NEARER AND NEARER
"How can he escape?" Andrew whispered in Marion's ear. "The house is
surrounded. There is no other outlet but the great door. Or do you
know of aught?"
Yet, as he asked the girl that question, he told himself it was
impossible there could be any such outlet known to her. Had there been
she would have apprized him of it on the night when they made their
first attempt to fly; would never have let the risk be encountered of
endeavouring to unbar the great door while all round the hall lay the
sleeping servants, ready to spring out on them at the first alarm. The
question was useless!
It was answered, however, by a sound that caused him to start and look
round--a sound that was, indeed, a laugh; yet one of so strange and
sinister a nature that he almost shuddered as he heard it.
It came from the woman, Clemence. Then she spoke, while as she did so
her great eyes gleamed and sparkled in so wild a manner that he
imagined she had now become entirely demented.
"There is a way out," she said, "but none know it except he. Not
even I--though often enough I tried to learn it from his father; have
even in later days tried to make him tell it to me. Yet neither ever
would! The wolves of Lorraine have expected to-night's work for
generations--they have kept the secret to themselves."
"'Sdeath!" exclaimed Andrew, though the oath he used was stronger than
this, "but he shall share his secret with us to-night. Where he goes
forth we three go also--or he goes not at all. Quick, let us get near
and stay near him. Ha! see, he comes this way. Mounts the stairs.
Observe--stand by. We must keep him in sight."
It was as he had said. De Bois-Vallée was creeping up the stairs
now--they could see a dark form against the balustrades coming up and
up and up--once the dying embers of the fire in the hall below
flickered into a fresh blaze--they could see, too, that he had
discarded his pistols and carried in his hand his bare sword. Even saw
the steel scintillating now and again in the faint glow sent up while
he mounted.
Watching him coming towards them and, for certain, never dreaming of
whom he would encounter above, it seemed to those three as though some
hunted wild beast was fleeing for its life. Crawling up with one hand
on the balustrade, the other grasping his weapon, they observed his
bright red hair--for he was wigless--as he mounted. Watched, and saw
also the terror-stricken glances he flung over his shoulder as,
reaching the first landing, he knew that he could be seen over the top
of the shattered door by those who might be standing in, or near, the
doorway.
And that he was seen they learnt at once; there came two spits of
flame from firelocks discharged outside, and, through the rent space,
the sharp crack of the weapons; then, next, the splinters flying from
two of the balustrade posts. And they saw the savage grin of hate and
fury on his face--saw his white teeth gleam like a hunted wolf's, as
he, himself the Wolf of Lorraine, ran round the landing and began to
mount the next flight. The flight that would bring him to where they
were!
From outside, too, they could hear the shouts of the avengers; hear
harsh calls and cries in both the French and German tongues, derisive
laughter, voices that called out, "the wolf is trapped! He can never
escape! Fire not at him, let him find death in his own house of evil!"
while, above all, the soft, silvery voice of a boy sang the strain,
"_Lorraine, Lorraine, ma douce patrie_."
He turned once more--his foot on the first stair, a look of horror in
his eyes as that sweet voice arose, turned and glared back again to
the ruined door whence the sound entered. It almost seemed to those so
close above him as though they heard him groan.
"Kill him," Clemence hissed in Andrew's ear. "Dead!"
Then, even as she spoke, the man fleeing from below sprang up the
stairs that led to where they were, and so came full upon them.
Upon Clemence, regarding him with sparkling eyes, and with, on her
face, a hideous smile; upon Marion Wyatt a little behind her.
Upon Andrew Vause standing also regarding him, his arms folded, but in
his right hand his sword!
He reeled back gasping, astonished, perhaps terrified at the sight of
those three figures standing at the top of the stairs.
Staggered back, though as he did so he shifted the sword he carried,
so that he no longer held it by the blade in his left hand, but
grasped its handle with his right. Yet, even as he thus reeled, and
with even, as they observed by the light of the moon now streaming in
through an upper window, the look upon his face of a hunted creature
at bay doubly intensified, so, too, they saw the bewilderment he
experienced at finding them there together.
"You are free!" He hissed; "and you, too!" while, as he spoke, he
lifted his left arm and pointed with his forefinger up the few steps
that separated him from them. "Free! No need to ask how. By her--the
traitress!"
As he spoke he leapt up the remaining stairs, and, in the eyes of all
of them there flashed a bright ray as though of phosphorus--a ray that
seemed to be met and entwined with another. Then, a hiss of steel
grating against steel and a clang, and the sword he had held a moment
before in his hand, and had thrust out with murderous intent against
the mad woman, slid down the steps hilt first.
"Not yet," said Andrew, lowering now his own point. "This is no time
for murder nor--for execution. That comes later. Pick up your blade,
Monsieur De Bois-Vallée, and sheathe it. Otherwise I take it away from
you. There is something else to be done, ere you use it again--against
me."
"Curse you! What?" yet as he spoke he obeyed Andrew, in so far that he
reclaimed his fallen weapon. Also, as he did so--as he picked up the
sword--he mounted the stairs one step higher.
"This; listen. There is a secret exit known to you from this doomed
house--nay, deny it not, I know full well 'tis so--by that exit you
are about to escape. So be it. 'Tis no intention of mine to prevent
you. Only----"
"Only?" repeated De Bois-Vallée in a whisper. "Only?"
"You take us with you. Then, when we are outside, free from these
howling Lorrainers who justly seek your life, you shall use that
sword--against me. At once you shall use it. But, now, be quick, waste
no time. Hark, see, look over, they are almost in your hall. There is,
I say, no time to waste."
It was true! There was no time to waste! He, De Bois-Vallée, could see
that as well as Andrew; glancing down through the rude-carved mediæval
balustrades, he recognized the swift impending doom of his house.
For the door was almost down now--the shouts of the Lorrainers would
have told that if nothing else had done so. Also the beating of axes
and sledges on it, the clatter of countless feet outside on the
stones, the glare of lights from torches and flambeaux that sent
gleams through the windows, and winked and trembled on the carved
beams of the stairs, and the armour and arms with which the ancient
hall was hung, and lit up all their faces above.
Also, still, above all the noise outside, above the yells and
execrations and curses of the Lorrainers, above their shouts and
cries, and the firing of their weapons over the broken-down door into
dark upper corners, there rose the sweet, clear voice of the boy
singing, "_Lorraine, Lorraine, ma douce patrie_."
"You hear, you see!" Andrew said. "The end of you and of your vile
house is at hand. All escape below is long since past. Lead us to the
secret exit you know of."
He stood there before them; before the woman he had deeply wronged,
though, as yet, Andrew knew not how; before the mad woman whose love
had turned to gall and hate and treachery; before that huge avenger in
whom he saw, and, seeing, recognized his doom. Stood before them, a
shadow almost, in the fitful light which illuminated the darkness, as
they, too, stood shadows before him.
"Quick," Andrew exclaimed again. "Quick. Or we all die together
in this house. Only--you first. If you tarry longer--another
moment--while I count ten--I fling you over to those men below," and
as he spoke he advanced towards De Bois-Vallée.
Unheeding his actions, in truth not valuing these actions sufficiently
to oppose them, his attention too much occupied by the awful
destruction going on below, Andrew had let the villain surmount the
topmost stair--gradually, and step by step--there being but three of
them--so that now he stood on a level with the others. And in his hand
was his sword.
Then, in answer, he spoke, while still his form was indistinct to them
and he loomed a blurred figure near them.
"There is," he said, "no exit to this house. All here are doomed, all
must die----"
"You lie," Clemence hissed, "you lie. Your father knew of one, you
know it too."
"Quick," again said Andrew, "trifle no longer." And now he advanced to
him, his own sword raised level with the other's breast. "Lead us to
it, or this through you."
"Come then," the other said. "Come. Yet," he continued, muttering to
himself, as though he meant them not to hear the savage words which he
could not repress in his hate, "yet, if I had my way as I hoped to
have had it, you should all have perished. All. All."
In truth, neither Andrew nor Marion Wyatt did hear these words, while
if Clemence caught them she gave no sign. But still those marvellous
eyes shone and sparkled, and the full liquid orbs never ceased their
endeavour to pierce the darkness. Why did she watch him so?
But, in spite of Andrew not having caught his mutterings, he knew full
well that this acquiescence might be a ruse of his enemy to take him
unawares, wherefore he bent his face nearer to him--for, now (so great
were the roars and the thunderings below) ordinary tones were of no
avail--and said:
"Go first and turn not. If you do, I will run you through without
hesitation. Also, sheathe your sword. Do as I say. Obey me."
He was obeyed; through the darkness he saw the other act as he
commanded. Then, without another word, he again gave De Bois-Vallée
the signal to go forwards. And, touching both the women by his
side, he indicated that they too should follow the owner of the
soon-to-be-destroyed house.
His arms stretched out in front of him as though groping his way, as
indeed he was, De Bois-Vallée moved on now, one hand sometimes upon
the rail that protected the uppermost landing from the well of the
house, the other against the wall of the rooms opening from that
landing. And, so, they reached at last the arched doorway that led to
the steps by which the ascent to the garret was made.
"How escape thus?" asked Andrew, "there is no outlet there. This leads
alone to the roof and to the oubliette. Beware, man, what you do! Your
life is in my hands. Play me false and you lose it on the instant."
"The way is here," the other muttered, though loud enough for Andrew
to hear him very well. "I know my own house."
"The way for all--not you alone?" and Andrew's voice sounded sinister
and threatening to the other.
"Ay, for all."
Even as he spoke there came an increased din from below, and, though
none spoke to the other, all knew, or imagined, what had happened.
The door was down--the besiegers in the house!
Soon--who could doubt it?--what else was there for those men of
vengeance to do?--it would be in flames! Nothing could save it!
Or only one thing. The yielding up of De Bois-Vallée to their ire.
"Stop," he said, addressing him, "stop. You know what will, what must,
happen next. It can be but one thing, the destruction of your house.
Retrace your steps if you choose, defend the house singly if you
desire--since I do believe that they come partly to rescue me, expect
from me no help--give yourself up to them. Thereby the flames may be
avoided. And--and--I grant you that respite."
For answer, the other snarled at him--Andrew could plainly see that he
did so in the added light which now streamed up from the hall,
illuminating all the balconies and corridors.
Then he spoke.
"It may be that they come to save you. Yet there can be few to whom
you are known. Therefore, being here, they deem you my friend--or will
when they see you."
"Your friend!" the tone contemptuous and full of loathing as Andrew
answered him.
"Ay. If you doubt it--and since you are so bold and brave a man--show
yourself to them and see."
For a moment, stung by the taunt of even such as he, Andrew was
disposed to take him at his word. To descend towards those rioters, to
thrust his head over the balcony. To call to them and say who he was
and what he did in the house.
Another moment's reflection, and he decided against that resolve.
"Nay," he said, "nay. They may not know me--there are but one or two
who have ever seen my face--a dozen bullets in my body would reward me
for my pains and foolhardiness. Also, vagabond, you would be alone
with the women. Even though I returned in safety it would be to find
them dead at your hands--and you gone! Lead on, show us the way. We go
together."
And, touching him none too gently, he urged him forward.