L'ESPÉE CARNACIERE
"God knows what has happened," he said to Marion Wyatt when he had
returned to her. "Yet one thing is sure. There is no escape now. We
are snared."
"Is it treachery?" she whispered, shaking and white to the lips with
terror, so that she looked more like a spectre than before. "Treachery
on the part of the man in whom you confided?"
It was not strange the girl should be so startled, so overcome. For
more than a year she had been incarcerated in this house (as yet
Andrew knew not how she had been brought here, scarce knew, indeed,
whether, after all, Debrasques had not been mistaken, and that,
originally, at least, she might have come here of her own free will,
even though made a prisoner of afterwards), had been incarcerated
here with no hope of escape. Then, as she reflected hurriedly, the
chance had come, unlooked for--as chances come always to us in this
life--and, as unexpectedly, had been snatched away a moment
afterwards. Snatched away, while leaving behind it a horror greater
than before! For now, this man, the brother of that other who was her
affianced husband, had placed himself also in deadly, hideous peril. A
peril that must surely engulf him, since there was no loophole left
for escape. He would be found here, must be found ere many hours had
passed--and then! What would happen then? She dared not even think,
could not think; could do nothing but stand trembling before him,
white to the lips.
"Scarcely treachery on Laurent's part, madame," Andrew replied, and,
as he spoke, Marion still gazing at him as she had done since his
return from the garret, wondered if this cool, determined man could,
indeed, be gentle Philip's brother! This man who, here, shut up in a
hostile house, with death threatening him as the reward for his
intrusion when once he should be discovered, spoke as calmly as though
he stood on his own brother's hearth.
"Scarcely treachery, I think. The rope was not-unwound from the tree
as, doubtless, it would have been by him, had he resolved to play me
false. Instead, when I drew it up to make examination, it was cut
cleanly through. Also, somewhat shorter than before. Whereby I found
it had been severed hastily."
"By whom, think you?"
"How can I say? How tell? The following of the man, in whose
house we are, are all asleep. Not by them, therefore. As for him, De
Bois-Vallée. Where Is he?"
For answer, she started as one starts who is suddenly reminded of that
which it would be well they had not forgotten.
"My God!" she exclaimed, "to-day is Friday. He was expected back
to-night."
"From where?"
"From Nancy. He had gone to seek the Duke----"
"To seek the Duke!" Andrew echoed. "To seek the Duke! Perhaps to make
his peace with him," he continued with a bitter laugh. "To be well
with the side that seems the winning one now!" Then he continued,
"Nancy is north of this. Between it and Remiremont the mountains run.
He might pass them, would pass them, doubtless, to gain his home. Yet,
why descend to the slope? There could be naught to arouse his
suspicions."
"Who else could have done this?" she asked, shaking still.
"I cannot say. Yet be sure of one thing, we shall know very soon. If
it is he, he must be here ere long, and then--then we shall meet
again."
"Again You have met before? And you do not fear him?"
"Fear him," said Andrew, looking down at her and touching her arm with
one finger as he spoke. "Fear him! Mistress Wyatt, I came from England
to----" Then he paused, knowing that he must not say too much as to
why he was there instead of Philip. Contented himself, consequently,
with saying, "No, madame, I do not fear him," and he laughed beneath
his breath, remembering that, unless he wished to precipitate matters,
he must not wake the sleepers below.
"Wake the sleepers below," he repeated to himself, musing, "wake the
sleepers below!"
Even as the thought of doing so ran through his mind, there sprang new
born into that mind another idea--the recollection that all was not
yet lost.
"What is it?" she whispered, knowing intuitively by his changed
countenance that some fresh plan had suddenly dawned on him. "What?
Tell me. I will be brave."
"Listen," he said, catching her by the arm in his excitement; bending
so low to murmur in her ear that his long moustache brushed her neck.
"There is one last hope. But--to avail ourselves of it you must be
bold. Very bold. You promise that you will?"
"Yes. Yes. I am brave now. What shall I do?"
"Come," he replied. "Come. Follow me," and he unlocked the door in
which he had turned the key on re-entering the room.
"Hold up your dress so that it makes no noise if you can do without
them, put off your shoes. I will carry you when we near the sleeping
quarters. Come."
She obeyed him, lifting up the end of her long robe with one hand,
then--because she was now, in truth, brave and nerved to face all--she
took off her shoes and carried them in her other hand. And, stepping
gently, she followed him out without question into the darkness of the
corridor.
Looking below, he could see by the flickering light of the still
burning logs that the man called Brach was fast asleep; indeed, could
very well hear that such was the case by the noise he made. But,
beyond the faint light which those logs emitted as they now smouldered
to an end, the whole house was enveloped in black gloom. Surely, he
thought, they should be able to steal to the great door, to turn the
key and emerge into the night without anyone being aroused. And, if
they were aroused--why! he had his sword and his pistols.
Feeling their way by the balustrades, her hand following his, they
crept down stair by stair until they had reached the floor below, and
could look over the wooden parapet that ran all around the square hall
here, seeing plainly the features of the slumbering man, on which,
occasionally, the light cast by little flecks of flame from the logs
would glance. Could see that he was plunged in a profound sleep--could
hear also the noise of the others snoring somewhere near.
He tapped now the hand that followed his down the stair-rail; once he
looked back and his lips muttered, "We shall succeed"; then they went
on. Stood at last in the stone-flagged hall with, between them and
Brach, a huge pillar that served as one of the supports to the floor
they had just left.
And still the sleeper never moved, but, instead, snored loudly, the
noise reverberating through the house.
Turning, he put his arm around Marion Wyatt's waist and lifted her off
the ground so that her body was on his shoulder--he seeming to her to
do this as easily as she, herself, could have lifted a velvet
cushion--then, on tiptoe, and keeping always in the deepest blackness
of the hall's extremity, he advanced to the great door and felt for
the lock. But the key was not in it! Had it been, another moment would
have seen them outside, since there was but one transverse bar to push
up, and one turn to be given to that key.
"The bunch is on the table," he whispered. "I see it glittering in the
light cast by the logs. Stay here while I go back for it and--if you
can--push up the bar that is athwart the panels. But, in the name of
heaven, of all our hopes, do it gently, softly. If it creaks or makes
any noise so as to awaken the man, I must stab him to the heart for
our own protection. Be careful--do it inch by inch--I will stand over
him. Begin when I am by his side."
A few moments more and he did stand over the other, his hand upon his
dagger ready to plunge it into Brach's heart should he awaken. Once,
too, that hand half drew the knife from its sheath--for the great
transverse bar creaked slightly as the girl removed it from its wooden
socket and pushed it upwards!
In his other hand he held the great bunch of keys!
And now the time had come; they were saved! The bar was up. Brach
still slept. All in the house was quiet as death. There was no more to
do but to fit in the key, turn it, and so go forth into the night.
They were saved!
* * * * * *
Across the hall he made his way, Marion Wyatt standing by
the great portal, her back to it, waiting for him to reach her.
Then--suddenly--on the vast _place_ without, they heard the rapid
clatter of a horse's hoofs, heard the iron of its shoes ring smartly
out upon the stones as it struck them; heard a man's voice call
harshly, "Ho! within. Open quickly," and, with a smothered shriek,
Marion fell on her knees, her hands clasped and wrung together.
"'Tis he," she wailed. "He! De Bois-Vallée. God help us We are lost."
"'Tis he for sure," Andrew replied. "As for being lost, we will see
for that. Put back the bolt. He is not in his house yet. Later, we
will open to him. At present the work is here," and, wasting no
further time, he rushed at the man, Brach, who, even though he had not
been already awakened, would have been so by the loud reverberation of
the bar as the distracted woman flung it back across the door into its
socket.
But he was awake now--as, Andrew knew, were the others. From the
room whence their snoring had proceeded, Beaujos was shouting, "the
master! the master!"--evidently he was not yet aware what else was
happening!--also the men clattering and stamping about, as they pulled
on their garments, were plainly to be heard. It was, however, with
Brach that Andrew had first to deal; Brach, who had by now staggered
from his chair to his feet and, although dazed with astonishment,
hurled himself with bulldog-like ferocity at the intruder. He was,
however, no match for him, who, added to other advantages, had no
drowsy slumbers to shake off, and who, as Brach rushed at him, struck
full at his head with the bunch of great keys and knocked him
senseless to the floor. Then, since it was no part of his intention to
allow De Bois-Vallée to enter his own house yet--in spite of the
infernal din which he was making on the door, accompanied by oaths,
threats of terrible punishments and other exclamations--he flung the
bunch on to the ashes of the now almost extinct fire.
He had but time to stride over to Marion Wyatt, who, a mass of
shivering fear, crouched against the door; to whisper a word to her
and bid her take heart--"they were not," he said, "undone yet"--when
into the hall rushed all the others, Beaujos at their head, while two
of those behind him carried lamps.
"Who in the devil's name are you?" exclaimed the steward, starting
back appalled at the sight of the man before him. "Who? Who? And how
come you here?"
That he should be appalled was not strange!
Andrew had by now unsheathed his sword--it shining ominously in the
light of the lamps carried by the men--in his left hand he held a
pistol. Also, his size and aspect, as he stood before Marion Wyatt,
covering her with his great form, were enough to affright a bolder man
than Beaujos.
"Your master's enemy to the death," he replied. "One also who has
vowed to save this woman from him. Hark, how that master clamours at
the door! Well, I will not have it opened. Therefore, stand back."
"Stand back!" exclaimed the other. "Stand back at your command!
Ay! thus," and with that he rushed at Andrew, wielding a large,
dangerous-looking blade as he did so.
"You are a fool," exclaimed the latter, "a fool! Best go and lock
yourself up in some room, I warn you. Otherwise it will go hard with
you."
For answer, the steward attacked him vigorously enough, and not
without some skill in the use of his weapon, yet jumped back quickly
at a sudden pass which Andrew made. A wicked pass he did not
understand, since, to his astonishment, the other's blade ran along
his until the hilts met with a clash, and, with a quick turn from its
owner's wrist, forced his own weapon from his hand.
"Away!" said Andrew, "you are useless at this play! Find another
weapon."
"I will," yelled Beaujos, and, as he stepped back, he seized a pistol
from the hand of one of the men and discharged it at Andrew. Then the
fellow thought his doom was sealed! For, in a moment, he knew that he
had missed him, and that the pistol which Andrew now lifted in his
left hand would be used with better aim. And, with a harsh cry, he
jumped behind one of the pillars, calling to the men to shoot Andrew
down; to throw themselves upon him and drag him to the ground.
Meanwhile, from outside the door, amidst the kicks and beatings which
the master of the house was administering, his voice arose:
"What devil's work is doing in there?" he called out. "And what means
this clash of arms and firing while I wait outside? Answer, you hounds
Are you snarling between yourselves, or whom have you there?"
For reply, Andrew struck the door with the butt of the pistol and
called back:
"You desire to know?"
"Ay, answer! Whose voice is that?" And it appeared as though his own
voice had changed somewhat as he asked the question.
"The voice," Andrew replied, "of Philip Vause's brother."
It seemed to him--his ears on the alert to catch the other's next
words--as though that reply produced a gasp from the man outside;
also, he thought, an awful, blasphemous curse. One thing for certain
it did produce--silence henceforth. De Bois-Vallée spoke no more.
But, now, he had to return to those around him, since, though Beaujos
had fled behind the pillar as Andrew raised his pistol, it was evident
that he had not desisted, but only retired temporarily from the
attack.
He was coming at him again, supported this time by the others; was
whispering--though so loudly and excitedly that each word was plainly
to be heard, "You, at his legs, you, seize his sword arm; I will run
him through. If that fails--shoot him dead."
"Gad so," said Andrew, answering him, "we will see."
Then the affray began. One man against four--a helpless, shaking woman
crouching behind that one.
Did ever sword flash as flashed that sword wielded by the intruder,
the pistols being unused at present! Beaujos' strokes were parried as
though by magic; like streaks of lightning the outnumbered man's
weapon darted forth; one, two, three passes it made, and, with a
clang, the steward's blade fell to the floor, his right arm pierced
through--the muscles and sinews cut to pieces, while, uttering a moan,
the wielder sank down slowly to the ground. Yet, as Andrew drew his
blade back, a serving-man leaped to his sword-arm, seized it by both
hands and, with the whole weight of his body, bore it down to Andrew's
side. But, even now, he was not conquered; with his left hand he dealt
the fellow such a blow as sent him reeling away--he was free again!
Free to face the others coming at him, their pistols ready, their
swords raised! In his movements his own pistol had fallen to the
ground and he did not see, nor know, what was happening behind. Yet, a
moment later, a report rang in his ears, one of the servitors threw up
his arms with a shriek and fell headlong before him--the fingers
clenched at the first joint above the palms--sure sign the heart was
reached!
'Twas Marion's hand had slain him! Her hand which had grasped the
fallen pistol!
Still, there were the others to be dealt with, and he braced himself
to do it.
Again his sword flashed, beat down the blade of the servitor who
struck at him, would, in a moment, have sent him to join the man whom
Marion had shot, when another report rang through the hall, a lurid
gleam of fire almost blinded him--and his own noble weapon dropped
from his hand; a faintness came over him, and he reeled back heavily
against the door.
As he did so, through the fast coming darkness that seemed to be
enveloping him he saw the remaining servitors raise their swords as
though to strike him down, saw also, behind them, another form
advancing swiftly from a low arched passage at the extremity of the
hall; recognized De Bois-Vallée!
And, as Andrew saw him, it seemed to his numbed senses that he heard
his enemy say:
"Hold your hand. He is for me alone. Injure him not."
Then the darkness became intense and he knew no more.