The sight of pain and suffering, to which man's heart--even if it do
not become totally hard and obtuse by his own dealings with the rough
things of the world--grows less sensible every day as he advances in
life, is always matter of painful interest to woman. There is
something in her bosom that tells her it is her own destiny to suffer.
There are fine links of sympathy that bind her affections to the
sufferer, and not alone the general tenderness of her nature, to which
such feelings are commonly altogether ascribed. The words of a woman's
compassion are always different from those of a man's; they show that
she brings the pain she witnesses more home to her own heart. Man may
grieve for another's anguish; she sympathises with it; man feels for
the man, she actually shares his pain.
Helen de la Tremblade remained in the lower story of the house, even
after the shutters had been put up and the door closed by the farmer,
when the first party of fugitive Leaguers passed by. She took little
note of anything that followed, but sat meditating over her own fate,
with her head leaning on her hand, till the sound of a groan struck
her; but then starting up at once, she advanced towards the door of
the room, which led into a wide, long passage. There she found four
stout soldiers bearing in a wounded man; and though she could not see
his face, from his visor being down, the languid attitude in which he
lay, as his men carried him in their arms, showed her clearly that he
had received some terrible injuries. Self was forgotten in a moment;
her own sorrows, her own wrongs, the bitter regrets of the past, the
desolate despair of the future, were all swept away for the time,
and, clasping her hands, she exclaimed, "Alas! alas! he is dying, I
fear.--Bring him hither, bring him hither," she continued: "there is a
bed in this room," and she led the way through the hall to the
chamber, where she and Rose d'Albret had passed the preceding night.
Carrying him slowly forward, the soldiers laid the wounded man, still
in his dinted and dusty arms, upon the couch, and instantly began to
unfasten his cuirass, through, which a small hole, as if pierced by
the shot of an arquebuse, might be seen, stained at the edge with
blood; but he waved his hand saying, in a faint voice, "The casque,
the casque! take off the casque! Where is my nephew?--Where is
Louis?--He should be here."
"Ah," cried Helen de la Tremblade, "he went out to the battle not an
hour ago. Perhaps he too is wounded or dead."
"Mad-headed boy!" cried the old Commander as they removed his casque,
"he had no arms! Why did they let him go? Ha! Is not that Helen, the
priest's niece?"
"Yes," replied Helen approaching timidly and taking his hand, "it is
poor Helen de la Tremblade."
"Ay, I remember," said the old Commander; "but where is Rose? Where is
Rose d'Albret? She was with my nephew Louis."
"Oh, she is without, here," cried Helen; "I will call her directly,"
and away she ran, through the hall, into the passage, and to the door.
But she found it barred and bolted, and the Farmer bending down, with
his ear to the key-hole, striving to catch the sounds without.
"Where is Mademoiselle d'Albret?" asked Helen.
"Hush," he cried sternly, waving her back with his hand, and still
listening to the door. Helen listened too, but she could hear nothing
but the indistinct murmur of several voices speaking, mixed with the
sound of horses' feet trampling and stamping, as if brought to an
unwilling halt; but a moment or two after, some one spoke in a still
louder tone, crying, "To Chartres!" and then came the noise of a party
moving off, and the plashing sound of cavalry marching through the
ford.
"Where is Mademoiselle d'Albret?" repeated Helen, as the farmer raised
his head from the key-hole.
"Good faith, I cannot tell," replied he; "run up wife, run up to the
room above! and see what is going on without."
The farmer's wife did as he bade her, and the next instant her feet
were heard over head coming back from the window to the top of the
stairs. "Ah, heaven!" she cried in a loud voice, "they have carried
off the young lady, and Monsieur de Montigni, and his servant, and
all. You should not have shut the door, Jean. You are a cruel,
hard-hearted man. I heard them push it myself to get in; and now they
are prisoners; and no one can tell what will happen."
"Hold your tongue! You are a fool, wife," answered the farmer angrily.
"Do you think I was going to leave the house open for the Leaguers to
come in! We should have had the place pillaged, and all our throats
cut."
But the woman's tongue, as is sometimes the case with that peculiar
organ in the female head, was not to be silenced easily, and she
continued to abuse her husband, for excluding poor Rose d'Albret and
her lover, in no very measured terms, while Helen de la Tremblade, sad
and sorrowful, returned to the bed-side of the old commander to
communicate the painful intelligence she had just received.
"Where is Rose?" demanded the old officer as soon as he saw her; "why
does she not come?"
"Alas!" replied Helen, "a party of the League, just now sweeping by,
have taken her away with them."
The old man, who by this time had been stripped of his arms, and laid
in the bed, raised himself suddenly, and gazed in her face with a look
of grief and consternation. Then sinking back upon the pillow again,
he closed his eyes, but said not a word for several minutes. At length
one of his attendants coming forward inquired, if he had not better
ride away to St. André and seek for a surgeon.
"No," replied the old Commander abruptly, "'tis no use. This is my
last field, Marlot, and, the sooner I go, the better. I am fit for
nothing now. I could scarce sit my horse in the battle, though I did
drive my sword through that fellow on Aumale's right hand. But it's
all over; and I shall soon go, too. No use of being tortured by the
surgeons. I've had enough of them.--No; but I will tell you what you
shall do. Go and seek for Louis; though that is most likely vain,
also.--Why the fiend did he go to the field without arms? Yet, Ventre
Saint Gris! I love the boy for it too. But he never can have escaped
from that _mêlée_.--He is dead, so there is nothing worth living for."
Helen had refrained hitherto from telling him that his nephew was in
captivity, as well as Rose d'Albret, for fear of weighing him down, in
his weak state, under the load of misfortune; but now, seeing that his
apprehensions for his nephew's fate, had a more terrible effect, than
even the reality could produce, she said, "No, Sir, he is not dead.
They have carried him away too, with Mademoiselle d'Albret!"
"Ha! girl, ha! Are you not lying?" demanded the wounded man.
"No, indeed," replied Helen, "it is the truth. The farmer's wife saw
them a moment ago."
"Well, then, seek a surgeon," said the old man; "I will try to live,
though it is idle, I think.--Look for Estoc, too. Where saw you him
last?"
"He was in full pursuit with the Grand Prior, Sir," answered one of
the men.
"I saw him take the red standard of the Count of Mansveldt," replied
another.
"That's well, that's well," said the old commander, "take means to let
him know where I lie. Then bring a surgeon if you will. They shall do
with me what they like. Will you be my nurse, little Helen?" he
continued, extending his hand towards her.
"That I will, if I may," replied Helen kneeling by the bedside and
kissing the large bony hand he had held out.
"Well, get me a cloak or something," said the old man, "to cast over
my feet, for I feel very cold. Then come, sit down and talk to me; and
you fellows go away and get your dinner. It must be noon by this
time."
"'Tis one o'clock, Sir," answered one of the men.
"Get your dinner, get your dinner," cried the Commander.
"I have no heart to eat, Sir," said the one nearest to him, "seeing
you lying there."
"Poo!" exclaimed his master, "did you never see an old man die before?
I have seen many; and they will die, whether you eat your dinner or
not. Leave this young lady to tend me; dine, and, if you will, say a
paternoster for my sake. That's the best you can do to help me, though
you are good creatures, too, and love me well, I know,--as I love you.
But we must all part, and my march is laid out."
The men departed one by one, and Helen remained alone with the old
Commander de Liancourt, doing the best she could to tend and serve
him. He suffered her to examine his wound, for the good old chivalrous
custom which required that ladies should know something of leech-craft
had not yet passed away; but it was one beyond her skill. The ball of
an arquebuse or pistol, fired point blank at a short distance, had
pierced his chest on the right side, a little more than a hand's
breadth below the arm. Some blood had followed the wound, but not
much; and all hemorrhage had ceased. He declared that the only pain he
felt was, a burning sensation near the back.
"That's where the ball lies, Helen," he said; "I wish it had gone
through; for these things taking up their lodging in the body, often
make the house too hot to hold the proper tenant. However, God's will
be done. I never valued life a straw; and now, after having known it
sixty years, I certainly do not prize it more for the acquaintance.
'Tis an idle and a bitter world, fair lady, as I fear you have found
out by this time."
Helen shrunk and turned pale, as the old man seemed to allude to her
situation and his eye rested upon her face, she thought, with a look
of meaning. He said no more, however; and in a moment after the farmer
entered to offer his services to the wounded man, with whose rank he
was now acquainted, and to give him farther tidings which had just
arrived from the field--how the Swiss and French infantry had
surrendered without resistance, and all the standards and cannon had
fallen into the hands of the King.
The Commander cut him short, however, asking after his nephew, which
way they had taken him, how many the party numbered, and many another
questions, all of which the man might have answered without betraying
the fact that, to his own fears, was in some degree owing the capture
of Rose d'Albret and the young Baron de Montigni. We put our armour
where we are weak, however; and the first words of the farmer were in
his own defence, betraying at once all that had taken place. As the
wounded man heard him, and began to comprehend what had passed, his
cheek turned fiery red, and raising himself partly in bed, he bent his
eyes sternly upon him, and cursed him bitterly, calling him coward,
and knave, and telling him he knew not what he had done.
"Fool!" cried the Commander; "do you think they would have stayed to
plunder your pitiful house with the sword of the King at their heels?
Curses upon you, Sir! you have delivered a fair sweet lady to the
hands of her persecutors, as gallant a gentleman as any in France to
his knavish enemies. By the Lord that lives, I have a mind to make my
men take thee and drown thee in the river, poltroon!"
The farmer was irritated, as perhaps he might well be; and, but little
inclined to bear from another reproaches which he had endured quietly
from his wife, he was about to reply in angry terms, when Helen
interposed; and, with gentle firmness, which might perhaps not have
been expected from the tender and yielding disposition which she had
hitherto displayed, she led him from the room, and insisted upon his
making no reply.
She then turned all her efforts to calm and soothe the old Commander;
and so tenderly, so kindly, did she busy herself about him, that the
heart of the rough old soldier was moved, and he exclaimed, "Bless
thee, my child, thou art a sweet good girl; and I wish I could but
live to do thee some service. But it is in vain, Helen, it is all in
vain; not that I mind this burning pain; for that more or less follows
every wound, but 'tis the sudden failing of my strength. All power
seems gone; and, in an instant, I have become as if I were a child
again. I was lame and well nigh crippled with old wounds before;
for I never was in battle or combat but I was sure to receive some
injury--such was my ill-luck; but still in my hands and arms I was as
strong as ever, could bend a double crown between my thumbs, or break
the staff of a lance over my knee. Now it is a labour to me to lift my
hand to my head; and that has come all in a moment. This means death;
Helen, this means death!"
"Nay, perhaps not," replied Helen de la Tremblade. "The body is
strangely composed; and the ball may rest upon some sinew or some
nerve that gives strength; yet all may be well again."
The old man shook his head, but still he remained cheerful, often
talking of death, yet never seeming to look upon it with dread or
horror. In about an hour a surgeon arrived, examined and probed the
wound, and descanted learnedly upon its nature. But with him, the good
old Commander showed himself irritable and impatient, writhed under
his hand, declared he tortured him, and seemed to shrink more from
pain, than from death itself. The man of healing soon saw that he
could do but little. To Helen's anxious inquiries, however, he did not
give the most sincere answers, leaving her to hope, that the wound
might be cured, and saying, that he would come again at night. He
calculated indeed, that his patient would live over the next day, and
that there would be time enough for a priest to be summoned. That was
all that his conscience required; and he judged--perhaps kindly--that
it was useless to torment a sick man with the thoughts of death, for
many hours before the event took place.
During the whole of the rest of the day, Helen seldom, if ever,
quitted the bed-side of the Commander de Liancourt. Though careless of
life, inured by long habit to suffering, and even somewhat impatient
of anything that seemed like forced attention to his state, the old
warrior was not at all insensible to real kindness. He saw that she
sympathised with him, that she really felt for all he endured, that
she did her best to soothe and to allay, to comfort and support him.
He could not but see it; for though, ever and anon, the shadow of her
own fate would fall upon her again, and she would sit, for a moment or
two, in gloom and darkness, yet at his lightest word, at his least
movement, she was up and by his bed-side. The cup was always ready for
his lips, the pillow was constantly smoothed for his head, his wishes
seemed anticipated, his very thoughts answered, and even the burning
impatience of growing fever could not run before her promptitude. When
he obtained a moment of repose, she was calm and silent. When he
wished to speak, she was ready to answer, in sweet and quiet tones
that sounded pleasant to his ear; when his breathing became oppressed,
she was there to raise his head upon her soft arm, to open the window
for the air of spring to enter, and to bathe his fiery brow. To
another young and inexperienced being, the scene might have been
terrible, the task hard; but to her, it was all a relief. A share in
any sorrow, was lighter than the full burden of her own; and aught
that took her thoughts from herself, delivered her from a portion of
her anguish.
More than once, the old man gazed upon her fixedly for two or three
minutes, as if there was something that he wished to say, and yet did
not; more than once, he sent away his followers, who came and went
during the afternoon between his room and the next, as if he were
about to speak of something that lay at his heart; but still he
refrained, till, just as the light was beginning to fade, he turned
painfully in the bed, and murmured, "Helen."
The poor girl was by his side in a moment; and putting forth his now
burning hand, he took hers, continuing, "Helen, I wish to talk to you
about yourself before I go."
Helen trembled like an aspen leaf. Four-and-twenty hours before, in
the first agony of desolation and despair, she would have poured forth
her whole soul to any one who offered her a word of kindness and
sympathy; but a change had come over her since then; the power of
thought had returned, conscience and shame and remorse had made
themselves heard, over even the tumultuous voices of grief and
indignation and hopeless agony. The still, but all-pervading words of
self-reproach, filled her ear continually; and, in the blank
wilderness of existence, she saw but her own folly. She shrank then,
and trembled when he spoke of herself. There was no name but one that
he could have pronounced, which would have sounded more horrible to
her ears than her own.
"Oh not now, not now!" she cried, drawing back.
But the old man still held her hand in his, which seemed to scorch
her; and he went on, "Why not now, Helen? It will soon be too late.
The minutes are numbered, my poor girl. The hand upon the dial seems
to go slow, but it will soon point to the hour when this fire shall
have burned itself out, and nothing but the ashes will remain.--I have
learned something of your story, Helen, from the people who came with
my keen, harsh sister, Jacqueline.--Old Estoc heard it, and told it to
me; but I would know more,--I would know all--"
"Oh not now, not now!" cried Helen again; and, by a sudden movement of
anguish and terror, she drew her hand from him, and, with a gasping
sob, ran out of the room.
There was no one in the hall, and when she reached the middle, she
paused. "Shall I leave him?" she asked herself, "Leave him because he
means and speaks kindly--leave him because I cannot bear to hear my
own folly breathed,--leave him?--Oh no!" and with a movement as
sudden, but with a downcast eye and burning cheek, she returned, and
seated herself near in silence, gazing upon the ground.
"Helen," said the old Commander, "I have grieved you. Come hither, and
forgive me."
She sprang towards him, and, casting herself on her knees by the
bed-side, covered her aching eyes with her hands, exclaiming, "Oh, no,
no! It is I who need forgiveness; not you. Do not speak so kindly,
Sir, do not speak so gently; for it goes farther to break my heart,
than all your sister's harshness."
"Hush, hush!" said the old soldier, "Do not move me, there's a good
girl. But listen to me, Helen, for I wish you well, and you have been
tender and affectionate to me this day, when I have much needed it.--I
am a rough old man, Helen, and know not how to speak gently. But I
would fain talk to you about yourself, before I depart from this
place. Listen to me then, and do not think I mean anything but
kindness. I hear that my sister has been hard upon you,--driven you
out of her house,--given you harsh names.--Nay never shake so.--She is
a bitter woman, Helen, to all faults but her own; and I am sure if you
have any, they have been but too much gentleness.--Why, I remember you
as a little child in your good father's time.--There now, you weep! I
know not how to speak to you.--But never mind, I'll talk no more about
yourself. But whatever be your faults, Helen, take my advice. Go to
your uncle, tell him all. He will forgive you; for he is a good man at
heart, and loves you; and besides,--"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Helen, "I cannot go to him, for his look would
kill me.--Rose, so kind and good, so gentle to the faults of others,
she too, persuaded me to go to him: but you do not know him. He is
good and kind, and loves me well, it is true; but he is not
forgiving.--Besides, how can I go there? How can I see him without
meeting,--" and she gave a quick shudder, without concluding the
sentence.
"Ay," said the wounded man, "that must be thought of. But all this is
partly your uncle's own fault, Helen. I warned him when he put you
with my sister, that he was giving his dove to a vulture. I told him
it would be your ruin; but none of those people heeded the old
soldier. They followed their own plans, and thought plain truth,
foolishness.--Hark! do you not hear horses? It is good old Estoc, come
to see his dying leader."
The next moment, there was a knock at the chamber door, and before any
one could say, "Come in," it opened, and the tall bony figure of
Estoc, clothed in armour, such as was worn in that day, but with the
head-piece laid aside, appeared striding up with his wide steps to the
bed-side of the wounded Commander.
"How goes it, Sir?" he cried, "how goes it?"
"Fast, Estoc, fast!" answered the old knight. "I am glad you have
come, for there is much to talk about before I go. Helen, dear child,
run away for a while; and take some repose and refreshment, for you
have scarcely tasted aught since I have been here. She has been an
angel to me, Estoc,--like my own child."
"Thank you, Mademoiselle, thank you," cried Estoc, taking her hand and
kissing it, while she turned away her head, "God will bless you for
it!"
The tears rolled over Helen's cheeks; and, saying "Call me when you
want me, Sir," she left the room.
For more than an hour the old Commander de Liancourt and Estoc
remained together, while Helen, at the window of a room above, sat and
gazed out upon the sky, seeing the last rays of light fade away, and
the stars look forth one by one. "Ah!" she said to herself, as she
watched them, "other lights come in the heavens when the sun sets; but
there is none so bright as that which is gone. The moon, too, may rise
with her pale beams; but it is still night, shine she ever so
brightly."
At length the surgeon arrived and went in again. The next moment he
sent for Helen to aid him; but when she entered the old Commander's
room, she found that he would not suffer his wound to be meddled with.
"It is of no avail, master surgeon," he said; "I know I am dying. You
can do no good, and you do but torture me. Let the ball alone; it has
performed its work right well; you only make it angry with your
probes. Put on a cool cataplasm if you will, and tell me about what
hour will be the end; for I see in your face that you know what I say
is true. I would not go out of the world like a heathen; but the
church is the only surgeon for me."
The man of healing answered in a vague and doubtful manner, but
assured the old soldier that there was no immediate danger; and, after
some vain persuasions, to the end that he might once more examine the
wound minutely, he took his leave, after having applied what he
thought fit externally.
Helen was about to follow, and leave the Commander and his friend
together, once more; but the wounded man called her to him and bade
her stay. "Here is Estoc will be a friend to you, Helen, when I am
gone;" he said, "but listen to me, poor child, and do that which is
for your own good, and for that of others. I pressed you, a little
while ago, to go to your uncle for your own sake; but now I ask it for
the sake of those who were once dear to you. You used to love Rose
d'Albret--I think you do so still--"
"Oh! that I do," cried Helen, clasping her hand.
"Well, then," said the Commander, "her whole happiness, her future
welfare and peace may altogether depend upon your going to Marzay, and
with your own lips telling Walter de la Tremblade, all that has
happened to you."
"Then I will go directly," cried Helen, eagerly, though sadly, "I will
go directly, if I die the next moment. But does he not know the whole
already?"
"I think not," replied Estoc, who stood near. "I don't think Madame de
Chazeul has told him anything, for the good man, who spoke to me about
it, said she would kill him if she knew that he had mentioned
anything. But he thought you hardly treated, Mademoiselle, and wished
me to speak to the Commander about it, that the matter might be
inquired into."
Helen covered her face and sat and mused, till, at length, the wounded
man woke her from her painful dreams, whatever they were, by saying,
in a compassionate tone, "Ah! my poor girl, you suffer worse than I
do, for your pains are of the heart."
"I will go, Sir, I will go!" cried Helen; "though it is very bitter so
to do, yet I will go, if it can serve Mademoiselle d'Albret, even in
the very least."
"It may serve her much, young lady," said Estoc. "As this sad affair
has happened, and she has fallen into the hands of the Leaguers,
beyond all doubt they will send her to Marzay; and then the old story
will begin again, and no devilish scheme will be too bad, to drive her
to marry Monsieur de Chazeul."
"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Helen, vehemently; "he will betray her--he
will make her miserable, as he has made me. What right has he to marry
her?" she continued, with her brow contracted and a wild look coming
into her eyes. "Is he not married already? is he not contracted by
oaths that he cannot break?"
"Ay, but he will break them," replied Estoc.
"I rave, I rave!" said Helen, after a moment's pause; "he has broken
them already--every vow he made--every pledge he gave--every oath he
took! and at what should he hesitate? But how can I prevent this? What
can I do to avert it?"
"Much," answered the Commander. "Your uncle, Helen, has been one of
the prime movers in all this. Without him they could do little; for he
is a skilful and a scheming man, not moved by the same passions that
both prompt and embarrass them. What are his motives or his views, I
know not; but, _pardie_, right sure am I, when once he hears how you
have been treated, he will find means to frustrate all their plots,
and to save our dear Rose, by one means or another."
"Yes, yes, he will--he will," cried Helen; "I know he will, if it be
but in revenge. Oh! he never wants means to work his own will. My poor
father used to say, he had ruled all his family from infancy. But I
will go at all risks, at any cost.--Yet," she added, hanging her head,
"yet I could wish that it were possible for me to avoid that cruel and
hard-hearted man, whom I must see if I go there openly."
"Oh! that will be easily managed," said Estoc; "I will answer for
that, Mademoiselle; for I took care to ensure myself and my good
Commander here, the means of entering the Château of Marzay when we
liked. God forbid that I should use it wrongly! But I foresaw the time
might come, when, in justice to ourselves or others, we might need to
stand face to face with those who have been plotting so darkly against
people whose rights they should have protected."
"You are right, Estoc, you are right," said the old Commander, whose
voice was growing feeble, with the fatigue of speaking so much. "You
are right, my good friend. I thought not of that precaution, but it
was a wise one. Have you the key of the postern, then?"
"No," answered Estoc; "that would be missed; but I have a key to the
chapel, which, as no one uses that way in or out, will never be wanted
by any one but ourselves."
Helen raised her eyes and smiled, with the first look of satisfaction
that her countenance had borne, since she had been driven from the
Château of Chazeul. "That makes all easy," she said; "for, not only
can I enter by that means, but dear Rose d'Albret can come out; and
oh! what would I give to guide her back again to liberty and him she
loves?"
But Estoc shook his head. "That may not be so easy," he answered; "now
they are once upon their guard, they will watch her closely. She will
be henceforth a prisoner, indeed. Her only hope is in the priest,
Mademoiselle. Gain his aid for us, and we are secure."
"I will try," answered Helen, "I will try--But look," she continued,
touching Estoc's arm and speaking in a low voice, "Monsieur de
Liancourt seems weary, and asleep, I think."
Estoc bent down his head, and gazed in the sick man's face, by the
pale light of a lamp that stood upon the table. He almost feared, from
all that he had seen, that what Helen imagined slumber, was the repose
of death; but, as he leaned over him, he saw a red spot upon the
cheek, and heard the quick low breath come and go; and, turning to her
again, he whispered, "He sleeps; that is a good sign. I will sit with
him till he wakes."
"No, no," answered Helen; "leave me to watch him. You take some
repose; I neither want it, nor could obtain it."
Estoc accordingly left her, gaining the door as noiselessly as he
could. Then, clearing the hall of all the persons by whom it was now
crowded, he seated himself on a bench, ate some bread and drank some
wine; and leaning his head upon his hand, soon fell into slumber, with
that easy command over the drowsy god, which is often acquired by
those habituated to the labours and the dangers of the camp.
It was past one o'clock; and all the noises of the house were still.
The farmer and his family had retired to rest, the soldiers and
attendants were seeking slumber in the kitchen and the barn, when
Helen de la Tremblade opened the door between the sick man's chamber
and the hall, and called "Estoc! Estoc!"--"Monsieur de Liancourt is
awake," she added, as he started up, and then continued, in a lower
tone, "he is very ill--There is a terrible change--Come quick, come
quick!"
Estoc followed in haste; and, approaching the wounded man's side, he
saw too clearly the change she spoke of, that awful change which
precedes dissolution; that inexpressible dim shade, that cold
unearthly look, never, never to be mistaken. Fever may banish the rose
from the cheek; the eye may grow pale and glassy; the lip may lose its
red; and sickness, heavy sickness may take away all that is beautiful
in life; but yet, while there is a hope remaining, the countenance of
man never assumes that hue which death sends before him as his herald
on the way;--and there it was. To the eyes of Helen, it was strange
and terrible, and made her heart sink though she knew not all it
meant; but Estoc had seen it often, and knew it well; and whispering
to her, "This is death!" he took his old friend's hand in his.
"Ah, Estoc!" said Monsieur de Liancourt, "where is Helen?--Come
nearer, my kind nurse, let me see your face, for my eyes grow dim."
"Shall I send for a priest, Sir?" asked Helen.
"Not yet," said Monsieur de Liancourt, "for I have much to say. Bring
me my cross of St. John. Lay it on my breast, that I may die under the
standard of my salvation." Helen hurried to get it, where it lay with
the armour and clothes in which he had been dressed, and placed it
gently on his bosom a he told her. The old man gazed wistfully in her
face for an instant, and then said, "I am going, Helen--fast. If I had
lived, I would have been a father to you. Estoc, will you protect
her--defend her?--Do you promise me?"
"I do from my heart," replied Estoc. "As long as I live she shall
never want a home to receive her, or an arm to do her right."
"Kiss the cross!" said the old Commander; and, bending down, the good
soldier pressed his lips upon it, as it lay upon his dying leader's
bosom.
"So much for that," said the Commander. "When I am gone, Estoc, give
her all that I have brought with me.--You, I have provided for, long
ago.--See me buried as a soldier should be. Lay me before the altar at
Marzay, and bid the priest say masses for my soul.--Now give me the
papers that I may explain them well."
Estoc proceeded to the corner of the room in which the old commander's
garments had been laid down in a heap; and searched for some minutes
before he could discover the packet of papers for which he was
looking. He found it at length, and, turning round, approached the
bed-side where Helen de la Tremblade sat watching the wounded man. She
held his hand in hers, she gazed upon him eagerly with her beautiful
lips slightly open, showing the fine pearly teeth within; and, as the
light of the lamp fell upon her, she was certainly as fair a creature
as ever man beheld; but there was a look of anxious fear in her eyes
that startled Estoc, and made him hurry his pace. The eyes of the old
commander were closed, and Helen whispered, "He has had a terrible
shudder."
"Here are the papers, Sir," said Estoc.
The old man made no answer, but by a heavy sigh.
"Send for a priest, quick," cried Estoc; and Helen running hastily
from the room, woke one of the soldiers in the kitchen, and dispatched
him to the village in haste. When she returned to the chamber,
however, all was still: and, approaching with her light foot the
bed-side, she saw Estoc with his arms folded across his chest, and his
eyes, glistening with an unwonted tear, fixed upon the countenance of
his old friend and leader, from which all expression seemed to have
passed away. She listened, but could hear no breath. The lips were
motionless; the breast had ceased to heave; the hand, which he had
lately held in her own, had fallen languidly on the bed; the other, by
a last movement, had been brought to rest upon the cross which lay
upon his bosom. Life had passed away, apparently in an instant, and
the sufferings of the stout old soldier were at an end.
The moment after several of the men, who had been awakened by a voice
calling to one of them to seek a priest, crept into the room to see
their good leader once more before he died; and Estoc, brushing away
the moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand, turned towards
them, saying, "You may come forward.--You cannot disturb him now. He
is gone; and a better heart, a stouter hand, a kinder spirit, never
lived, my friends. Few there are like him left; and we at least never
shall see such another. God have mercy on his soul, and on ours too."
Thus saying, he knelt down, murmured a prayer, and kissed the hand,
still warm with the life that was departed. The soldiers did the same
one by one, and then carried the tidings to their fellows who where
still asleep. Starting up as they had lain down, they all ran hastily
into the room; and, of course, amongst the number, there were many
different ways of expressing their grief. Most of them, however, had
tears in their eyes, and one man wished aloud, that he knew the hand
that fired the shot.
"Fie," said Estoc, "it was the chance of battle. No soldier bears
revenge for anything done in fair fight. He has sent many to their
account, and now is sent himself; but by the grace of God his is no
heavy one, and he will find mercy for that."
There was a momentary pause, and then two or three of the soldiers
whispered together; after which one of them stepping forward, said,
"Will you lead us, Monsieur Estoc?"
"I am not a rich man, my friends," said the old soldier, "and cannot
pay you as the good commander did. What I have, however, you shall
freely share; and if you are willing to serve the King as you have
done this day, I will lead you willingly, in that cause.
"We will fight in none other," replied the man who spoke for the rest;
"and as for pay, we will take our chance, so that we have food and
arms."
"That we will always find," replied Estoc, "but we have a duty here to
perform before anything else. We must carry the corpse to Marzay, and
fulfil our dead leader's last commands; then we will seek the King;
and, if he cannot entertain us himself, we shall easily find some
banner under which to fight upon his side."