AN ENEMY IN THE CAMP.
At sunset Roussilac, the commandant of Quebec, after receiving
reassuring reports from the sentries and thus closing his official
duties for the day, went aboard the man-of-war. Having personally
superintended the shipping of the gangway, to satisfy himself that
immediate communication with the shore was cut off, he withdrew to his
cabin, which he occupied in preference to his hut upon the slope.
Before retiring to his hammock, he mentally reviewed his position, the
difficulties of which had not been lessened by the unexpected arrival
of the Dutch ship.
It had never been the way of Holland to go out of her course to be
friendly. The commandant could not forget that she had colonised large
tracts of country further south; he knew that, like England, she
aspired to extend her influence beyond the seas; and what more probable
than that, snatching at the opportunity afforded by this alliance, her
government should have commissioned Van Vuren to spy out the land and
report upon its possibilities?
Already sufficient dangers threatened the fortress. Disquieting
rumours had reached Roussilac of late. The Indians, it was said, were
growing more restless and bolder because they had discovered the
weakness of the French. It was certain that a band of five Englishmen
had been seen in the district by Gaudriole, and these were probably the
precursors of more formidable numbers. The islanders, Roussilac knew,
had a knack of appearing when least expected; and Agincourt had long
since shown the world that they were never so formidable as when few in
numbers, short of supplies, and worn after heavy marching. It was this
fear which had induced the commandant to adopt the plan of retiring to
the ship each night, so that, whatever might befall his men upon the
mainland, he at least would be in a position of comparative safety.
By this it will be perceived that Roussilac was not altogether of that
stuff of which heroes are made. Nor was he a man of exceptional
ability. He had fought his way up to his present post of
responsibility with the aid of fortune and a natural capacity for
obeying orders, although, while he had been ascending, he preferred to
forget his Norman parents and connections, merely because they happened
to be poor and humble folk. His mother's brother and her husband, the
latter driven out of France for heresy, were living upon a small
holding, little more than a day's journey from the fortress; Jean-Marie
Labroquerie, their only son, had lately joined the ranks of his small
army; but the commandant was too proud, or perhaps too cowardly, to
acknowledge these kinsfolk, and in his heart he found the hope that
Madame Labroquerie, his aunt, a woman of bitter memories, with a sharp
tongue and a passionate nature, would never seek to reach the fortress
and shame him before his men. The selfish spirit of Richelieu was
working on in Arnaud de Roussilac, as indeed it worked through the
character of almost all the creatures of the Cardinal.
Still perplexed by the problems of his position, the commandant recited
the prayers without which no soldier of the age could have deemed
himself safe from the perils of the night, placed his sword ready to
his hand, and retired to his hammock, although darkness had scarcely
settled over the land. In a few minutes he was asleep.
These early slumbers were rudely broken by a heavy hand which seized
and shook him by the shoulder. The glare of a torch hurt his eyes,
when he opened them to discover the tanned features of D'Archand, the
master of the ship, between the folds of the netting spread to exclude
the ever-hostile insects.
"An attack," muttered Roussilac, in the first moment of consciousness.
"A plague upon these English."
"Hasten!" cried D'Archand. "The fortress is in an uproar. La Salle
has insulted the Dutch master, and a duel is imminent."
At that Roussilac awoke fully, and, stretching out his arm, drew the
square port-hole open, admitting the sound of the tidewater under the
ship's counter, and beyond, a sharp murmur of excited voices. Craning
his neck, he discovered an intermittent flashing of lights along the
pathway under the cliff.
"Now may the saints help me!" the commandant exclaimed, as he felt for
his cloak. "I have no shadow of power over these priests. More
willingly would I oppress a witch than cross a Churchman. Magic can
only rot a man's body, but excommunication touches his soul. What is
the cause of this quarrel?"
"I know not," answered D'Archand. "But duelling has been forbidden
altogether----"
"By Church and State alike," the commandant interrupted testily. "The
Cardinal might as well forbid the plague to strike his army. When the
Church itself breaks the law, how is the head of the army to act?"
The captains speedily left the ship, ascended the winding path, and
entered the street of fishermen.
All the inhabitants appeared to be gathered together upon the low
ground, to witness the by no means unprecedented spectacle of a duel
between priest and layman. They stood six deep under the cliff, with
as many more upon the side of the river; old and young, women in soiled
stiff caps, ragged settlers, and soldiers in faded accoutrements side
by side. A ring of men, holding spluttering pine torches, or oil
lanterns, the flames of which smoked and flickered up and down the horn
sides, enclosed an open space where two shadowy figures swayed almost
noiselessly, facing one another, each right arm directing a rapier
which flashed continually in the confused lights.
"I would the challenger were any other than the Abbe La Salle,"
muttered Roussilac. "He would cut off my hopes of Heaven as readily as
he shall presently run through yonder Dutchman."
"There is no finer swordsman in the new world than the abbe," whispered
D'Archand in his ear. "If Van Vuren be killed, the Cardinal shall
account you responsible, and I too shall not escape blame. This new
alliance may not hold if the deed be known in Paris."
Roussilac started forward, and scattered the people, who were too
excited to recognise him.
"Put up your swords!" he shouted. "I charge you, sir priest, in the
King's name to cease fighting with this man, who is my guest and our
common ally."
"Corpus Domini!" cried Laroche, staggering towards the commandant, his
big face flushed with excitement and liquor. "Order the wind to cease,
commandant, or yon river to stop its flow. Attempt to restrain La
Salle when his blood is hot! Know you, sir, this is an affair of
honour."
"It is not you who shall suffer from the breaking of the law, sir
priest," protested the representative. "By St. Gris! a master-stroke!"
he exclaimed, unable altogether to suppress his soldierly instincts.
La Salle, foreseeing an interruption, had closed with his enemy in a
vigorous skirmish of rapid and clever feints, culminating in a stroke
the admirable technique of which had wrung an involuntary testimony
from the commandant. Van Vuren escaped by a side movement, which to
the onlookers partook of the nature of a lucky accident. But there was
a smear of blood upon the priest's rapier when he pressed again to the
attack.
"Yon Dutchman shall be the only sufferer," said Laroche. "Only
bloodshed can satisfy the Abbe La Salle. Nature must run her course.
There stands a scar upon my brother's back, made by this Van Vuren's
sword four years ago at the corner of a dark turning in Avignon. What
was the cause? Well, commandant, a woman they say is always the cause;
but my friend is, like myself, a priest, and therefore above suspicion
so far as women are concerned. Dutchmen have hard heads and slow
brains. It is also said of them that if they can run from an enemy
with honour they will run. My brother was one night returning home
after administering at a sick bed; beside a corner he heard a step,
and, before he could turn, a sword point went in his back. The
Dutchman's honour was satisfied. He ran, but he was marked as he
escaped. In Avignon during those days Van Vuren was known by another,
and less honourable, name. But the devil may wear a halo and remain
the devil."
While the abbe spoke, some heavy clouds, which had gathered over the
heights, darkening the night, began to discharge themselves in rain,
which presently lashed in so heavy a torrent that the pine torches were
extinguished, and the men holding the lanterns had much difficulty to
maintain the feeble flames. La Salle, with his back to the storm,
drove the Hollander before him through the hissing rain, the people
falling away as the duellists advanced, their blades gleaming and
grating through the silvery lines of water. A muffled shout went up.
Van Vuren had been palpably hit upon the shoulder. La Salle smiled
grimly and still pressed on, lunging repeatedly over the captain's
guard, taking every risk of a wound as he hastened to make his victory
sure.
Roussilac cleared the road, the people only obeying when the soldiers
prepared to enforce their officer's order.
"Gentlemen," cried the commandant, advancing, with an imprecation upon
the rain, "drop your swords, I pray of you."
"The devil seize you!" shouted La Salle, throwing out his left arm.
"His point was not an inch from me."
"Put up your swords," repeated Roussilac, boldly disregarding the
remonstrance. "Sir priest, it is the will of the Cardinal."
These were potent words, and for one moment the abbe hesitated. He
lowered his point with an angry side glance upon his interrupter, and
the affair would then have finished had not a dark figure stopped out
from the shadow under the cliff, and thrown itself into position with
the muffled warning, "En garde!"
"Ah, dog!" cried La Salle, starting forward through the rain with
scarcely a ray of light between him and his adversary.
When a line of lightning broke the sky, an exclamation burst from his
lips and his bold cheek blanched. During that momentary illumination
La Salle beheld his enemy clearly. He saw a mean man clad in a suit of
faded red with torn and stained ruffles; his hair gathered behind and
tied with a piece of grass; his hat broken out of shape and adorned
sadly with half a plume. And when Laroche held up a lantern, the
fighting priest saw further that what he had taken for a negroid skin
was merely a mask which covered the stranger's face, slit with holes
for the eyes and mouth.
"This," muttered La Salle, cold with terror as he warded off an attack
which was far more aggressive than that of Van Vuren, "this is the work
of Satan."
Roussilac touched D'Archand, pointing along the path which bent down to
the river, and whispered, "Wait for the lightning."
When the flash passed, the master saw the big figure of the Dutchman
hurrying to reach his ship, his sword still drawn in his hand.
"Then, who is this?" exclaimed D'Archand, with a frightened oath,
indicating through the beating rain the man behind the mask.
Roussilac signed himself, and said nothing.
Laroche hurried up, his big face streaming, the lantern shaking in his
hands like a will-o'-the-wisp, his attitude grotesque with terror.
"What witchcraft is here?" he shouted. "See you how this Dutchman has
changed body and appearance as well as name?"
"Van Vuren is not here," said Roussilac gravely. "He ran when the abbe
lowered his sword; and so soon as he had gone--nay, before--yonder
figure stepped out of the darkness under the cliff and challenged La
Salle. You see he has covered his face. It is the mad Englishman who
fights for the love of fighting. And the English cover the earth like
flies."
"I shall stiffen his arm, be he heretic or devil," said the stout
priest; and he went and stood near the duellists, and, boldly facing
the stranger, cursed him prolifically in the name of Holy Church and
the King of Rome.
The stranger did not turn, and only acknowledged the anathemas by a
perfectly distinct laugh which issued weirdly from the mask.
No man had ever called La Salle's bravery in question. Facing an
enemy, who had started as it were from the rocks before him in the rain
and the lightning, he met the resolute attack and parried every lunge.
In truth, the priest was a fine swordsman; but his resource in skirmish
and detail was here taxed to the uttermost. All he could do at his
best was to hold out the short sword, which flashed in and out of the
rain, controlled by a wrist of steel and an iron arm. The masked man
gave forth no sound of hard breathing. He was a master of swordcraft,
and La Salle knew that he had met his match. Here was no nervous
Dutchman to be trifled with; no hectoring soldier with a hearty oath
and bluff swagger. La Salle sweated, and his breath came pricking in
hot gasps, and a cold thrill trickled along his back when he allowed
himself to wonder who the enemy might be.
The stranger guarded against treachery, hugging the cliff lest anyone
with hostile intentions might pass behind and reach his back. Had he
moved out, he would assuredly have beaten down the abbe's defence; as
it was, the latter was acting upon the defensive, and doing so with
much difficulty.
The rain stopped on an instant. As suddenly the clouds fell back to
admit the light; and the rugged shadows of the rocks traced fantastic
shapes along the Rue des Pecheurs.
The strained voice of Laroche broke the stillness.
"A touch!"
"Liar!" shouted back the hard-driven but proud priest, although he felt
warm blood oozing between his fingers.
The masked man feared the light which followed the sweeping away of the
storm clouds. He bestirred himself, feinted with amazing rapidity
within and without the pass, then his limber wrist stiffened for the
second, and his point darted in like a poisonous snake over the hilt
and wounded La Salle upon the muscle of the sword-arm.
"A touch!" shouted the captains together, both too excited to have any
thought for the law.
"An accident," gasped the proud priest. "A misfortune."
"Well, here's a touch!" called a deep English voice; and as the
challenger made his nationality known he lunged beneath the abbe's
blade, thrusting out until the blood spurted upward in a jet.
"Yes, yes. A touch--I confess," panted La Salle; and he staggered
back, crossed his legs, and fell heavily.
"By St. Michael!" shouted the fat Laroche, furiously pulling out his
sword and reaching towards the shadow under the cliff. "You shall pay,
assassin, for this."
The mysterious stranger chuckled, disarmed Laroche in a moment,
scratching the stout abbe's wrist with his point, and before the two
officers and the handful of soldiers could bestir themselves, he had
disappeared round the bend of the Rue des Pecheurs. Roussilac ran to
the ending of the way, but found no sign of the masked man, who had
vanished as mysteriously as he had arrived.