FATHER ANGEL.
As he groped his way towards the door, he came into contact with
Roger, who was also making for it. Roger gripped him and tried to hold
him. "Is there no other way?" the lad muttered. The situation appalled
him. "No other way? You are no match for him!"
"That we shall see!" the stranger retorted curtly.
"Then I shall help you!" the lad declared.
"Would you take on another of them?" the stranger answered eagerly.
"But no, you are over young for it! You are over young by your voice."
Then, as the key grated in the lock, "Stand at my back if you will,"
he continued, "and if they--would play me foul, it may serve. But I
shall give him brief occasion! You will see a pretty thing, my lad."
Crash! The door was forced open, letting a flood of smoky light into
the dark place. He who had opened the door, Ampoule himself, strode
back, when he had done it, across the wooden bridge, and flinging a
hoarse taunt, a "Come if you dare!" over his shoulder, swaggered to
the farther end of the hollow space which the men had formed by
ranging themselves in three lines; the bridge and moat forming the
fourth. One in every three or four held up a blazing firebrand,
plucked from the flames; the light of which, falling on the
intervening space, rendered it as clear as in the day.
The stranger, a little to Roger's surprise, but less to the surprise
of Ampoule's comrades, did not obey the summons with much alacrity. He
waited in the doorway, accustoming his eyes to the light, and the lad,
whose heart overflowed with pity and apprehension--for he could not
think his ally a match for Ampoule's skill and strength--had time to
mark the weird mingling of glare and shadow, and to wonder if this
lurid space encircled by unreal buildings were indeed the peaceful
courtyard which he had known from childhood. Meanwhile Ampoule waited
disdainfully at the other end of the lists, and as one who scarcely
expected his adversary to appear made his blade whistle in the air.
Or, in turn, to show how lightly he held the situation, he aimed
playful thrusts at the legs of the man who stood nearest, and who
skipped to escape them.
"Must we fetch you out, dirty rogue?" he cried, after a minute of
this. "Or----"
"Oh, _tace_! _tace!_" the stranger answered in a peevish tone. He
showed himself on the drawbridge, and with an air of great caution
began to cross it. He still wore his mask. "You are more anxious than
most to reach the end of your life," he continued in the same
querulous tone. "You are ready?"
"Ready, when you please!" Ampoule retorted fuming. "It is not I----"
"Who hang back?" the stranger answered. As he spoke he stepped from
the end of the bridge like a man stepping into cold water. He even
seemed to hold himself ready to flee if attacked too suddenly. "But
you are sure you are ready now?" he queried. "Quite ready? Do not let
me"--with a backward glance--"take you by surprise!"
Ampoule began to think that it would not be without trouble he would
draw his adversary within reach. The duels of those days, be it
remembered, were not formal. Often men fought without seconds;
sometimes in full armour, sometimes in their shirts. Advantages that
would now be deemed dishonourable were taken by the most punctilious.
So, to lure on his man and show his own contempt for the affair,
Ampoule tossed up his sword, and caught it again by the hilt. "I'm
ready!" he said. He came forward three paces, and again tossing up his
sword, recovered it.
But the masked man seemed to be unwilling to quit the shelter of the
drawbridge; so unwilling that Roger, who had taken up his position on
the bridge behind him, felt his cheek grow hot. His ally had proved
himself such a master of tongue fence as he had never imagined. Was
he, ready as he had been to provoke the quarrel, of those who blench
when the time comes to make good the taunt?
It seemed so. For the stranger still hung undecided, a foot as it were
either way. "You are sure that I should not now take you by surprise?"
he babbled, venturing at length a couple of paces in the direction of
the foe--but glancing behind between his steps.
"I am quite sure," Ampoule answered scornfully, "that I see before me
a poltroon and a coward!"
The word was still on his lips, when like a tiger-cat, like that which
in all the world is most swift to move, like, if you will, the wild
boar that will charge an army, the mask darted rather than ran upon
his opponent. But at the same time with an incredible lightness.
Before Ampoule could place himself in the best posture, before he
could bring his sword-point to the level, or deal one of those famous
"_estramacons_" which he had been wasting on the empty air, the other
was within his guard, they were at close quarters, the advantage of
the bigger man's length of arm was gone. How it went after that, who
struck, who parried, not the most experienced eye could see. So quick
on one another, so furious, so passionate were the half-dozen blows
the masked man dealt, that the clearest vision failed to follow them.
It was as if a wild cat, having itself nine lives, had launched itself
at Ampoule's throat, and gripped, and stabbed, and struck, and in ten
seconds borne him to the ground, falling itself with him. But whereas
in one second the masked man was up again and on his guard, Ampoule
rose not. A few twitches of the limbs, a stifled groan, an arm flung
wide, a gasp, and as he had seen many another pass, through the gate
by which he had sent not a few, Ampoule passed himself. Of so thin a
texture is the web of life, and so slight the thing that suffices to
tear it. Had the masked stranger ridden another road that night, had
he been a little later, had he been a little sooner; had the trooper
refrained from his jest or the men from the wine-pot, had Roger kept
his distance, or the arrow-slit looked another way--had any one of
these chance occasions fallen other than it fell, Ampoule had lived,
and others perchance had died by his hand!
All passed, it has been said, with incredible swiftness; the attack so
furious, the end a lightning-stroke. Roger on the bridge awoke from a
doubt of his ally's courage to see a whirl, a blow, a fall; and then
on the ground ill-lighted and indistinct--for half the men had dropped
their lights in their excitement--he saw a grim picture, a man dying,
and another crouching a pace from him, watching with shortened point
and bent knees for a possible uprising.
But none came; Ampoule had lived. And presently, still watching
cautiously, the mask raised himself and dropped his point. A shiver, a
groan passed round the square. A single man swore aloud. Finally three
or four, shaking off the stupor of amazement, moved forwards, and with
their eyes assured themselves that their officer was dead.
At that Roger, still looking on as one fascinated, shook himself
awake, in fear for his principal. He expected that an attack would be
made on the masked man. None was made, however, no one raised hand or
voice. But as he moved towards him, to support him were it needful,
the unexpected happened. The unknown tottered a pace or two, leant a
moment on his sword-point, swayed, and slowly sank down on the ground.
With a cry of despair Roger sprang to him, and by the gloomy light of
the three brands which still remained ablaze, he saw that blood was
welling fast from a wound in the masked man's shoulder. Ampoule had
passed, but not without his toll.
Roger forgot the danger. Kneeling, following his instinct, he took the
fainting man's head on his shoulder. But he was helpless in his
ignorance; he knew not how to aid him. And it was one of the troopers,
late his enemies, who, kneeling beside him, quickly and deftly cut
away the breast of the injured man's shirt, and with a piece of linen,
doubled and redoubled, staunched the flow of blood. The others stood
round the while, one or two lending a light, their fellows looking on
in silence. Roger, even in his distress, wondered at their attitude.
It would not have surprised him if the men had fallen on the stranger
and killed him out of hand. Instead they bent over the wounded man
with looks of curiosity; with looks gloomy indeed, but in which awe
and admiration had their part. Presently at his back a man muttered.
"The devil, or a Joyeuse!" he said. "No other, I'll be sworn!"
No one answered, but the man who was dressing the wound lifted the
unknown's hand and silently showed a ring set with stones that even by
that flickering and doubtful light dazzled the eye. They were stones
such as Roger had never seen, and he fancied that they must be of
inestimable value.
"Ay, ay!" the man who had spoken muttered. "I thought it was so when I
saw him join! I mind his brother, the day he died, taking two of his
own men so, and--pouf! I saw him drown an hour after, and he took the
water just so, cursing and swearing; but the Tarn was too strong for
him."
"That was Duke Antony?" a second whispered.
"Antony Scipio."
"I never saw him," the second speaker answered softly. "Duke Anne at
Coutras--I saw him die; and des Ageaux, that is now Governor of
Perigord, got just such a wound as that in trying to save him."
"Pouf! All the world knew _him!_" he who had first spoken rejoined
with the scorn of superior knowledge. "But"--to the man who was
binding up the hurt, and who had all but finished his task--"you had
better look and make sure that we shall not have our trouble for
nothing."
The trooper nodded and began to feel for the fastening of the mask,
which was of strong silk on a stiff frame. Roger raised his hand to
prevent him, but as quickly repressed the impulse. The men were saving
the man's life, and had a right to learn who he was. Besides, sooner
or later, the thing must come off.
Its removal was not easy. But at length the man found the catch, it
gave way, and the morsel of black fell and disclosed the pale,
handsome face of an effeminate, fair-haired man of about thirty. "Ay,
it is he! It is he, sure enough!" went around the circle, with here
and there an oath of astonishment.
"Has any one a mouthful of Armagnac?" the impromptu surgeon asked.
"No, not wine. There now, gently between his lips. When he has
swallowed a little we must lift him into the house. He will do well, I
think."
"But," Roger asked, after in vain interrogating their faces with his
eyes, "who is it? Who it is, if you please? You know him?"
"Ay, we know him," the trooper answered sententiously. And, rising to
his feet, he looked about him. "Best close that gate," he said,
raising his voice. "If his people be on his track, as is likely, and
come on us before we can make it clear, it may be awkward! See to it,
some of you. And do you, Jasper, take horse and tell the Captain, and
get his orders."
Two or three of the men, whom the event had most sobered, strode
across the court to do his bidding. Roger looked from one to another
of those who remained. "But who is he?" he asked. His curiosity was
piqued, the more sharply as it was evident that the presence of this
man who lay before him, wounded and unconscious, altered, in some
fashion, the whole position.
"Who is he?" the former spokesman answered roughly. "Father Angel, to
be sure! You have heard of him, I suppose, young sir?"
"Father Angel?" Roger repeated incredulously. "A priest? Impossible!"
"Well, a monk."
"A monk?"
"Ay, and a marshal for the matter of that!" the trooper rejoined
impatiently. "Here, lift him, you! Gently, gently! Man, it is the Duke
of Joyeuse," he continued, addressing Roger. "You have heard of him, I
take it? Now, step together, men, and you won't shake him! We must lay
him in the dining-hall. He will do well there." And again to Roger,
who walked with him behind the bearers, "If you don't believe me, see
here," he said. "Tis plain enough still!" And taking a burning
splinter of wood from one of the others he held it so that the light
fell on the crown of the wounded man's head. There discernible amid
the long fair hair was the pale shadow of a tonsure.
"Father Angel?" Roger repeated in wonder, as the men bearing their
burden stepped slowly and warily on to the bridge.
"Ay, no other! And riding on what mad errand God knows! It was an
unlucky one for Ampoule. But they are all mad in that house! Coutras
saw the end of one brother, Villemar of another; there are but this
one and the Cardinal left! Look your fill," he continued, as the men
under his direction carried their burden up the three or four steps
that led from the outer hall--where the fire Ampoule had knocked
together still burned on the dogs--to the dining-hall. "Monk and
Marshal, Duke and Capuchin, angel and devil, you'll never see the like
again!"
Probably his words were not far from the mark. Anne, the eldest of the
four brothers, by whom and by whose interest with King Henry the Third
the house had risen from mediocrity to greatness, from respectability
to fame, had fallen at Coutras encircled by the old nobility whom he
had led to defeat. His brother, Antony Scipio, young as he was, had
taken charge for the League in Languedoc, had pitted himself against
the experience of Montmorency, and for a time had carried it. But his
minor successes had ended in a crushing defeat at Villemar on the
Tarn, and he had drowned his chagrin in its icy waters, cursing and
swearing, says the old chronicler, to the last. The event had drawn
from his monastery the singular man on whom Roger now looked, Henry,
third of the brothers, third Duke of the name, the fame of whose piety
within the cloister was only surpassed by that of his excesses in the
world; who added to an emotional temperament and its sister gift of
eloquence the feverish energy and headlong courage of his race.
Snatching the sword fallen from his brother's hands, in five and
twenty months he had used it with such effect as to win from the King
the baton of a marshal as the price of his obedience.
"M. de Joyeuse!" Roger muttered, as he watched them lay the
unconscious man on an improvised couch in the corner. "M. de Joyeuse?
It seems incredible!"
"There is nothing credible about them," the man answered darkly. "The
old fool who keeps the gate here would try the belief of most with his
fables. But he'll never put the handle to their hatchet," with a nod
of meaning. "Yet to listen to him, Charlemagne and the twelve were not
on a level with his master--once! But where are you going, young sir?"
in an altered tone.
"To tell the Vicomte what has occurred," Roger answered, his hand on
the latch of the inner door--the door that led to the stairs and the
upper rooms.
"By your leave!"
"I don't understand."
"By your leave, I say!" the trooper answered more sharply, and in a
twinkling he had intervened, turned the key in the lock and withdrawn
it. "I am sorry, young sir," he continued, coolly facing about again,
"but until we know what is to do, and what the Captain's orders
are--he has a trump card in his hand now, or I am mistaken--I must
keep you here, by your leave."
"Against my leave!"
"As you please for that."
"I should have though that you had had enough of keeping people!"
Roger retorted angrily.
"May-be Ampoule has," the man answered with a faint sneer. "I'll see
if I have not better luck. Come, young sir," he continued with
good-humour, "you cannot say that I have been aught but gentle so far.
You've fared better with me, ay, a _mort_ better, than you'd have
fared if the Captain had been here. But I don't want to have to hurt
you if it comes to blows upstairs. You are safer here looking after
the Duke. And trust me, you'll thank me, some day."
Roger glared at him in resentment. He felt that he who lay helpless in
the corner would have known how to deal with the man and the
situation; but, for himself, he did not. To attempt force was out of
the question, and the trooper had withdrawn and closed the door,
leaving Roger alone with the patient, before the idea of bribery
occurred to the lad. It was as well perhaps; for what was there at
Villeneuve, what had they in that poverty-stricken home of such a
value as to outweigh the wrath of Vlaye? Or to corrupt men who had
seen, without daring to touch, a ring worth a King's ransom?
Nothing, for certain, which it was in Roger's power to give. Moreover,
the situation, though full of peril, seemed less desperate. The Duke's
act, if it had wrought no more, had sobered the men, and his presence,
wounded as he was, was a factor Roger could not estimate. The respect
with which the men treated him when he lay at their mercy, and their
care to do the best for him, to say nothing of the feelings of awe and
admiration in which they held him--these things promised well. The
question was, how would his presence affect M. de Vlaye? And his
pursuit of the Countess?
Roger had no notion. The possession of the person of a prince who
ruled a great part of Languedoc might touch the Captain of Vlaye--a
minnow by comparison, but in his own water--in a number of ways. It
might strengthen him in his present design, or it might turn him from
it by opening some new prospect to his ambition. Again, M. de Vlaye
might treat the Duke in one of several modes; as an enemy, as a
friend, as a hostage. He might use the occasion well or ill. He might
work on fears or gratitude. All to Roger was dark and uncertain; as
dark as the courtyard, where the flames of the huge fire had sunk low,
and men by the dull glow of the red embers were removing in a cloak
the body of the unfortunate Ampoule. Ay, and as uncertain as the
breathing of the wounded man in the corner, which now seemed to stop,
and now hurried weakly on.
Roger paced the room. He did not know for certain what had become of
the Countess, or of his sister, or of his father. He took it for
granted that they had sought the greater safety of the upper rooms. He
had himself, earlier in the evening, suggested that if the worst
threatened they might retreat to the tower chamber, and there defend
themselves; but the Vicomte had pooh-poohed the suggestion, and though
Bonne, who persisted in expecting help from outside, had supported it,
the plan had been given up. Still they were gone, and they could have
retired no other way. He listened at the locked door, hoping to hear
feet on the stairs; for they must be anxious about him. But all was
still. His sister, the Countess, the Vicomte, might have melted into
the air--as far as he was concerned.
And this, anxious as he was for them, vexed him. He had failed! The
long silence that had brooded over the decaying house, the dull life
against which he and his brother had fretted, were come to an end with
a vengeance. But what use had he made of the opportunity? When he
should have been playing the hero upstairs, when he should have been
the head and front of the defence, directing all, inspiring all, he
lay here in a locked room like a naughty child who must be shielded
from harm.
A movement on the part of the sick man cut short his thoughts. The
Duke was making futile attempts to raise himself on his elbow.
"Ageaux! Des Ageaux!" he muttered. "You are satisfied now! I struck
him fairly."
Roger hurried to him and leant over him. "Lie still and do not speak,"
he said, hoping to soothe him.
"We are quits now," the Duke whispered. "We are quits now. Say so,
man!" he continued querulously. "I tell you Vlaye will trouble you no
more. I struck him fairly in the throat."
"Yes, yes," Roger replied. It was evident that the Duke was rambling
in his mind, and took him for some one else. "We are quits now."
"Quits," the wounded man muttered, as if he found some magic in the
words. And he drowsed off again into the half-sleep, half-swoon of
exhaustion.
Roger could make nothing of it, except that the Duke had Vlaye in his
mind, and fancied that it was he whom he had killed. But des Ageaux,
whom he fancied he was addressing? Roger knew him by name and that he
was Governor of Perigord, a man of name and position beyond his rank.
But how came he in this galley? Oh, yes. He remembered now. His name
had been mentioned in connection with the death of the eldest Joyeuse
at Coutras.
Roger snuffed the candles, and mixing a little wine with water, put it
by the Duke's side. Then he wandered to the locked door, and again
listened fruitlessly. Thence, for he could not rest, he went to the
window, where he pressed his forehead against the cool glass. The fire
had sunk lower; it was now no more than an angry eye glowing in the
darkness. He could discern little by its light. No one moved, the
courtyard seemed as vacant and deserted as the house. Or no. In the
direction of the gate he caught the glint of a lanthorn and the
movement of several figures, revealed for an instant and as suddenly
obscured. He continued to watch the place where the light had
vanished, and presently out of the obscurity grew a black mass that
slowly took the form of a number of men crossing the court in a silent
body, five or six abreast. The tramp of their feet, inaudible on the
soil, rumbled hollowly as they mounted the bridge, which creaked
beneath them. He caught the gleam of weapons, heard a low order given,
fell back from the window. He had little doubt what they were about to
do.
He was right. The heavy, noisy entry into the outer hall had scarcely
prepared him before the door was thrown open and they filed into the
room in which he stood.
What could he do? Resistance was out of the question. "What is it?" he
asked, making a show of confronting them.
"No matter, young sir," the man who had before taken charge answered
gruffly. "Stand you on one side and no harm will happen to you."
"But----"
"Stand back! Stand back!" the man answered sternly. "We are on no
boy's errand!" Then to his party, "Bring the lights," he continued,
and advancing to the inner door he unlocked it. "Who has the hammer?
Good, do you come first with me. And let the last two stand here and
keep the door."
He went through without more words, and disappeared up the staircase,
followed by his men in single file. The two last remained on guard at
the door, and they and Roger waited in the semi-darkness listening to
the lumbering tread of the troopers as they stumbled on the wooden
stairs, or their weapons clanged against the wall. Roger clenched his
hands hard, vowing vengeance; but what could he do? And he had one
consolation. Ampoule's death had sobered the men. They would execute
their orders, but the fear of outrage and excess which had dwelt on
his mind earlier in the evening no longer seemed serious.
The sound of the men's feet on the stairs had ceased; he guessed that
they were searching the rooms overhead. A moment later their movements
made this clear. He heard their returning footsteps and their raised
voices in the upper passage. They seemed to confer, and to halt for a
minute undecided. Then a door, doubtless the one which led to the
roof, was tried, and tried again. But in vain, for the next moment a
voice cried harshly, "Open! Open!" and after an interval a crash,
twice repeated, proclaimed that the hammer was being brought into use.
A scrambling of hasty feet followed, and then silence--doubtless they
were crossing the roof--and then a pistol shot! One pistol shot!
Roger glared at the men who had been left with him. They opened the
door more widely, and stepping through seemed to listen. For a moment
the wild notion of locking the door on them, of locking the door on
all, occurred to Roger. But he discarded it.