INTO DEATH'S JAWS AGAIN
Into Herrick's oblivion there crept dreams presently. No longer was
the rope tightening round his throat; his limbs began to lose their
numbness, and a grateful sensation of warmth ran through them. There
was movement about him; hands, gentle hands, touched him; and eyes
looked steadily at him--not the eyes of one who was ready to strike
with a knife, not the eyes of an old hag. These were beautiful eyes,
with kindness in them, the eyes of a woman who had compassion. They
were surely a woman's fingers, too, which had gently eased the rope
tightening at his throat.
"His is more a weary sleep than exhaustion now."
The voice came suddenly to the dreamer's ears out of the darkness.
Then for an instant there was light about him, dancing flames full of
life, and huge, distorted shadows moving over him. Contentment was
here, and sleep--sleep with no more dreams in it.
When he opened his eyes again, they fell upon a small square patch of
daylight; then, turning his head, he saw a red glow a few paces from
him, and the fragrance of burning peat was in his nostrils. He did not
seem to be dreaming now, yet he knew not where he was, nor how he had
come there. He remembered riding hard. Where? Why? Some run over
difficult country with the hounds in full cry! He had been leading the
field; that he recollected, and then--a rope at his throat. In a flash
it came back to him--the escape, the recapture, the wounded man, the
threatening knife, the bound, aching limbs, the star above him in the
night sky. What had happened since? Where was he?
He raised himself on his elbow, and the movement disturbed a figure
sitting near the peat fire.
"So you are awake at last?"
"Lemasle!" said Herrick as the man bent over him.
"Ay, the same; ready for another fight against odds, if need be, but
sore weary of watching a sick man. The gods gave me not the gift of
nursing."
"Is it the dawn coming in at the window yonder?" Herrick asked.
"Yes; and a plaguey wet dawn, too. You can hear the rain on the roof,
hear it hissing as it falls down the chimney onto the peat. It rained
all night and all yesterday."
"Yesterday? There was sunlight when we came upon the clearing,
and----"
"That was the day before," Lemasle answered. "'Twixt fainting and
sleeping you've lost full twice round the clock."
"Tell me," said Herrick.
"Have you all your wits?" Lemasle asked.
"Yes; and strength returning slowly. Let me lie here and listen."
"You remember how we dashed forward when the scoundrels began to creep
up behind us?"
"Yes; and we were stopped from following you."
"For a time we were unconscious of that," said Lemasle. "There were
galloping horses behind us, and without looking back I shouted to
encourage you. When I did glance behind, I saw that we were pursued,
but of you I saw nothing. I bade Mademoiselle ride on, and then I
turned, firing upon those that followed. Faith, playing the traitor
breeds cowardice in a man. There were four of them, yet they halted.
If they wanted to make an end of me, now was their opportunity, I
cried, and they hung back like curs from the challenge. One man I hit,
his hand went suddenly to his face, where I think the bullet struck
him, and he pitched into the ditch by the roadside, what soul he was
possessed of going quickly to its judgment. The rest turned and
galloped back the way they had come. Perchance they had no firearms,
perhaps they saw that the Duke was not with me, but the laughter I
sent after them should have made them fight had they been men. I did
not know the country reared such curs as these. So I rode on to
Mademoiselle. I would have taken her to safety ere I returned to look
for you, since I hold that a man's first duty is toward the woman he
has in his keeping, but she would not. Faith, Herrick, I think she
still believed you half a traitor, and I did you justice arguing your
cause for full an hour as we went carefully among the trees in search
of you. But I talk. It is you who should tell me your tale first."
"Finish, captain. I have wit enough to listen, but hardly to talk much
yet."
"Is the Duke safe?" asked Lemasle.
"Wounded, but not to the death; and I saw his hurt attended to. Finish
your tale, captain."
"We had to go carefully," Lemasle went on, "for the scoundrels were
still searching in the forest. More than once we only just escaped
their notice. Mademoiselle took courage from this, for she argued that
they had not got the Duke. For none other of us would they have
troubled to look so long. Toward evening we came upon a hag gathering
sticks, and questioned her whether she had seen or heard aught. The
old beldame muttered that her eyes were bad and her hearing worse and
all she could see and hear were things that should happen in the
future. She held out her dirty palm for silver that we might have our
fortunes told, and I was minded to let her tell them, for love would
certainly have been in them and perchance set Mademoiselle thinking in
my direction. Mademoiselle would have none of it, however, and we got
a shower of curses instead of a blessing. It was growing dark when we
chanced upon the hut of a charcoal burner, this place where we now
are. It was empty, but the peat was smouldering in the corner, so we
waited, stabling our horses in the shed without. The man would return
shortly, and he might have news. There were two men, and when they
came they made us welcome, but of news they had none. They had been at
a distance that day, had neither seen any armed men nor heard the
sound of strife. But when I mentioned the hag, they immediately agreed
that robbers had been in the neighborhood, for they knew this same old
woman as being of their company, a sort of mother witch among them,
and, more, knew the spot where they would most likely have camped. One
of the men stayed with the horses lest in our absence they should be
stolen, the other took a lantern and led us to the place. There had
been a recent encampment, but we found nothing to help us, and were
returning across a little clearing when the feeble light of the
lantern fell upon a tree beside us, and there was a man tied--dead, we
thought. Your head had fallen forward, Herrick, so that the rope,
though loose about your neck, pressed on your throat. Had we not found
you, I warrant you would have been past help before morning. They were
tender hands that lifted your head and deft fingers that undid the
rope about your neck. Faith, I was jealous of an unconscious man, and
would fain have been in his place to have received such service. I
quickly cut the cords that bound you, and the charcoal-burner and I
carried you here; since when you have been faint and sleeping hour
after hour till I wondered whether you would ever be yourself again."
Herrick got up slowly, stretched himself, and walked toward the fire.
"Is mademoiselle still here?" he asked.
Lemasle pointed to a rough door.
"There is a second room there."
As he spoke the door opened, and Christine entered.
"I rejoice to see you nearly yourself again. You have been most foully
used."
Her face just then was like the face that had looked at him in his
dreams. Herrick bowed somewhat stiffly and unsteadily over the hand
she held out to him, for the ache was still in his limbs.
"Truly, mademoiselle, my service had come near to ending before it was
well begun. Death has been hunting me more busily than I care for."
"What of the Duke?"
"He is alive," Herrick answered. "Mine is a tale you may well find
difficult to believe."
"For unbelief, circumstances must be my excuse," she answered after a
moment's pause. "There is yet time for repentance. Sit on this
stool--you are still weak, I see--and tell us the story."
Herrick told what had happened from the moment Lemasle had made his
dash across the clearing, repeated even the old hag's doggerel rhyme,
and his own last consciousness of a star above him which pointed
toward home.
"These thieves did not say to whom they would take him?" Christine
asked him when he had finished.
"To the enemy who would pay highest. These robbers were in no doubt
which direction to go. That a big reward would be paid for the Duke's
person seemed well known to them. Have none been sent to spy in the
enemies' borders, since it would appear spies are so frequent in
Montvilliers?"
"We have ever fought our foe openly," she said, turning sharply from
the fire by which she was standing.
"One must meet craft with craft," Herrick answered.
"Have you no word of advice, Captain Lemasle?" she asked.
The soldier shrugged his great shoulders, and walking to the fire,
kicked back a piece of smouldering peat which had fallen from its
place.
"Advice doesn't trip easily to my tongue at any time, and here there
are so many considerations. Had the Duke fallen into the hands of
those who attacked us, he would have been a dead man by now. I take it
that our present position is an improvement upon that."
"They will certainly keep him alive," said Herrick.
"And therefore must travel slowly," said Christine. "We may overtake
them."
"We are but two men, mademoiselle," Lemasle remarked. "To attempt the
impossible is to court disaster. Besides, they have had many hours'
start, and there is no certainty where they have gone."
Christine looked at Herrick, evidently asking his opinion.
"I should not shirk another desperate venture, mademoiselle," he said,
"but there is wisdom in what Captain Lemasle says. To speak frankly, I
do not know the real situation in Montvilliers well enough to give an
opinion."
"And having heard it, you might have difficulty in understanding it,"
Lemasle muttered.
"At least you know that Count Felix has plotted the death of the young
Duke," said Christine.
"That was the story which sent me to warn you," said Herrick.
"I have not believed that tale, I hardly credit it now," she went on,
"but we know that the Duke's life has been attempted. Maurice dead,
Felix becomes Duke. Montvilliers cannot be long without a ruler.
Maurice in the hands of France or Germany is powerless; therefore this
way Felix becomes Duke."
"Would not the people strike a blow for their rightful ruler?" Herrick
asked.
"In their present mind they are more likely to listen to Count Felix.
He is a strong man and has plenty of honeyed words when they fit in
with his purpose. In Vayenne they hardly know Maurice, and the crowd
likes a leader it can see; that is why I was so set on bringing him to
the city."
"As the Duke is not dead, the Count may fear to move in this matter,"
said Herrick.
"You do not know him," Lemasle said.
"Even now some of these traitors have ridden back to Vayenne," said
Christine. "While we talk, preparations may be going forward for
Felix's crowning. Would I were a man!"
"What would you do, mademoiselle?" asked Herrick.
"Do! I would ride to Vayenne, throw this treachery in Felix's teeth,
demand the Duke's rescue, set all the wheels of diplomacy turning,
and, if need be, cry revolution in the streets."
"Mademoiselle might set the law aside that forbids women to mount the
throne, and do all this herself," said Lemasle.
"I am no breaker of laws, captain; and even if I were, the citizens of
Vayenne would not easily shout for me. A few--oh yes, there would be a
few, but they would be of the rabble chiefly. I have no soul for such
an enterprise."
"Yet you might go to the Count," urged Lemasle, "and demand justice
for the Duke."
"And every courtier would urge my marriage with Count Felix," she
said. "That way will they welcome me as Duchess, who would not draw a
sword to place me on the throne. Such a marriage might bring peace.
Were the Duke dead, I might be tempted to make it for my country's
sake. As it is----"
"You hate such a marriage?" said Herrick.
"Yes; hate it. Only to save Montvilliers would I make it."
"Mademoiselle, if you bid me, I will go to Vayenne."
"You!"
"Think what you will of me, but at least have I not proved myself a
man?" said Herrick.
"There was no mean thought in my mind," she answered. "But what would
you do in Vayenne?"
"Why, even cast this treachery in the Count's teeth; let the city know
that its honor is at stake, since the Duke is a prisoner; if need be,
boast loudly of what I have done to save him, and perhaps ride at the
head of that rabble you talk of."
"You would go to your death."
"If I care not, who is there to hinder me on that score?"
"It might be done," said Lemasle; "indeed it might, mademoiselle. You
and I could follow to the city. They will not harm you, and you would
not go to the castle, where at present you might be unwelcome."
"I might go to the Countess Elisabeth, and----"
"And from thence let it be known that you were for Duke Maurice,"
cried Lemasle. "Faith, I see the Count 'twixt devil and deep sea
already."
"We talk folly," said Christine.
"You must lend me a horse, Lemasle," said Herrick. "I must be there
without delay. You must come slower, at mademoiselle's stirrup, unless
you chance on a mount on the forest road."
"I'll see to it at once."
"No; it is folly," said Christine; but Lemasle had already gone.
"Won't you accept my service, mademoiselle?" said Herrick.
"You go to certain death."
"The death of a man has won a cause before this."
"But what part have you in the quarrels of Montvilliers," she
asked--"you, a stranger? Why should you adventure yourself in such a
cause?"
"Men are driven forward by all sorts of reasons," he answered
carelessly. "The spirit of the wanderer brought me here; fate drew me
into this quarrel, against my will, it is true, but I have a mind to
see the end of it."
"You do not count the cost," she said eagerly.
"I do not think of it, mademoiselle."
"But you must. You shall not go!"
"You refuse my service?"
"Yes, because it is folly; there is no reason in it. Against your will
you have played a part; they are your own words. Take one of the
horses. Ride to the frontier. I will not have your death on my hands."
"It was against my will, mademoiselle, but it is so no longer. Would
you have another reason for my service? A woman thought me a spy. I
would prove her wrong."
"Believe me, I have already repented that such a thought was in my
mind. Forgive me, and seek your own safety."
"Any other woman in the world may think or say what she will of me,
and I shall not care," Herrick whispered.
Slowly she raised her eyes to his.
"So you looked at me, mademoiselle, in the Castle of Vayenne the other
night, so you have looked at me in dreams since then. I would serve
you to the death."
Lemasle burst suddenly into the hut. Talk of action excited him, and
there were dangers ahead to appeal to him to the full.
"The horse is ready, Herrick--my horse. There is not a scratch upon
him, for all the blows that were struck at him in the clearing. These
good fellows, the charcoal-burners, have already a kettle bubbling
over a fire in the shed without; you may scent the appetizing smell
from here. Breakfast, and then----"
"But you are weak still," said Christine. "At least delay a day."
"I grow stronger every moment, mademoiselle. You have only to say you
accept my service."
"I accept it for the Duke's sake," she answered, stretching out her
hand; "for his sake and for my own."
There was a gentleness in her last words which made Lemasle glance
quickly at them, but Herrick did not notice the look as he raised
Christine's hand to his lips.
In less than an hour Herrick was in the saddle.
"By good providence we shall meet in Vayenne," he said as the horse
bounded forward down the narrow forest path.
"There goes a brave man," said Lemasle.
Christine did not answer. She stood at the door of the hut for some
time after the horseman had disappeared among the trees, and there was
color in her cheeks and tears in her eyes.