TWO IN THE MILL.
It is possible that Bonne did not herself know in what proportions
pity and a warmer sentiment entered into her motives when she
undertook to pass for the Countess and assume the girl's risks.
Certainly her first thought was for the Countess; and, for the rest,
she felt herself cleared from the reproach of unmaidenliness by the
danger of the step which she was taking. Even so, as she rode across
the camp in the dusk of the first evening, into the half pain, half
pleasure that burned her cheeks under the disguising hood entered some
heat of shame.
Not that it formed a part of her plan that des Ageaux should discover
her. To be near him unknown, to share his peril whom she loved, while
he remained unwitting, to give and take nothing--this was the essence
of the mystery that charmed her fancy, this was the heart of the
adventure on which her affection had settled. He, by whose side she
rode, and near whom she must pass the dark hours in a solitude which
only love could rob of its terrors, must never know what she had done
for love of him; or know it only from her lips in a delicious future
on which reason forbade her to count.
In supporting her disguise she was perfectly successful. No suspicion
that the girl riding beside him in depressed silence was other than
the Countess, the unwilling sharer of his exile, crossed his mind.
Bonne, hooded to the eyes and muffled in her cloak, sat low-hunched on
her horse. Fulbert, who was in the secret, and to whom nothing which
any one could do for his adored mistress seemed odd or extraordinary,
helped her to mount and dismount, and nightly lay grim and stark
across the door of her hut repelling inquiry. Add the fact that the
Lieutenant on his side had his delicacy. Fortune compelled the
Countess into his company, forced her on his protection. It behoved
him to take no advantage, and, short of an indifference that might
appear brutal, to leave her as much as possible to herself.
Bonne therefore had her wish. He had no slightest suspicion who was
with him. She had, too, if she needed it, proof of his honour; proof
certain that if he loved the great lady, he respected her to the same
extent. Love her he might, see in her a grand alliance he might; but
had he been the adventurer the Abbess styled him, he had surely made
more of this opportunity, more of her helplessness and her dependence.
The Countess's fortune, the wide lands that had tempted Vlaye, what a
chance of making them sure was his! No great lady was here, but a
young girl helpless, terrified, hedged in by perils. Such an one would
be ready at the first word, at a sign, to fling herself into the arms
of her only friend, her only protector, and promise him all and
everything if he would but save her scatheless.
Bonne had imagination enough, and perhaps jealousy enough, to picture
the temptation. And finding him superior to it--so that in the
sweetness of her secret nearness to him was mingled no gall--she
whispered to herself that if he loved he did not love overmuch. Was it
possible that he did not love--in that direction? Was it possible that
he had no more feeling for the Countess than she had for him?
Perhaps for an hour Bonne was happy--happy in these thoughts. Happy
while the tones of his even and courteous voice, telling her that she
need fear nothing, dwelt in her ears. For that period the pleasures of
fancy overcame the tremors of the real. Then--for sleep was in no
haste to visit her--a chance rustle, caused by something moving in her
neighbourhood, the passage it might be of a prowling dog, made her
prick her ears, forced her against her will to listen, sent a creepy
chill down her back. After that she was lost. She did not wish to
think of such things, it was foolish to think of such things; but how
flimsy were the walls of her hut! How defenceless she lay, in the
midst of the savage, grisly horde, whose looks even in the daylight
had paled her cheeks. How useless must two swords prove against a
multitude!
She must divert her thoughts. Alas, when she tried to do so, she found
it impossible. It was in vain that she chid herself, in vain that she
asked herself what she was doing there, if des Ageaux' presence were
no charm against fear, if with him at hand she was a coward! Always
some sound, something that seemed the shuffle of feet or the whisper
of murder, brought her to earth with quivering nerves; and as by the
Lieutenant's desire she burned no light, she could not interpret the
most innocent alarm or learn its origin. She was no coward. But to lie
in the dark, expecting and trembling, and thrice in the hour to sit up
bathed in perspiration--a short experience of this left her no right
to despise the younger girl whose place she had taken. When at last
the longed-for light pierced the thin walls, and she knew that the
night was past, she knew also that she looked forward to a second with
dread. And she hated herself for it.
Not that to escape a hundred such nights would she withdraw. If she
suffered, what must the child have suffered? She was clear that the
Countess must not go again. But during the day she was more grave than
usual; more tender with her father, more affectionate to her sister.
And when she rode across the camp in the evening, exciting as little
suspicion as before, she carried with her, hidden in her dress, a
thing that she touched now and again to assure herself of its safety.
She took it with her to the rough pallet on which she lay in her
clothes; and her hand clasped it under the pillow. Something of a link
it seemed between her and des Ageaux, so near yet so unwitting; for as
she held it her mind ran on him. It kept at bay, albeit it was a
strange amulet for a woman's hand, the thought that had troubled her
the previous night; and though more than once she raised herself on
her elbow, fancying that she heard some one moving outside, the
panic-terror that had bedewed her brow was absent. She lay down again
on these occasions with her fingers on her treasure. And towards
morning she slept--slept so soundly that when the light touched her
eyelids and woke her, she sprang up in pleased confusion. They were
calling her, the horses were waiting at the door. And in haste she
wrapped herself in her travesty.
"I give you joy of your courage, Countess!" the Lieutenant said, as he
came forward to assist her to mount. Fortunately Fulbert, with
apparent clumsiness, interposed and did her the office. "You have
slept?" des Ageaux continued, as he swung himself into his saddle and
took his place by her side. "That's good," accepting her inarticulate
murmur for assent. "Well, one more night will end it, I fancy. I
greatly, very greatly regret," he continued, speaking with more warmth
than usual, "that it has been necessary to expose you to this strain,
Countess."
Again she muttered something through her closely drawn hood.
Fortunately a chill, grey mist, through which the huts loomed
gigantic, swathed the camp, and he thought that it was to guard
herself from this that she kept her mouth covered. He suspected
nothing, though, at dismounting, Fulbert interposed again. In two
minutes from starting she was safe within the shelter of the
Countess's hut, with the Countess's arms about her, and the child's
grateful kisses warm on her cheek.
He had praised her courage! That was something; nay, it was much if he
learned the truth. But he should never learn it from her, she was
resolved. She had the loyalty which, if it gives, gives nobly; nor by
telling robs the gift of half its virtue. She had saved the younger
woman some hours of fear and misery, but at a price too high were she
ever to speak and betray her confidence. No one saw that more clearly
than Bonne, or was more firmly resolved to hide her share in the
matter.
The third night she set out, not with indifference, since she rode by
his side whose presence could never be indifferent to her, but with a
heart comparatively light. If she took with her the charm which had
served her so well, if it attended her to her couch and lay beneath
her pillow, it was no longer the same thing to her; she smiled as she
placed it there. And if her fingers closed on it in silence and
darkness and she derived some comfort from it, she fell asleep with
scarce a thought of the things its presence imported. For two nights
she had slept little; now, worn-out, she was proof against all
ordinary sounds, the rustle of a dog prowling in search of food, or
the restless movements of a horse tethered near. Ay, and against other
sounds as stealthy as these and more dangerous, that by-and-by crept
rustling and whispering through the camp; sounds caused by a cloud of
low stooping figures that moved and halted, lurked behind huts, and
anon swept forward across an open space, and again lurking showed like
some dark shadow of the night.
A shadow fraught, when it bared its face, with horror! For what was
that cry, sharp, wild, stopped in mid-utterance?
Even as Bonne sprang up palpitating, and glared at the open doorway,
the cry rose again--close by her; and the doorway melted into a press
of dark forms that hurled themselves on her as soon as they were seen.
She was borne back, choked, stifled; and desperately writhing, vainly
striving to shriek, or to free mouth or hands from the folds of the
coverlets that blinded her, she felt herself lifted up in a grasp
against which it was vain to struggle. A moment, and with a shock that
took away what breath was left in her, she was flung head and heels
across something--across a horse; for the moment the thing felt her
weight it moved under her.
Whoever rode it held her pitilessly, cruelly heedless of the pain her
position caused her. She could hardly breathe, she could not see, the
movement was torture; for her arms, pinned above her head, were caught
in the folds of the thing that swathed her, and she could not use them
to support herself. Her one thought, her only thought was to keep her
senses; her one instinct to maintain her grip on the long sharp knife
which had lain under her pillow; and which had become more valuable to
her than the wealth of the world. The hand that had rested on it in
her sleep had tightened on it in the moment of surprise. She had it,
she felt it, her fingers, even while she groaned in pain, stiffened
about its haft.
It was useless to struggle, but by a movement she managed at last to
relieve the pressure on her side. The blood ceased to run so
tumultuously to her head. And by-and-by, under the mufflings, she
freed her hands, and by holding apart the edges of the stuff was able
to breathe more easily, and even to learn something of what was
happening about her. Abreast of her horse moved another horse, and on
either side of the two ran and trotted a score of pattering naked
feet, feet of the unkempt filthy Crocans from the hill-town, or of the
more desperate spirits in the camp--feet of men from whom no ruth or
mercy was to be expected.
Were they clear of the camp? Yes, for to one side the water of the
stream glimmered between the pattering feet. As she made the discovery
the other horse sidled against the one that bore her, and all but
crushed her head and shoulders between their bodies. She only saved
herself by lifting herself convulsively; on which the man who held her
thrust her down brutally with an oath as savage as the action. She
uttered a moan of pain, but it was wrung from her against her will.
She would have suffered twice as much and gladly to learn what she
knew now.
The horse beside her also carried double; and the after rider was a
prisoner, a man with his hands bound behind him, and his feet roped
under the horse's body. A prisoner? If so it could be no other than
des Ageaux. As she swung, painfully, to the movement of the horse
across whose withers she lay, her pendant hands lacked little of
touching, under cover of the stuff, his bound wrists.
Little? Nay, nothing. For suddenly the footmen, for a reason which she
did not immediately divine, fell away leftwards, and the horse that
bore the other prisoner strove to turn with them. Being spurred it
sidled once more against hers, and though she raised herself, her head
rubbed the rider's leg. The man noticed it, patted her head, and made
a jest upon it. "She wants to come to me," he said. "My burden for
yours, Matthias!"
"Wait until we are through the ford and I'll talk," her captor
answered. "What will you offer for her? But it is so cursed dark
here"--with an oath--"I can see nothing! We had better have crossed
with them at the stepping-stones and led over." As he spoke he turned
his horse to the ford.
She knew then that the footmen had crossed by the stepping-stones, a
hundred yards short of the ford. And she felt that Heaven itself had
given her, weak as she was, this one opportunity. As the men urged
their horses warily into the stream she stretched herself out stiffly,
and gripping the bound hands that hung within her reach, she cut
recklessly, heeding little whether she cut to the bone if she could
only cut the cords. The man who held her felt her body writhing under
his hand; for she knew that any instant the other horse might move out
of reach. But he was thinking most of his steed's footing, he had no
fear that she could wrest herself from him, and he contented himself
for the moment with a curse and a threat.
"Burn the wench," he cried, "she won't be still!"
"Don't let her go!" the other answered.
"No fear! And when we have her on the hill she shall pay for this!
When----"
It was his last word. The keen long knife had passed from her hands to
des Ageaux', from her weak fingers to his practised grip. As the man
who held her paused to peer before him--for the ford, shadowed by
spreading trees, was dark as pitch--des Ageaux drove the point
straight and sure into the throat above the collar-bone. The action
was so sudden, so unexpected, that the man he struck had no time to
cry out, but with a low gurgling moan fell forward on his burden.
His comrade who rode before the Lieutenant knew little more. Before he
could turn, almost before he could give the alarm, the weapon was
driven in between his shoulders, and the Lieutenant, availing himself
of the purchase which his bound feet gave him, hurled him over the
horse's head. Unfortunately the man had time to utter one shriek, and
the cry with the splash, and the plunging of the terrified horse, bore
the alarm to his comrades on the bank.
"What is it? What is the matter?" a voice asked. And a score of feet
could be heard pounding hurriedly along the bank.
The Lieutenant had one moment only in which to make his choice. If he
remained on the horse, which he could not restrain, for the reins had
fallen, he might escape, but the girl must perish. He did not
hesitate. As the frightened horse reared he cut his feet loose, and
slid from it. He made one clutch at the floating reins but missed
them. Before he could make a second the terrified animal was on the
bank.
There remained the girl's horse. But Bonne, drenched by the dying
man's blood, had flung herself off--somehow, anyhow, in irrepressible
horror. As des Ageaux turned she rose, dripping and panting beside
him, her nerve quite gone. "Oh, oh!" she cried. "Save me! Save me!"
and she clung to him.
Alas, while she clung to him her horse floundered out of the stream,
and trotted after its fellow.
The pursuers were no more than thirty yards away, and but for the deep
shadow which lay on the ford must have seen them. The Lieutenant had
no time to think. He caught the girl up, and as quickly as he could he
waded with her to the bank from which they had entered the water. Once
on dry land he set her on her feet, seized her wrist and gripped it
firmly.
"Courage!" he said. "We must run! Run for your life, and if we can
reach the wind-mill we may escape!"
He spoke harshly, but his words had the effect he intended. She
straightened herself, caught up her wet skirt and set off with him
across the road and up the bare hill-side. He knew that not far above
them stood a wind-mill with a narrow doorway in which one man might
make some defence against numbers. The chance was slight, the hope
desperate; but he could see no other. Already the pursuers were
splashing through the ford and scattering on the trail, some running
up the stream, some down, some stooping cunningly to listen. To remain
beside the water was to be hunted as otters are hunted.
His plan answered well at first. For a few precious instants their
line of retreat escaped detection. They even increased their start,
and had put fifty or sixty yards of slippery hill-side between
themselves and danger before a man of sharper ears than his fellows
caught the sound of a stone rolling down the slope, and drew the hue
and cry in the right direction. By that time the dark form of the
wind-mill was faintly visible sixty or eighty yards above the
fugitives. And the race was not ill set.
But Bonne's skirt hung heavy, her knees shook; and nearer and nearer
she heard the pursuers' feet. She could do no more! She must fall, her
lungs were bursting! But des Ageaux dragged her on ruthlessly, and on;
and now the wind-mill was not ten paces before them.
"In!" he cried. "In!" And loosing her hand, he turned, quick as a
hare, the knife gleaming in his hand.
But the nearest man--the Lieutenant's ear had told him that only one
was quite near--saw the action and the knife, and as quickly sheered
off, to wait for his companions. The Lieutenant turned again, and in
half a dozen bounds was through the low narrow doorway and in the mill
tower.
He had no sword, he had only the knife, still reeking. But he made no
complaint. Instead, "There were sheep penned here yesterday," he
panted. "There are some bars somewhere. Grope for them and find them."
"Yes!" she said. And she groped bravely in the darkness, though her
breath came in sobs. She found the bars. Before the half-dozen men who
led the chase had squeezed their courage to the attacking point, the
bars that meant so much to the fugitives were in their places. Then
des Ageaux bade her keep on one side, while he crouched with his knife
beside the opening.
The men outside were chattering and scolding furiously. At length they
scattered, and instead of charging the doorway, fired a couple of
shots into it and held off, waiting for reinforcements. "Courage, we
have a fair chance now," the Lieutenant muttered. And then in a
different tone, "Thanks to you! Thanks to you!" with deep emotion.
"Never woman did braver thing!"
"Then do you one thing for me!" she answered, her voice shaking.
"Promise that I shall not fall into their hands! Promise, sir,
promise," she continued hysterically, "that you will kill me yourself!
I have given you my knife. I have given you all I had. If you will not
promise you must give it back to me."
"God forbid!" he said. And then, "Dear Lord, am I mad? Who was it I
picked up at the ford? Am I mad or dreaming? You are not the
Countess?"
"I took her place," she panted. "I am Bonne de Villeneuve." The place
was so dark that neither could see the other's face, nor so much as
the outline of the figure.
"I might have known it," he cried impulsively. And even in that moment
of danger, of discomfort, of uncertainty, the girl's heart swelled at
the inference she drew from his words. "I might have known it!" he
repeated with emotion. "No other woman would have done it, sweet,
would have done it' But how--I am as far from understanding as
ever--how come you to be here? And not the Countess?"
"I took her place," Bonne repeated--the truth must out now. "She is
very young and it was hurting her. She was ill."
"You took her place? To-night?"
"This is--the third night."
"And I"--in a tone of wonder that a second time brought the blood to
her cheeks--"I never discovered you! You rode beside me all those
nights--all those nights and I never knew you! Is it possible?"
She did not answer.
He was silent a moment. Then, "By Heaven, it was well for me that you
did!" he murmured. "Very well! Very well! Without you where should I
be now?" His eyes strove to pierce the darkness in which she crouched
on the farther side of the opening, scarce out of reach of his hand.
"Where should I be now? A handsome situation," he continued bitterly,
"for the Governor of Perigord to be seized and hurried to a dog's
death by a band of brigands! And to be rescued by a woman!"
"Is it so dreadful to you," she murmured, "to owe your life to a
woman?"
"Is it so dreadful to me," he repeated in an altered tone, "to owe my
life to you, do you mean? I am willing to owe all to you. You are the
only woman----"
But there, even as her heart began to flutter, he stopped. He stopped
and she fell to earth. "They are coming!" he muttered. "Keep yourself
close! For God's sake, keep yourself close!"
"And you too!" she cried impulsively. "Your life is mine."
He did not answer: perhaps he did not hear. The Crocans who had spent
some minutes in consultation had brought a beam up the hill. They were
about to drive it against the stout wooden bars, of which they must
have guessed the presence, since they could not see them. The plan was
not unwise; and as they fell into a ragged line on either side of the
ram, while three skirmished forward, with a view to leaping into the
opening before the defenders could recover from the shock, the
Lieutenant's heart sank. The form of attack was less simple than he
had hoped. He had exulted too soon.
Whether Bonne knew this or not, she acted as if she knew it. As the
leader of the assault shouted to his men to be ready, and the men
lifted the beam hip high, she flitted across the opening, and des
Ageaux felt her fingers close upon his arm.
He did not misunderstand her: he knew that she meant only to remind
him of his promise. But at the touch a wave of feeling, as unexpected
as it was irresistible, filled the breast of the case-hardened
soldier; who, something cold by nature, had hitherto found in his
career all that he craved. At that touch the admiration and interest
which had been working within him since his talk with Bonne in the old
garden at Villeneuve blossomed into a feeling infinitely more tender,
infinitely stronger--into a love that craved return. The girl who had
saved him, who had proved herself so brave, so true, so gentle, what a
wife would she be! What a mother of brave and loyal and gentle
children, meet sons and daughters of a loyal sire! And even as he
thought that thought and was conscious of the love that pervaded his
being, he felt her shiver against him, and before he knew it his arm
was round her, he was clasping her to him, giving her assurance that
until the end--until the end he would not let her go! He would never
let her go.
And the end was not yet. For his lips in that moment which he thought
might be their last found hers in the darkness, and she knew seconds
of a great joy that seemed to her long as hours as she crouched
against him unresisting; while the last orders of the men who sought
their lives found strange echo in his words of love.
Crash! The splinters flew to right and left, the two upper bars were
gone, dully the beam struck the back of the mill. But he had drawn her
behind him, and was waiting with the tight-grasped knife for the man
bold enough to leap through the opening. Woe betide the first, though
he must keep his second blow for her. After that--if he had to strike
her--there would be one moment of joy, while he fought them.
But the stormers, poor-hearted, deemed the breach insufficient. They
drew back the beam, intending to break the lowest bar, which still
held place. Once more they cried, "One! Two!" But not "Three!" In
place of the word a yell of pain rang loud, down crashed the
battering-ram, and high rose--as all fled headlong--a clamour of
shrieks and curses. A moment and the thunder of hoofs followed, and
mail-clad men, riding recklessly along the steep hill-side, fell on
the poor naked creatures, and driving them pell-mell before them amid
stern cries of vengeance, cut and hacked them without mercy.
Trembling violently, Bonne clung to her lover. "Oh, what is it? What
is it?" she cried. "What is it?" Her spirits could endure no more.
"Safety!" he replied, the harder nature of the man asserting itself.
"Safety, sweetheart! Hold up your head, brave! What, swooning now when
all is well!"
Ay, swooning now. The word safety sufficed. She fell against him, her
head dropped back.
As soon as he was assured of it, he lifted her in his arms with a new
feeling of ownership. And climbing, not without difficulty, over the
bar that remained, he emerged into something that, in comparison of
the darkness within the mill, was light--for the day was coming.
Before the door two horsemen, still in their saddles, awaited him. One
was tall, the other stout and much shorter.
"Is that you, Roger?" he asked. It was not light enough to discern
faces.
The shorter figure to which he addressed himself did not answer. The
other, advancing a pace and reining up, spoke.
"No," he said, in a tone that at once veiled and exposed his triumph,
"I am the Captain of Vlaye. And you are my prisoner."