GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN
But meanwhile there was a pause. Below, in the defenceless doorway,
Hugues and La Mothe stood shoulder to shoulder for one of those fiery
instants which try a man's nerve rather than his courage. For the
moment the Dauphin was saved. But they had no illusions. It was only
for the moment, and both knew that in the moment to follow the danger
would not be for the Dauphin alone. But only one, Stephen La Mothe,
gave that a thought, and it was not for himself. Ursula de Vesc? The
masked scoundrel who, panting with the rage of disappointment, faced
them three yards away, one hand still gripping the reins of the horse
by whose head he stood, the other a naked sword, had his half-score of
cut-throats behind him, and could afford to leave no witness to his
outrage. There would be no pity for Ursula de Vesc.
"Damnation," cried La Mothe almost in a sob, and, forgetting that he,
too, wore a sword, he would have sprung upon him barehanded in his
despair had not Hugues forced him to keep his place.
"Not yet," he whispered. "Wait; perhaps--later----" and the moment of
possibility had passed. The troop was upon them.
But their leader held them back.
"Wait," he said in his turn. "We may save time. Be wise, and give us
the Dauphin. We are a dozen, you only three or four. We are sure to
have him in the end."
"On what terms?" It was Hugues who answered.
"Terms?" cried La Mothe. "Hugues, there can be no terms."
"Your pardon, Monsieur La Mothe," said Hugues. "You are a gentleman,
but I am only a servant," and in his excitement La Mothe never paused
to ask himself why Hugues should so classify a hedge minstrel of the
Duchy of Lackeverything. "It is a fine thing, no doubt, to die for
your honour, but what have I to do with honour? Life is life. The
boy, on what terms?"
"Your lives. And you gain nothing by refusing. The boy is ours in any
case."
"Never," said La Mothe, struggling to shake off the restraining hand
that pinned him, helpless, half behind the doorpost. "Never while I
live."
"Just so," answered Hugues, tightening his grasp; "not while you live.
But afterwards? and what better are we then, or the Dauphin either?
Give me three minutes, monsieur, to persuade him, just three minutes,"
and in La Mothe's ear he whispered, "For God's sake be quiet or you
will ruin us all."
"Three minutes? Play me no tricks, my man."
"But, monsieur," and Hugues' voice was a whine as he spoke. "What
trick is possible? You are a dozen, we three or four. And are we not
caught like rats in a pit?"
"Like rats! You have said the word! Take your three minutes, rat, and
don't forget that like rats we'll kill you."
Urging his point vehemently, pleadingly, and with every plausible
argument at his command, but never slackening his grip, Hugues drew La
Mothe a yard or two into the blackened ruin. There he held him with a
wary eye to a possible surprise. Blaise and Marcel were on the upper
floor and only La Follette was in sight, standing guard at the
stair-head.
"Listen," he said. "Monseigneur is dearer to me than to you. Do you
think I would give up one hair of him while I live, I, who sleep at his
door of nights? Never, not one hair! But between us we may save him
yet. Shake your head, curse me for a coward, for a scoundrel, try to
throw me off, strike me if you like. Yes, yes," he insisted, raising
his voice, "it is our lives; why lose our lives for nothing?" Then, in
a whisper, "They will give the alarm from the fields; it is only a mile
to Amboise----"
"But it is a mile--a mile to go, a mile to come back----"
"It is the one chance," answered Hugues loudly, fawning on La Mothe
with a hand which aped persuasion. The words had a double meaning and
held La Follette quiet, La Follette who might have ruined all through
incomprehension. "You know the bench where Mademoiselle sits to watch
the play? When I cry Now! rush up and fling it across the gap of the
stair-head. It will hold them back for a time. Then, for God's sake,
Monsieur La Mothe, fight, fight, fight. Fight to the last. It is for
life, it is for France, it is for Mademoiselle."
"And you?"
"I will hold the door."
"But that is death."
"It will give you a minute, or two, or three."
"Then it is my place; I have a sword."
"I love him best," answered Hugues. To him was the one unanswerable
argument; he loved him best, and love had the right to die for love's
sake. "You understand? When I cry Now! run--run."
"Hugues, Hugues, let me----"
"Do you think a valet cannot love?"
"It is time," said a voice from without. "Are you ready, rats?"
"Yes, monsieur, yes, yes. I have him persuaded Just one little moment.
Monsieur La Mothe, NOW! Now!"
"No, Hugues, no, let me----"
"Damn you, man, would you murder the Dauphin for a scruple? Now! I
say, Now!"
"I have a sword----"
But Hugues had caught up the slender cudgel dropped by Marcel in his
flight for the stairs and was already in the doorway.
"If you want the Dauphin, come and take him. God save the Dauphin!
France! France!" and drawing a deep breath he stood on guard, one
wooden sword against a dozen of steel.
"Bravo, Hugues," cried La Follette from above. "Hold the scoundrels
while you can, and God be with you. Come, La Mothe, come, come."
And what could La Mothe do but obey? For a moment he glanced this way
and that, uncertain, drawn to the one man who stood alone against such
odds, yet knowing that to aid him was the surest way to make Hugues'
sacrifice unavailing. Then he jumped for the stairs; but not before
the doorway was darkened; not before he heard the dull clash of steel
upon wood; not before Hugues had stifled a cry which told that the
offering up of the sacrifice had begun.
And as it began so it ended. But how desperately the breach was held,
how desperately Hugues fought with his mockery of a sword, with his
bare hands, with his very breast, they could only guess when he was
found later with the staff in splinters, his palms and arms hacked and
gashed, his bosom agape with dumb mouths which told their tale of love
and splendid courage lavished to the utmost. He died with all his
wounds in front; he died for loyalty, for love's sake, giving his life
without a grudge. Could a Roland or a Charlemagne have done more?
Reaching forward La Follette seized La Mothe, dragging him up the last
three stairs, "Draw, man, draw, we will fight them here." But La Mothe
shook him off.
"This first," he said, and catching up the broad, unbacked bench which
day by day had served Ursula de Vesc as a resting-place he flung it,
flat downwards, across the railless stair-head. "It's done, Hugues,
and never fear but we'll fight," he cried, offering the only comfort he
could to the man who, down below, gave his life for them all. "Now,
Follette, I am ready."
But Hugues still held the door, and for the first time La Mothe had
leisure to look round him. In the background were Blaise and
Marcel--barehanded, silent, helpless. The younger, Marcel, was crying
openly but dumbly, the tears running unheeded and unwiped down his
cheeks; the other, dogged and dour, with teeth and fists clenched, was
of braver stuff, a fighter, but without a weapon. Midway, still
exhausted from his flight, Charles lay on his elbow, propped against
Ursula de Vesc, who stooped above him with one arm round his shoulders
as support. The boy's long narrow face was paler beyond his natural
pallor, but his mouth was firm-set, his eyes bright and dry. The
girl's features were hidden, and Stephen La Mothe was not sure whether
he was glad or sorry. To have read coldness or reproach in her eyes at
such a time would have been bitter indeed.
It was but a glance, then La Follette touched his arm. Down below
there was no longer the rasp of steel on wood. Hugues was fighting now
barehanded, but he had been better than his word--the three minutes had
been prolonged to four. Then came a cry, "Ah, God!" and La Mothe heard
Ursula de Vesc sob. For a moment she looked up and their glances met,
but there was little time to read her message, little time to see
anything but the pain in the grey eyes. A rush of feet on the stairs
called him, and side by side with La Follette he bent across the well.
The bench half covered the opening, but there were slits of a foot or
more wide at either edge, opening the way for attack.
But the rush ceased almost as soon as it began. This new obstacle was
unlooked for, and between the slits those above could see the savagely
passionate faces of the besiegers staring up at them. Then one, bolder
or more enterprising than the rest, crept up cautiously step by step,
measuring his distance as he advanced.
"Cover me," he said to the next lower. "Strike at whatever shows
itself," and thrust blindly upwards. It was their first sight of bare
steel, and Ursula de Vesc drew in her breath with a shiver as she saw
the red smear upon its flat. "Oh! Hugues, Hugues," she moaned, and
the Dauphin, catching at her hand with both his, shrank closer.
"Damnation!" cried La Mothe, striking fiercely at the blade as it
darted from side to side or sawed back and forth. But when he would
have struck a second time La Follette curtly forbade him.
"You may break your sword, and he can do no harm from where he is."
So they discovered for themselves, and the foremost crept yet a step
higher. But when he struck afresh La Follette, lunging aslant and
downwards, caught him below the wrist. With a curse he let the blade
fall clattering, and there was a pause. But if he were bolder, those
behind had not been idle. A voice from the background cried out to
clear the steps, and before those above understood the altered tactics
a picket, drawn from the palisade, was thrust between the bench and the
wall. It was La Follette who first grasped the danger.
"Blaise--Marcel!" he cried. "Here on the bench both of you and hold it
down."
But only one answered the call. Marcel was on his knees in the corner
praying for the miracle which should be his own handiwork, not the
first man nor the last who has called on God to bear the burden his own
shoulder refuses. Blaise was of better stuff. "Here I am, monsieur,"
he cried, but before he could bring his weight to bear a second picket,
sharpened at the point, was rammed up and forward with two men's
strength, driving the bench aslant till its end dipped and it fell with
a crash, scattering those below, but with little hurt. The way was
open, but Hugues' foresight had added five minutes to the four.
"For the Lord's sake," cried Blaise, staring into the welter below,
"give me something in my bare hand. Rats, he called us, rats, and I
won't die like a rat, I won't, I won't." It was the cry of primitive
nature and the Dauphin answered it.
"Here," said he, rising on his knees as he unbuckled his own small
sword. "You are stronger than I am. Be a man, Blaise."
"You'll see, Monseigneur, you'll see. Come up, you curs, come up.
Rats, you said? Come up and meet a man."
"Three men," said Mademoiselle. "Monsieur La Mothe, is there nothing I
can do?"
"Nothing, mademoiselle," he answered, and turning met her eyes with a
smile. He knew he was forgiven, and thanked Hugues in his heart that
he had lived so long. But for Hugues he would have died at the door,
died in ignorance. The comfort was the dead man's gift to him, and
now, in the paradox of nature, because of that comfort it would not be
so hard to follow him.
But if to die comforted would be less hard, there was something much
more than comfort to live for, and to La Mothe the odds did not seem
utterly hopeless. Three resolute men could surely hold the well hole
till succour came. Resolute? Much more than resolute--desperate.
Again he glanced aside at Ursula de Vesc. Had he not the best cause
the world holds to be resolute to desperation? Hugues had died for
love's sake, please God he would live for it.