"How can I help being a woman of impulse? Were you very much

frightened? I was not--I rather enjoyed it. Christian, there is not a

single thing my immaculate husband does which does not convince me he

has no heart. Just think what might have happened if he had come to

the right door and thrown it open and seen me! There! You look so

horrified that I feel I have said something wrong again. Christian,

what did you mean by saying to him, 'My thoughts are not under my

control while you have your hand on that letter'? What letter was it?"

"Your note, which Dionetta left in the room. He was sitting by the

desk upon which I had laid it, and his hand was upon it."

"And it made you nervous? To think that he had but to open that

innocent bit of paper! What a scene there would have been! I should

have gloried in the situation--yes, indeed. There is no pleasure in

life like the excitement of danger. Those who say women are weak know

nothing of us. We are braver than men, a thousand, thousand times

braver. I tried to peep through the door, but there wasn't a single

friendly crevice. What a shock it would have given him if I had

suddenly called out as he held the letter: 'Open it, my love, open it

and read it!'"

"That is what you call being prudent?" said Almer in despair.

"Tyrant! I cannot promise you not to think. I have a good mind to be

angry with you. You are positively ungrateful. You shut me up in a

room all by myself, where I quietly remain, the very soul of

discretion--you did not so much as hear me breathe--only forgetting

myself once when my feelings overcame me, and you don't give me one

word of praise. Tell me instantly, sir, that I am a brave little

woman."

"You are the personification of rashness."

"How ungrateful! Did you think of me, Christian, while I was locked up

there?"

"My thoughts did not wander from you for a moment."

"If you had only given me a handful of these roseleaves so that I

might have buried my face in them and imagined I was not tied to a man

who loves another woman than his wife! You seem amazed. Do you forget

already what has passed between you? If it had happened that I loved

him, after his confession to-night I should hate him. But it is

indifferent to me upon whom he has set his affections--with all my

heart I pity the unfortunate creature he loves. She need not fear me;

I shall not harm her. You got at the heart of his secret when you

asked him if a woman was involved in it; and you compelled him to

confess that his honour--and of course hers; mine does not matter--was

at stake in his miserable love-affair. He loves a woman who is not his

wife; with all his evasions he could not help admitting it. And this

is the man who holds his head so high above all other men--the man who

was never known to commit an indiscretion! Of course he must keep his

secret close--of course he could not speak of it to his friend, whom

he tries to hoodwink with professions and twisted words! He married

me, I suppose, to satisfy his vanity; he wanted the world to see that

old as he was, grave as he was, no woman could resist him. And I

allowed myself to be persuaded by worldly friends! Is it not a proof

of my never having loved him, that, instead of hating him when in my

hearing he confesses he loves another, I simply laugh at him and

despise him? I should not shed a tear over him if he died to-night. He

has insulted me--and what woman ever forgets or forgives an insult?

But he has done me a good service, too, and I thank him. How sleepy I

am! Good-night. My minute is up, and I cannot stay longer; I must

think of my complexion. Goodnight, Christian; that is all I came to

say."

CHAPTER XIV

THE ADVOCATE FEARS HE HAS CREATED A MONSTER

The Advocate did not immediately return to his study. Darkness was

more congenial to his mood, and he spent a few minutes in the gardens

of the villa. Although he had stated to Christian Almer that the

conversation which had passed between them had been of benefit to him,

he felt, now that he was alone, that there was much in it to give rise

to disturbing thought and conjecture. He had not foreseen the

difficulty, in social intercourse, of avoiding the subject uppermost

in his mind. A morbid self-consciousness, at present in its germ, and

from which he had hitherto been entirely free, seemed to unlock all

roads in its direction. It was, as it were, the converging-point of

all matters, even the most trivial, affecting himself. Having put the

seal upon his resolution with respect to Gautran's confession, he

became painfully aware that he had committed himself to a line of

action from which he could not now recede without laying himself open

to such suspicion, from friend and foe alike, as might fatally injure

his reputation. He was a lawyer, and he knew what powerful use he

could make of such a weapon against any man, high or low. If it could

be turned against another it could be turned against himself. He must

not, therefore, waver in his resolution. Only his conscience could

call him to account. Well, he would reckon with that. It was a

passive, not an active accuser. Gautran would seek some new locality,

in which he would be lost to sight. As a matter of common prudence, it

was more than likely he would change his name. The suspicion which

attached itself to him, and the horror with which he was regarded in

the neighbourhood in which he had lived, would compel him to fly to

other pastures. In this, and in the silence of time, lay the

Advocate's safety, for every day that passed would weaken the fever of

excitement created by the trial. After a few weeks, if it even

happened that Gautran were insanely to make a public declaration of

his guilt, and to add to this confession a statement that the Advocate

was aware of it during the trial, by whom would he be believed?

Certainly not by the majority of the better classes of the people; and

in the event of such a contingency, he could quote with effect the

poet's words: "Be thou chaste as ice, and pure as snow, thou shalt not

escape calumny."

So much, then, for himself: but he was more than ever anxious and ill

at ease regarding Christian Almer. The secret which his friend dared

not divulge to him was evidently of the gravest import--probably as

terrible in its way as that which lay heavily on the Advocate's soul;

and the profound mystery in which it was wrapt invested it with a

significance so unusual, even in the Advocate's varied experience of

human nature, that he could not keep from brooding upon it. Was it a

secret in which honour was involved? He could not bring himself to

believe that Almer could be guilty of a dishonourable act--but a man

might be dragged into a difficulty against his will, and might have

a burden of shame unexpectedly thrust upon him which he could not

openly fling off without disgrace. And yet--and yet--that he should be

so careful in concealing it from the knowledge of the truest of

friends--it was inexplicable. Ponder as long as he might, the Advocate

could arrive at no explanation of it, nor could his logical mind

obtain the slightest clue to the mystery.

The cool air in the gardens refreshed him, and he walked about, always

within view of the lights in his study windows, with his head

uncovered. It was during the first five minutes of his solitude that

an impression stole upon him that he was not alone. He searched the

avenues, he listened, he asked aloud:

"Is any person near, and does he wish to speak to me?"

No voice answered him. The gardens, with the exception of the soft

rustling of leaf and branch, were as silent as the grave. Towards the

end of his solitary rambling, and as he was contemplating leaving the

grounds, this impression again stole upon him. Was it the actual sound

of muffled footsteps, or the spiritual influence of an unseen

presence, which disturbed him? He could not decide. Again he searched

the avenues, again he listened, again he asked a question aloud. All

was silent.

This was the third time during the night that he had allowed himself

to be beguiled. Once in Christian Almer's room, when he thought he had

heard a laugh, and now twice in the solitude of the grounds. He set it

down as an unreasoning fancy springing from the agitation into which

he had been thrown by his interview with Gautran, and he breathed a

wish that the next fortnight were passed, when his mind would almost

certainly have recovered its equilibrium. The moment the wish was

born, he smiled in contempt of his own weakness. It opened another

vein in the psychological examination to which he was subjecting

himself.

He entered his study, and did not perceive Gautran, who was asleep in

the darkest corner of the room. But his quick observant eye

immediately fell upon the glass out of which Gautran had drunk the

wine. The glass was on his writing-table; it was not there when he

left his study. He glanced at the wine-bottles on the sideboard; they

had been disturbed.

"Some person has been here in my absence," he thought. "Who--and for

what purpose?"

He hastily examined his manuscripts and, missing none, raised the

wine-glass and held it mouth downwards. As a couple of drops of red

liquor fell to the ground, he heard behind him the sound of heavy

breathing.

An ordinary man would have let the glass fall from his hand in sudden

alarm, for the breathing was so deep, and strong, and hoarse, that it

might have proceeded from the throat of a wild beast who was preparing

to spring upon him. But the Advocate was not easily alarmed. He

carefully replaced the glass, and wheeled in the direction of the

breathing. He saw the outlines of a form stretched upon the ground in

a distant corner; he stepped towards it, and stooping, recognised

Gautran. He was not startled. It seemed to be in keeping with what had

previously transpired, that Gautran should be lying there slumbering

at his feet.

He stood quite still, regarding the sleeping figure of the murderer in

silence. He had risen to his full height; one hand rested upon the

back of a massive oak chair: his face was grave and pale; his head was

downwards bent. So he stood for many minutes almost motionless. Not

the slightest agitation was observable in him; he was calmly engaged

in reflecting upon the position of affairs, as though they related not

to himself, but to a client in whose case he was interested, and he

was evolving from them, by perfectly natural reasoning, the most

extraordinary complications and results. In all his experience he had

never been engaged in a case presenting so many rare possibilities,

and he was in a certain sense fascinated by the powerful use he could

make of the threads of the web in which he had become so strangely and

unexpectedly entangled.

Gautran's features were not clearly visible to him; they were too much

in shadow. He took from his writing-table a lamp with a soft strong

light, and set it near to the sleeping man. It brought the ruffian

into full view. His unshaven face, his coarse, matted hair, his brutal

sensual mouth, his bushy eyebrows, his large ears, his bared neck, his

soiled and torn clothes, the perspiration in which he was bathed,

presented a spectacle of human degradation as revolting as any the

Advocate had ever gazed upon.

"By what means," he thought, "did this villain obtain information of

my movements and residence, and what is his motive in coming here?

When he accosted me tonight he did not know where I lived--of that I

am convinced, for he had no wish to meet me, and believed he was

threatening another man than myself on the high road. That was a

chance meeting. Is this, also, a chance encounter? No; there is

premeditation in it. Had he entered another house he would have laid

his hands on something valuable and decamped, his purpose being

served. He would not dare to rob me, but he dares to thrust his

company upon me. Of all men, I am the man he should be most anxious to

avoid, for only I know him to be guilty. Have I created a monster who

is destined to be the terror and torture of my life? Is he shrewd

enough, clever enough, cunning enough, to use his power as I should

use it were I in his place, and he in mine? That is not to be borne,

but what is the alternative? I could put life into the grotesque oaken

features upon which my hand is resting, and they might suggest a

remedy. The branches of the tree within which these faces grew in some

old forest waved doubtless over many a mystery, but this in which I am

at present engaged matches the deepest of them. Some demon seems to be

whispering at my elbow. Speak, then; what would you urge me to do?"

The Unseen: "Gautran entered unobserved."

The Advocate: "That is apparent, or he would not be lying here with

the hand of Fate above him."

The Unseen: "No person saw him--no person is aware that he is in your

study, at your mercy."

The Advocate: "At my mercy! You could have found a better word to

express your meaning."

The Unseen: "You know him to be a murderer."

The Advocate: "True."

The Unseen: "He deserves death! You have already heard the whisperings

of the voice which urged you to fulfil the divine law, Blood for

blood!"

The Advocate: "Speak not of what is Divine. Tempter, have you not the

courage to come straight to the point?"

The Unseen: "Kill him where he lies! He will not be missed. It is

night--black night. Every living being in the house, with the

exception of yourself, is asleep. You have twisted justice from its

rightful course. The wrong you did you can repair. Kill him where he

lies!"

The Advocate: "And have the crime of murder upon my soul?"

The Unseen: "It is not murder. Standing as you are standing now,

knowing what you know, you are justified."

The Advocate: "I will have no juggling. If I kill him it is not in the

cause of justice. Speak plainly. Why should he die at my hands?"

The Unseen: "His death is necessary for your safety."

The Advocate: "Ah, that is better. No talk of justice now. We come to

the coarse selfishness of things, which will justify the deadliest

crimes. His death is necessary for my safety! How am I endangered? Say

that his presence here is a threat. Am I not strong enough to avoid

the peril? How vile am I that I should allow such thoughts to suggest

themselves! Christian, my friend, whatever is the terror which has

taken possession of you, and from which you vainly strive to fly, your

secret is pure in comparison with mine. If it were possible that the

secret which oppresses you concerned your dearest friend, concerned

me, whom perchance it has in some hidden way wronged, how could I

withhold from you pity and forgiveness, knowing how sorely my own

actions need pity and forgiveness? For the first time in my life I am

brought face to face with my soul, and I see how base it is. Has my

life, then, been surrounded by dreams, and do I now awake to find how

low and abominable are the inner workings of my nature? I must arouse

this monster. He shall hide nothing from me."

He spurned Gautran with his foot. It was with no gentle touch, and

Gautran sprang to his feet, and would have thrown himself upon the

Advocate had he not suddenly recognised him.

CHAPTER XV

GAUTRAN AND THE ADVOCATE

"How long have I been asleep?" muttered Gautran, shaking himself and

rubbing his eyes. "It seems but a minute." The clock on the mantel

struck the hour of two. "I counted twelve when I was in the grounds; I

have been here two hours. You might have let me sleep longer. It is

the first I have enjoyed for weeks--a sleep without a dream. As I used

to sleep before----" He shuddered, and did not complete the sentence.

"Give me something to drink, master."

"You have been helping yourself to my wine," said the Advocate.

"You know everything, master. Yes, it was wine I drank, as mild as

milk. It went down like water. Good for gentlemen, perhaps, but not

for us. I must have something stronger." He looked anxiously round the

room, and sighed and smiled; no appalling vision greeted his sight.

"Ah," he said, "I am safe here. Give me some brandy."

"You will have none, Gautran," said the Advocate sternly.

"Ah, master," implored Gautran, "think better of it, I must have

brandy--I must!"

"Must!" echoed the Advocate, with a frown.

"Yes, master, must; I shall not be able to talk else. My throat is

parched--you can hear for yourself that it is as dry as a raven's. I

must have drink, and it mustn't be milk-wine. I am not quite a fool,

master. If that horrible shadow were never to appear to me again, I

would show those who have been hard on me a trick or two that would

astonish them. If you've a spark of compassion in you, master, give a

poor wretch a glass of brandy."

The Advocate considered a moment, and then unlocked a small cupboard,

from which he took a bottle of brandy. He filled a glass, and gave it

to Gautran.

"Here's confusion to our enemies," said Gautran. "Ah, this is fine! I

have never tasted such before. It puts life into a man."

"What makes you drink to _our_ enemies, Gautran?" asked the Advocate.

"Why, master, are not my enemies yours, and yours mine? We row in the

same boat. If they found us out, it would be as bad for you as it

would be for me. Worse, master, worse, for you have much to lose; I

have nothing. You see, master, I have been thinking over things since

we met in the lane yonder."

"You are bold and impudent. What if I were to summon my servants and

have you marched off to gaol?"

"What would you accuse me of? I have not stolen anything; you may

search me if you like. No, no, master, I will take nothing from you.

What you give I shall be grateful for; but rob you? No--you are

mistaken in me. I owe you too much already. I am bound to you for

life."

"You do not seem afraid of the gaol, Gautran."

"Not when you threaten me with it, master, for you are jesting with

me. It is not worth your while; I am a poor creature to make sport

of."

"Yet I am dangerously near handing you over to justice."

"For what, master, for what? For coming into your room, and not

finding you there, throwing myself in a corner like a dog?"

"It is sufficient--and you have stolen my wine. These are crimes which

the law is ready to punish, especially in men with evil reputations."

"You are right, I've no doubt; you know more about the law than I do.

I don't intend to dispute with you, master. But when they got hold of

me they would question me, and my tongue would be loosened against my

will. I say again, you are jesting with me. How warm and comfortable

it is in this grand room, and how miserable outside! Ah, why wasn't I

born rich? It was a most unfortunate accident."

"Your tongue would be loosened against your will! What could you say?"

"What everybody suspects, but could not prove, master, thanks to you.

They owe me a grudge in the prison yonder--lawyers and judges and

gaolers--and nothing would please them better than to hear what I

could tell them--that I killed the girl, and that you knew I killed

her. You don't look pleased, master. You drove me to say it."

"You slanderous villain!"

"I don't mind what you call me, master. I can bear anything from you.

I am your slave, and there is nothing you could set me to do that I am

not ready to perform. I mean it, master. Try me--only try me! Think of

something fearful, something it would take a bold, desperate man to

do, and see if I shrink from it. The gaoler was right when he said I

was a lucky dog to get such an Advocate as you to defend me. You knew

the truth--you knew I did the deed--you knew no one else could save

me--and you wanted to show them how clever you were, and what a fool

any lawyer was to think he could stand against you. And you did it,

master, you did it. How mad they must be with you! I wonder how much

they would give to cry Quits! And you've done even more than that,

master. The spirit which has been with me night and day, in prison

and out of prison, lying by me in bed, standing by my side in the

court--you saw it there, master--dogging me through the streets and

lanes, hiding behind trees and gliding upon me when I thought I had

escaped it--it is gone, master, it is gone! It will not come where you

are. It is afraid of you. I don't care whether it is a holy or an

unholy power you possess, I am your slave, and you can do with me as

you will. But you must not send me to prison again--no, you must not

do that! Why, master, simple as I am, and ignorant of the law, I feel

that you are joking with me, when you threaten to summon your servants

to march me off to gaol for coming into your house. I should say to

them, 'You are a pack of fools. Don't you see he is jesting with you?

Here have we been talking together for half an hour, and he has given

me his best brandy as a mark of friendship. There is the bottle--feel

the rim of it, and you will find it wet. Look at the glass, if you

don't believe me. Smell it--smell my breath.' Why, then they would ask

you again if you were in earnest, and you would have to send them

away. Master, I was never taught to read or write, and there is very

little I know--but I know well that there is a time to do a thing and

a time not to do it, and that unless a thing is done at the proper

time, there is no use afterwards attempting it. I will tell you

something, though I dare say I might save myself the trouble, for you

can read what is in me. If Madeline, when she ran from me along the

river's bank, had escaped me, it is likely she would be alive at this

moment, for the fiend that spurred me on to kill her might never again

have been so strong within me, might never again have had such power

over me as he had that night. But he was too strong for me, and that

was the time to do the deed, and she had to die. Do you think I don't

pity her? I do, when she is not tormenting me. But when she follows

me, as she has done to-night, when she stands looking at me with eyes

in which there is fire, but no light, I feel that I could kill her

over again if I dared, and if I could get a good grip of her. Are all

spirits silent? Have they no voice to speak? It is terrible, terrible!

I must buy masses for her soul, and then, perhaps, she will rest in

peace. Master, give me another glass of that rare brandy of yours.

Talking is dry work."

"You'll get no more till you leave me."

"I am to leave you, then?"

"When I have done with you--when our conversation is at an end."

"I must obey you, master. You could crush me if you liked."

"I could kill you if I liked," said the Advocate, in a voice so cold

and determined that Gautran shuddered.

"You could, master--I know it well enough. Not with your hands; I am

your match there. Few men can equal me in strength. But you would not

trust to that; you are too wise. You would scorch and wither me with a

lightning touch. I should be a fool to doubt it. If you will not give

me brandy, give me a biscuit or some bread and meat. Since noon I have

had nothing to eat but a few apples, to which I helped myself. The

gaolers robbed me of my dinner in the middle of the day, and put

before me only a slice of dry bread. I would cut off two of my fingers

to be even with them."

In the cupboard which contained the brandy and other liquors was a

silver basket containing biscuits, which the Advocate brought forward

and placed before Gautran, who ate them greedily and filled his

pockets with them. During the silence the Advocate's mind was busy

with Gautran's words. Ignorant as the man was, and confessed himself

to be, there was an undisputable logic in the position he assumed.

Shrink from it as he might, the Advocate could not avoid confessing

that between this man, who was little better than an animal, and

himself, who had risen so high above his fellows--that in these

extremes of intellectual degradation and superiority--existed a

strange and, in its suggestiveness, an awful, equality. And what

afforded him food for serious reflection, from an abstract point of

view, was that, though they travelled upon roads so widely apart, they

both arrived at the same goal. This was proved by Gautran's reasoning

upon the Advocate's threat to put him in prison for breaking into the

House of White Shadows. "Sound logic," thought the Advocate, "learnt

in a school in which the common laws of nature are the teachers. A

decided kinship exists between this murderer and myself. Am I, then,

as low as he, and do the best of us, in our pride of winning the

crown, indulge in self-delusions at which a child might feel ashamed?

Or is it that, strive as he may, the most earnest man cannot lift

himself above the grovelling motives which set in motion every action

of a human life?"

"Now, master," said Gautran, having finished munching.

"Now, Gautran," said the Advocate, "why do you come to me?"

"I belong to you," replied Gautran. "You gave me my life and my

liberty. You had some meaning in it. I don't ask you what it is, for

you will tell me only what you choose to tell me. I am yours, master,

body and soul."

"And soul?" questioned the Advocate ironically.

"So long," said Gautran, crossing himself, "as you do not ask me to do

anything to imperil my salvation."

"Is it not already imperilled? Murderer!"

"I have done nothing that I cannot buy off with masses. Ask the

priests. If I could not get money any other way, to save myself I

would rob a church."

"Admirable!" exclaimed the Advocate. "You interest me, Gautran. How

did you obtain admission into the grounds?"

"Over the wall at the back. It is a mercy I did not break my bones."

"And into this room--how did you enter?"

"Through the window."

"Knowing it was my room?"

"Yes, master."

"How did you gain that knowledge?"

"I was told--and told, as well, that you lived in this house."

"By whom were you told?"

"As I ran from Madeline--she has left me forever, I hope--I came upon

a man who, for some purpose of his own, was lingering on a hill a

little distance from here. I sought company, and was glad of his. I

made up my mind to pass my night near something human, and did not

intend to leave him. But when he said that yonder was the house in

which the great Advocate lived, and when he pointed out your study

window, I gave him the slip, knowing I could do better than remain

with him. That is the truth, master."

"Are you acquainted with this man?"

"No, I never saw him before; I saw but little of him as it was, the

night was so dark; but I know voices when I hear them. His voice was

strange to me."

"How happened it, then, that you conversed about me?"

"I can't remember exactly how it came about. He gave me some brandy

out of a flask--not such liquor as yours, master, but I was thankful

for it--and I asked him if he had ever been followed by the spirit of

a dead woman. He questioned me about this woman, asking if she was

fair and beautiful, whether she had met her death in the Rhone,

whether her name was Madeline. Yes, he called her up before me and I

was spellbound. When I came to my proper senses he was talking to

himself about a great Advocate in the house he was staring at, and I

said there was only one great Advocate--you who set me free--and I

asked him if you lived in the house. He said yes, and that the lights

I saw were the lights in your study windows. Upon that I left him,

suddenly and secretly, and made my way here."

"Was the man watching this house?"

"It had the look of it. He is no friend of yours, that I can tell you.

When he spoke of you it was with the voice of a man who could make you

wince if he pleased. You have served him some trick, and he wants to

be revenged, I suppose. But you can take care of yourself, master."

"That will do. Leave me and leave this house, and as you value your

life, enter it no more."

"Then, you will see me elsewhere. Where, master, and when?"

"I will see you in no place and at no time. I understand the meaning

of looks, Gautran, and there is a threat in your eyes. Beware! I have

means to punish you. You have escaped the penalty of your crime, but

there is no safety for you here. You do not wish to die; the guilt of

blood is on your soul, and you are afraid of death. Well may you be

afraid of it. Such terrors await you in the life beyond as you cannot

dream of. Live, then, and repent; or die, and be eternally lost! Dare

to intrude yourself upon me, and death will be your portion, and you

will go straight to your punishment. Here, and at this moment only,

you have the choice of either fate. Choose, and swiftly."

The cold, stern, impressive voice, the commanding figure, had their

effect upon Gautran. He shook with fear; he was thoroughly subdued.

"If I am not safe here, master, where shall I find safety?"

"In a distant part of the country where you are not known."

"How am I to get there? I have no money."

"I will give you sufficient for flight and subsistence. Here are five

gold pieces. Now, go, and let me never see your murderous face again."

"Master," said Gautran humbly, as he turned the money over in his hand

and counted it. "I must have more--not for myself, but to pay for

masses for the repose of Madeline's soul. Then I may hope for

forgiveness--then she will leave me in peace!"

The Advocate emptied his purse into Gautran's open palm, saying, "Let

no man see you. Depart as secretly as you came."

But Gautran lingered still. "You promised me some more brandy,

master."

The Advocate filled the glass, and Gautran, with fierce eagerness,

drank the brandy.

"You will not give me another glass, master?"

"No, murderer. I have spoken my last word to you."

Gautran spoke no more, but with head sunk upon his breast, left the

room and the house.

"A vulgar expedient," mused the Advocate, when he was alone, "but the

only one likely to prove effective with such a monster. It is perhaps

best that it has happened. This man watching upon the hill is none

other than John Vanbrugh. I had almost forgotten him. He does not come

in friendship. Let him watch and wait. I will not see him."

CHAPTER XVI

PIERRE LAMONT SEEKS THE HOSPITALITY OF

THE HOUSE OF WHITE SHADOWS.

The following day Pierre Lamont did not leave his bed, and was visited

in his room by the Advocate and Christian Almer. To the Advocate he

said:

"I trust I shall not incommode you, for I am compelled to throw myself

upon your hospitality."

"Get well, then," said the Advocate, "and enjoy it--which you cannot

do, thus confined."

"I do not know--I do not know," said the old lawyer, gazing at the

Advocate, and wondering how it was possible that this profound thinker

and observer could be blind to the drama which was being acted at his

very door, "one can still follow the world. Have you read the papers

this morning?"

"No--I have not troubled myself to look at them."

"Here is one that will interest you. What is called the freedom of the

press is growing into a scandal. Editors and critics abuse their

charter, and need some wholesome check. But you are not likely to be

moved by what they say."

He handed a newspaper to the Advocate, who walked to the window and

read the editorial comments upon the trial and the part he had played

in it.

"The trial of Gautran is over, and the monster whom all believe to be

guilty of a foul murder is set free. The victim, unavenged, is in her

grave, and a heavy responsibility lies not only upon the city, but

upon the nation. Neither for good nor ill can the words we write

affect the future of Gautran. Released, by the law, he is universally

condemned. Justice is not satisfied. In all Switzerland there is but

one man who in his soul believes the degraded wretch to be innocent,

and that this man should be right and all others wrong we refuse to

believe. Never in a cause so weighty have we felt it our duty to raise

our voice against a verdict reluctantly wrung from the citizens whose

lot it was to judge a human being accused--and we insist, righteously

accused--of a horrible crime. The verdict cannot be disturbed. Gautran

is free! There is a frightful significance in these words--Gautran is

free!

"Removed from the feverish excitement of the court in which the trial

took place, the report of the proceedings reads more like a stage

drama than an episode of real life. All the elements which led to the

shameful result are eminently dramatic, and were, without doubt,

planned by the great Advocate who defended the accused with an eye to

dramatic effect. It would scarcely surprise us were the climax now

reached to be followed by an anti-climax in which Gautran's champion

of yesterday would become his accuser of to-day. Our courts of justice

are becoming accustomed to this kind of theatrical display. Consider

the profound sensation which would be produced by the great lawyer

coming forward and saying, 'Yesterday, after a long and exciting

struggle, I proved to you that Gautran was innocent, and by my efforts

he was let loose upon society. To-day I propose to prove to you that

he is guilty, and I ask you to mete out to him his just punishment.' A

dangerous temptation, indeed, to one who studies effect. But there is

a safeguard against such a course. It would so blacken the fame of any

man who adopted it, however high that man might stand in the

estimation of his peers and the people, that he could never hope to

rise from the depths of shame into which his own act had plunged him.

"Many persons who believe that way will doubtless argue that there is

something providential in the history of this ruthless murder of an

unfortunate innocent being. She is slain. Not a soul comes forward to

claim kinship with her. None the less is she a child of God. Human

reason leads to the arrest and imprisonment of Gautran. Providence

brings upon the scene a great lawyer, who, unsolicited, undertakes the

defence of a monster, association with whom is defilement. The wretch

is set free, and Justice stands appalled at what has been done in the

name of the law. But this is not the end. Providence may have

something yet in store which will bring punishment to the guilty and

unravel this tangled skein. What, then, will the great Advocate have

to say who deliberately and voluntarily brought about a miscarriage of

justice so flagrant as to cause every honest heart to thrill with

indignation?"

The Advocate did not read any further, but laid the paper aside and

said:

"Men who take part in public matters are open to attacks of this kind.

There is nothing to complain of."

"And yet," thought Pierre Lamont, when the Advocate left him, "there

was in his face, as he read the article, an expression denoting that

he was moved. Well,--well--men are but human, even the greatest."

Later in the day he was visited by Christian Almer, to whom he

repeated his apologies.

"I have one of my bad attacks on me. They frequently last for days. At

such times it is dangerous for me to be moved about."

"Then do not be moved about," said Almer, with a smile.

But despite this smile. Almer was inwardly disquieted. He had not been

aware on the previous night that Pierre Lamont occupied the next room

to his. After the departure of the Advocate, Adelaide had not been

careful; her voice had been frequently raised, and Almer was anxious

to ascertain whether it had reached the old lawyer's ears.

"You slept well, I hope," he said.

"Yes, until the early morning, a little after sunrise. I am a very

deep sleeper for four or five hours. The moment I close my eyes sleep

claims me, and holds me so securely that, were the house on fire, it

would be difficult to arouse me. But the moment the sunshine peeps

into my room, my rest is at an end. When I had the use of my limbs I

was an early riser."

Almer's mind was relieved. "Sleeping in a strange bed is often not

conducive to repose."

"I have slept in so many strange beds." And Pierre Lamont thought as

he spoke: "But never in a stranger bed than this."

"You can still find occupation," said Almer, pointing to the books on

table and bed.

"Ah, books, books, books!" said Pierre Lamont. "What would the world

do without them? How did it ever do without them? But I am old, and I

am talking to a young man."

"My father was a bookworm and a student," said Almer. "Were he alive,

he would be disappointed that I do not tread in his footsteps."

"Perhaps not. He was a wise man, with a comprehensive mind. It would

not do for us all to be monks."

CHAPTER XVII

FRITZ THE FOOL RELATES A STRANGE DREAM TO PIERRE LAMONT

Half-a-dozen times in the course of the day Pierre Lamont had sent in

search of Fritz the Fool, and it was not till the afternoon that Fritz

made his appearance.

"You should have come earlier, fool," said Pierre Lamont with a frown.

"I was better engaged," said Fritz coolly. "You fired me with those

love-verses last night, and I have been studying what to say to my

peach."

"The pretty Dionetta! Rehearse, then; I am dull."

"Ah, I have much to tell you. I am thinking of saying to the peach,

'Dionetta, place your hand in mine, and we will both serve Pierre

Lamont. He will give us a home; he will pay us liberally; and when he

dies he will not leave us unprovided for.'"

"And if the peach should laugh in your face?"

"I would reason with it. I would say, 'Look you now; you cannot be

always ripe, you cannot be always mellow and luscious. Do not waste

the precious sunshine of life, but give yourself to a clever fool, who

cares quite as much for your fair face and beautiful skin as he does

for the diamond baubles in your ears.'"

"Diamond earrings, Fritz! Are you dreaming?"

"Not at this moment--though I had a dream last night after I left you

which I may tell you if I don't repent of it before I disclose it.

Yes, Master Lamont, diamond earrings--as I'm a living fool, diamonds

of value. See, Master Lamont, I don't want this peach to be gathered

yet. It is well placed, it is in favour; it is making itself in some

way useful, not to finer, but to richer fruit. Heaven only knows what

may be rained upon it when the very first summer shower brings a

diamond finger-ring, and the second a pair of diamond earrings. A

diamond brooch, perhaps; money for certain, if it will take a fool's

advice. And of course it will do that if, seeing that the fool is a

proper fool, the peach says kindly, 'I am yours.' That is the way of

it, is it not, Master Lamont?"

"I am waiting to hear more, Fritz," said Pierre Lamont, with a full

enjoyment of Fritz's loquacity.

"Behind the summer-house, Master Lamont, lies a lovely lake, clear as

crystal in parts where it is not covered with fairy lilies. I am as

good as a pair of eyes to you to tell you of these beauties. The water

is white and shining and at one part there is a mass of willows

bending over; then there is a break, clear of the shadow of branch

and leaf; then there is another mass of willows. From a distance you

would think that there was no break in the foliage; you have to go

close to it to make the discovery, and once you are there you are

completely hidden from sight. Not more than two hours ago I was

passing this spot at the back of the willows, when I heard a

voice--a girl's voice, Master Lamont--saying quite softly, 'Oh, how

lovely! how beautiful--how beautiful!' It was Dionetta's voice; I

should know it among a thousand. Through the willows I crept with the

foot of a cat till I came to the break, and there was Dionetta

herself, bending over the water, and sighing, 'Oh, how lovely! how

beautiful!' She could not see me, for her back was towards me, and I

took care she did not hear me. She was shaking her pretty head over

the water, and I shouldn't deserve to be called a fool if I had not

felt curious to see what it was in the lake that was so lovely and

beautiful. Perhaps it was her own face she was admiring. Well, she had

a perfect right, and I was ready to join in the chorus. I crept up to

her as still as a mouse, and looked over her shoulder. She gave a

great scream when she saw my face in the lake, and I caught hold of

her to prevent her from falling in. Then I saw what almost took away

my breath. In her ears there flashed a pair of diamond earrings, the

like of which I never in my life beheld in our village. Her face got

as red as a sunset as I gazed at her. 'How you frightened me, Fritz!'

she said. I set the earrings swinging with my fingers and said, 'Where

did you get these wonderful things from?' She answered me pat. 'My

lady gave them to me.' 'They are yours, then?' I asked. 'Yes, Fritz,'

she said, 'they are mine, and I came here to see how I look in them.

They are so grand that I am ashamed to put them on unless I am alone.

Don't tell anybody, will you, Fritz? If grandmother knew I had them,

she would take them from me. She would never, never let me wear them.

Don't tell anybody.' Why, of course I said I would not, and then I

asked why my lady gave them to her, and she said it was because my

lady loved her. So, so! thought I, as I left my peach--I would like to

have given her just one kiss, but I did not dare to try--so, so! my

lady gives her maid a pair of diamond earrings that are as suitable to

her as a crown of gold to an ass's head. There is something more than

common between lady and maid. What is it, Master Lamont, what is it?"

"A secret, fool, which, if you get your peach to tell, will be worth

much to you. And as you and I are going to keep our own counsel, learn

from me that this secret has but one of two kernels. Love or jealousy.

Set your wits at work, Fritz, set your wits at work, and keep your

eyes open. I may help you to your peach, fool. And now about that

dream of yours. Were you asleep or awake at the time?"

Fritz stepped cautiously to the door, opened it, looked along the

passage, closed the door, and came close to the bedside.

"Master Lamont," he said, "what I dreamt is something so strange that

it will take a great deal of thinking over. Do you know why I tell you

things?"

"I might guess wrong, Fritz. Save me the trouble."

"You have never been but one way with me; you have never given me a

hard word; you have never given me a blow. When I was a boy--twenty

years ago and more, Master Lamont--you were the only man who spoke

kind words to me, who used to pat my head and pity me. For, if you

remember, Master Lamont, I was nothing but a castaway, living on

charity, and everybody but you made me feel it. Cuffed by this one and

that one, kicked, and laughed at--but never by you. Even a fool can

bear these things in mind."

"Well, well, Fritz, go on with your dream. You are making me hungry."

"It came nearly two hours after midnight. At that time I was in the

grounds. All was dark. There was nobody about but me, until the

Advocate came. Then I slipped aside and watched him. He walked up and

down, like a machine. It was not as if a man was walking, but a figure

of steel. It was enough to drive me crazy, it was so like clockwork.

Twice he almost discovered me. He looked about him, he searched the

grounds, still with the same measured step, he called aloud, and asked

if anybody was near. Then he went into the house and into the study. I

knew he was there by the shifting of the lights in the room. Being

alone with the shadows, your love-verses came into my mind, and you

may believe me, Master Lament, I made my way to the window of the room

in which Dionetta sleeps, and stood there looking up at it. I should

have been right down ashamed of myself if I hadn't been dreaming. Is

it the way of lovers, Master Lamont? 'Faster than bees to flowers they

wing their way;' that is how the line runs, is it not? Well, there

stood I, a bee, dreaming in the dark night, before the window of my

flower. An invisible flower, unfortunately. But thoughts are free; you

can't put chains on them. So there stood I, for how many minutes I

cannot say, imagining my flower. Now, if I had known that her pretty

head was lying on the pillow, with great diamond earrings in her

ears--for that is a certainty--I might not perhaps have been able to

tear myself away. Luckily for my dream, that knowledge had still to

come to me, so I wandered off, and found myself once more staring at

the lights in the Advocate's study windows. Now, what made me step

quite close to them, and put my eye to a pane which the curtains did

not quite cover? I could see clear into the room. Imagine my surprise,

Master Lamont, when I discovered that the Advocate was not alone!

Master Lamont, you know every man in the village, but I would give you

a thousand guesses, and you would not hit upon the name of the

Advocate's friend. From where I stood I could not hear a word that was

said, but I saw everything. I saw the Advocate go to a cupboard, and

give this man liquor; he poured it out for him himself. Then they

talked--then the Advocate brought forward a silver basket of biscuits,

and the man ate some, and stuffed some into his pockets. They were on

the very best of terms with each other. The Advocate gave his friend

some money--pieces of gold, Master Lamont; I saw them glitter. The man

counted them, and by his action, asked for more; and more was given;

the Advocate emptied his purse into the man's hand. Then, after

further conversation, the man turned to leave the room. It was time

for me to scuttle from my peep-hole. Presently the man was in the

grounds stepping almost as softly as I stepped after him. For I was

not going to lose him, Master Lamont; my curiosity was whetted to that

degree that it would have taken a great deal to prevent me from

following this friend of the Advocate's. 'How will he get out?'

thought I; 'the gates are locked; he will hardly venture to scale

them.' Two or three times he stopped, and looked behind him; he did

not see me. He arrived at the wall which stretches at the back; he

climbed the wall; so did I, in another and an easier part; he dropped

down with a thud and a groan; I let myself to the ground without

disturbing a leaf. Presently he picked himself up and walked off, with

more haste than before. I followed him. He stopped; I stopped; he

walked on again, and so did I. Again he stopped and cried aloud: 'I

hear you follow me! Is not one killing enough for you?' And then he

gave a scream so awful that the hair rose on my head. 'She is here!'

he screamed; 'she is here, and is driving me to madness!' With that he

took to his heels and tore through field and forest really like a

madman. I could not keep up with him, and after an hour's running I

completely lost sight of him. There was nothing for me to do but to

get back to the villa. I returned the way I came--I had plenty to

think about on the road--and I was once more before the windows of the

Advocate's study. The lights were still there. The Advocate, I

believe, can live without sleep. I peeped through the window, and

there he was, sitting at his table reading, with an expression of

power in his face which might well make any man tremble who dared to

oppose him. That is the end of my dream, Master Lamont."

"But the man, Fritz, the man!" exclaimed Pierre, Lamont. "I am still

in ignorance as to who this strange, nocturnal visitor can be."

"There lies the pith of my dream. If I were to tell you that this man

who makes his way secretly into the grounds in the darkness of the

night--who is closeted with the Advocate for an hour at least--who is

treated to wine and cake--who is presented with money, and grumblingly

asks for more, and gets it--if I were to tell you that this man is

Gautran, who was tried for the murder of Madeline, the flower-girl,

and who was set free by the Advocate--what would you say, Master

Lamont?"

"I should say," replied Pierre Lamont with some difficulty controlling

his excitement, "that you were mad, fool Fritz."

"Nevertheless," said Fritz with great composure, "it is so. I have

related my dream as it occurred. The man was Gautran and no other. Can

you explain that to me in one word?"

"No," said Pierre Lamont, gazing sharply at Fritz. "You are not

fooling me, Fritz?"

"If it were my last word it would make no difference. I have told you

the truth."

"You know Gautran's face well?"

"I was in the court every day of the trial, and there is no chance of

my being mistaken. See here, Master Lamont. I can do many things that

would surprise people. I can draw faces. Give me a pencil and some

paper."

With a few rapid strokes he produced the very image of Pierre Lamont,

sitting up in bed, with thin, cadaverous face, with high forehead and

large nose; even the glitter of the old lawyer's eyes was depicted.

Pierre Lamont examined the portrait with admiration.

"I am proud of you, Fritz," he said; "you have the true artist's

touch."

Fritz was busy with the pencil again. "Who may this be?" he asked,

holding another sketch before Pierre Lamont.

"The Advocate. To the life, Fritz, to the life."

"This is also to the life," said Fritz, producing a third portrait.

"This is Gautran. It is all I can draw, Master Lamont--human faces; I

could do it when I was a boy. There is murder in Gautran's face; there

was murder in the words I heard him speak as I followed him: 'Is not

one killing enough for you?' There is only one meaning to such words.

I leave you to puzzle it all out, Master Lamont. You have a wise head;

I am a fool. Mother Denise may be right, after all, when she said--not

knowing I was within hearing--that it was an evil day when my lady,

the Advocate's wife, set foot in the grounds of the House of White

Shadows. But it is no business of mine; only I must look after my

peach, or it may suddenly be spirited away on a broomstick. Unholy

work, Master Lamont, unholy work! What do you say to letting Father

Capel into the mystery?"

"Not for worlds!" cried Pierre Lamont. "Priests in such matters are

the rarest bunglers. No--the secret is ours, yours and mine; you shall

be well paid for your share in it. Without my permission you will not

speak of it--do you hear me, Fritz?"

"I hear you, and will obey you."

"Good lad! Ah, what would I give if I had the use of my limbs! But you

shall be my limbs and my eyes--my second self. Help me to dress,

Fritz--quick, quick!"

"Master Lamont," said Fritz with a sly laugh, "be careful of your

precious self. You are ill, you know, very, very ill! You must keep

your bed. I cannot run the risk of losing so good a master."

"I have a dozen years of life in me yet, fool. This dried-up old skin,

these withered limbs, this lack of fat, are my protection. If I were a

stout, fine man I might go off at any moment. As it is, I may live to

a hundred--old enough to see your grandchildren, Fritz. But yes, yes,

yes--I am indeed very ill and weak! Let everybody know it--so weak and

ill that it is not possible for me to leave this hospitable house for

many, many days. The medicine I require is the fresh air of the

gardens. With my own eyes I must see what I can of the comedy that is

being played under our very noses. I, also, had dreams last night,

Fritz, rare dreams! Ah--what a comedy, what a comedy! But there are

tragic veins in it, fool, which make it all the more human."

_BOOK V.--THE DOOM OF GAUTRAN_.

CHAPTER I

ADELAIDE STRIVES TO PROPITIATE PIERRE LAMONT

The following night was even darker than the preceding one had been.

In the afternoon portents of a coming storm were apparent in the sky.

Low mutterings of thunder in the distance travelled faintly to the

ears of the occupants of the House of White Shadows. The Advocate's

wife shuddered as she heard the sounds.

"There are only two things in the world I am afraid of," she said to

Pierre Lamont, "and those are thunder and lightning. When I was a

little child a dreadful thing occurred to me. I was playing in a

garden when a storm came on. I was all alone, and it was some distance

to the house. The storm broke so suddenly that I had not time to reach

shelter without getting myself drenched. I dare say, though, I should

have run through it had I not been frightened by the flashes of

lightning that seemed to want to cut me in two. I flew behind a tree,

and stood there trembling. Every time a flash came I shut my eyes

tight and screamed. But the storm did not allow my cries to be heard.

You can imagine the state I was in. It would not have mattered, except

for the wetting, had I kept my eyes closed, but like a little fool, I

opened them once, and just at that moment a flash seemed to strike the

tree behind which I stood. I can almost hear the shriek I gave, as I

fell and fainted dead away. There, lying on the wet grass, I was

found. A dreadful looking object I must have been! They carried me

into the house, and when I was conscious of what was passing around

me, I asked why they did not light the gas. The fact is I was quite

blind, and remained so for several days. Was it not shocking? I shall

never, never forget my fright. Can you imagine anything more dreadful

than being struck blind? To be born blind cannot be half as bad, for

one does not know what one loses--never having seen the flowers, and

the fields, and the beautiful skies. But to enjoy them, and then to

lose them! It is altogether too horrible to think of."

She was very gracious to the old lawyer during the afternoon.

"Do you know," she said, "I can't quite make up my mind whether to be

fond or frightened of you."

"Be fond of me," said Pierre Lamont, with a queer look.

"I shall see how you behave. I am afraid you are very clever. I don't

like clever people, they are so suspicious, pretending to know

everything always."

"I am very simple," said Pierre Lamont, laughing inwardly. He knew

that she wanted to propitiate him; "and beauty can lead me by a silken

thread."

"Is that another of your compliments? I declare, you speak as if you

were a young man."

She did, indeed, desire to win Pierre Lamont entirely to her, and she

would have endured much to make him her friend instead of her enemy.

Christian Almer had told her that the old lawyer had slept in the next

room to his, and she had set herself the task of sounding the old

fellow to ascertain whether his suspicions were aroused, and whether

she had anything to fear from him. She could not help saying to

herself what a fool Mother Denise--who looked after the household

arrangements--was to put him so close to Christian.

"I do believe," thought Adelaide, "that she did it to spite me."

Her mind, however, was quite at ease after chatting with the old

lawyer.

"I am so glad we are friends," she said to him; "it is altogether so

much nicer."

Pierre Lamont looked reproachfully at her, and asked how she could

ever have supposed he was anything but her most devoted admirer.

"Lawyers are so fond of mischief," she replied, "that if it does not

come to them ready-made they manufacture it for themselves."

"I am no longer a lawyer," he said; "if I were twenty years younger I

should call myself a lover."

"If you were twenty years younger," she rejoined gaily, "I should not

sit and listen to your nonsense."

Being called from his side she turned and gave him an arch look.

"All that only makes the case stronger, my lady," he said inwardly.

"You cannot deceive me with your wiles."

CHAPTER II

GAUTRAN SEEKS JOHN VANBRUGH

During the chief part of the day Gautran concealed himself

in the woods. Twice had he ventured to present himself to his

fellow--creatures. He was hungry, and in sore need of food, and he

went to a wayside inn, and called for cold meat and bread and brandy.

"Can you pay for it?" asked the innkeeper suspiciously.

Gautran threw down a gold piece. The innkeeper took it, bit it, turned

it over and over, rang it on the wooden table, and then set the food

before Gautran.

The murderer ate ravenously; it was the first sufficient meal he had

eaten for days. The innkeeper gave him his change, and he ordered more

meat and brandy, and paid for them. While he was disposing of this,

two men came up, eyed him, and passed into the inn; Gautran was eating

at a little table in the open air.

Presently the innkeeper came out and looked at him; then the

innkeeper's wife did the same; then other men and women came and cast

wrathful glances upon him.

At first he was not conscious that he was being thus observed, he was

so ravenously engaged; but his hunger being appeased, he raised his

head, and saw seven or eight persons standing at a little distance

from him, and all with their eyes fixed upon his face.

"What are you staring at?" he cried. "Did you never see a hungry man

eat before?"

They did not answer him, but stood whispering among themselves.

The idea occurred to Gautran to take away with him a supply of food,

and he called to the innkeeper to bring it to him. Instead of doing

so, the innkeeper removed the plates and glasses in which the meal had

been served. Having done this, he joined the group, and stood apart

from Gautran, without addressing a word to him.

"Do you hear me?" shouted Gautran. "Are you deaf and dumb?"

"Neither deaf nor dumb," replied the innkeeper; "we hear you plain

enough."

"Bring me the bread and meat, then," he said.

"Not another morsel," said the innkeeper. "Be off with you."

"When I get the food."

"You will get none here--nor would you have had bite or sup if I had

known."

"Known what?" demanded Gautran fiercely. "Is not my money as good as

another man's?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because there is blood upon it."

If this did not convince him that his name was known and execrated,

what next transpired would have enlightened him. The innkeeper's wife

came out with a glass and two plates in her hands.

"Are these the things," she asked of her husband, "the monster has

been eating out of?"

"Yes," replied the innkeeper.

She dashed them to the ground and shivered them to pieces, and the

onlookers applauded the act.

"Why do you do that, Mistress?" cried Gautran.

"So that honest men shall not be poisoned," was the answer, "by eating

out of a murderer's dish or putting their lips to a murderer's glass."

And the onlookers again applauded her, and kicked away the pieces.

Gautran glared at the men and women, and asked:

"Who do you take me for?"

"For Gautran. There is but one such monster. If you do not know your

own face, look upon it there."

She pointed to the window, and there he beheld his own portrait, cut

out of an illustrated newspaper, and beneath it his name--"GAUTRAN,"

to which had been added, in writing, the words, "The Murderer of

Madeline, the Flower-Girl."

He could not read the inscription, but he correctly divined its

nature. The moment before he saw his portrait, it had entered his mind

to deny himself; he recognised now how futile the attempt would be.

"What if I am Gautran?" he exclaimed. "Do you think the law would set

me free if I was guilty?"

To which the innkeeper's wife replied:

"You have escaped by a quibble. You are a murderer, and you know

yourself to be one."

"Mistress," he said, "if I had you alone I would make you smart."

"How does that sound, men?" cried the innkeeper's wife with excited

gestures. "Is it the speech of an innocent man? He would like to get

me alone. Yes, he got one poor girl alone, and we know what became of

her. The coward! the murderer! Hunt him away, neighbours. It is a

disgrace to look upon him."

They advanced towards Gautran threateningly, and he drew his knife and

snapped it open.

"Who will be the first?" he asked savagely, and seeing that they held

together, he retreated backwards, with his face to them, until a turn

in the road hid them from his sight. Then he fled into the woods, and

with wild cries slashed the trees with his knife, which he had

sharpened in the early morning.

On the second occasion he presented himself at a cottage door, with

the intention of begging or buying some food. He knocked at the door,

and not receiving an answer, lifted the latch. In the room were two

children--a baby in a cradle, and a five-year-old boy sitting on the

floor, playing with a little wooden soldier. Looking up, and seeing

the features of the ruffian, the boy scrambled to his feet, and

rushing past Gautran, ran screaming down the road. Enraged almost to

madness, Gautran ran after the child, and catching him, tossed him in

the air, shouting:

"What! you, too, brat? This for your pains!"

And standing over the child, was about to stamp upon him, when he

found himself seized by the throat. It was the father, who, hearing

the child's screams, came up just in time to save him. Then ensued a

desperate struggle, and Gautran, despite his boast to the Advocate,

found that he had met more than his match. He was beaten to the

ground, lifted, and thrown into the air, as he had thrown the child.

He rose, bruised and bleeding, and was slinking off, when the man

cried:

"Holy Mother! it is the murderer, Gautran!"

Some labourers who were coming across the fields, were attracted by

the scuffle, and the father called out to them:

"Here is Gautran the murderer, and he has tried to murder my child!"

This was enough for them. They were armed with reaping-hooks, and they

raced towards Gautran with loud threats. They chased him for full a

mile, but he was fleeter of foot than they, and despair gave him

strength. He escaped them, and sank, panting, to the ground.

The Advocate had spoken truly. There was no safety for him. He was

known for miles round, and the people were eager for vengeance. He

would hide in the woods for the rest of the day. There was but one

means of escape for him. He must seek some distant spot, where he and

his crime were unknown. But to get there he would be compelled to pass

through villages in which he would be recognised. It was necessary

that he should disguise himself. In what way could this be done? He

pondered upon it for hours. In the afternoon he heard the muttering of

the thunder in the distant mountains.

"There's a storm coming," he said, and he raised his burning face to

meet the welcome rain. But only a few heavy drops fell, and the wind

moaned through the woods as if in pain. Night stole upon him swiftly,

and wrapt him in horrible darkness. He bit his lips, he clenched his

hands, his body shook with fear. Solitude was worse than death to him.

He tried to sleep; in vain. Terrible images crowded upon him. Company

he must have, at all hazards. Suddenly he thought of John Vanbrugh,

the man he had met the night before on the hill not far from the

Advocate's house. This man had not avoided him. He would seek him

again, and, if he found him, would pass the night with him. So

resolving, he walked with feverish steps towards the hill on which

John Vanbrugh was keeping watch.

CHAPTER III

GAUTRAN RESOLVES ON A PLAN OF ESCAPE

The distance was longer than Gautran had calculated, and he did not

shorten it by the devious tracks he took in his anxiety to avoid

meeting with his enemies. The rainstorm still kept off, but, in spite

of the occasional flashes of lightning, the darkness seemed to grow

thicker and thicker, and he frequently missed his way. He kept on

doggedly, however, and although the shadow of his crime waited upon

his steps, and made itself felt in the sighing and moaning of the

wind, in the bending of every branch, and in the fluttering of every

leaf, the craving for human companionship in which there was something

of sympathy, and from which he would not be hunted like a dog, imbued

him with courage to fight these terrors. Often, indeed, did he pause

and threaten with fearful words the spectre of the girl he had

murdered; and sometimes he implored her to leave him, and told her he

was going to pay for masses for the repose of her soul. Occasionally

he was compelled to take the high road, and then he was grateful for

the darkness, for it prevented his face from being seen. At those

times he slunk close to the hedges, as though dreading that the

slightest contact with a human being would lead to discovery. Terrible

as the night was to him, he feared the approach of day, when it would

be more difficult to conceal himself from his pursuers. He knew that

his life was not safe while he remained in this fatal neighbourhood.

He _must_ escape, and in disguise, before he was many hours older. How

was this to be accomplished? Once, in the roadway, he followed with

stealthy steps two men who were conversing. He would have avoided

them, as he had avoided others, had it not been that he heard his name

mentioned, and was morbidly curious to hear what they were saying

about him.

Said one: "I have not set eyes upon this man-monster, but I shall know

him if I meet him in the light."

To which the other replied: "How will you manage that, if you have

never seen his face?"

"You ask a foolish question. Have not full descriptions of the

murderer been put about everywhere? His features, the colour of his

hair, his clothes, from his cap to his boots--all is known. His face

he might disguise by a slash of his knife, if he has courage enough

for it, or he might stain it--and in that way, too, he might change

the colour of his hair. But his clothes would remain. The shirt he

wears is one in a thousand, and there's no mistaking it. It is blue,

with broad yellow bands, which encircle his villainous body like

rings. Let him get another shirt if he can. The country is aroused for

twenty miles round, and men are resolved to take justice into their

own hands. The law has allowed him to slip through its fingers; he

shall not slip through ours. Why, he said to a woman this morning that

he would know how to serve her if he had her alone, and not long

afterwards he tried to murder a child! Shall such a monster be allowed

to remain at liberty to strike women down and murder the helpless?

No--we don't intend to let him escape. Men are on the watch for him

everywhere, and when he is caught he will be beaten to death, or hung

upon the nearest tree. There is another end for him, if he chooses to

take it. He can hide in the woods and starve, and when his body is

found, we'll drive a stake through it. Take my word for it, Gautran,

the murderer, has not long to live."

Gautran shook with fear and rage.

"I could spring upon them with my knife," he thought, "but they are

two to one."

And then, when the men were out of hearing, he shook his fist at them,

and muttered:

"Curse you! I will cheat you yet!"

But how? The description given of his shirt was a faithful one; the

broad yellow bands were there, and he remembered that, two days before

the end of his trial, the gaolers had taken it from his cell in the

night, and returned it to him in the morning, washed, with the yellow

colour brighter than it had been for months. He knew now that this had

been done out of malice, in case he should be acquitted, so that he

might be the more readily recognised and shunned, or the more easily

tracked and caught if he was again wanted. There loomed upon him a way

to foil those who had vowed to kill him. The man he was seeking had

spoken in a reckless manner; he had complained of the world, and was

doubtless in want of money. He had gold which the Advocate had given

him; he would offer to buy the man's clothes, and would give him his

own, and one, two, or even three gold pieces in exchange; An easy

thing to accomplish. But if the man would not consent to the bargain!

He smiled savagely, and felt the edge of his knife. He was thoroughly

desperate. He would sacrifice a thousand lives to save his own.

Out of this murderous alternative--and out of the words uttered by the

man he had overheard, "His face he might disguise by a slash of his

knife if he has courage for it"--grew ideas which, as he plodded on

gradually arranged themselves into a scheme which would ensure him an

almost sure escape from those who had leagued themselves against him.

Its entire success depended upon certain physical attributes in John

Vanbrugh--but he would risk it even if these were not as he wished

them to be. The plan was horrible in its design, and needed strength

and cunning. He had both, and would use them without mercy, to ensure

his safety. John Vanbrugh, with whose name he was not acquainted, was

probably a stranger in the locality; something in Vanbrugh's speech

caused him to suspect this. He would assure himself first of the fact,

and then the rest was easy. Vanbrugh was about his own height and

build; he had stood by his side and knew this to be so. Gautran should

die this night in the person of another man, and should be found in

the morning, murdered, with features so battered as to defy

recognition. But he would be attired in Gautran's clothes, and would

by those means be instantly identified. Then he, the true Gautran,

would be forever safe. In John Vanbrugh's garments he could make his

way to a distant part of the country, and take another name. No one

would suspect him, for Gautran would be dead; and he would buy

masses for the repose of Madeline's soul, and so purge himself of

blood-guiltiness. As to this second contemplated crime he gave it no

thought, except that it was necessary, and must be done.

CHAPTER IV

HEAVEN'S JUDGMENT

Within half an hour of midnight he arrived at the hill, and saw the

shadow of a man who was leaning against a tree. Gautran had been

walking for nearly three hours, and during the whole time the storm of

thunder and lightning had continued at intervals, now retreating, now

advancing; but its full force had been spent many miles away, and it

did not seem likely to approach much nearer to the House of White

Shadows.

"The man is there," muttered Gautran, "with his face still towards the

Advocate's window. What is his purpose?"

He was curious about that, too, and thought he would endeavour to

ferret it out. It might be useful to him in the future, for it

concerned the Advocate. There was plenty of time before him to

accomplish his own murderous design.

John Vanbrugh heard Gautran's footsteps.

"Who comes this way?" he cried.

"A friend," replied Gautran.

"That is easily said," cried Vanbrugh. "I am not in a trustful mood.

Hold off a bit, or I may do you mischief."

"Do you not know me?" asked Gautran, approaching closer, and measuring

himself with the dark form of Vanbrugh. They were of exactly the same

height.

"What, Gautran!" exclaimed Vanbrugh in a gay tone.

"Yes, Gautran."

"Welcome, friend, welcome," said Vanbrugh, with a laugh. "Give me your

hand. Veritable flesh and blood. You have a powerful grip, Gautran. I

thought we should meet again. What caused you to make yourself scarce

so suddenly last night? You vanished like a cloud."

"I had business to do. Have you got any more of that brandy about

you?"

"I am not sure whether you deserve it. After emptying my flask, you

may make off again. A poor return for hospitality, my friend."

"I promise to remain with you--it is what I came for--if you give me

brandy."

"I take your word," said Vanbrugh, producing a flask. "Drink, but not

too greedily."

Gautran took a long draught and returned the flask, saying, "You have

no food, I suppose?"

"Why, yes, I have. Warned by previous experiences I supplied myself

liberally for this night's watch. I'll not refuse you, though I spent

my last franc on it."

"Ah," said Gautran, with some eagerness, for an amicable exchange of

clothing would render the more villainous part of his task easier of

accomplishment, "you are poor, then?"

"Poor? Yes, but not for long, Gautran. The days of full purses are

coming. Here is the food. Eat, rogue, eat. It is honest bread and

meat, bought and paid for; but none the sweeter for that. We know

which fruit is the sweetest. So you had business to do when you took

French leave of me! How runs the matter? I had just pointed out the

Advocate's window to you--your own special Advocate, my friend, to

whom you have so much reason to be grateful--when you disappeared like

an arrow from a bow. What follows then? That, leaving me so abruptly,

your business was important, and that it concerned the Advocate. Right

or wrong, rogue?"

"Right," replied Gautran, as he devoured the food.

"Come, that's candid of you, and spoken like a friend. You did not

know, before I informed you, that he lived in the villa yonder?"

"I did not."

"I begin to have hopes of you. And learning it from me, you made

up your mind on the spur of the moment--your business being so

important--to pay him a friendly visit, despite the strangeness of the

hour for a familiar call?"

"You've hit it," said Gautran.

John Vanbrugh pondered a while. These direct answers, given without

hesitation, puzzled him. He had expected to meet with prevarication,

and he was receiving, instead, straightforward confidence.

"You are not afraid," he said, "to speak the truth to me, Gautran?"

"I am not."

"But I am a stranger to you."

"That's true."

"Why, then, do you confide in me?"

It was Gautran's turn now to pause, but he soon replied, with a

sinister look which John Vanbrugh, in the darkness, could not see:

"Because, after what passes between us this night, I am sure you will

not betray me."

"Good," said Vanbrugh; "then it is plain you sought me deliberately,

because you think I can in some way serve you."

"Yes, because you can in some way serve me--that is why I am here."

"Then you intend to hide nothing from me?"

"Nothing--for the reason I have given."

A flash of lightning seemed to strike the spot on which he and Gautran

were conversing, and he waited for the thunder. It came--long, deep,

and threatening.

"There is a terrible storm somewhere," he said.

"It does not matter," rejoined Gautran, with a shudder, "so long as a

man is not alone. Don't mind my coming so close. I have walked many a

mile to find you. I have not a friend in the world but you."

"Not even the Advocate?"

"Not even him. He will see me no more."

"He told you that last night?"

"Yes."

"But how did you get to him, Gautran? You did not enter by the gates."

"No; I dropped over the wall at the back. Tell me. It is but fair; I

answer you honestly enough. What are you watching his house for? A man

does not do as you are doing, on such black nights as this, for idle

pastime."

"No, indeed, Gautran! I also have business with him. And strangely

enough, you, whom I met in the flesh for the first time within these

last twenty-four hours, are indirectly concerned in it."

"Am I? Strange enough, as you say. But it will not matter after

to-night."

Some hidden meaning in Gautran's tone struck warningly upon John

Vanbrugh, and caused him to bestow a clearer observance upon Gautran's

movements from this moment.

"There is a thing I wish to know, Gautran," he said. "Between

vagabonds like ourselves there is no need for concealment. It is a

delicate question, but you have been so frank with me that I will

venture to ask it. Besides, there are no witnesses, and you will not,

therefore, incriminate yourself. This girl, Madeline, whose spirit

follows you----"

Vanbrugh hesitated. The question he was about to ask trembled on his

lips, and he scarcely knew how to give it shape in words that would

not provoke an outbreak on the part of Gautran. He had no desire to

come into open collision with this ruffian, of whose designs upon

himself he was inwardly warned. Gautran, with brutal recklessness,

assisted him.

"You want to know if I killed her?"

"Why, yes--though you put it roughly."

"What matter? Well, then, she died at my hands."

John Vanbrugh recoiled from the murderer in horror, and in a

suppressed tone asked:

"When the Advocate defended you, did he know you were guilty?"

"Aye. We kept the secret to ourselves. It was cleverly worked, was it

not?"

"And last night," continued John Vanbrugh, "he received you in his

study?"

"Aye--and gave me liquor, and food, and money. Listen to it." He

rattled the gold pieces in the palms of his hands. "Look you. I have

answered questions enough. I answer no more for a while. It is my turn

now."

"Proceed, Gautran," said Vanbrugh; "I may satisfy you or not,

according to my whim."

"You'll satisfy me, or I'll know the reason why. There is no harm in

what I am going to say. You are a stranger in these parts--there is no

offence in that, is there?"

"None. Yes, I am a stranger in these parts. Heavens! what a flash! The

storm is coming nearer."

"All the better. You will hardly believe that I have been bothering

myself about the colour of your hair. I hate red-haired men. Yours,

now. Is there any offence in asking the colour of it?"

"None. My hair is black."

Gautran's eyes glittered and a flash of lightning illuminated his

face, and revealed to Vanbrugh the savage and ruthless look which

shone there.

"And your height and build, about the same as mine," said Gautran.

"Let us strike a bargain. I have gold--you have none. I have taken a

fancy to your clothes; I will buy them of you. Two gold pieces in

exchange for them, and mine thrown in."

"The clothes of a murderer," said Vanbrugh, slowly retreating as

Gautran advanced upon him. "Thank you for nothing. Not for two hundred

gold pieces, poor as I am. Keep off. Do not come so near to me."

"Why not? You are no better than I. Three gold pieces! That should

content you."

"You have my answer, Gautran. Leave me, I have had enough of you."

"You will have had more than enough before I have done with you," said

Gautran, and Vanbrugh was satisfied now, from the man's brutal tones,

that it was a deadly foe who stood within a few inches of him, "if you

do not do as I bid you. Say, done and done; you had better. By fair

means or foul I mean to have what I want."

"Not by fair means, you murderous villain. Be warned. I am on my

guard."

"If you will have it, then!" cried Gautran, and with a savage shout he

threw himself upon Vanbrugh.

So sudden and fierce was the attack that Vanbrugh could not escape

from it; but although he was no match for Gautran in strength, he had

had, in former years, some experience in wrestling which came to his

aid now in this terrible crisis. The struggle that ensued was

prolonged and deadly, and while the men were locked in each other's

arms, the storm broke immediately over their heads. The thunder pealed

above them, the lightning played about their forms.

"You villain!" gasped Vanbrugh, as he felt himself growing weaker.

"Have you been paid by the Advocate to do this deed?"

"Yes," answered Gautran, between his clenched teeth; "he is the

fiend's agent, and I am his! He bade me kill you. Your last moment has

come!"

"Not yet," cried Vanbrugh, and by a supreme and despairing effort he

threw Gautran clear from him, and stood again on the defensive.

Simultaneously with the movement a flash of forked lightning struck

the tree against which Vanbrugh had been leaning when Gautran first

accosted him, and cleft it in twain; and as Gautran was about to

spring forward, a huge mass of timber fell upon him with fatal force,

and bore him to the earth--where he lay imprisoned, crushed and

bleeding to death.

CHAPTER V

FATHER CAPEL DISCOVERS GAUTRAN IN HIS PERIL

Father Capel was wending his way slowly over the hill from the bedside

of the sick woman whom he had attended for two nights in succession.

On the first night she was in a state of delirium, and Father Capel

could not arouse her to a consciousness of surrounding things. In her

delirium she had repeatedly uttered a name which had powerfully

interested him. "Madeline! Madeline! my Madeline," she moaned again

and again. "Is it possible," thought the priest, "that the girl whose

name she utters with agonised affection is the poor child who was so

ruthlessly murdered?" On this, the second night, the woman whose last

minutes on earth were approaching, was conscious, and she made certain

disclosures to Father Capel which, veiled as they were, had grievously

disturbed his usually serene mood. She had, also, given him a mission

to perform which did not tend to compose his mind. He had promised

faithfully to obey her, and they were to meet again within a few

hours. To his earnest request that she would pray with him, she had

impatiently answered:

"There will be time enough after I have seen the man you have promised

to bring with you. I shall live till then."

So he had knelt by her bedside and had prayed for her and for himself,

and for all the erring. His compassionate heart had room for them all.

For twenty miles around there was no man better loved than he. His

life had been reproachless, and his tender nature never turned from

the performance of a good deed, though it entailed suffering and

privation upon himself. These were matters not to be considered when

duty beckoned to him. A poor man, and one who very often deprived

himself of a meal in the cause of charity. A priest in the truest

sense of the word.

Seldom, in the course of a long, merciful, and charitable career, had

he met with so much cause to grieve as on the present occasion. In the

first place, because it was an added proof to the many he had received

that a false step in life, in the taking of which one human being

caused another to suffer, was certain to bring at some time or other

its own bitter punishment; in the second place, because in this

particular instance, the punishment, and the remorse that must surely

follow, were as terrible as the mind of man could conceive.

His road lay towards the hill upon which the desperate conflict

between John Vanbrugh and Gautran was taking place. There was no

occasion for him to cross this hill; by skirting its base he could

follow the road he intended to take. But as he approached the spot,

the wind bore to him, in moments when the fury of the storm was

lulled, cries which sounded in his ears like cries of pain and despair

They were faint, and difficult to ascribe to any precise definite

cause; they might be the cries of an animal, but even in that case it

was more than likely that Father Capel would have proceeded in their

direction. Presently, however, he heard a human cry for help; the word

was distinct, and it decided his movements. Without hesitation he

began to climb the hill.

As he approached nearer and nearer to the spot on which the struggle

was proceeding, there was no longer room to doubt its nature.

"Holy Mother!" murmured the priest, quickening his steps, "will the

evil passions of men never be stilled? It seems as if murder were

being done here. Grant that I am not too late to avert the crime!"

Then came the terrific lightning-flash, followed immediately by

Gautran's piercing scream as he was struck down by the tree.

"Who calls for help?" cried Father Capel, in a loud voice, but his

words were lost in the peals of thunder which shook the earth and made

it tremble beneath his feet. When comparative silence reigned, he

shouted again:

"Who calls for help? I am a priest, and tender it."

Gautran's voice answered him:

"Here--here! I am crushed and dying!"

This appeal was not coherently made, but the groans which accompanied

it guided Father Capel to the spot upon which Gautran lay. He felt

amid the darkness and shuddered at the touch of blood, and then he

clasped Gautran's right hand. The tree had fallen across the

murderer's legs, and had so crushed them into the earth that he could

not move the lower part of his body; his chest and arms were free. A

heavy branch had inflicted a terrible gash on his forehead, and it was

from this wound that he was bleeding to death.

"Who are you?" said Father Capel, kneeling by the dying man, "that

lies here in this sad condition? I cannot see you. Is this Heaven's

deed, or man's?"

"It is Heaven's," gasped Gautran, "and I am justly punished."

"I heard the sounds of a struggle between two men. Are you one of

those who were fighting in the midst of this awful darkness?"

"Yes, I am one."

"And the design," continued Father Capel, "was murder. You do not

answer me; your silence is sufficient confirmation. Are you hurt

much?"

"I am hurt to death. In a few minutes I shall be in eternal fire

unless you grant me absolution and forgiveness for my crimes."

"Speak first the truth. Were you set upon, or were you the attacker in

this evil combat?"

"I attacked him first."

"Then he may be dead!" exclaimed Father Capel, and rising hastily to

his feet, he peered into the darkness, and felt about with his hands,

and called aloud to know if the other man was conscious. "This is

horrible," said the priest, in deep perplexity, scarcely knowing what

it was best to do; "one man dying, another in all likelihood dead."

He turned as if about to go, and Gautran, divining his intention,

cried in a tone of agony:

"Do not leave me, father, do not leave me!"

"Truly," murmured the priest, "it seems to me that my present duty is

more with the living than the dead." He knelt again by the side of

Gautran. "Miserable wretch, if the man you attacked be dead, you have

murdered him, and you have been smitten for your crime. It may not be

the only sin that lies upon your soul."

"It is not, it is not," groaned Gautran. "My strength is deserting me;

I can hardly speak. Father, is there hope for a murderer? Do not let

me die yet. Give me something to revive me. I am fainting."

"I have nothing with me to restore your strength. To go for wine, and

for assistance to remove this heavy timber which imprisons you--my

weak arms cannot stir it--cannot be accomplished in less than half an

hour. It will be best, perhaps, for me to take this course; in the

meantime, pray, miserable man, with all the earnestness of your heart

and soul, for Divine forgiveness. What is your name?"

"I am Gautran," faintly answered the murderer.

Father Capel's frame shook under the influence of a strong agitation.

"From the bedside of the woman I have left within the hour," he

murmured, "to this poor sinner who has but a few minutes to live! The

hand of God is visible in it."

He addressed himself to the dying man:

"You are he who was tried for the murder of Madeline, the

flower-girl?"

"I am he," moaned Gautran.

"Hearken to me," said Father Capel. "For that crime you were tried and

acquitted by an earthly tribunal, which pronounced you innocent. But

you are now about to appear before the Divine throne for judgment; and

from God nothing can be hidden. He sees into the hearts of men. Who is

ready--as you but now admitted to me--to commit one murder, and who,

perhaps, has committed it, for, from the silence, I infer that the

body of your victim lies at no great distance, will not shrink from

committing two. Answer me truly, as you hope for mercy. Were you

guilty or innocent of the murder of Madeline?"

"I was guilty," groaned Gautran. "Wretch that I am, I killed her. I

loved her, father--I loved her!"

Gautran, from whose lips these words had come amid gasps of agony,

could say no more; his senses were fast leaving him.

"Ah me--ah me!" sighed Father Capel; "how shall such a crime be

expiated?"

"Father," moaned Gautran, rallying a little, "had I lived till

to-morrow, I intended to buy masses for the repose of her soul. I will

buy them now, and for my own soul too. I have money. Feel in my

pocket; there is gold. Take it all--all--every piece--and tell me I am

forgiven."

Father Capel did not attempt to take the money.

"Stolen gold will not buy absolution or the soul's repose," he said

sadly. "Crime upon crime--sin upon sin! Gautran, evil spirits have

been luring you to destruction."

"I did not steal the gold," gasped Gautran. "It was given to

me--freely given."

"Forgiveness you cannot hope for," said Father Capel, "if in these

awful moments you swerve from the truth by a hair's-breadth. Confess

you stole the gold, and tell me from whom, so that it may be

restored."

"May eternal torments be mine if I stole it! Believe me,

father--believe me. I speak the truth."

"Who gave it to you, then?"

"The Advocate."

"The Advocate! He who defended you, and so blinded the judgment of men

as to cause them to set a murderer loose?"

"Yes; he, and no other man."

"From what motive, Gautran--compassion?"

"No, from fear."

"What reason has he to fear you?"

"I have his secret, as he had mine, and he wished to get rid of me, so

that he and I should never meet again. It was for that he gave me the

gold."

"What is the nature of this secret which made him fear your presence?"

"He knew me to be guilty."

"What do you say? When he defended you, he knew you to be guilty?"

"Aye, he knew it well."

"Incredible--horrible!" exclaimed Father Capel, raising his hands. "He

shared, then, your crime. Yes; though he committed not the deed, his

guilt is as heavy as the guilt of the murderer. How will he atone for

it?--how _can_ atone for it? And if what I otherwise fear to be true,

what pangs of remorse await him!"

A frightful scream from Gautran arrested his further speech.

"Save me, father--save me!" shrieked the wretch. "Send her away! Tell

her I repent. See, there--there!--she is creeping upon me, along the

tree!"

"What is it you behold amidst the darkness of this appalling night?"

asked Father Capel, crossing himself.

"It is Madeline--her spirit that will never, never leave me! Will you

not be satisfied, you, with my punishment? Is not my death enough for

you? You fiend--you fiend! I will strangle you if you come closer.

Have mercy--mercy! You are a priest; have you no power over her? Then

what is the use of prayer? It is a mockery--a mockery! My eyes are

filled with blood! Ah!"

Then all was silent.

"Gautran," whispered Father Capel, "take this cross in your hand; put

it to your lips and repeat the words I say. Gautran, do you hear me?

No sound--no sound! He has gone to his account, unrepentant and

unforgiven!"

Father Capel rose to his feet.

"I will seek assistance at once; there is another to be searched for.

Ah, terrible, terrible night! Heaven have mercy upon us!"

And with a heart overburdened with grief, the good priest left the

spot to seek for help.

CHAPTER VI

THE WRITTEN CONFESSION

During the whole of this interview John Vanbrugh had lain concealed

within two or three yards of the fallen tree, and had heard every word

that had passed between Gautran and Father Capel. For a few moments

after he had thrown Gautran from him he was dazed and exhausted by the

struggle in which he had been engaged, and by the crashing of the

timber which had saved him from his deadly foe. Gradually he realised

what had occurred, and when Father Capel's voice reached his ears he

resolved not to discover himself, and to be a silent witness of what

transpired.

In this decision lay safety for himself and absolute immunity, for

Gautran knew nothing of him, not even his name, and to be dragged into

the light, to be made to give evidence of the scene in which he had

been a principal actor, would have seriously interfered with his plan

of action respecting the Advocate.

Favoured by the night, he had no difficulty in concealing himself, and

he derived an inward satisfaction from the reflection that he might

turn even the tragic and unexpected event that had occurred to his own

immediate advantage. He had not been seriously hurt in the conflict; a

few bruises and scratches comprised the injuries he had received.

Among his small gifts lay the gift of mimicry; he could imitate

another man's voice to perfection; and when Father Capel left Gautran

for the purpose of obtaining assistance, an idea crossed his mind

which he determined to carry out. He waited until he was assured that

Father Capel was entirely out of hearing, and then he stepped from his

hiding-place, and knelt by the side of Gautran. Having now no fear of

his enemy, he placed his ear to Gautran's heart and listened.

"He breathes," he muttered, "there is yet a little life left in him."

He raised Gautran's head upon his knee, and taking his flask of brandy

from his pocket, he poured some of the liquor down the dying man's

throat. It revived him; he opened his eyes languidly; but he had not

strength enough left in him to utter more than a word or two at the

time.

"I have returned, Gautran," said John Vanbrugh, imitating the voice of

the priest; "I had it not in my heart to desert you in your last

moments. The man you fought with is dead, and in his pocket I found

this flask of brandy. It serves one good purpose; it will give you

time to earn salvation. You have two murders upon your soul. Are you

prepared to do as I bid you?"

"Yes," replied Gautran.

"Answer my questions, then. What do you know of the man whom you have

slain?"

"Nothing."

"Was he, then, an absolute stranger to you?"

"Yes."

"You do not even know his name?"

"No."

"There is no time to inquire into your reasons for attacking him, for

I perceive from your breathing that your end is very near, and the

precious moments must not be wasted. It is your soul--your soul--that

has to be saved! And there is only one way--the guilty must be

punished. You have met your punishment. Heaven's lightning has struck

you down. These gold pieces which I now take from your pocket shall be

expended in masses. Rest easy, rest easy, Gautran. There is but one

thing for you to do--and then you will have made atonement. You hear

me--you understand me?"

"Yes--quick--quick!"

"To die, leaving behind you no record of the guilt of your

associate--of the Advocate who, knowing you to be a murderer,

deliberately defeated the ends of justice--will be to provoke Divine

anger against you. There is no hope for pardon in that case. Can you

write?"

"No."

"Your name, with my assistance, you could trace?"

"Perhaps."

"I will write a confession which you must sign. Then you shall receive

absolution."

He poured a few drops of brandy into Gautran's mouth, and they were

swallowed with difficulty. After this he allowed Gautran's head to

rest upon the earth, and tore from his pocket-book some sheets of

blank paper, upon which, with much labour, he wrote the following:

"I, Gautran, the woodman, lately tried for the murder of Madeline, the

flower-girl, being now upon the point of death, and conscious that I

have only a few minutes to live, and being in full possession of my

reason, hereby make oath, and swear:

"That being thrown into prison, awaiting my trial. I believed there

was no escape from the doom I justly merited, for the reason that I

was guilty of the murder.

"That some days before my trial was to take place, the Advocate who

defended me voluntarily undertook to prove to my judges that I was

innocent of the crime I committed.

"That with this full knowledge he conducted my case with such ability

that I was set free and pronounced innocent.

"That on the night of my acquittal, after midnight had struck, and

when every person but himself in the House of White Shadows was

asleep, I secretly visited him in his study, and remained with him

some time.

"That he gave me food and money, and bade me go my way.

"That I am ignorant of the motives which induced him to whom I was a

perfect stranger, to deliberately defeat the ends of justice.

"That the proof that he knew me to be guilty lies in the fact that I

made a full confession to him.

"To which I solemnly swear, being about to appear before a just God to

answer for my crime. I pray for forgiveness and mercy.

"Signed----."

And here John Vanbrugh left a space for Gautran's name. He read the

statement to Gautran, who was now fast sinking, and then he raised the

dying man's head in his arms, and holding the pencil in the almost

nerveless fingers, assisted him to trace the name "Gautran."

This was no sooner accomplished than Gautran, with a wild scream, fell

back.

John Vanbrugh lost not another moment. With an exultant smile he

placed the fatal evidence in his pocket, and prepared to depart. As he

did so he heard the voices of men who were ascending the hill.

"This paper," thought Vanbrugh, as he crept softly away in an opposite

direction, "is worth, I should say, at least half the Advocate's

fortune. It is the ruin of his life and career, and, if he does not

purchase it of me on my own terms, let him look to himself."

When Father Capel, with the men he had summoned to his assistance,

arrived at the spot upon which Gautran lay, the murderer was dead.

_BOOK VI.--A RECORD OF THE PAST_

CHAPTER I

THE DISCOVERY OF THE MANUSCRIPT

All was silent in the House of White Shadows. Strange as was the drama

that was in progress within its walls it found no open expression, and

to the Advocate, seated alone in his study, was about to be unfolded a

record of events long buried in the past, the disclosure of which had

not, up to this moment, been revealed to man. During the afternoon,

the Advocate had said to Christian Almer:

"Now that I have leisure, I intend, with your permission, to devote

some time to your father's works. In his day, certainly for a number

of years, he was celebrated, and well known in many countries, and I

have heard surprise expressed that a career which promised to shed

lasting lustre upon the name you bear seemed suddenly to come to an

end. Of this abrupt break in the labours of an eminent man there is no

explanation--as to what led to it, and in what way it was broken off.

I may chance upon the reason of a singular and complete diversion from

a pursuit which he loved. It will interest me, if you will give me

permission to search among his papers."

"A permission," rejoined Christian Almer, "freely accorded. Everything

in the study is at your disposal. For my own part the impressions of

my childhood are of such a nature as to render distasteful the records

of my father's labours. But you are a student and a man of deeper

observation and research than myself. You may unearth something of

value. I place all my father's manuscripts at your unreserved

disposal. Pray, read them if you care to do so, and use them in any

way you may desire."

Thus it happened that, two hours before midnight, the Advocate, after

looking through a number of manuscripts, most of them in an incomplete

shape, came upon some written pages, the opening lines of which

exercised upon him a powerful fascination. The only heading of these

pages was, "A FAITHFUL RECORD." And it was made in the following

strain:

CHAPTER II

CHRISTIAN ALMER'S FATHER

"It devolves upon me, Ernest Christian Almer, as a duty, to set down

here, in a brief form, before I die, the record of certain events in

my life which led me to the commission of a crime. Whether justifiable

or not--whether this which I call a crime may be otherwise designated

as an accident or as the execution of a just punishment for trust and

friendship betrayed--is for others to determine.

"It is probable that no human eye will read what I am about to write

until I am dead; but if it should be brought to light in my lifetime I

am ready to bear the consequences of my act. The reason why I myself

do nothing to assist directly in the discovery (except in so far as

making this record and placing it without concealment among my

manuscripts) is that I may in that way be assisting in bringing into

the life of my dear son, Christian Almer, a stigma and a reproach

which will be a cause of suffering to him. If it should happen that

many years elapse before these lines fall into the hands of a human

being, if may perhaps be for the best. What is done is done, and

cannot be recalled. Even had I the power to bring the dead to life I

doubt whether I should avail myself of it.

"My name is not unknown to the small world in which I live and move,

and I once cherished a hope that I should succeed in making it famous.

That hope is now like a flower burnt to ashes, never more to blossom.

It proves the vanity of ambition upon which we pride ourselves and

which we imbue with false nobility.

"As a lad I was almost morbidly tender in my nature; I shrank from

giving pain to living creature; the ordinary pursuits of childhood, in

which cruelty to insects forms so prominent a feature, were to me

revolting; to strip even a flower of its leaves was in my eyes a cruel

proceeding. And yet I have lived to take a human life.

"My earliest aspiration was to win a name in literature. Every book I

read and admired assisted in making this youthful aspiration a fixed

purpose when I became a man. Often, as I read the last words of a book

which had fired my imagination, would I think, and sometimes say

aloud, 'Gladly would I die were I capable of writing a work so good,

so grand as this.'

"My parents were rich, and allowed me to follow my bent. When they

died I was left sole heir to their wealth. I had not to struggle as

poorer men in the profession to which I resolved to devote myself have

had to do. So much the worse for me perhaps--but that now matters

little. Whether the books I hoped to write would be eagerly sought

after or not was of no moment to me. What I desired was to produce;

for the rest, as to being successful or unsuccessful, I was equal to

either fortune.

"I made many friends and acquaintances, who grew to learn that they

could use and enjoy my house as their own. In setting this down I lay

no claim to unusual generosity; it was on my part simply the outcome

of a nature that refused to become a slave to rigid forms of

hospitality. The trouble entailed would have been too great, and I

declined to undertake it. I chose to employ my hours after my own

fashion--the fashion of solitude. I found great pleasure in it, and to

see my friends around me without feeling myself called upon to

sacrifice my time for their enjoyment, knowing (as they well knew)

that they were welcome to the best my wealth and means could supply

them with--this added to my pleasure a peculiar charm. They were

satisfied, and so was I; and only in one instance was my hospitality

abused and my friendship betrayed. But had I been wise, this one

instance would never have occurred to destroy the hopes of my life.

"Although it is running somewhat ahead of the sequence of events, I

may mention here the name of the man who proved false to friendship.

It was M. Gabriel. He was almost young enough to be my son, and when I

first knew him he was a boy and I was a man. He was an artist, with

rare talents, and at the outset of his career I assisted him, for,

like the majority of artists, he was poor. This simple mention of him

will be sufficient for the present.

"As when I was a lad I took no delight in the pleasures of lads of my

own age, so when I was a man I did not go the way of men in that

absorbing passion to which is given the name of Love. Those around me

were drawn into the net which natural impulse and desire spread for

mankind. There was no credit in this; it was simply that it did not

happen. I was by no means a woman-hater, but it would seem as if the

pursuits to which I was devoted were too engrossing to admit of a

rival. So I may say what few can say--that I had passed my fortieth

year, and had never loved.

"My turn came, however.

"Among my guests were the lady who afterwards became my wife, and her

parents. A sweet and beautiful lady, twenty-five years my junior.

My unhappiness and ruin sprang from the chance which brought us

together--as did her wretchedness and misery. In this I was more to

blame than she--much more to blame. In the ordinary course of a life

which had reached beyond its middle age I should have acquired

sufficient experience to learn that youth should mate with youth--that

nature has its laws which it is dangerous to trifle with. But such

experience did not come to me. At forty-five years of age I was as

unlearned as a child in matters of the heart; I had no thought of love

or marriage, and the youngest man of my acquaintance would have

laughed at my simplicity had the opportunity been afforded him of

seeing my inner life. It was not the fault of the young lady that she

knew nothing of this simplicity. No claim whatever had I to demand to

be judged by special and exceptional rules. She had a perfect right to

judge me as any other man of my age would have been judged. All that

can be said of it was that it was most unfortunate for her and for me.

If it should happen (which is not unlikely, for the unforeseen is

always occurring) that these pages should be read by a man who is

contemplating marriage with one young enough to be his daughter, I

would advise him to pause and submit his case to the test of natural

reason; for if both live, there must come a time when nature will take

its revenge for the transgression. The glamour of the present is very

alluring, but it is the duty of the wiser and the riper of the twain

to consider the future, which will press more hardly upon the woman

than upon the man. With the fashion of things as regards the coupling

of the sexes I have nothing to do; fashions are artificial and often

most mischievous. Frequently, when the deeper laws of nature are

involved, they are destructive and fatal.

"It was my misfortune that during the visit of the young lady and her

parents, the father, an old and harmless gentleman, met his death

through an accident while he, I, and other gentlemen were riding. In

my house he died.

"It occasioned me distress and profound sorrow, and I felt myself in

some way accountable, though the fault was none of mine. Before his

death he and I had private confidences, in which he asked me to look

after his affairs, and if, as he feared, they were in an embarrassed

state, to act as protector to his daughter. I gave him the promise

readily, and, when he died, I took a journey for the purpose of

ascertaining how the widow and the orphan were circumstanced. I found

that they were literally beggars. As gently as I could I broke the

news to them. The mother understood it; the daughter scarcely knew its

meaning. Her charming, artless ignorance of the consequences of

poverty deeply interested me, and I resolved in my mind how I could

best serve her and render her future a happy one.

"Speaking as I am in a measure to my own soul, I will descend to no

duplicity. That I was entirely unselfish in my desire that her life

should be bright and free from anxieties with which she could not cope

is true; but none the less true is it that, for the first time, I felt

myself under the dominion of a passion deeper and more significant

than I had ever felt for woman. It was love, I believe, but love in

which there was reason. For I took myself to task; I set my age and

hers before me; I did this on paper, and as I gazed at the figures I

said. Absurd; it is not in nature, and I must fight it down.' I did

wrestle with it, and although I did not succeed in vanquishing it, I

was sufficiently master of myself to keep the struggle hidden in my

own breast.

"How, then, did this hapless lady become my wife? Not, in the first

instance, through any steps voluntarily and unreasoningly taken by

myself. I had firmly resolved to hold my feelings in check. It was the

mother who accomplished that upon which she had set her heart. I may

speak freely. This worldly mother has been long dead, and my

confession cannot harm her. It was she who ruined at least the

happiness of one life, and made me what I am.

"Needless here to recount the arts by which she worked to the end she

desired; needless to speak of the deceits she practised to make me

believe her daughter loved me. It may be that the fault was mine, and

that I was too ready to believe. Sufficient to say that we fell into

the snare she prepared for us; that, intoxicated by the prospect of an

earthly heaven, I accepted the meanings she put on her daughter's

reserve and apparent coldness, and that, once engaged in the

enterprise, I was animated by the ardour of my own heart, in which I

allowed the flower of love to grow to fruition. So we were married,

and with no doubt of the future I set out with my wife on our bridal

tour. She was both child and wife to me, and I solemnly resolved and

most earnestly desired to do my duty by her.

"Before we were many days away news arrived that my wife's mother had

met with an accident, in a part of the grounds which was being

beautified by my workmen according to plans I had prepared for the

pleasure of my young bride--an accident so serious that death could

not be averted. In sadness we returned to the villa. My wife's

coldness I ascribed to grief--to no other cause. And, indeed, apart

from the sorrow I felt at the dreadful news, I was myself overwhelmed

for a time by the fatality which had deprived my wife of her parents

within so short a time on my estate, and while they were my guests.

'But it will pass away,' I thought, 'and I will be parents, lover,

husband, to the sweet flower who has given her happiness into my

keeping.' When we arrived at the villa, her mother was dead.

"I allowed my wife's grief to take its natural course; seeing that she

wished for solitude, I did not intrude upon her sorrow. I had to study

this young girl's feelings and impulses; it was my duty to be tender

and considerate to her. I was wise, and thoughtful, and loving, as I

believed, and I spared no effort to comfort without disturbing her.

'Time will console her,' I thought, 'and then we will begin a new

life. She will learn to look upon me not only as a husband, but as a

protector who will fully supply the place of those she has lost.' I

was patient--very patient--and I waited for the change. It never came.

"She grew more and more reserved towards me; and still I waited, and

still was patient. Not for a moment did I lose sight of my duty.

"But after a long time had passed I began to question myself--I began

to doubt whether I had not allowed myself to be deceived. Is it

possible, I asked myself, that she married me without loving me? When

this torturing doubt arose I thrust it indignantly from me; it was as

though I was casting a stain upon her truth and purity."

CHAPTER III

A DISHONOURABLE CONCEALMENT

"I will not recount the continual endeavours I made to win my wife to

cheerfulness and a better frame of mind. Sufficient to say that they

were unsuccessful, and that many and many a time I gave up the attempt

in despair, to renew it again under the influence of false hopes.

Unhappy and disheartened, the pursuits in which I had always taken

delight afforded me now no pleasure, and though I sought relief in

solitude and study, I did not find it. My peace of mind was utterly

wrecked. There was, however, in the midst of my wretchedness, one ray

of light. In the course of a little while a child would be born to us,

and this child might effect what I was unable to accomplish. When my

wife pressed her baby to her breast, when it drew life from her bosom,

she might be recalled to a sense of duty and of some kind of affection

which I was ready to accept in the place of that thorough devoted love

which I bore to her, and which I had hoped she would bear to me.

"Considering this matter with as much wisdom as I could bring to my

aid, I recognised the desirability of surrounding my wife with signs

of pleasant and even joyful life. Gloomy parents are cursed with

gloomy children. I would fill my house once more with friends; my wife

should move in an atmosphere of cheerfulness; there should be music,

laughter, sunny looks, happy voices. These could not fail to influence

for good both my wife and our little one soon to be born.

"I called friends around me, and I took special care that there should

be many young people among them. Their presence, however, did not at

first arouse my wife from her melancholy, and it was not until the man

whose name I have already mentioned--M. Gabriel--arrived that I

noticed in her any change for the better.

"He came, and I introduced him to my wife, believing them to have been

hitherto strangers to each other. I had no reason to believe otherwise

when I presented M. Gabriel to her; had they met before, it would have

been but honest that one or both should have made me acquainted with

the fact. They did not, by direct or indirect word, and I had,

therefore, no cause for suspicion.

"Things went on as usual for a week or two after M. Gabriel's arrival,

and then I noticed with joy that my wife was beginning to grow more

cheerful. My happiness was great. I have been too impatient, I

thought, with this young girl. The shock of losing her parents, one

after another, under circumstances so distressing, was sufficient to

upset a stronger mind than hers. How unwise in me that I should have

tormented myself as I had been doing for so many months past! And how

unjust to her that, because she was sorrowful and silent, I should

have doubted her love for me! But all was well now: comfort had come

to her bruised heart, and the book of happiness was not closed to me

as I had feared. A terrible weight, a gnawing grief, were lifted from

me. For I could imagine no blacker treason than that a woman should

deliberately deceive a man into the belief that she loved him, and

that she should marry him under such conditions. My wife had not done

this; I had wronged her. Most fervently did I thank Heaven that I had

discovered my error before it was too late to repair it.

"I saw that my wife took pleasure in M. Gabriel's society, and I made

him as free of my house as if it had been his own. He had commissions

to execute, pictures to paint.

"'Paint them here,' I said to him, 'you bring happiness to us. I look

upon you as though you belonged to my family.'

"In the summer-house was a room which he used as a studio; no artist

could have desired a better, and M. Gabriel said he had never been

able to paint as well as he was doing in my house. It gladdened me to

observe that my wife, who had for a little while been reserved towards

M. Gabriel, looked upon him now as a sister might look upon a brother.

I encouraged their intimacy, and was grateful to M. Gabriel for

accepting my hospitality in the free spirit in which it was tendered.

He expressed a wish to paint my wife's portrait, and I readily

consented. My wife gave him frequent sittings, sometimes in my

company, sometimes alone. And still no word was spoken to acquaint me

with the fact that my wife and he had known each other before they met

in my house.