THE LAST CHANCE
Another hour passed--the dawn was close at hand--and the ruin of the
greater part of the fabric was almost accomplished. For that was what
Andrew perceived now, as still he kept his vigil above and listened
still to the cries of those below, who were all by this time outside
in the courtyard and the fringe of the copse, revelling in their
handiwork and the accomplishment of their long-thirsted-for vengeance.
Beneath him the fire still raged and burned, though by God's mercy it
had even now left untouched that side of the building on which they
were--the side that was nearest to the slope of the mountain from
which he had originally crossed: untouched at least at present!
Therefore, he knew that for some time they were safe; below where they
stood there was still the floor of more or less solid masonry, then
the other floor from which they had escaped--the one that was beneath
the leads on which they were. In the front, also, the fire had not yet
got a hold, it was on the two sides that its fury seemed to have been
most expended. Of them, the north wing had already fallen in, as has
been said; the south one looked as though it would do so at any
moment. And, gazing at the gap made by that destroyed on the other
side, Andrew could not but shudder, for had it so happened that they
had been there when it gave way, had it so happened that the way to
the leads had lain through the north wing, they would have gone with
it in its fall, have all been lying crushed to death beneath the
stonework and woodwork which had been hurled into the great hall.
Yet, even as he looked across the gap left by that fallen wing, as he
peered down into the now blocked-up hall, so blocked up, indeed, that
the _débris_ of the north side rose almost level with the top floors
of the sides still standing, he saw that here was something which
would prevent the total annihilation of the house, and deprive the
Lorrainers of their vengeance in its entirety; would also prevent the
whole of the building from being razed to the ground.
Something, too, that would, perhaps, save those who were upon the
roof, render it unlikely that that roof should sink beneath them, and,
in so sinking, carry them with it to destruction.
He saw that, as the northern side had crashed in, the lower, or stone,
portion had fallen upon the mass of burning matter, and, thereby, had
beaten out much of the fire, which now only smouldered beneath the
masonry and wreckage of that lower portion, which, in its turn, had
received above it the wooden part. The flames from below--even if not
totally extinguished--could never, therefore, reach the woodwork
above; it was as likely as not that, soon, they would be entirely
pressed out by the weight. If, therefore, the foundations of that
portion of the house over which they now stood were not injured, if
that wing did not fall in, they were saved. The fire would die out,
and, when it had done so, surely some means of descending to earth
again could be found, even though there were now no stairs left.
"There is yet a chance for us," he said, going back to where Clemence
was, and telling her briefly what he had observed, and what he deduced
from that observation. "Still a chance--that is, if the Lorrainers are
content with what they have done. Will they be, or will nothing
satisfy them but the total destruction of the house? If so, they will
set it alight again on the other sides. Then nothing can save us."
"They may be content," the woman answered, glancing up at him, "if
they suppose that he is dead. Otherwise they will not. And more than
one half of the house still stands secure. Therefore, they may think
he is safe somewhere. They will begin again; they will never desist
until he is slain."
"Our danger is not then over," Andrew said quietly. "It seems--if you
guess aright--that we are doomed. How is it now with her?" and he
glanced down at Marion as she lay in the woman's arms.
"She is more peaceful. And she breathes easily. Yet, the shock has
been too much for her. She will not live."
"You are sure of that?"
"I fear so."
"Therefore," said Andrew more to himself than to her, "my
determination to kill him is greater than ever. Two lives now to
demand expiation for, besides his other crimes." Then, turning to
Clemence, and bending down to her, he asked: "What think you? Has he
escaped? Oh! that I should have let him--let him go without me at his
heels."
"I know not," she muttered, "yet, as I have said, there is some way
out of this house. His father knew it--I have heard him speak of
it--though he kept the secret well. But, even though he escapes you,
he is a doomed man if he stays in this land. They have begun," and she
waved her hand to the depths below, where still the Lorrainers could
be heard calling to each other and--sometimes, it seemed--from the
sounds which arose in the early morning air--gloating over the ruin
they had wrought: "now there can be but one end. I know my own
people."
"He will not escape me," Andrew replied. "As you know your own people,
so I know myself. If I live through this night--this day which is now
dawning--I will find him. And then his last chance is gone. I spared
him once when he lay stretched at my feet--I saved his life--to-night
I have let him trick me and so save himself. Well! 'tis the last. When
next we stand face to face I slay him like some poisonous reptile."
While, as he spoke, he gazed down on Clemence, and saw her great
starry eyes gleaming out at him through what was not, now, all the
darkness of night.
And they had lived through it! For he had said truly--the dawn of
another day was come--that night of horror had passed.
Far away to the east, away to the side of the slope from which he had
crossed to the roof of this now ruined house, there was a light in the
sky--dim at present, yet gradually becoming clearer, which told that
the night was indeed over; also the tree-tops were beginning to be
visible, other objects to stand out and be recognizable. And as Andrew
on that roof gazed towards the coming day--wondering if, with it,
would come also safety and escape; if the next night would find all or
any of them alive--he knew that he, too, had become visible to those
below. He heard a shout from the fringe of copse beyond the great
courtyard, and, turning his eyes down, saw the danger which threatened
him.
Observed the gleam of a dozen musketoon barrels pointed his way, and,
as he sprang back behind the buttress of an angle close to where the
women were, saw their puffs of smoke and darts of flame, followed half
a second after by the reports, and heard some of the bullets hurtle
against that buttress while others sang through the air over the very
spot he had just quitted.
In a moment he knew and understood!
"They take me for him," he said, turning to Clemence, who had half
sprung from the ladder where she sat supporting Marion, while the girl
moaned, either at being disturbed, or at the falling pieces of brick
and stone that scattered round her, "take me for him. 'Tis not strange
in this half light. Yet, how to make them understand? Even if there
are any there who have known me--Jean, to wit--they think me dead.
They knew I was within this house."
"See," the woman interrupted, and scarce listening to his words, "see,
the fire breaks out again. On the south side now--and it has reached
the top floor. Soon all that will be in flames. There is no hope."
It was true. From the parapet that ran beneath the leads of the south
side, and which was at a left angle to that portion of the roof on
which they were, there sprang a long thin line of flame--flame that
bubbled out accompanied by white, clear smoke, but which, thin as it
was, yet grew thicker every moment Both flame and smoke were finding a
vent from below; they could not doubt that, underneath, a large
portion of the south wing was burning fiercely.
"There is one hope," Andrew said, "still one. Observe. The volumes of
smoke from the hall no longer roll up as they did; there the fire is
almost extinguished by the masonry and _débris_ that has fallen on it.
Also, the trap leading here from the garret is open, yet none comes
forth either. I will back to the garret. I may find the secret way.
The way he went."
"Impossible. Others have sought for it, even though only to gratify
curiosity--I myself have done so all over the house. You will never
find it."
"Yet will I try. If that fresh fire spreads and we cannot escape, we
shall be roasted alive. I will go," and as he spoke he went towards
the trap opening below (shielding himself behind buttress and chimney
base as he did so, so that no bullet from the Lorrainers should find
its mark), and descended.
Yet, when he had spent half an hour looking round the garret in all
directions, he had to give up his search, had to acknowledge that it
was unavailing. No use to look under the bare, uncovered rafters, to
see if there was any entrance, however small, to some descent--there
was none a cat could have crept down; no use to stamp upon the boards
of the floor on which he had lain so many days and nights; they were
solid oak planks, affixed to the joists below with great clove-headed
nails. It would have taken an hour to get one of them from its place.
Yet, fearing to miss any chance, he tried and tested each one
separately.
Once he advanced to the horrid shaft--the "oubliette"--and peered down
that, wondering if, there, might be the secret way. Yet, he felt sure
and told himself, the way out could not be there. The great mouth of
the shaft gaped black and cavernous, while, as he laid himself on the
floor, and, with face over the edge, peered down into it, there came
up a damp odour which seemed to tell for certain that its depth was
terrible. And if it were not an "oubliette"--a "_guet-apens_," as he
had once termed it--wherefore that mounting block which they had all
had to use so recently, and why that treacherous staircase, or ladder,
from above, which ended abruptly, so that the hastening victim should
be plunged blindly into the abyss of the shaft below?
Yet he sounded it as well as he was able; leant over and, with his
sword in his extended hand, thrust down to see if there were any ledge
or bottom within reach--and found none! He discovered, too, a link of
the chain which had bound him, and hurled it down, listening for the
sound of its fall. But heard nothing--except that it struck once
against the side, owing to his not throwing it precisely straight.
Then, nothing more.
"There is no way there, except to death!" He muttered. "It is useless.
As well return to the roof and await what comes. At least, Marion
Wyatt will not die alone."
The flames of the south side had increased to a great extent as he
regained the spot where the women were--also a soft wind was fanning
them, so that now they leapt up some feet from the roof, burning clear
and bright against what was still half night, half day. Standing there
watching them, and watching also the direction in which the wind came,
he knew that it would not be long--not an hour perhaps--ere those
flames had spread to the wing where they all were.
Then the end would be very near. Well! it must be borne. There was
nothing for it but that.
From these thoughts he was startled by the action of the woman,
Clemence, at this moment. Startled! Amazed!
She had been sitting gazing heedlessly, almost, it might have seemed,
indifferently, at those flames towards which he had at that instant
turned his back to look down on Marion, when, suddenly, she removed
the girl's head from her lap and rose swiftly to her feet--heedless of
whether she might be seen or not by the besiegers below. Then she
raised her hand--her eyes gleaming strangely as ever--and pointed away
towards where the road to Remiremont ran behind the woods. The road
along which Andrew had come on that night when he paid his visit of
observation.
"Look," she said, and he noticed how firm and unshaken her voice was,
"Look, what is that? There are none to help us; none here; not one of
the Duke's men would raise a finger to help him--also they come not
from where the Duke is. Yet, look. Look, I say."
Following her glance, Andrew did look. And saw that which, at first,
he could not understand the meaning of. Amongst the trees, over which
the wintry day had now broken, the trees which separated Bois-le-Vaux
from the Remiremont road, he saw a long cavalcade of horsemen winding
down from the mountain slopes. A cavalcade of horsemen which stretched
on and on until several hundreds of them had descended and were still
descending to the plains of Lorraine--horsemen on whose glittering
corselets and backs-and-breasts and headpieces, as well as bridles and
stirrups (though over many of them their long riding cloaks were
thrown) the now rising winter sun sparkled. He saw, too, from the roof
of the ruined house on which he stood, that, in the morning light,
there fluttered the pennons of lances and banners, bearing on them
devices of many kinds, guidons also, having on them a large and
glittering sun; flags bearing emblems, crests, and coats-of-arms.
Overmastered by that which he observed--for the shining splendour of
that great sun upon a purple silk ground told him plainly enough who
were those men streaming down from the Vosges--overmastered by the
certainty of their safety being at last assured, he threw prudence to
the winds, and, boldly exposing himself to the Lorrainers below, he
shouted:
"Look! Look! Behold! Your hour is past--you have missed your chance.
Behold the army of France is in your land."
Whether surprise at seeing him there--for now none could believe that
it was De Bois-Vallée himself--prevented one single shot from being
fired at him, or whether it was that, as they saw that army streaming
down into Lorraine, they became paralyzed with consternation, Andrew
could not tell. Yet one of these it must have been, for soon, from all
below, there came a babel of shouts and cries, from all their throats
there rose the words:
"The army of France! the army of France! Lorraine is lost to all
eternity!" And, even as they so cried, they dispersed and sped away.
Sped, too, as fast as they could go, for now it was evident that the
burning house had been observed by some in the ranks of the advancing
cavalry. Already more than one troop had been detached and was
breaking off from the main body, and seeking for a road that should
bring them to it.
While Clemence, white now to the lips, white as the woman whose face
lay once more on her lap, muttered hoarsely:
"What? What does it mean? What portend?"
"It means," replied Andrew, "that Turenne has crossed the Vosges, that
your fair Lorraine will be wrenched from out your Duke's hands for
ever--that the Imperialists are in a trap. Also--it means that we are
saved."