes, all, even to the uttermost!"

But the priest shook his head.

"Confession must be made without delay," he said gravely. "Thou thyself

mayest well see the necessity, daughter; for, weak and sick though he

be, Yvon de Mereac must know the truth of his sister's innocence, and

also the guilt and evil intentions of the man who hath thus plotted

against his life and who hath but used thee, poor maid, as his tool.

But delay not, for I may not linger with the sweet voice of Gwennola

calling me to hasten to her deliverance."

With a sob, Diane yielded to the old man's will, and with trembling

fingers raised the curtain and entered her lover's room.

He was lying there, still, amongst his cushions; but even in those few,

short hours the change in the emaciated face was marvellous. It was no

longer the face of a dying man, drawn, blue-hued, and pinched with

suffering. Haggard and gaunt still, yet the eyes which met Diane's were

bright with recognition.

"Diane! Diane!" he whispered; "fairest love, with what an aching heart

I have awaited thy coming! She is condemned, Diane--the little Gwennola

is condemned to death; and yet so fair a dream I had of her but

yesternight, for methought she was a child again, lily-crowned and

laughing, and that she ran to me, crying my name in joy, and, clinging

to my neck, pressed her flowers upon me, saying she had gathered them

for love's sake; and her eyes looked into mine with so sweet a

tenderness that I awoke sobbing, calling to remembrance that she was a

witch who had striven for my death."

"No witch!" cried Diane, as she knelt, weeping, at his side; "no witch,

Yvon, but pure and innocent as the child of thy dreams. Alas! alas!

that, for the sake of thy love for her, thy love for me must die; and

yet I am unworthy of it, unworthy of aught but thy hatred, thy loathing,

and thy scorn!"

"My hatred?" he whispered tenderly, whilst his feeble hands strayed

fondly towards the tresses of her bowed head. "My hatred, little Diane?

That could never be, wert thou--wert thou--ah! all that thou art not, my

sweetest one!"

"Alas! alas! thou knowest not!" sobbed the girl. "Ah! the bitterness of

telling thee, Yvon! Why may I not die the sooner, so that I shall not

look into thine eyes and see the scorn and loathing which thou must

needs feel towards a thing so foul?"

"Hush!" he whispered faintly, "thou shalt not say such words, Diane, my

adored."

The very tenderness of his speech, the quiver in his voice, made the

task more terrible; yet it had to be essayed, and with bowed head and

sobbing breath she faltered it forth.

When it was finished there was silence in the room. Outside the wind

moaned and shrieked; reproachful voices, they sounded, calling to those

within that that very day innocence was suffering for the guilty. The

raindrops that splattered against the grey walls without seemed to be

fingers knocking for admittance, ghostly fingers which mocked and gibed

whilst the wind voices wept and lamented the louder. And as she

listened, Diane de Coray crouched the lower in a very agony of

self-abasement and remorse, not daring to look up and find the eyes she

had learnt to love so passionately grow hard and cruel as love died

within them.

"Diane!"

The voice roused her, and in spite of her forebodings she slowly raised

her head. The face on the pillows was deathly pale, and the poor lips

quivered piteously in their pain and horror; but the eyes--ah! those

eyes! love was not dead there, but so mortally wounded that his agony

was the more terrible to witness.

"Yvon! Yvon!" she moaned. "Ah! why may I not die? Why may I not die?

I may not ask thee to forgive me, but oh! for the sake of our sweet Lady

of Pity, curse me not!"

"Curse thee?" he muttered faintly, "nay, myself the rather, seeing I

love thee still, and as truly as ever; and yet the little Gwennola----"

A smothered sob choked him, and Diane knew that though love stood there

calling to her with outstretched arms of forgiveness, there lay between

them the irrevocable shadow of a sister's blood.

"Oh, merciful heavens!" she cried, clasping her hands, wringing them

together in a paroxysm of grief and entreaty, "grant that they may be in

time!"

"In time?" faintly whispered the sick man; "in time?"

"Ay," she sobbed, "ay, Yvon, there is yet a hope, for Father Ambrose and

Alain Fanchonic ride at full speed to Martigue to proclaim her

innocence."

"And--and thou hast told Father Ambrose all?" he murmured, and the thin

hand on the coverlet strayed once more nearer to the bent figure at his

side.

"All--all!" she cried passionately; "for thy sake, Yvon, for thy

sake--and for love's!"

* * * * *

"For love's sake!" Yes, that was the goad which added wings to the good

horse's feet as Alain Fanchonic, with Father Ambrose, seated on a

pillion behind him clasping the stalwart man-at-arm's waist, rode forth

into the tempest which shrieked raging through the forest. A wild ride,

with the wind beating in their faces, and dead leaves whirling in a very

hurricane around them; but neither of the two had thought for wind or

weather, for ever before their eyes stood the slender figure of a young

girl bound to a burning stake with arms outstretched in pleading, whilst

her voice cried to them to hasten to her aid. It is true that Alain

Fanchonic, grandson of the old dame upon whom Gwennola so often bestowed

her bounty, had crossed himself in devout horror when he heard the story

of the Brown Friar and the waxen image; but so severely had his

grandmother upbraided him for his credulity in believing such slander

against one of Heaven's own angels, that he had lived in a state of

doubt and horror during the few days which had elapsed since Gwennola's

arrest and condemnation. So that when Father Ambrose had come to him,

telling him to saddle Barbe, the fleetest mare in the stables, and ride

with him to Martigue to save his mistress and proclaim her innocence, he

had lost little time in complying, muttering curses and prayers alike,

whilst the tears ran down his brown cheeks as he sprang into the saddle,

and, with the good priest clinging on for dear life behind, dashed out,

across the drawbridge and away through the forest so madly that surely

Providence only could have upheld the grey mare's feet as she sped along

the narrow, dangerous path. But not once did she stumble as she galloped

swiftly along, and Father Ambrose felt his heart beat with joy and

gladness as they gradually neared their goal. Yet not without

interruption were they thus to journey, for, as they rode, they were

startled suddenly by another horseman who leapt unexpectedly on to the

path before them. It was Guillaume de Coray; and even as their glances

met, the old priest felt a thrill of wonderment as he saw the traitor's

face. It was not indeed that of a man who hastens from the scene of his

triumph, and the consummation of his hopes and plots, but rather that of

baffled hatred and anger. His fierce gaze met the Benedictine's for an

instant only, as he reined back his horse, which trembled as it stood

there, as if its master had spared it little in his ride. Then, even

before either had time to speak, a blast of wind, sweeping through the

forest, brought one of the mighty trees close by to the ground with a

terrific crash. The noise so near and so unexpected startled de Coray's

horse; rearing on its hind legs, it pawed the ground in terror, then,

with a snort of fear it leapt forward so wildly as to unseat its rider,

who, flung heavily against one of the trees, lay senseless and bleeding

on the ground.

In a moment Father Ambrose was beside him; yet, even before he stooped

to examine the injured man's hurts, he paused to address the

man-at-arms.

"Ride on with speed, Alain Fanchonic," he cried authoritatively; "spare

not thy steed, but ride for thy life, or rather for hers whom thou

lovest; save thy mistress, ere it be too late."

Without hesitation, the man plunged his spurs into the good horse's

sides, quickly disappearing amongst the trees; and Father Ambrose was

left alone beside his unconsious enemy, struck down in the hour of his

vengeance by what, to the simple faith of the priest, was nothing less

than the finger of the Eternal Judge.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

It was a great day in the little town of Martigue, for they were out of

the world, here on the borders of the forest of Arteze, and life was

inclined to grow monotonous. True, there were the festivals and

such-like mild excitements; but they could not bear comparison with the

burning of a witch in the marketplace. And she was no ordinary witch,

see you, but a beautiful and high-born demoiselle, whose evil practices

no one had even dreamt of till they had been brought to light in so

wonderful a manner. And she had murdered her own brother! Was it to be

conceived? But it was terrible!--nevertheless, very interesting. Some

said they did not believe it, and, that the new Sieur de Mereac was a

foul fiend himself, and Pierre the fool his attendant imp; but these

were only the foolish ones, for had it not been quickly proved, and

beyond all doubt, that this beautiful young witch had ofttimes attended

Satanic meetings yonder in the forest, and had been seen dancing with

the Brown Friar himself, whilst she and her dread partner chanted

incantations so deadly that it was a wonder that all in the Chateau de

Mereac had not fallen under their spell instead of only the unfortunate

young Sieur?

It had been easy work, that condemnation of so terrible a malefactor;

there had been no need of search or torture to prove the guilt both of

mistress and maid. Justice moves quickly when there is a powerful arm

behind to arrange the machinery, and Guillaume de Coray was already

looked upon as Sieur de Mereac, seeing that Yvon was reported to have

died in agonies, shrieking for vengeance against his guilty sister. And

vengeance he should have; the good folk of Martigue and Mereac were

determined on that, promising themselves a day's holiday and enjoyment

into the bargain.

That the day itself should be so tempestuous was but another proof of

the witches' guilt and malevolence; clearly it had been raised by demon

power to arrest the course of justice. But justice should not be

arrested. Pile high the faggots!--yes! higher,--higher! Parbleu! what a

blaze there would be!--how they would shriek and curse!--how they would

writhe and groan! The prospect, appealing to the savagery of ignorant

natures, thrilled all with pleasurable excitement and delight. Some

wondered if the fiend himself would appear to carry his devotees away;

others looked forward to hearing hideous confessions wrung from writhing

lips by the torture of the flames. Altogether there were few to pity

two young and beautiful girls who were going forth to die a cruel death,

so fiercely ran the passions and superstitions of the peasantry of the

age. Yet there were those in the little town whose hearts beat in the

agony of horror and suspense, and whose eyes were turned, not on the

grim spectacle preparing in the market-place, but upon the wild heath

which stretched away westwards, half hidden by the blinding rain and

wind.

Close to the gates stood Job Alloadec and a small knot of men of Mereac

who were loyal to their unfortunate young mistress. Even if the help

for which they looked came not, Gwennola de Mereac and Marie his sister

should not die alone that day in the market-place,--so Job had sworn,

with hands held fast in the hands of those who promised to stand side by

side with him. But out yonder, through the mist and rain, a man rode

hastily along the road to Rennes. The peasants tramping towards

Martigue wondered amongst themselves as they watched him gallop by. It

was urgent business, they said one to another, which sent a man away

from Martigue that day! and therewith they fell afresh to speculations

on what would occur when the witches of Mereac met their doom. But on

galloped the horseman, with spurs in his horse's flanks and his mouth

tight set as if he rode on a matter of life and death. Yes! and life

and death it was to be for some that day in the little town behind him.

The hour of noon was approaching, already a bell tolled forth from the

church close by, and in the market-place the people thronged so closely

that they trod one on another in their eagerness to behold. By the gate

Job Alloadec and his men waited, with an eye towards the market-place as

the minutes crept by. In their prison cell two girls knelt in prayer.

Marie was weeping, her head resting on her mistress's shoulder; but

Gwennola was calm, a shadowy smile even seemed to flicker around her

mouth as she raised her face towards the faint light which struggled in

through the narrow slit above them.

The tolling bell, the roar of the crowd, came faintly to them, and sent

fresh shudderings through Marie's frame.

"Courage, child," whispered Gwennola; "remember we are innocent, and the

Holy Mother will not forsake us even in this our extremity. For myself

I have no fears; if death indeed be our lot, grace shall be sent to

strengthen us for the trial, and I will pray to die as Gwennola de

Mereac should die, defying her accusers to the last. But I have hope so

strong within my breast that it seemeth I can take little thought for

death. Dry then those tears, my Marie; look into my eyes and fear

not;--I tell thee it is life, not death, before us."

But though her foster-sister struggled bravely with her emotions, sobs

of terror still shook her as at length their prison door was flung open

and their guards appeared. A yell of fury greeted them as, a little

later, the two unfortunate girls, tightly bound, were led forth to their

doom. Yet, even as the outcry died, a fresh and more compassionate

murmur arose from many at sight of the captives.

Innocence indeed seemed written on every lineament of the faces turned

towards their enemies, and men and women pressed forward with

exclamations in which pity mingled with admiration and indignation

against the sentence about to be executed. But the guards around kept

back the populace as the victims were fastened to the stakes prepared

for them. Yet, even as the executioner stepped forward with lighted

torch, a loud shout arose, the thunder of horses' hoofs was heard at the

gate, and, turning, all beheld a strong body of soldiery riding at full

speed towards the market-place.

"Do your work, knave, and quickly!" shouted a horseman, who, with his

hat drawn closely over his eyes, had stood close to the centre of the

crowd, near to the stakes. "Delay not an instant--fire the faggots!"

Recognising the voice, Gwennola turned, and, from her awful position

looked into the face of Guillaume de Coray.

"Fire the faggots!" cried he again imperatively to the man, who stood,

with flaming torch, hesitating as he watched, first the changing faces

of the populace, and then the soldiers who were advancing at a gallop.

"The French! the French are upon us!" shouted a voice from the crowd,

and in an instant panic reigned. Yet still the guard around the stake

drew close, the executioner still hesitated,--it was not too late.

With white face and furious looks de Coray, whose swift instinct had

told him what the diversion meant, sprang to the ground and, snatching

the brand from the executioner's hand, rushed forward. For an instant

he stood opposite his victim, glaring at her with baffled hatred and

malice as he stooped to thrust the flaming torch into the brushwood

piled around her; but even as it seemed that his purpose was

accomplished, a strong arm intervened, and Job Alloadec, with an oath,

had snatched the torch from his grasp, and would have hurled de Coray to

the ground had not one of the guard come quickly to his rescue. But the

opportunity had gone, and de Coray knew, that, for the present at least,

safety lay only in flight. He had seen that the French soldiers, with

d'Estrailles at their head, far outnumbered the soldiers of the town

guard; also he had watched the changing mood of the crowd, and foresaw

that their rage might be quickly turned against him, the principal

witness in procuring the sentence against the supposed witches.

Therefore with creditable discretion the gallant knight leapt upon his

horse's back, and by dint of some hard blows and many curses succeeded

in struggling out of the seething crowd and gaining in safety the

shelter of the forest.

But Gwennola had no thought to bestow on her enemies. Bound and

helpless as she was, she had caught a glimpse from afar of a bronzed,

flushed face under a raised vizor, had heard the shouts that arose on

all sides, and knew that deliverance had indeed come.

Job Alloadec was sobbing at her side as he cut the bonds that bound her

still to the cruel stake; whilst, close at hand, she was aware that

Marie was already in her lover's arms. In a dazed, half-unconscious way

she wondered why Henri delayed, and even as she did so she was aware of

a tall, knightly form at her side, felt herself lifted into a close

embrace and heard a voice whispering her name again and again in her

ear: "Gwennola, Gwennola, thou art saved!"

Yes, he had come, this faithful lover--come, by the Providence of God,

in time to save her from the death which had appeared so inevitable, and

even now, as he held her in his arms, still loomed all too dangerously

near. The garrison of the little town might indeed have proved a

stubborn foe had it not been for Job Alloadec's presence at the gate;

and d'Estrailles full well knew the peril he ran in thus snatching

reputed witches from death, and that even his own men might turn against

him for so doing. But one thing was in his favour: the peasantry had

changed from their savage mood of the morning, and had welcomed at first

the rescuers. It was an appeal to the romantic side of their natures,

but an appeal which d'Estrailles knew would not last. All too soon

their slow reasoning would put a different complexion on the affair.

That the enemies of their country should thus summarily snatch from them

their lawful prey would not commend itself to stubborn Breton pride.

The brief pity which the beauty of their victims had inspired would fade

away as they remembered their dreaded vocation, and the pleasurable

excitement they had anticipated from their sufferings. Therefore there

was no time for delay; one brief kiss, one word of joyous assurance, and

Henri d'Estrailles had raised Gwennola to his horse's back, and swinging

himself into the saddle, turned to force his way back through the crowd,

which already began to murmur as a pack of hungry wolves may howl when

they see their prey borne from them into safety. Murmured execrations

on the hated Frenchmen rose to a clamour, which, however, was partly

subdued by the formidable array which gathered around their leader. At

the gate the Breton captain of the guard called them to a halt. He could

not understand what had occurred, poor man, so unexpectedly and so

suddenly had this intervention of justice taken place. How had it been

possible that the gates had been so readily opened? Why was it that

these French desired to save a witch from her well-merited punishment?

Altogether the mind of Captain Maurice d'Yvec was as chaotic as the

crowd behind him.

It was easily explained: the demoiselle and her woman, whom the French

captain carried away, were no witches; they were falsely accused, as

doubtless monsieur would soon be informed. In the meantime, Monsieur

d'Estrailles had commands to carry the demoiselle, and also her woman,

to Rennes; surely Monsieur le Capitaine would raise no objection when he

heard it was the command of Madame la Duchesse herself.

"Vive la Duchesse!" That was a cry that these Breton soldiers could

understand. "Vive la Duchesse!"--and confusion to her enemies! Well,

it was a thing most extraordinary that the Duchess should send enemies

as her messengers to rescue reputed witches from burning; and

yet--Captain Maurice d'Yvec hesitated, but there was a soft corner in

this heart, which was not all of grey Breton flint-stone, and perchance

the beauty of Gwennola de Mereac had found it out, and perchance also

the gallant captain had no great love for the new Sieur de Mereac.

Moreover, the Sieur had unaccountably disappeared; and even did he

himself oppose this fair-speaking, gallant enemy, it was probable that

he and his soldiers would be out-numbered and killed. So at length the

hesitation came to an end, and Henri d'Estrailles rode out of Martigue

with Gwennola de Mereac clinging to his saddle-bow and the wild landes

before them, where the wind howled its welcome and the rain beat in

their faces as if laughing at their triumph over its rival element. But

what cared Henri or Gwennola for wind or rain? Behind them lay their

enemies, vanquished and overcome, and before them through the mists of

wind and rain shone the sunshine of love and life--love, life, and each

other.

"En avant--to Rennes!" cried d'Estrailles gaily, as he rode forward with

one arm round Gwennola's slender waist. "To Rennes!"

"To Rennes!" echoed Jean Marcille, and stooped with a merry laugh to

kiss the rosy lips of little Marie, which pouted up at him from under

the hood drawn tightly about her face. "To Rennes, little

sweetheart--where thou and I wilt wed."

"Wed!" whispered Marie coyly, as she nestled closely to him. "How

knowest thou that, great foolish one?--perchance I have no mind to wed

at all; and as for wedding _thee_----" But he did not allow her to

complete her sentence.

*CHAPTER XXIV*

Back through the vague shadowland of unconsciousness, back once more to

a still vaguer, more terrible realization of life--life all drawn into

one great and hideous contraction of pain, where thoughts became at

first impossible, till, the mists clearing aside, recollections of the

past claimed fresh tortures of the mind. It was so that Guillaume de

Coray crept back once more into conscious existence, to find himself

lying on a couch in a chamber of the Chateau de Mereac. What chamber it

was his weary brain refused to realize: all he was aware of was the

agony which shot through his body with the first attempt to move. Then

swiftly came the unerring intuition that this was death--death,

terrible, unrelenting, inexorable, come to claim him all unready,

sin-stained, fear-stricken. A shudder passed through the quivering,

broken body, which suffered now less than the man's soul. Clearly they

stood out, those sins,--hideous sins, arraigning him before the judgment

seat of One Whose Eyes must needs search deep to the heart's core. Was

it all black within?--all black, irredeemable guilt? Far back in the

secret chambers of his heart there flickered a feeble light; it was the

inner shrine, so long empty, but filled now with the image, not of its

Creator, but of His creature. Gabrielle Laurent, the humble

peasant-girl of Arteze--it was she who alone had found that sanctuary

and filled it so strangely. Cruel, evil, treacherous to all, his love

for her had been the one pure spot in a shameless life. For her sake

indeed he might have striven to become other than he was, had it not

been for the devil-whisper which prompted him to win for her by foul and

wicked means what she, had she known, would have shrunk from in horror.

So the powers of evil twist us to their will, and Guillaume had plotted

with no thought for the undoing of his soul, even whilst he felt

stirring within him the birth of a pure love. And now----? Again the

shiver ran through him. He had played for a high stake, and he had

lost. Death was the penalty. In solitude his lost soul must steal

forth to its doom, and even in so going leave behind it a memory of

shame which should be read in grief and horror by eyes from which he had

striven so carefully to hide so horrible a story. What would she think

of him when she knew him for what he was? What would she say when she

learnt that her noble lover was but the phantom of her own pure spirit,

and that the thing she had loved was that from which all true and

upright men and women must turn shuddering away? Even in death the

thought tormented him above all bodily sufferings. If only he could

have explained,--if only he could have told her that his love at least

was true,--if only he could have had time. But it was too late, all too

late; never again would he see her as he had seen her that summer

morning, innocent and beautiful, sitting there in the sunshine beside

her spinning-wheel. The destiny she might have woven for him with those

tender hands had been snapped by his own reckless touch, and love, life,

and hope,--that purer life and hope of which he had vaguely

dreamt,--were quenched in the utter gloom of death and sin.

With a groan his eyelids flickered and unclosed, staring out into the

whirling darkness. But even as life seemed rushing from him in a mad

agony of mind and body, a hand was laid on his, and a face bent close to

his twisted, death-distorted one. Was it the face of an angel come to

taunt him in those last moments with a glance into the Paradise he had

lost? Somewhere near he fancied he heard a low, monotonous voice

chanting prayers, but the words were lost in the tumultuous surgings of

his brain.

Then suddenly mental vision and recollection became clear, with that

strange, unearthly clearness which comes to the dying, and reveals past

and present in the intense, mysterious light of summer moonlight. He

remembered all, realizing that he lay a-dying in the great hall of the

Chateau de Mereac. He realized that he was stretched on a low couch

close to the blaze of the fire, although the heat failed to warm the

chill of his body; as in a dream he saw Pierre the fool crouched at his

feet, sobbing as if in pain, as he knelt there. He had often wondered

what had made this strange, uncanny lad evince such affection to him; he

wondered vaguely now as his languid eyes gazed into the wizened face of

the ape, perched on the boy's shoulder. Then he became aware that there

were other figures around him; that close by, gazing down at him in awed

and pitying silence, were his sister and Yvon de Mereac--Yvon de Mereac,

the man whose life he had so often and so vainly sought. He tried to

wonder why he had sought it, tried to wonder why he looked at him so

curiously,--was he spirit, or flesh and blood? He had heard that Yvon

was dead, but that had been a lie--his own lie, perchance; but he was

not dead, although he stood there so gaunt, so pale, so reproachful; he

was alive, and it was he himself who was to die--not Yvon de Mereac.

The chanting voice of the priest was clearer now--were those the prayers

for the dying he was saying? What mockery it was!--prayers for a lost

soul--lost beyond redemption! Then the hand that held his closed again

over his cold fingers in a warm, strong clasp. Whose was it? Once again

his eyes fell on that other face which had floated before his

half-conscious gaze.

"Gabrielle!" It was a cry of anguish, of pleading, of despair, though

it rose little above a whisper. But she understood, for there is a

language of the soul which but one other pair of eyes beside our own can

read.

"Guillaume!" she said, and the soft utterance of his name seemed to stir

within him that which he had thought already dead.

"I love thee," said the eyes that looked into his. "Yes, I know all,

poor, broken, sin-stained soul, and yet I love thee--for love is of God

and changeth never."

He was looking up into those eyes, reading all their message of pity and

tenderness, till in his own there dawned something less than despair.

"Thou knowest, Gabrielle?" he whispered, and for answer she bent,

kissing the trembling lips.

How fast rushed the voiceless chaos in his brain! Whirling faces long

dead looked into his as they passed, voices were crying in his ears of

the memories of old sins; and yet, through the mists and vanishing forms

those tender eyes looked down into his; and beyond, far away in the

distance, a Voice Which had calmed that other tempest of wind and waves

called softly his name.

A lost soul!--a lost soul! What use was it to call? He had sinned too

deeply for aught but damnation, swift and terrible, damnation to which

he must turn his shuddering eyes as the hand of Death claimed him. And

yet, those eyes which looked into his still spoke their message of hope.

She, this angel of purity and goodness, knew all his guilty secrets, and

yet--she loved him; her kiss of tender love and forgiveness still

lingered on his parched lips. Was it then so impossible that he should

find a forgiveness greater than that of earth? His eyes wandered

involuntarily from the face above him to the pictured image of a

Figure,--a Figure thorn-crowned, suffering, dying,--a Figure of Love

incarnate, with wide-stretched Arms which seemed to invite him to Their

embrace. The voice of Father Ambrose rose clearer and sweeter, but it

was not the Latin prayers which held the dying man's attention, but a

Voice, more sweet, more clear than all, which seemed to soothe the

tempest of his soul.

Then with a lightning flash another memory stole upon him. Gwennola de

Mereac,--the girl he had tried to wrong more cruelly than he had her

brother, the innocent girl who perhaps had already suffered the last

agony of death through his sin and treachery.

"Gwennola?" he whispered faintly, and the peace which had stolen over

him seemed for the moment shaken to its foundation as he listened for

the answer.

It was Diane who replied. Slipping from Yvon's side, she knelt beside

him, looking gladly into his eyes.

"She is safe," she whispered, with a happy sob. which told the tale of

the great joy that deliverance had brought to her; "she is safe!"

Guillaume de Coray's eyes closed. Yes! she was safe, and the golden

gates of mercy which he had fancied to see slowly opening were not shut

against him by reason of this deadly sin. And so the mocking, cruel

voices sank slowly to rest--those voices which cried in his ears that

terrible sentence of eternal death. And though the bodily pains grew

ever more agonizing, he could smile once more into the beautiful face so

close to his.

"Forgiven?" he whispered in a faint, yet awestruck tone, whilst with a

last effort he strove to clasp his hands in prayer. "Forgiven?"

He saw her lips move in prayer too, as together they turned to look

towards the great crucifix Father Ambrose held aloft. It was growing

dark to the dying man--dark and cold; he did not hear the words of

absolution which freed his penitent soul from its load of sin; he did

not feel the purifying touch of the holy oil. All he saw was the bowed

Head of a crucified Saviour; all he heard was the voice of the woman he

had loved with so strange and passionate a devotion, as into the Unknown

his soul passed forth, with the echo of her words to guide him on his

last journey.

"For love's sake, my Guillaume,--for love's sake!"

*CHAPTER XXV*

Dark and gloomy had been those November days to the young Duchess of

Brittany. Her defiant reply to her over-bearing Suzerain had brought

the banners of France within the sight of the castle walls of her town

of Rennes, and great had been not only the terror of Anne herself, but

apparently that of her councillors and ladies.

But Charles had seemed strangely disinclined to show any hostilities,

but instead had sent a deputation proposing a treaty. To this Anne had

perforce to agree, and at the dictation of the King twelve persons were

appointed on each side to examine the claims each had on the duchy of

Brittany. Meanwhile, the city of Rennes was placed in sequestration, in

the hands of the Dukes of Orleans and Bourbon, to be governed for the

time by the Prince of Orange. The King, on this being agreed to,

promised to withdraw his troops, and allow passage and safe conduct to

the Duchess and ambassadors of Maximilian to Germany, where she might

join the husband who had been too impecunious to come in person for his

bride.

All arrangements having been thus settled, the King had ordered his

troops to retire from Brittany, and had, it was reported, himself

returned to Touraine, whilst the Duke of Orleans, as

Ambassador-Extraordinary, was despatched to the Duchess to confirm the

treaty and compliment her on its conclusion.

Whilst these events of historical interest were occupying the minds of

the chief actors in the destiny of Brittany, the lesser destinies of

Gwennola de Mereac and Henri d'Estrailles were trembling in the

balances.

To ride with his rescued bride to his chateau by the Loire was the first

impulse of the young knight; but there is a power stronger even than,

love, and duty called him inexorably to his master's side. The Count

Dunois was not a man lightly to be disobeyed, and Dunois had bidden him

take the Demoiselle de Mereac, if he succeeded in saving her from her

threatened fate, to be placed under the care of the Duchess Anne. That

in so doing Dunois had his own schemes at work, d'Estrailles did not

doubt, for Dunois was one to hold carefully in his hand every thread of

the slenderest fibre which might further the weaving of his darling

scheme. Debarred by his enormous bulk from following in the warlike

footsteps of his gallant father, there was no man in the kingdom of more

service to Charles than Francois Dunois, Comte de Longueville, and for

the present the heart of Dunois was set upon the uniting of his royal

master to the heiress of Brittany, or, in other words, the binding of

the refractory duchy by indissoluble bonds to its parent kingdom.

Anne had indeed welcomed to her persecuted little court one whose perils

and misfortunes had been, in a different manner, even greater than her

own. In former years Gwennola de Mereac had ofttimes stayed with her

father and brother at the court of Francis II., and the little Anne had

learnt to know and love the playmate who was scarcely three years her

senior. Therefore it was with ready and sympathetic ears that she

listened to Gwennola's tale of her misfortunes, and promised that when

her own affairs gave her leisure she would not spare trouble in clearing

her fair subject's fame and bringing to justice the wrongdoers, little

knowing that justice had already been administered by a higher Power

than even the Duchess of Brittany's.

But the kindly and generous protection of Anne meant for a time

separation from her lover, and bitter such separation must needs be,

seeing that neither knew when they should again meet; and Gwennola

readily mingled her tears with those of the disconsolate Marie, who wept

unrestrainedly at the thought of parting from the faithful Marcille. But

duty was imperative, and it needs had to be that Henri d'Estrailles and

Jean Marcille must follow the retreating lilies of France, vowing to

return as soon as it should be possible.

The possibility came sooner, indeed, than it was expected, seeing that

Henri d'Estrailles, to his infinite delight, was chosen to accompany the

Duke of Orleans himself on his mission to Rennes. Yet another

disappointment awaited him, for, to his surprise, he was bidden to

remain outside the city walls whilst Louis proceeded alone to his

interview.

The Duchess Anne received her Ambassador but coldly, with all the proud

haughtiness of one who feels herself to have been treated unjustly and

tyrannically. Whatever her feelings were, when Louis of Orleans,

apparently ignoring the fact that he had once pleaded his own cause into

the same ears, urged with all the persuasive eloquence of which he was

so complete a master that she should yield to the King's desire and the

wishes of her most trusted councillors in becoming Queen of France, she

was outwardly the same cold, inflexible girl who had refused to listen

to the pleadings of Dunois and others, finally referring him, with a

lofty and indifferent air, to her council, "who," she informed him,

"were acquainted with her pleasure."

Seemingly defeated, Louis of Orleans quitted the presence chamber, but

not before humbly begging, as a special favour, that his young attendant

might have speech with his mistress, the Demoiselle de Mereac. The

request was granted, and Louis went on his way more elated than

apparently his audience had given him cause for.

That evening two interviews took place in the old Castle of Rennes, one

of which only is recorded in history, and even that in so vague a way as

to leave its purport and sequel shrouded for ever in mystery. Henri

d'Estrailles did not enter the castle gates alone; neither was his

companion, whose face was partly concealed by a cloak, the faithful

Jean, for whose coming the little Marie looked in vain. And so it

chanced that all unexpectedly there appeared before Anne the man whom

she had pictured as a monster of cruelty--the man whom she had fondly

thought to be in far-off Touraine. It was indeed Charles himself, the

gentle, kindly king whom his people had nicknamed "le Petit Roy." Not

perhaps the ideal lover to woo a beautiful but refractory maiden.

Handsome, Charles was certainly not. His head was large,--as was also

his aquiline nose,--with large, prominent eyes, round dimpled chin, thin

flat lips, compressed body and long, thin legs; whilst his slow speech,

nervous movements, and constantly open mouth added to his appearance of

foolishness. His great charm, however, lay in a singularly sweet voice

and an expression of gentle amiability which appealed instantly to the

generous side of those around him. Such was the royal wooer, the very

opposite indeed of the bride he so vainly sought. Scarcely more than a

child in years, Anne had already proved herself of a high-spirited,

resolute disposition. In outward appearance she was undoubtedly

beautiful, with black eyes, well-marked brows, dazzling complexion,

dimpled chin, long, black hair, and fine features. Her carriage was

majestic in spite of a slight lameness, and her manner somewhat haughty;

but in spite of her pride and love of vengeance, she had many fine and

noble qualities, being generous, truthful, and faithful to her friends.

Of what passed during that secret interview little has ever transpired;

but it would seem that though Anne may have been softened to kindlier

feelings towards the man she had formerly hated, she still remained firm

in adhering to her resolution in considering her marriage to Maximilian

binding, and Charles, perforce, had to retire as unsuccessful as his

ambassadors. But the King did not go far; his friends in Rennes were

many and powerful, or assuredly he would never have so dared to enter a

hostile city practically alone and in disguise.

Meanwhile, the second interview was fraught with more happiness. There

was so much that Gwennola had to tell--so much of joy and gladness, for

a messenger had arrived from Mereac itself, a messenger who was no other

than the faithful Job, who had watched his young mistress ride away

through the mists and rain on that winter's day, across the wind-swept

landes--away from the dangers and perils which had surrounded her, into

safety. And yet the faithful Breton had sometimes misdoubted even that

safety, for his jealous heart had rebelled against the fact that the

protectors who surrounded her were Frenchmen--for it takes long to

convince the obstinate nature of the Breton, whose ideas travel slowly,

and all his life Job Alloadec had read "Frenchman" as "enemy."

Therefore he had been glad enough to carry Father Ambrose's messages and

letter to his mistress, and see how it fared with her and his sister,

and whether they were truly safe under the protection of the Duchess.

But the coming of Job was of less import to Gwennola than the good news

he brought. Her innocence was proved. Diane had confessed, and the

guilty brain that had planned all the evil against her and her brother

was still for ever from such plots. Then, too, her brother was

better,--far better; and though the betrothal between him and Diane de

Coray had been cemented afresh by new bonds of a deeper and truer

devotion, still there was no more to fear from such a love. Indeed, as

Father Ambrose said, the unfortunate girl seemed only too eager to make

reparation for the past and plead forgiveness from those she had

injured. And so it had come to pass that, owing greatly to her

influence, Yvon had given his sanction to his sister's marriage with

Henri d'Estrailles.

How happy were the lovers as they sat together whispering of what joy

and happiness this good news brought to them both! Yes, the dream was

near to realization now; the tempest was past, and the sunshine shone

across the path of youth and love without the shadow of a cloud between.

But when would the time come when they should ride together, as they had

so often done in fancy, and see the grey walls of the Chateau

d'Estrailles rise close to the laughing waters of the Loire? Ah! when?

Perhaps even sooner than she thought--it was possible. Only, there was

one word of whispered counsel for her ears ere he bade her farewell:

should the Duchess claim her attendance for a sudden and unexpected

journey, she must not hesitate to comply, strange as it might

seem;--that was all that he might say. And so, with fresh vows of love,

they parted, though Gwennola little guessed that neither lover nor

cloaked attendant went so far that night as the city walls.

A deputation of her councillors waited the following morning upon the

young Duchess. It would seem that they were filled with anxiety; in

fact, truly a new danger appeared to have arisen. That they were

cognizant to the secret interview of the night before they made no

attempt to hide, pleading that in their Duchess's interests they had

permitted it to take place. Finding her inexorable with regard to the

French marriage, they apparently yielded to her wishes, yet urged her,

by reason of the dangers of her position, to make at least a compromise.

Charles was set upon a betrothal, by some means or other; and the

councillors hinted that there would be small scruple in taking by force

what was not yielded to request. He had sworn to make Anne his bride.

The armies of France were at no great distance; Maximilian was far away.

What they would suggest was that Anne should in fair seeming yield

acquiescence to the importunities of the King and allow herself to be

secretly betrothed. Then, his suspicions lulled to rest, Anne would,

with the greater ease, escape from her town and fly with a small

retinue, including the ambassadors of Maximilian, to her husband's

protection. Such craft and duplicity were little suited to Anne's

straightforward nature; but, beset as she was with enemies and

difficulties, she yielded at length, and that very night, in the utmost

secrecy, was celebrated in the church of Notre Dame, this strange and

romantic betrothal of the King of France to the Duchess of Brittany,

witnessed by the Duchess of Bourbon, the Count Dunois, Philippe de

Montauban, and Louis of Orleans, who thus saw consummated the match he

had both desired and dreaded.

The betrothal over, Anne retired in haste to her castle, with scant

ceremony, there to await the development of events promised her so

glibly by her Chancellor and council.

All had impressed on the young Duchess the strict necessity of making

her flight secret--so secret, indeed, that it had been communicated to

no one; in fact, the Chancellor told her that the ambassadors themselves

would only be acquainted with her plans at the last moment.

In due time, however, the hour arrived, and, attended by Gwennola de

Mereac, Marie Alloadec, and Madame de Laval, her gouvernante, Anne stole

from her castle to commence a journey which she could not but foresee

would be both arduous and dangerous; and yet we are told, in minute

detail, that the Duchess's travelling dress was of cloth of velvet,

trimmed with one hundred and thirty-two sable skins, whilst her palfrey

was adorned with three ells of crimson velvet!

But who can tell the anger and terror of this unfortunate girl, to find

how craftily she had been duped, and how, instead of the ambassadors of

Maximilian, the man who rode at her bridle rein, so closely cloaked and

disguised, was no other than King Charles himself!

Morning had broken when the Duchess made the fatal discovery and

perceived how hopeless was her case. To return, to explain, would be

useless. The midnight betrothal, taken in conjunction with the secret

flight, would appear in a light impossible to explain away to the

outraged ambassadors of the husband to whom she had thought to go. To

the high-spirited Anne even death itself were better than dishonour, and

surely to return to Rennes after such an adventure would give rise to

countless surmises and ill talking. Moreover, by her side rode one who

could well plead his own cause; and though she wept and upbraided both

him and the Breton nobles who surrounded her, Anne perforce had to yield

to the exigencies of her position. And so forward they rode, a strange

bridal party: a weeping bride, and a groom divided, perchance, 'twixt

shame and triumph; whilst behind them came the men who had betrayed

their mistress for the sake of their country--or for some more ulterior

motive, amongst them being the Chancellor de Montauban, the Sieur de

Pontbrient, and the Grand-Master Coetquen. A strange party indeed, but

four at least of the company heeded it little. Close by the bridle of

Gwennola de Mereac rode Henri d'Estrailles, whilst in the background

Jean Marcille had already discovered the bright eyes of Marie Alloadec.

The clear, chill dawn of a December day was breaking in the east, as in

the distance rose the grey turrets of Langeais, where Anne of Brittany

was to become Queen of France.

"Touraine! Touraine!" whispered Henri d'Estrailles, as he bent his

dark, handsome face down to meet the fair, flushed one so close beside

him. "Welcome, my bride, welcome home!"

The sun rose high, illuminating a cold and cheerless world. Before them

lay France and happiness; but above all, shining cloudless and

imperishable in their hearts, rose the star of love. It was surely her

welcome to his heart that Henri d'Estrailles whispered as their lips met

in a lingering kiss.