Tom knew quite well that he was being followed. He had been aware
of it almost from the first. He felt an exultant triumph in the
thought that they had outwitted the astute Sir James, and that his
emissaries were following the wrong man, falling into the trap
which had been laid for them.
Tom's business was to lead them as long a dance as possible. He had
no other object in view. He had no intention of pushing onwards
into Italy. In a strange country, surrounded by people of a strange
tongue, he would be perfectly helpless. He had picked up just a few
words of French, and of the patois of these mountain regions,
enough to enable him to obtain the necessaries of life on this side
the Alps. And on this side he meant to remain, doubling back, if
possible, and eluding his pursuers; hoping to find shelter at the
monastery of the Great St. Bernard, and await there the return of
Lord Claud.
He had watched, before starting himself, the start made by Lord
Claud upon the arm of the landlord. He had again admired the
marvellous powers of his master in simulating sickness. It was
difficult even for him to believe that he was not the victim of
some grave malady; and he had noted with satisfaction the covert
eagerness with which the other travellers in the hut urged upon him
the descent into the valley as the only chance of recovery.
Plainly they desired that the two should part company; nor could
Tom trace that any of their number went after Lord Claud. But on
that point he could not be certain, as he himself had to take his
departure almost immediately.
The other travellers professed to be waiting for the recovery of
one of their number from a strain to the ankle before proceeding in
an opposite direction. This they explained to Lord Claud,
regretting they could not accompany him to the valley, as they had
to wait for their own master. They professed to have crossed
recently from the Italian side, and gave Tom some hints and
instructions as to his route; which he heeded no whit, being in
fact only able to understand a word here and there.
He trusted to his guide to take him safely through the pass, though
he reckoned upon having to give him the slip, too, if he could not
explain to him that he was going to make his way to the monastery.
For it was not safe for Lord Claud to explain this to the guide
beforehand. Although to all appearances an honest and simple
fellow, there was never any knowing how the enemy might seek to
tamper with him; and a bribe might be sufficient to open the
fellow's lips if he had anything to tell.
Now Tom was on his way upwards amid the snow, stepping out boldly,
and rather urging on his guide than detaining him by lagging; and
all the while he was conscious that he was being followed and
watched, although it was only from time to time that he was
successful in catching sight of the forms of his pursuers, who at
present kept a good way behind.
Tom guessed for one thing that his own rapid pace gave him the
advantage, and he also suspected that they would prefer to wait
until his first energy had abated before trying conclusions with
him. He was in splendid condition from his long journey, which had
braced all his muscles, and had given him back all that vigour
which his London life had slightly impaired.
So he stepped along gaily in the clear morning air, calculating as
well as he could what Lord Claud's movements would be, and how far
he would have progressed upon his way with the real despatches.
Lord Claud never let grass grow under his feet. If he once obtained
a fair start, he would not easily lose it. The route by which he
was going was a little longer and more circuitous; but let him have
a day's clear start, and it would be odd if any pursuer caught him
after that.
So Tom walked on in high spirits, feeling well equipped for the
coming struggle, and fearing little the peril which might lie
before him. In the pride of his manhood's strength, he laughed at
the thought of danger. He had faced too many perils of late to
begin to turn coward now. So long as he felt that he was leading
these followers away from the other pass to be taken by his
comrade, he cared for nothing else--not even for the discovery he
once made that they were three in number, though Lord Claud had
calculated that they would only be two.
Sometimes Tom noted that his guide would look back, and more than
once he fancied that he detected him signalling to those below.
This aroused in his mind a doubt of the fellow's fidelity; but
there was nothing to be done now. They were in the midst of
trackless snow plains, ice slopes, and precipices. He must perforce
trust to the leading of the guide, albeit, if he had been tampered
with by those in pursuit, things might look ugly when it came to
the moment of attack.
As the hours wore away, Tom began to wish that the situation might
declare itself. The drear wildness of the mountain height oppressed
him with a sense of personal insignificance which was rather
overwhelming. The great white mountains seemed to stare down upon
him as though pitilessly indifferent to his fate. How could they
care what became of one solitary son of earth? Did they not stand
fast for ever more, from century to century? It was a thought that
he found oppressive and rather terrible.
At one point the guide insisted upon leaving what looked like the
better track, and led him round a sort of shoulder of piled up snow
and rock, where walking was very laborious. Tom began to feel the
need of food, and would have stopped and opened his wallet; but the
man shook his head and gesticulated, and seemed to urge him onwards
at some speed. Tom supposed he must obey, as the man pointed
warningly to the rocks above, as though to hint that danger might
be expected from them.
So on they trudged, Tom feeling a slight unaccustomed giddiness in
the head, as many persons do who first try walking for some hours
in the glare of sun and snow and at a high altitude. Then the path
suddenly turned again under the frowning wall of rock, which rose
black and stern through the covering of snow. The guide disappeared
round the angle of the path; Tom followed with quick steps, and the
next moment was almost felled to the earth by the terrific blow of
a cudgel upon his head.
Almost, but not quite. He had been on his guard. He felt that the
crisis was coming, and he was certain that the guide had betrayed
him at this pre-arranged spot into the hands of his enemies. In one
second Tom's rapier was out (he had carried that in spite of the
hindrance it had sometimes been to him), and although he was
half-blinded and half-stunned by the force of the blow received, he
lunged fiercely forward, and heard a yell of pain which told him
that his blade had found its billet.
But the blade could not at once be disentangled. For two seconds,
perhaps, was Tom struggling with it; and in those two seconds one
of his adversaries sprang behind him, and seized him round the
waist with the hug of a bear.
In a second Tom had whipped out his pistols, and fired full at a
dark figure in front of him; but his eyes were full of blood, and a
taunting laugh told him that his shot had missed its mark. With a
quick movement of his strong arm backwards he dealt the man who was
holding him a terrific blow with the butt of the pistol, and
discharged the other full at another dark figure looming in front.
This time there was an answering yell; but the odds were still
tremendous, and Tom felt himself growing faint and giddy, and
though he hit out lustily on all sides, he had no confidence that
his blows told.
Every moment he expected to hear the sound of a report, and to know
that his quietus had come; but at last he was aware that it was his
captors' wish to take him prisoner, and not to kill him. They had
closed in upon him now that he was disarmed, and were using every
artifice to overpower him without further injury.
Tom felt his own struggles becoming weaker each moment, and at last
he was conscious that somebody had crawled towards his feet and was
passing a cord about them. In vain he sought to kick out and
release himself; the next minute the cord was pulled tight. His
feet were jerked from beneath him, he fell backwards heavily, and
for some time he knew no more.
When he opened his eyes once again, he found himself sitting
propped up against the rocks, his arms tightly pinioned to his
sides, and his feet still encumbered by cords; whilst at a little
distance sat his assailants in a ring, eating and drinking, and
making merry together.
One had a bandaged head, and another had his arm in a rude sling.
But the guide had come in for the worst of Tom's blows, and lay all
his length along the ground, stiff and dead.
Tom smiled a grim sort of smile. He suspected that the same fate
would shortly be his, but nevertheless he did not pity the
unfaithful peasant. If he had acted loyally by the man he professed
to serve, this ill would scarcely have befallen him. He had met his
punishment somewhat more swiftly than is usual.
The men talked in French, and too fast for Tom to catch a word of
their meaning; but when they saw that his eyes were open, and that
he was watching them, they laughed and nodded at him, and by-and-by
one brought him food and a cup of wine, and Tom felt mightily
refreshed thereby.
Then they looked up at the sky, and at the sun which had some time
since passed its meridian, and began to make ready to depart. Tom
was half afraid at first that they, having robbed him of his
despatches, were going to leave him helplessly bound here amongst
the snow, to perish of cold and starvation. But when they were all
in readiness they unbound his feet, and bid him rise and come with
them. Indeed, he had no option in this matter, for one of them held
the end of the cord which bound his arms, and drove him on in front
as men drive unruly cattle.
Tom felt giddy and stiff, but he scorned to show weakness; and it
was less trying to descend the pass than to ascend it, although the
rough walking with tightly-bound arms was more difficult than he
had fancied, and several times he tripped and fell heavily, unable
to save himself.
He was, therefore, very bruised and sore and weary when at last he
found that they were approaching the little hut he had left early
that same morning. But amid all his weariness and pain, and the
peril of his position, he felt, with a thrill of proud satisfaction,
that he had at least played the part which had been allotted to him,
and had drawn off the forces of the enemy whilst Lord Claud made
good his escape with the real despatches. Whatever vials of fury
might quickly be poured upon his head, he would always know that
he had done his duty--and who can do more than that?
A light was twinkling in the hut. Tom was pushed and hustled
within. A voice, that he remembered as having heard once before,
called out from above:
"Bring the prisoner up here to me."
The next minute Tom entered the very room where he and Lord Claud
had slept the previous night; but it was now tenanted by a new
occupant--a dark-skinned man of huge frame and malignant
aspect--who regarded Tom from beneath the penthouse of his frowning
brows, and plainly remembered him as well as he was himself
remembered.
"So we meet again, my young buck of the forest! You seem to serve a
master who takes pleasure in bringing you into peril and doubtful
adventure! So you are the bearer of despatches to the Duke of
Savoy? I fear, my good friend, Victor Amadeus will be disappointed
of his news for once. And I say in good sooth, that if his grace of
Marlborough chooses to intrust the matters of the secret service to
unfledged lads, he deserves to find himself outwitted."
Tom compressed his lips to hide the smile that might have told too
much. He preserved a stolid appearance, and remained mute.
Sir James gave a quick order in French, and at once some of the
cords about Tom's person were cut, and the packet sewed up in his
coat was duly brought forth. As it was handed to Sir James and he
saw the signet of the Duke, a sardonic smile played over his
features, and Tom's eyes gleamed in their sockets.
The dark-browed man eagerly undid the packet, and drew forth the
parchment sheet. He scanned it over and over; he turned it this way
and that. His face betrayed nothing, but Tom saw that his fingers
trembled slightly as with ill-veiled excitement or anger.
He gave one fierce, searching look at Tom, who preserved an air of
indifference, and then he took the paper across to the stove, and
held it in the heat of the glow which stole thence.
Back he came with it to the table; but there was nothing revealed
by the application of heat. He called sharply for something to one
of his men, and a small phial was brought to him. He applied a drop
of the liquid it contained to the parchment; and eagerly awaited
the result; but no lettering was revealed upon it, and his face
grew dark and stern.
How many tests he applied Tom scarcely knew; but he saw that this
man was master of all the arts of secret penmanship, and that no
matter would have been kept from him had it been intrusted to the
paper.
At last Sir James became satisfied of this himself. The veins on
his forehead swelled with anger. He saw that he had been tricked,
and his fury was hotly aroused.
Smiting his great hand upon the table, he cried in a voice of
thunder:
"This despatch is a trick and a fraud. There is nothing but a sheet
of blank paper. Men do not risk their lives in carrying dummy
packets.
"Where is the true despatch, knave? Out with it, or 'twill he the
worse for you!"
"That is all I have," answered Tom quietly; "I know nothing of any
other. Search me if you will. You will find naught else."
"Search him! search him well!" said Sir James to his servants,
almost panting in his ire. "The knave was never sent to the Duke
with nothing hut this in his keeping. Find it instantly! I love not
these delays!"
Instantly Tom was laid on his back upon the floor, and such a
search was made of his dress and person as was a matter of
curiosity and amaze to himself. Even his nose and ears and mouth
were explored by rough fingers, in a fashion none too gentle;
whilst his clothing was well-nigh ripped to pieces, and he wondered
how he should ever make it fit for wear again. Certainly if he had
had any missive to carry it would not have escaped the scrutiny of
his captors, and their oaths and kicks bespoke their baffled
disappointment.
"Then he has messages intrusted to him," said Montacute, first in
French, and then in English. "Set the fellow upon his feet, and
bind fast his hands to yon rafter. If he will not speak the truth,
it shall he flogged out of him!"
The swarthy man was growing very angry at his failure. He may have
begun to suspect that he had been duped by a wit keener than his
own, and the thought raised within him the demon of cruelty and
lust of blood. He hated Lord Claud with a deadly hatred, having
been worsted by him in encounters of many kinds. If unable to wreak
his vengeance upon the man himself, to do so upon his follower was
the next best thing.
"Tell me with what messages to the Duke of Savoy you are charged!"
he cried, standing before Tom with flaming eyes. "You are not sent
upon this quest with neither letter nor word. Speak, or you shall
be made to find your tongue!"
"I will speak as much as you like," answered Tom, with haughty
disdain in his tone, though his flesh crept at the sight of the men
knotting the ends of rope in their hands; "but I am charged with no
message. I know nothing of what you would wish to know. You can
flog till you are weary, but you can't get out of me what I do not
know. That at least is one satisfaction."
Montacute waved his hand. The next moment the ropes descended upon
Tom's bare back. He set his teeth, and made no cry, though the
blood came surging to his head, and the room seemed to swim in
blood. Again and again they descended; but the keen pain awoke
within Tom that ferocity of strength which comes to men in their
extremity, so that, like Samson, they can turn the tables upon
their foes.
The hut was but a rude affair, somewhat loosely put together. The
beam to which Tom's arms had been bound was not too strongly
jointed to its fellow.
A sudden madness seemed to come upon this man of thews and sinews.
He gave a sudden bound and wrench; he felt the beam give, and
redoubled his efforts; the next moment the whole rafter came bodily
down upon their heads. Tom ducked, and escaped its fall; but it
pinned one of his foes to the ground, and his own hands were
immediately free.
With a bound like that of a tiger, and a roar like that of a
wounded lion, he sprang, or rather flew, at Montacute, flung him
over backwards upon the floor, and pinned him by the throat,
uttering all the while a savage sort of growling sound, like a wild
beast in its fury.
The light was thrown over in this strange melee; the room was
plunged in darkness. The two men upon the floor lay struggling
together in a terrible silence, only broken by Tom's fierce
snarlings, that seemed scarce human. So terrified were the
remaining two men, that they could do nothing for the assistance of
their master; indeed, they hardly knew what was happening to him.
They set up a shouting for aid, half afraid to stir lest the whole
house should come falling about their ears.
There were steps in the room below. Footsteps mounted the stairs.
The door was thrown open, a shaft of light streamed in, and a calm,
full voice demanded in the French tongue:
"What, in the name of all the saints, is this?"
"Holy father, he is murdering our master!" suddenly cried one of
the men, recovering from his stupor of terror, and seeing now how
Tom's great hands were gripping the throat of Sir James.
Montacute's face was purple. His eyes seemed to be starting from
their sockets. It was hard to say which was the more terrible face,
his or that of Tom, which was perfectly white, and set in lines of
ferocity and hatred as though petrified into stone.
In the doorway stood the figure of a tall monk, clad in the long
white robe and black cloak of his order. Behind him was another,
similarly attired, holding the light above his head.
The first stepped quietly forward, and laid a hand upon Tom's
shoulder; and something in the touch made the young man turn his
head to meet the calm, authoritative glance bent upon him.
"Enough, my son, enough," he said, in quiet tones, that brooked,
however, no contradiction. "Let the man go."
Had the followers of Montacute sought to loose his clasp by force,
Tom would have crushed the life from his victim without a qualm;
but at this gentle word of command he instantly loosed his hold,
and stood upright before the monk.
"He drove me to it--his blood be upon his own head! He would have
scourged me to death, I verily believe, had it not been that the
rafter gave way."
Tom spoke English, for he had been addressed in that language, and
so knew that he should be understood. The monk bent his head, as
though he grasped the entire situation.
"I would we had come in time to spare you what you have already
suffered, my son. But we did only enter the doors as the fall of
the rafter announced that some catastrophe had happened. I feared
to find you already a corpse."
"You came after me, good father?" asked Tom in amaze.
"Yes, truly. Your companion, who is safe over the other pass by
this time, caused the message to reach us that you were like to
fall into the hands of Montacute, and be hanged or shot. He begged
that if we could we would save you; and as our work lies in
succouring those who are in peril upon these heights, be that peril
what it may, we have been seeking you ever since. I would we had
arrived a few minutes earlier."
Tom's eyes gleamed; it seemed to him as though the madness was not
yet out of his blood.
"I can scarce echo that wish, reverend father," he said; "for I
have had my taste of joy! If my back be torn and scored, I have had
my fingers on yon miscreant's throat. I think he will carry the
marks of them as long as I shall carry my scars. I have had my
recompense!"
"Peace, my son," said the monk, lifting his hand. "The heart of the
natural man lusts after vengeance; but these passions are terrible,
and contrary to the will of God. Especially in these savage
solitudes, with the strange and awful handiwork of the Almighty
Creator about us, should we bow in humblest adoration of His
infinite power, and draw near and close, in bonds of brotherhood,
to our fellow men. But I know that the sin was not yours. You were
sinned against sorely first. Nevertheless, we must needs learn to
forgive our enemies, and do good to those that persecute us. So
alone can we follow in the steps of Him who is set as the light of
the world."
Tom hung his head. He was a little abashed at the fury he had
shown, and yet the savage joy of it was still tingling in his
veins. He looked at the other monk, who was kneeling upon the floor
beside Montacute, and he perceived that the latter was slowly
recovering, and was able to sit up, propped against the wall.
As soon as he was able to understand what was said to him, the
elder monk addressed him in stern tones.
"Montacute--thou man of blood--be warned by the fate which thy
cruelty well-nigh drew down upon thy head this day! If God in His
mercy had not sent us, in the very nick of time, to save this youth
out of thy murderous hands, thou wouldst have passed ere now to the
scathing fires of purgatory, whence there be few to offer prayers
for thy release. Be warned by this escape. Repent of thy
bloodthirstiness and cruelty. Seek to make atonement. Go and sin no
more, lest a worse thing happen unto thee."
Then turning from him with a slight gesture of repulsion, he said
to Tom:
"My son, we would take you to the safe shelter of our monastery
home, till your comrade comes for you. The way is something hard
and long, but the moon and frost will help us. Have you the
strength to walk with us?--for we would not leave you here, and it
would be safer for all to travel without delay; albeit there be few
so vile as to seek to do hurt to those who wear the habit of the
servants of the Lord."
The fire yet burned in Tom's veins. He felt no abatement of his
powers. He declared himself well able for the march, and was soon
helped into his torn garments, with wet rags to protect his
bleeding back from rough contact. The monks gave him to drink from
a flask that contained some cordial, which was marvellous in
subduing his natural fatigue; and there was a mess of broth
awaiting him below, of which both he and the monks partook, ere
setting forth upon their moonlight march.
As for Montacute and his followers, they remained in the room
above, and made no effort to delay the travellers. They had been
worsted at every point, and seemed to be aware of it.
It was a strange experience for Tom, this trudge over the hard,
frozen snow, with his two cowled and gowned companions. It seemed
to him afterwards like a vision of the night, full of a strange
oppression and pain. He started forth with undiminished strength,
as he thought; but ere long he felt as though leaden weights were
fastened to his feet, as though some strange, uncanny beast were
seated upon his chest, impeding his breathing, and paralyzing his
heart. The smart of his raw back became more and more intolerable
with every mile, and the awful whiteness of the moon upon the
limitless plains of snow seemed to make the whole expanse reel and
dance before his giddy eyes.
How the last part of the journey was performed, and what befell him
when he reached the monastery, he never afterwards remembered. As a
matter of fact, he was already in the grip of a burning fever; and
for weeks he lay sick upon his pallet bed, tended by the kindly
monks. Indeed, the spring had penetrated even to those rugged
heights ere he had recovered strength enough to think of travelling
once more; and Lord Claud had come to seek him, and bring him word
of his own successful journey with the despatches of the Duke.
When Lord Claud had gone stumbling down the hillside, in affected
illness, he soon found, rather to his dismay, that Montacute
himself was following him. He therefore abandoned his intention of
seeking battle with his foe, knowing that in brute strength and
weight and muscle his adversary was his superior; and he had gone
to the inn and put himself to bed, letting all around him believe
thoroughly in his illness. Montacute had remained on the watch for
a time; but finding, as he supposed, that there was no feigning in
the matter, he had gone back to his appointed meeting place with
the men sent after Tom. He had paid a fellow to keep watch upon
Lord Claud, and send immediate word if he recovered and left his
bed; but this man was one of those whose hearts had been won by
Lord Claud's pleasant manners, and he at once reported the matter
to him, and asked what he should do.
Between them it was arranged that they should change clothing, and,
with the connivance of the landlord, should exchange identities.
The young peasant should lie in bed, and be tended as the sick
stranger; and Claud, in peasant's dress, should flee over the other
pass, leave word with the monks as to the peril of his friend, and
make his way to Savoy with all the speed he could.
This had been done with wonderful ease and celerity. And now,
having accomplished all with unlooked-for success, he had returned
to find Tom not only alive, but in good condition; for the latter,
having once got rid of the persistent fever which had brought him
so low, was getting back his strength and vigour every day. The
mountain air was now acting like a tonic upon him, and the kindly
ministrations of the brothers of the monastery gave him every help
his condition needed. Even the scars upon his back had ceased to
smart, and he was all but fit for the road and the saddle ere Lord
Claud joined him again.
His lordship had heard good tidings of the horses in the valley
below. And when rested from his rapid journey in search of Tom, he
went to visit them, and reported them abundantly fit for the road.
But the war had now been resumed, and the countries were all in
commotion. Travelling was a risky thing, save in numbers; and the
good monks warned them that they might easily lose their lives by
falling in with some bands of hostile soldiers, who were sure to
fall upon travellers in ferocious fashion, and rob them of arms and
horses, if not of life itself.
Soon, however, some of the monks themselves were to take a journey
into France, and if the travellers would habit themselves in the
cowl and gown, and travel with them, they could do so in almost
certain safety. Tom's shaven head lent itself excellently to the
tonsure; and though Lord Claud objected to part with his golden
tresses, he quickly manufactured himself a tonsured wig which
almost defied detection. As the monks, too, were to travel on
horseback for greater speed, they had but to teach their steeds to
amble along at a gentle pace, and none would be likely to suspect
them.
So the day came when the parting was made, the travellers leaving
behind their earnest thanks for kindness received, and taking with
them the blessings of their hosts, who had come to love the two
gallant young men right well.
They turned their backs upon the monastery, and wound their way
down into the green valley, where horses were awaiting all the
party; and then they turned their backs upon the ice and snow, and
set their faces towards sunny England and home.