NIGHT--THE SNARE.
'Tis not so. Slowly, slowly dies the night,
And with it sinks my soul down from the point
Where late it stood a-tiptoe.--ALL THE YEAR ROUND.
Longing for the next evening--the _third_ appointed by the abbot, as
the time when he was to meet Murielle again, Sir Patrick Gray sat at
the latticed window of his room, gazing listlessly down one of the long
and picturesque streets of Bommel, then darkening in the twilight and
haze, amid which the lamps were beginning to twinkle in the shops and
booths. Seven was tolled from the college bell of the Canonry close by.
He started at the sound, and with a glow of pleasure, reflected, that
at the same hour to-morrow, he should see and be with her he loved.
While this idea occupied him, the tapster announced a visitor, and
Carl Langfanger was introduced. On perceiving a stranger, Sir Patrick
experienced some uneasiness, as he believed that his presence in Bommel
was unknown to all, save Murielle Douglas and the abbot of Tongland.
In addition to the profits of his wine and beer house, and the little
pickings which his secret relations with Count Ludwig enabled him to
have, our worthy Carl Langfanger, was ostensibly a farrier and horse
doctor, who, by painting and patching up old nags, made them--though
the veriest Rosinantes--pass for chargers of spirit and mettle; thus he
was so well known at all the hostelries in Bommel, that a short time
enabled him to discover the temporary residence of Sir Patrick Gray.
This cunning boor had attired himself in a dark suit of respectable
broad-cloth, with a clean white ruff round his neck, and a wooden
rosary of portentous size at his right wrist; thus he had all the air
of a worthy citizen, though his scrubby black hair was brushed straight
down to his small stealthy eyes, and cut off squarely above his long
and pendant ears.
"You wish to speak with me?" said Gray, in French.
Langfanger, who had served in several countries, replied readily in the
same language: "I have a message to monsieur!"
"From whom?"
"A fair demoiselle," replied Carl, in his most insinuating voice, and a
glitter in his cunning eyes.
"Indeed--then carry your message elsewhere--you have come to the wrong
quarter, my friend," replied Gray, curtly, as he detected something of
the bravo in the air of his visitor.
"But the demoiselle is in distress," urged Carl, with some alarm lest
his errand might fail.
"I am not the burgomaster, and knights errant are out of fashion, my
friend; but _who_ is she?"
"I know not her name, messire," stammered Carl, who had omitted to
inform himself of this rather important particular.
"By whom--and in what manner is she wronged?"
"Mademoiselle said that this ring, which I have the honour to present,
would inform monsieur of everything," said Carl, stepping forward.
"This ring," reiterated Gray, becoming suddenly interested and
perplexed, on recognizing the trinket he had given to Murielle in other
days, at the Three Thorns of the Carlinwark, near Thrave; and he kissed
and placed it on his finger, for it was a signal with which he could
neither delay nor trifle.
What might this summons portend?
Carl Langfanger, who was smoothing down his obstinate forelock, while
estimating the value of the victim's habiliments, replied, that by the
safety of his sinful soul, he knew not.
Was she in immediate danger?
He did not know that either; but she seemed in great tribulation.
"You have seen her, then?"
"Within an hour, messire."
"Where--and where does she now await me?"
"Near an auberge--_The Forester of Flanders_--three miles from Bommel;
an auberge of the best character, messire."
"In what direction, my good friend?"
"Ah--I am messire's good friend now!--the way to Ameldroyen."
"Among the forests?" said Gray, with increasing alarm.
"Exactly, messire."
It seemed most unaccountable that Murielle should anticipate the
evening fixed by the abbot, and appoint a wayside auberge as a place of
meeting; but the presence of her betrothal ring could not be doubted;
and she was in danger, or tribulation, as this apparently suave and
honest fellow admitted. What lover could linger or doubt?
"You will come, messire?" entreated Carl.
"Come--instantly! my sword and cloak----"
"Nay, messire, I have the honour to mention," said the sleek Carl,
"that mademoiselle does not expect you until the cathedral bells have
rung the hour of nine, and when the lamps are hung in the spire."
To Gray this information was more perplexing than ever.
"Near the auberge," continued Carl, "is a stone cross, one hundred
paces to the right of the road, where a votive lamp burns--there she
will meet you."
"Grace guide me!" exclaimed Gray, "what mystery is this? Is not that
district a perilous one after nightfall?"
"There are certainly some clerks of St. Nicholas in the woods at
times," said Carl, with pretended hesitation.
"What manner of clerks are they?"
"Disbanded Brabanters, who are their own paymasters."
"Robbers, in fact," said Gray, sharply.
"Ay, robbers, and all kinds of wild fellows."
"Come! this is pleasant for one who will be alone."
"Messire shall not be alone," said Carl, "for I shall be there as a
guide."
"Thanks and largesse to you, most worthy varlet," said Gray,
gratefully, though feeling more and more bewildered. He then put some
money into the hands of Carl, who, glad that his mission was over,
hurriedly withdrew, and within an hour duly reported his progress to
the count of Endhoven, who still remained at the auberge, though Albany
and Achanna had returned to the house of the Dyck Graf, to wait the
event of the night.
Gray sat in a turmoil of thought after Carl had retired. The idea of
a snare never occurred to him. The presence of Murielle's ring lulled
every suspicion, if he had one; and he kissed it again and again, for
it had been on her finger since that night when first she admitted that
he might love her, when the summer moon was wading the fleecy clouds
above the Galloway hills that slept in her silver sunshine, which cast
the towers of Thrave in sombre shadow on the black waters of the Dee.
As it did not suit the purpose of master Carl Langfanger to have any
outrage committed _in_ his auberge--a place on which the officials of
the Dyck Graf had more than once cast eyes of suspicion--it had been
arranged that Gray should be waylaid at the solitary cross, and there
disarmed, mutilated in the horrible manner suggested by the barbarous
count of Endhoven, who is recorded to have treated more than one of his
prisoners thus, especially, a poor pilgrim from Antwerp and a merchant
of Bruges.
This votive wayside cross had been erected by the eldest son of
Reinald, the warlike duke of Gueldres, as a propitiation for his
unnatural conduct, in making a captive of his father, who died in 1325.
It stood in a wild and solitary place, among heath and gorse, midway
between the highroad which led to the auberge, and the forest that
spread along the banks of the Waal. After the gates of Bommel were shut
for the night, the vicinity of this cross was a place avoided by all
belated people, in consequence of the lawless nature of the district,
and of those terrible wolves, whose lair was also the forest.
As the night drew on, Count Ludwig, Carl Langfanger, Gustaf Vlierbeke,
and some ten or twelve other outlaws all Brabanciones, and well, but
variously armed, issued from the auberge, and repaired to the vicinity
of Duke Reinald's Cross, where they concealed themselves in a hollow,
close to the path, among some thick willows and alder trees.
"Der Teufel!" grumbled the count, "I hope our lover won't keep us long
waiting, for the night breeze that comes from the Waal is cold enough
already; so what will it be an hour hence!"
"For that reason I have brought with me, herr count, a jar of Languedoc
brandy," said Carl Langfanger.
"Thou art a priceless fellow!" exclaimed the count, with unfeigned
ardour, as he took a long draught from the stone bottle, and then
passed it round; "and now, Carl, light the brazier--hast got any
charcoal?"
"A little sack full; and we have plenty of dead branches hereabout."
"Right! Place it under the bank, where the glow will be hidden by the
willows. Set it a-light, I say; 'twill serve to keep us warm, and to
heat our branding iron at the same time. Who watches on the roadway?"
"Gustaf Vlierbeke," replied two or three at once.
"Bon! he has the eyes of a mole."
The charcoal, with the addition of some dried branches, was soon
glowing in the iron brazier, and it shed an uncertain glow on the
patched and parti-coloured garments, the rusty weapons, the pieces of
battered armour, the squalid and dirty visages of the ruffians who
crouched together, waiting for the coming prey, with watchful ears
and stealthy eyes, that had became bloodshot, haggard, and wild in
expression, with years of cruelty, lust, debauchery, and rapine; and
which brightened only as Carl's long jar of French brandy came round to
each in turn.
"Herr Count, there are the lights now, in the cathedral spire,"
exclaimed Carl, who descended from the top of the grassy bank, whither
he had crawled to listen.
"Then the gates of Bommel are being closed; der Teufels braden! where
tarries our lover? he should be here by this time!" muttered Ludwig,
thrusting the fatal iron deeper in the charcoal, and playing nervously
with the haft of his dagger; "is the old mare from the tan-yard ready?"
"All ready for her rider," replied Carl, with a cruel grin; "Gustaf
Vlierbeke," he added in a husky whisper, "hear you aught on the
roadway?"
"Nothing, but the wind and the tossing leaves."
Mutterings of impatience followed this reply.
"Gustaf has only one eye," said a Brabancione.
"The other was knocked out by the boll of a crossbow at Briel."
"Then, why the devil make him scout?" said a third lurker, in a
growling tone.
"Because he has the eye and the quickness of a bloodhound," said the
count; "ay, of Souyllard himself. It begins to seem that we shall
have a great deal of trouble with this teufel of a Schottlander! Carl
could easily have disposed of him at the hostelry, as I did yesterday
with the rich pilgrim who was on his way to Strasbourg, and who died,
unfortunately, just after sharing with me the contents of his bottle
and wallet."
"Died! how?"
"By the severing of the thyroid cartilage."
"What the henckers is that, herr count?"
"The hump in the wind-pipe, where the apple stuck."
"In plain words----"
"Exactly," said the count, passing a finger round his throat, a piece
of pantomime which excited the ferocious laughter of his followers; yet
they waited with great impatience, and the time seemed to pass the more
slowly, that they were without watches or other means of marking it.
Gustaf Vlierbeke was withdrawn from the post of scout, and replaced by
Carl Langfanger when the lights in the cathedral spire were reduced to
two.
"Two lights, der teufel!" exclaimed the count; "they indicate the hour
of ten: He must have been warned of our snare, and--hark! what is that?"
"The bay of a wolf, herr count."
"Yes, the moon is rising now, and our charcoal is smouldering fast."
Time passed on slowly; the slower that they waited with fierce
impatience, and the night became colder as the stars increased in
number and brilliance overhead. Some of the Brabanciones sat idly
gnawing their shaggy moustachios; others whiled away the lagging
minutes by putting an edge on their swords and daggers, with some of
the stones which lay near. It seemed weary work for them at best, for
the stone jar was empty now.
At last only _one_ light remained in the great spire of Bommel, and it
twinkled like a planet in the distance.
"Eleven!" exclaimed the count, starting to his feet, and, amid muttered
oaths of rage and disappointment, they were rising to disperse, when
Carl Langfanger crawled back, with tidings that a horseman was coming
rapidly along the highway. Again the charcoal was blown up by Gustaf
Vlierbeke, who made a bellows of his lungs; again the spur-shaped iron
was inserted deeper, teeth were set, fierce eyes sparkled, and weapons
were grasped and drawn.
On came the solitary rider--on and on. His horse's hoofs rang louder
with every bound as he drew nearer, and all held their breath when he
suddenly reined up abreast of the cross, in a little niche of which an
oil lamp was flickering in the gusty wind.
"Der teufel--'tis he at last!" said the count, as the rider turned his
horse to the right and cautiously approached the cross. Then springing
from their ambush, with loud yells of exultation and ferocity, the
Brabanciones rushed upon him! His horse's bridle and his stirrups were
grasped on both sides; and before a cry could escape his lips, the
victim was dragged from his saddle, struck to the earth under a shower
of blows, and manacled by a strong cord.
"Light a torch, and drag him into the hollow," cried Count Ludwig,
whose order was roughly and promptly obeyed.