The hall was lighted by three large sconces hung against that part of
the wall nearest to the table; but still the extent of the chamber
rendered the light feeble, except immediately under the burners. It
cannot be said that the appearance of Edward Langdale and his companions
was very prepossessing. Edward himself wore his hat and plume, which had
been thrown off before he plunged into the water; but his dress was
soiled as well as wet. The stranger whom he had saved was in a still
worse plight: his hat, of course, had been lost in his struggle with the
torrent, and his forehead and part of his face were covered with
dripping locks of long black hair. His sword, which had remained in the
sheath, was the only distinguishing mark of a gentleman about him.
Pierrot and Jacques Beaupré looked far more like bravos than the
followers of an English gentleman of those days; and the two ill-favored
blacksmiths, one armed with a half-extinguished lantern and the other
with a sledge-hammer, did not add to the beauty or respectability of the
group.
No wonder, then, that several of the gentlemen at the table laid their
hands upon their swords; and the one who had been speaking advanced a
step or two, exclaiming, in a threatening tone, "What is this? What
means this ill-mannered intrusion? Who are you, sirs, and what seek you
here?"
"Shelter from the storm, and food, if it can be procured," said Edward:
"we know not upon whom----"
But, before he could finish the sentence, the gentleman to whom it was
addressed started forward and caught him by the hand, exclaiming, "What!
Ned, my boy! How came you to seek me here?"
"I did not seek you here, my lord," replied Edward, "and, to say truth,
if I had known you were here, I should not have come. I was on my way to
Aix to join your lordship, according to your commands; but the road is
impassable. Some of us have been half drowned; and, though this is a
desolate-looking place, we said, 'Any port in a storm.'"
"But who are these gentlemen with you?" asked Lord Montagu, still
speaking in French, but running his eye somewhat doubtfully over the
group of five persons who had advanced some way from the door.
"Those two," answered Edward, in the same gay tone, which was generally
affected by pages of noble houses,--"those two are my servants, or
rather your lordship's, the renowned and reformed Pierrot la Grange and
the facetious Jacques Beaupré. Those two--the one with the lantern and
the other with the hammer--are two respectable blacksmiths and
horse-doctors, who have joined themselves on to me and mine and did good
service in curing one of my horses. They profess to be Savoyards
returning to their own country."
"They shall be welcome," said Lord Montagu, smiling,--"most welcome, for
I have no less than five good horses sick of some distemper at Chambéry.
But who is the other,--that gentleman who seems half drowned?"
"He was half drowned a few minutes ago, my lord," replied the youth,
"and so was I; but he will probably tell you more of himself if you will
ask him. His horse leaped with him into the river, and it was a hard
matter to get him out."
"I hold it but courteous in these bad times," said Lord Montagu, "to
follow the old knightly rule and ask no stranger any questions,--before
he has cut your throat; and therefore we will invite him to sup, and
leave him to explain himself. He seems a gentleman."
"Yes, my lord," was all Edward's reply; but a very peculiar expression
crossed his countenance as he uttered those three words, which, had Lord
Montagu seen it, might have caused more inquiry. That nobleman, however,
had turned to speak for a moment with the gentlemen who had been seated
with him; and he then advanced to the stranger, inviting him courteously
to be seated and take some refreshment, and expressing sorrow for the
accident which had befallen him. He also bade the other four sit down
and eat; and, there being no place for so many at the table, filled as
it was, most of those who had already supped rose and gathered together
at the end of the board, Edward taking his place amongst them without
touching any thing.
Lord Montagu introduced him to the rest in kind terms, saying, "My page
and young friend, Monsieur Edward Langdale, Monsieur le Prince de ----,
Monsieur le Comte de ----, Monsieur l'Abbé Scaglia, the Duke of Savoy's
prime minister. We came here on a little party of pleasure, Ned, and sat
long over our cups, in truth, hardly hearing that the storm was still
going on. Come, my good youth, sit down and eat. You must be well weary
of all the adventures which the fair duchess writes me you have gone
through. Eat, boy! eat!"
"Your pardon, my lord," said Edward, gravely: "I will take a cup of wine
here standing: that is all. I have much to tell your lordship."
"By-and-by, by-and-by," said Lord Montagu, "we shall have plenty of time
and plenty to talk of. Well, drink if you will not eat."
Edward Langdale advanced to the table, filled himself a goblet of wine,
and returned with it to Lord Montagu's side. Before he could raise it to
his lips, however, the stranger whom he had saved from drowning turned
round his head, saying, with a polite smile, "Let me have the pleasure
of drinking with you, young gentleman, in memory of the service you
rendered me. I do not know your name, though your face is very familiar
to me."
A dark cloud gathered upon Edward Langdale's brow, and he answered, not
sharply, but with stern, cold bitterness, "I neither eat with you nor
drink with you, sir."
The stranger started up with his face all on fire, and exclaimed, with
his hand upon the hilt of his sword, "Do you mean to insult me, sir?"
"I mean to tell you, sir," said the youth, boldly, "that I am Edward
Langdale,--your father's son; and that you have robbed me of that to
which neither he nor you had any right,--my sweet mother's estates."
"Robbed? robbed?" cried Sir Richard Langdale, furiously drawing his
sword.
"Ay, robbed,--swindled, if you like it better," said Edward. "Put up
your sword, or sheathe it here," he continued, throwing his arms wide
open and exposing his chest. "I do not fight with my brother."
The other rushed upon him like a madman.
"What is this? what is this?" cried the Abbé Scaglia, running forward.
"Back, madman!" exclaimed Lord Montagu, seizing Richard Langdale by the
collar.
Pierrot la Grange also darted forward and tried to push between. But all
were too late. Edward fell to the ground with a heavy fall, and his
brother withdrew his sword all dripping with blood.
The burly blacksmith advanced toward him with his hammer raised in the
act to strike him on the head, exclaiming, in very good French, "The
murdering villain! He has killed the man who saved his life at the risk
of his own, not an hour ago!"
But Lord Montagu caught his arm, saying, "Stand back. This must be
inquired into by justice. No more slaughter here. Sir, give up your
sword! You are a prisoner."
"Aid, all men, to arrest him!" cried the Abbé Scaglia. "I command you in
the duke's name!"
Sir Richard Langdale moved not a muscle, but stood gazing at the fallen
form of his brother with a face as pale as marble and bloodless lips.
Such sudden changes of feeling will often take place in terrible
circumstances. When the dreadful deed, prompted by the fierce fire of
passion, is once done, we know all its horrors; but not before. The
consummation is like the lightning-flash upon a corpse, showing every
ghastly feature more livid and frightful from the remorse-like glare
that darts across it. Suddenly he started, raised his hands to his head,
tearing his long black hair, and exclaiming, "Curse the lands! Curse the
riches!"
"Here!" cried Lord Montagu, "take him away, you two. Guard him safely,
but do him no hurt. You stout fellow, aid us to raise this poor lad,
and let us see if nothing can be done for him. On my life, I would as
soon have lost my brother!"
"Let me tend him, sir," said the blacksmith with the lantern: "I have
cured many a horse as bad hurt as he; and a horse and a man are much the
same thing."
"Not quite," said Lord Montagu, who even at that moment could not
altogether resist the joking spirit of his times and his party. "Heaven!
how he bleeds! Gentlemen, he was the noblest lad--the promptest with
hand and head and heart--I ever saw. Poor Edward! can we do nothing for
you?"
As he spoke, they raised the youth and laid him on the table, and the
blacksmith tore open his vest. The movement seemed to awaken him a
little; and, probably with thoughts far distant, he exclaimed, in a
faint voice, "No, never! no, not with life!" But the rough hands stayed
not their work; and, after gazing for an instant at his wounded side,
the man turned to his companion, saying, "Ivan, run down and bring up
the pack, quick! We can stop this bleeding. Do you not see? it does not
jerk. Then, if none of the vitals be touched----"
"A hundred crowns if you save him till we can get to Aix," said Lord
Montagu.
"I think I can save him altogether," said the man. "The thing is, people
will not treat man as if he were a beast; and so they kill him. Man and
beast are only flesh, and all flesh is grass."
But it is needless to discuss or to display any further the views and
principles of Edward's somewhat rough doctor, or to detail the treatment
he underwent. There was the usual amount of bustle and confusion, and
the much talking and the recommendation of many remedies which could not
be procured and would have done no good if they had been there. Suffice
it that the bleeding was soon stayed, and that Edward recovered from the
fainting-fit into which the wound, probably penetrating some very
sensitive part, had thrown him. The blacksmith by no means wanted
mother-wit, and his treatment was probably based upon the sound
principle of merely aiding nature. The lad spoke a few words, and they
tried to impose silence upon him; but he would not hold his peace till
those around assured him that no one had hurt his brother and that he
was safe in another chamber.
All Lord Montagu's anxiety seemed to be to get him to Aix; and he went
out himself and sent out more than once to see if the storm was over.
Luckily for Edward, it continued all night and part of the next morning;
I say luckily, for the hands in which he was were probably better
calculated to bring about his recovery than any which could have been
found in a small town in Savoy, as medical science went in those times.
In the mean while, the party assembled made themselves as comfortable as
they could in disagreeable circumstances of many kinds; and the heavy
tread of Sir Richard Langdale was heard through the night beating
incessantly the floor of the room above. Toward morning that wearisome
footfall ceased, and Lord Montagu, who sat by Edward's side and was
still awake, said to himself, "That poor wretch has found sleep at
length. Now, which is the happiest?--he, or poor Ned here? I would
rather be that boy than the man who has killed his own brother. They say
that Edward saved his life, too, not an hour before. Very likely! He is
fit for any gallant act. Heaven! what must that man's thoughts be?"
Soon after, the Abbé Scaglia roused himself in the corner where he had
ensconced him, and, moving quietly up, talked in a low tone for some
twenty minutes with Lord Montagu. They then roused the rest of the party
who had been supping there, and went down into the court-yard, where
they found the horses of Edward Langdale and his companions. Their own
were hidden in one of those deep vaults under the great tower which were
common in most feudal castles, especially in border-districts, as a safe
and silent receptacle of stolen cattle and horses.
Though it was still raining, most of the party mounted and rode away,
promising to send up a litter and a surgeon as soon as the road was
passable. Lord Montagu himself said he would remain with the poor lad,
and reascended to the chamber where he had left him.
All was silent there: the wounded youth had fallen into a sleep which
seemed calm, and the two blacksmiths were nodding beside him. The
English nobleman then went up to the floor above, where he found Jacques
Beaupré asleep across the door, and Pierrot sitting up, but rubbing his
eyes as if he had not been long awake.
In answer to the nobleman's questions, Pierrot detailed all that had
occurred upon the road, and dwelt upon the gallant conduct of his young
master. "He little thought," said the man, "that he was risking his own
life to save the very man who would kill him. But I have often heard say
that it is unlucky to rescue a man from drowning. As to this man in
here, sir, I believe he is mad; for he has been walking about all
night,--sometimes talking to himself, sometimes groaning as if his heart
would break. I had better wake him, perhaps."
"No, no! Let him sleep if he can," said Lord Montagu, quickly. "Well may
he groan! Pray Heaven neither of us may ever have such cause, my man.
When you hear him move, get him some wine. There is still some
down-stairs. Till then, let him alone. If he sleeps, it is the best
thing for him."
Thus saying, he went down again, and, finding every thing as before,
approached the window and gazed at the morning light, still pale and
blue, spreading up from the mountain-edges into the rainy sky. After
about half an hour, Edward turned painfully and asked for some water.
His lord gave it to him with a kindly word or two, and the blacksmiths
woke up and examined the wound. They seemed satisfied with its
appearance, and one of them said, loud enough for Edward to hear, "He
will get well, sir."
Oh, what a blessed thing is hope! Those few words were a better balm
than any druggist could have supplied. They brought with them, too, the
thought of Lucette; and, beckoning to Lord Montagu to hold down his
head, he whispered, "If I should die, my lord, I beseech you to write a
few lines to the old Marquise de Lagny, to tell her the fact. She will
be with the court of France, wherever that may be."
"No, no; you will get well, Ned," said Lord Montagu, in a cheerful tone.
"I do not intend to part with you yet. But now you must positively be
silent if you would not increase the evil."
Some four or five hours passed. The rain cleared away, the sun broke
out, and Lord Montagu looked anxiously from the windows which were
turned toward the road, in expectation of the promised litter. All he
could see, however, was a large party of Savoyard peasantry working
hard, apparently, to remove some obstruction from the highway.
He was still gazing forth, when Pierrot appeared at the door, and,
finding all still, beckoned to him.
"My lord," he said, in a low voice, when Montagu had joined him, "I can
hear nothing of that man above, nor Jacques either. He could not get out
of the windows; and I should not wonder if he has hanged himself."
Lord Montagu started and instantly ran up-stairs, thinking the
conclusion at which Pierrot had jumped not at all improbable. He opened
the door gently and looked around. The sun was shining full into the
room, but Sir Richard Langdale was not there. The only thing that could
indicate the mode of his escape was a pair of large riding-boots, very
wet, which lay on the floor; and it is probable that, opening the door
cautiously while the two men were asleep, he had stepped lightly over
them and then gone down the stairs.
"What a thing is the love of life!" thought Lord Montagu. "This man
would rather live miserable than risk the grave. However, I cannot be
sorry; and I believe poor Ned will be glad."
He entered the room below as silently as possible; but Edward, who had
heard his rapid step running up the stairs, turned his head, asking, "Is
there any thing the matter above?"
"Only that your brother has escaped," said his lord.
"Thank God!" said the young man, with a smile. "Pray, do not pursue him,
my lord."
"I will not," replied Montagu: "make your mind easy, Ned."
"Here come some people with a litter up the hill," said one of the
blacksmiths.