THE UNEXPECTED
Lying on his couch--if the bare floor and the rug upon which he found
himself could be called such--Andrew began to perceive that whatever
hurt he might have taken in the affray of the hall was leaving him. He
had long since, in the passage of one weary hour after another,
discovered that the wound which had rendered him insensible was not
serious, and that the blow had not proceeded from the pistol which had
been fired in his face. On the contrary, it was certain that he had
been struck down from behind, at the moment that weapon exploded, by
either some bludgeon or sword wielded by one of the servitors, and
that, beyond this, he had received little harm. As for the pain in his
shoulder--that did, indeed, proceed from the pistol bullet which had
grazed his collar-bone, but had done no further injury.
And, now, in spite of his hard bed and poor nourishment--for nothing
beyond the jug of water and the platter of bread was ever given
him--he still found himself returning to strength and health. His mind
had cleared also, as he perceived when he was able to so work upon the
feelings of the maddened woman who had visited him--he felt he was
ready to resist his doom in whatever form it might approach him. Nay,
more, that he was ready to combat and avoid that doom should any
opportunity arise of doing so.
Yet, he asked himself again and again as he lay there, how was the
resistance to be offered! How? He was chained, and at the top of the
house. There was no exit that way. Doubtless, those who had carried
him up to this garret while he was insensible remembered that;
calculated also that, even though the chain had not been about his leg
and securely rivetted to the floor, he had no chance of escape. The
chasm was impassable and there was no other mode of egress, since,
never again, would he be allowed to reach the lower part of the house
unobserved.
The woman had come no more by the time that he supposed a day and a
night must have passed since she visited him, or, if she had come, he
had not known it. Yet he had found the water replenished again in the
vase by his side, and the empty platter filled with bread.
Therefore he knew this must have been done when he slept, and,
doubtless, done in the dark. Otherwise he would have been awakened by
the glare of the light!
But now, having discovered that this had happened, he resolved that it
should not do so again. It was contrary to all his military ideas to
be thus surprised without knowing it; repugnant also to him to be thus
visited by some enemy, or some creature of his particular enemy. It
should not be repeated, he vowed.
To prevent any such further unknown visitation, he raised himself into
a sitting posture and stretched out his hand for the stone pitcher
which stood by his side, when, grasping it round the neck, he drew it
towards him. He meant to sleep when next slumber came to him with his
hand around it, and to place the platter beneath his arms. Thereby,
unless they were left untouched and fresh supplies put in their place,
it would be impossible for his food and drink to be replenished
without his knowing it, as well as being awakened. And, should it be
the woman who thus replenished them, it might happen that he could
wile her into conversation, might, indeed, by working upon her
feelings, induce her to say something that should give him a clue as
to what fate was before him.
Thinking this, he drew the vessel towards him, when, to his amazement,
he found that it struck against and moved something lying on the
floor; something that, when he had previously raised the jug to his
lips directly from the floor, he had not observed. Something long and
thin that slid on the boards with a scraping sound.
To his further intense astonishment as he grasped the object, he found
it was a sword in its scabbard. A moment later he knew it was his own
sword.
There was no doubt about it. He could recognize his own long curled
quillon amongst a thousand, knew the particular shape of the steel
hook by which he fastened his leather-slashed "carriage," or _porte
épée_, to his belt; knew also the feel and grip of the handle. It was
his own sword, the one that, below, had dropped from his numbed hand
as the bludgeon, or other weapon, had struck him down at the same time
that the flash from the pistol had blinded him.
"What does it mean?" he whispered to himself, as, lovingly, he ran his
finger along the keen, sharp blade. "What? That I am to have a chance
for life even though against tremendous odds; even though outnumbered.
Ha! well, no matter! Better that, with this true friend to my hand,
than poison or a swift fall down that hellish shaft to regions
unknown. Far better that, with you in my grasp," and he thrust the
blade back into its scabbard. Yet, cheered as he was by discovering
this good servant by his side once more, a moment's reflection told
him how, even now, it was of little use to him. Rivetted to the floor
was one end of the accursed chain that held him fast--with that about
his ankle what could he do even though armed?
"Kill one or two, 'tis true," he mused, "even as they come at me. Kill
them, run them through, as once I saw a Turk at Choczim kill four men,
while he lay on the ground with both his legs torn off beneath the
knee by one of Sobieski's cannonballs. Well! even so, 'tis best. Best
to die fighting, causing as many as I can to travel the same dark road
I go upon. Far best." And, hugging his sword to him, he lay back and
pondered on who could have done him so fair a service as this.
"The woman, without doubt," he thought. "The poor mad, distracted
thing. It may be that she deems I shall be the instrument of vengeance
on the son of the man who threw her off, and so provided me the
wherewithal."
Still thinking over all this, and musing, as he had mused more than
once in the long lonely hours spent in the darkness, on what could
have caused Laurent to either cut, or permit to be cut, the rope which
would have saved him and Marion Wyatt--would have opened the door to
their freedom--wondering, also, if he had been suddenly attacked from
behind--perhaps slain--Andrew dropped off once more into a gentle
slumber. Though now, with the sword to one hand, and with the other
round the pitcher's neck, while the bread platter lay beneath his arm.
Dropped off into a slumber from which he was awakened by hearing a
step upon the ladder, and by the room becoming suddenly lit up by the
rays of an approaching lanthorn. The lanthorn carried by the woman
whom he deemed distraught.
Because he thought that, after all, she might not be the one who, in
her mercy, had placed his weapon by his side, he pushed it beneath his
body so that, if such were the case, it might be possible she would
not observe it; then he leant over towards where she was advancing to
him and regarded her fixedly, looking straight into her full,
wandering eyes.
"So, madame," he said, "you visit me again. Is't on some errand of
pity that you come--or to tell me my fate?"
For a moment she answered nothing--standing motionless before, and
gazing down fixedly upon, him, though he perceived that those strange
eyes were searching the floor as though in quest of something.
Doubtless the sword! Then she said--
"What fate do you expect--at his hands?"
"God only knows! Yet, if you should know also, tell me."
Again she paused--the eyes still sweeping the floor, so that now he
felt sure 'twas she who had restored his weapon to him--when a moment
later she said, speaking in a harsh, emotionless voice--
"You are to be taken from here to Nancy, where the Duke is for the
winter period. There you will be tried on various charges--attempted
murder, abduction--he will swear she is his wife! You will be
condemned. Nothing can save you; he has given in his adherence to the
Duke now; he will obtain his desire--to see you broken on the wheel."
"So! A brave scheme! When is it to be put in practice?"
"When you are recovered."
"I am recovered now. See!" and he sat up on the rug stretched over the
floor. "Observe! I am not so weak but that I can stand if I desire to
do so. Will you tell the Vicomte there is no hurt to prevent me
setting out at once to see this Duke, to make acquaintance with the
wheel."
"My God!" the woman muttered, stirred out of herself. "Can this be
real? Are you, in truth, so careless of fate?"
"Bah!" He replied. "What you prophesy is child's play--child's talk!
The fellow whom you serve," and at the word "serve" she started,
"dares no more haul me before the Duke than he dare haul me before the
Duke's own master, Louis; the Duke's better in war, Turenne. 'Tis to
them the Duke has himself to account. Babe's prattle, I tell you,
woman! If I am to perish, it will be here in this house, down that
well, by poison in my food or drink, or dagger-thrust through my
heart when I lie sleeping. The wheel is an open death for all to see,
set up at cross-roads or in market places--such things are not for De
Bois-Vallée. Go, give him my service, and say so!"
"You wish me to repeat that?"
"Ay, repeat it. Repeat also this. That, though I lie here with a chain
round my leg like an ox at the shambles; though I am here in his
topmost garret a prisoner, I shall ere long be free again. I know
it--feel it. Tell him, also, that Andrew Vause was never born to die
at his hands--but, instead, to slay him--as I will! And, if he dares
to come to this garret--fail not to tell him this!--and stand before
me within the reach of this chain at my ankle, I will throttle the
life out of him as I would out of a savage dog. Will never lose my
hold till his tongue is a foot out of his mouth. Begone, and fail not
to repeat my words!"
The woman said no more--yet cast one long searching glance at him as
though wondering what manner of man this was--then went to the head of
the steps, or ladder, leading from below, and brought back still
another fresh jug of water and a platter, both of which she had left
there on entering.
"Here is food and drink for you," she said. Then added: "There is no
poison in it!"
"'Tis well. But, remember what I say. If your master compasses my
death 'twill come that way--or in some other equally subtle. Yet it
will not pass unknown. His cousin, Debrasques, knows him for the
unscrupulous villain he is; knows I have come here. If he recovers, as
every chirurgeon who saw him believed he would do, he will denounce
this man. Therefore, I care not what he does. Now go."
"Debrasques!" the woman repeated, turning sharply on him. "Valentin
Debrasques! He knows you and you know him? You say that?" and he saw
that her astonishment was great.
"Ay, he is my friend!"
"Debrasques," she whispered. "Debrasques. And your friend!" Then she
muttered to herself, though not so low but that he heard her. "And his
enemy; as his kinswoman, Fleurange, was mine. 'Twill come. 'Twill
surely come."
She stooped down now to lift up the empty water-pitcher and the
platter and to put in their place those which she had just brought,
and, having done this, again prepared to depart from the garret,
walking slowly towards the ladder head. But as, once before, she had
turned to cast that evil glance at him over her shoulder, so she
turned again. Only her face was different now from what it had been on
the occasion of her first visit--there was no evil, demoniacal smile
upon her features nor devil's light glancing from her piercing eyes.
Instead, a softer look shone from them, a look such as one might cast
upon another with whom they were at peace.
"All men's fate is in their own hands," she whispered, as though half
to him, half to herself, then turned swiftly and was gone, leaving him
alone again with the darkness and his thoughts.
"Fore gad!" he said to himself, feeling strangely exhilarated by this
woman's visit--he knew not why!--though, perhaps, 'twas her last words
had cheered him thus! "I do think the lady desires I should escape.
Yet, if so, why in heaven's name not help me even more than she has
done? My sword is useless while I am bound thus to this accursed
floor; if my foot were free from that 'twould not be long ere once
more the weapon was at his throat. Oh! De Bois-Vallée, the moment must
arrive at last. It must! It must! It must!"
For something told him that this garret was not to be only one last
step to his doom; he felt, he knew, as certainly as though an angel
had spoken to him trumpet-tongued, that the wheel at Nancy would never
be his fate. It was not thus that Philip's shade was to be mulcted of
its revenge!
Once more he slept, thanking God each time that he awoke for His mercy
in permitting him to so forget his captivity for long periods at a
time, and then, when he again returned to wakefulness, he put out his
hand for the sparse meal the woman had brought him.
"Though I would," he murmured, "that I might find such another boon as
I found in my good sword. With my pistols, now, and they well charged,
I could do much when they come for me--if they ever come--could slay
one or two more ere the chain should be taken from my leg and I
dragged forth--not to the Duke of whom she speaks--that is
impossible!--but to some ignoble death."
He did not find his pistols; yet, even as he muttered those last
words, his hand touched something that was not there before, something
which caused him to utter so loud an exclamation that, a second after
he had done so, he could have cursed himself for his folly in making a
noise which might have been heard by anyone happening to be below the
garret.
He had found that which was worth to him a thousand pistols fully
charged and primed! He had found something which would do more than
ever they could have done! Would give him his liberty from this
garret; enable him to once more search the lower part of the
mansion--to once more make a bold bid for escape.
His hand had touched a file!
"Heaven bless her!" he muttered. "Mad or sane, Heaven bless her! For
this is no trap, no _guet-apens_, no lure to set me loose from where I
am, only to plunge me into a state worse than my present; I shall be
free and out of this house with Marion Wyatt ere many hours are
passed. Free--since she, this heaven-sent friend, will doubtless aid
me--will, it may be, set open the door which leads to that freedom.
She must have placed this file here when she changed the food and
water; therefore, again I say, Heaven bless her. Even though it may be
but a portion of a deep-laid snare, 'tis a good portion. It gives me
one more chance."
Wasting no further time in thought or meditation, he set to work to
obtain his, now near, release. Set to work to--as silently as might
be--file through the shackle-bolt that encircled his ankle. Worked
hard at it, with the sweat dropping from his face as he bent over his
foot in a terribly cramped position; yet never faltered, and only
stopped to change sometimes his hands.
Worked hard in the dark, paying no heed to anything but that into
which he had now thrown his whole heart and soul; worked until, at
last, the chain was off his leg and he was free. Free to stand up, to
hook on his sword once more to his belt, to make his way from out that
prison. To find and save Marion Wyatt and himself, or perish in the
attempt.
As he did thus stand up and feel his feet once more unbound, and moved
towards where the ladder-head was--avoiding, for sure, the deadly
shaft so near at hand--a woman who, unknown to him, had been crouching
for the last two hours on that ladder in the darkness, rose and went
swiftly away from it towards the room to which Marion Wyatt had been
taken back after the fight below.
A woman who had sat crouched upon that ladder for so long, listening
eagerly to the harsh grating of the file, and who, as she listened,
had held her breath and stared with wild eyes into the darkness all
around.