The evening was dark and somewhat stormy; and, though the hour was the
same as that in which Bernard de Rohan had met Isabel on the preceding
day, so much less light was there now in the heavens that he could
scarcely see the postern gate, while with a beating heart he watched it
from the small clump of fir-trees of which we have already spoken.
Although a hollow and whistling wind blew sharp and strong among the
mountains, the heavy vapours hung unmoved around the peaks; and though
there was a reddish glare upon the edges of some of the clouds in the
western sky, no light was derived from any lingering rays of the sun.
Everything was gloomy, and dark, and cheerless; and yet the heart of
Bernard de Rohan beat high with love, with joy, with expectation.
She was to be his, the being whom he had so long, so deeply, so tenderly
loved. Within one short hour she was to be his own, bound to him by that
indissoluble bond, to which he looked forward all the more joyfully,
because it was to be eternal. Whose heart would not beat high at the
fulfilment of the dream of years?
At length he thought he saw the door move, and, darting forward, he
opened it gently. Isabel was waiting within with the faithful Henriot
and her silent maid; and though she trembled very much as Bernard threw
his arms around her, it was agitation, not fear, which moved her. The
Lord of Masseran was still absent: there was no one likely to interrupt
them; and when her lover strove to sooth and to encourage her, telling
her that his own men were within sound of his horn, and many more
unseen, surrounding them on all sides, she replied by assuring him in a
low voice that she had no apprehension, and was ready to follow him
whithersoever he would. Still, however, he saw that she was agitated;
and, as he led her forth, he poured many a soothing and a tender word
into her ear, drawing her nearer to his heart, and seeming to assure
her, by every action as well as by every word, that the love and the
protection which he was about to vow was as tender, as unchangeable, as
the brightest dream of hope and expectation could picture it.
"Do you know the chapel down in the valley, my Isabel?" he asked, as he
led her onward down a narrow path that wound along the side of the hill,
as close under the walls of the castle as might be. "We have obtained
the keys, and the priest is waiting."
"But at this hour," demanded Isabel, eagerly; "can he perform the
service at this hour?"
"He has procured full authority," replied Bernard, in the same low tone.
"Nothing, dear girl, has been left undone."
"Hark!" said Isabel, stopping. "Did you not hear some voices above?"
He paused and listened, but no sound met his ear. "The echo of our own
voices," he answered; "though we speak low, they catch the angles of the
rock, and are given back again to our own ears. But let us hasten
onward, dearest. Once thou art mine, such apprehensions will cease."
Nothing occurred to interrupt them. Step by step, over the rough and
encumbered path, they pursued their way, till at length, in the lowest
part of the valley, shut in between the small river and the rock on
which the castle stood, appeared an old Gothic chapel. The pinnacles,
the towers, the mouldings of the little building, in all their rich
tracery, were fully visible; for, as the party descended, the chapel lay
exactly between them and a clear part of the stream, so that the
glistening surface of the water formed a background to the dark lines of
the building, though none of the surrounding scenery, except the bold
masses of some adjacent rocks, could be distinguished.
Thither, by another path, which, being cut through the rock, gave
admission to the castle at once, had Isabel often come to attend the
service on Sundays and on holydays; but all seemed changed as she now
approached it; as much, indeed, in regard to the feelings with which she
revisited it, as to the aspect of the place itself. Through the windows
on the side which they approached, a small ray of light stole forth from
the altar like a pure and holy religion in the midst of ages of
darkness, and, guided onward by that, they were soon at the door of the
chapel. It yielded easily to the hand, and Isabel, half led, half
supported by Bernard de Rohan, found herself approaching that altar
where the last vow of maiden love was to be spoken. On one side of that
altar stood the good priest, Father Willand; but on the other, to the
surprise both of Bernard de Rohan and of Isabel de Brienne, appeared the
ordinary priest of the place, pale, somewhat agitated, and looking from
time to time round the building with a wild and fearful glance.
"Quick!" cried Father Willand, as the party approached; "you have been
very long, my children. Let us despatch this business speedily, and put
out the lights."
"I am forced," said the other priest, "by commands that I dare not
disobey, to be here this night; but I call you all to witness that it is
against my will that I am here; and, in case the Lord of Masseran--"
"Pooh, pooh!" exclaimed Father Willand, "we don't want you to be here at
all, my good friend. All we want is the chapel. I will read the service,
brother. Approach, my children, approach;" and, taking up the book, he
commenced at once, and in the most abridged form that the Church
allowed, the marriage service between Bernard de Rohan and Isabel de
Brienne.
The latter needed support not a little; but the quiet maid, who was the
only woman that accompanied her, was far too inanimate and statue-like
to afford her any. It was in no ordinary circumstances that poor Isabel
was placed. True, indeed, she was not called upon to give her hand to
one who was nearly a stranger to her, as is but too often the case;
true, that with her all the sweet and delicate feelings which surround
the heart of woman from her youth were not to be rudely plucked away
without preparation, like flowers torn by a harsh and reckless hand,
which, while it takes, injures the plant which bore them; true, that she
was giving herself to one whom she had long known and deeply loved, and
towards whom she had ever looked as to her promised husband; but still
she was becoming his bride suddenly, secretly; she was flying with him
in darkness and in concealment, with the presence of none of those bound
to her by the ties of blood to sanction the new bonds that she was
taking upon her.
The fear, too, of discovery and pursuit was superadded to all the other
feelings which such circumstances might well produce. She knew that it
might not, and probably would not, be long before her mother--who had
been left evidently as a sort of spy upon her actions and a jailer of
her person, rather than a friend, a protector, and an adviser--might
send to make sure that the harsh commands of the Lord of Masseran were
strictly observed, and that she did not quit the walls of the castle for
a moment during his absence; and she was well aware that the discovery
of her flight would produce instant pursuit. Thus, though generally she
kept her eyes either bent down upon the ground, or raised with a look of
confidence and affection towards Bernard de Rohan, yet from time to time
she cast a hasty glance over her shoulder towards the door of the
chapel; and, as she did so, she remarked that the same fears seemed also
to possess the waiting woman, whose eyes were generally turned in the
same direction.
No interruption took place, however. The words, the irrevocable words
that bound her and Bernard de Rohan together, were spoken in a low but a
firm voice. The ring was upon her finger. The benediction was
pronounced, and for a moment, for one short moment, she was clasped as a
bride in the arms of him she loved, when there came suddenly a noise as
of something thrown down in the small vestry on the right-hand side of
the altar.
The priest instantly put out the lights. Bernard de Rohan still held her
close to his heart with his left arm, but, at the same time, laid his
right hand upon his sword. Before he could draw it, however, three men
sprang upon him, two from the vestry itself, and one from a window
behind him, through which several had forced a way.
All was now darkness and confusion in the chapel; but it was evident
that the number of persons it contained increased every moment. The
young cavalier strove violently to free himself, and, by an exertion of
his great strength, dragged his assailants hither and thither; but still
they clung to him; still, twining round his arms, they prevented him
from grasping either sword or dagger, and from reaching the small
hunting-horn which he carried at his side, and which he knew, could he
but blow it, would bring assistance speedily. Frustrated in his attempt
to lift it to his lips, he raised his voice and shouted loudly; but
fresh assailants poured upon him; a scarf was tied over his mouth; his
hands were pinioned behind, and he found himself irretrievably a
prisoner.
All was darkness, as I have said; not the least light appeared in the
chapel, and no words were spoken aloud by any one; so that all Bernard
de Rohan could hear was the moving of many feet; a low, murmuring
whisper, as if of consultation or direction; and the sobbing of a bosom
which he knew too well to be that of her he loved best on earth. At one
time a voice was raised somewhat louder than the rest, and he thought he
distinguished the tones of Adrian de Meyrand. The next moment another
voice that he did not know replied, "No, not that way. Keep that door
shut. There is another here which leads us thither more quickly."
Now completely overpowered--although his heart burned within him, and he
longed for the strength of him who cast down the temple of Gaza to burst
the bonds upon his hands--Bernard de Rohan strove no longer with those
who held him, for he felt that to struggle was utterly vain.
Nevertheless, it was not without rude violence that they dragged him
along through the vestry, and from thence by a small door into the open
air. The scarf was still over his mouth, so that he could not speak, and
could scarcely breathe; but, as there was some slight increase of light,
he looked eagerly around him. Isabel, however, was not to be seen. There
were some dark, scattered groups here and there, but he could
distinguish no one clearly, and was dragged on towards the rock on which
the castle of Masseran stood.
Into whose power he had now fallen there was no doubt. The character of
the man was well known; and, had Bernard de Rohan thought at that moment
of his own probable fate, he could have anticipated nothing but the
darkest and most atrocious termination of the act which had been just
committed. At that moment, however, he thought alone of Isabel de
Brienne; and he remembered, with grief and agony that will not bear
description, what might be the consequences to her of falling into the
hands of the Lord of Masseran under such circumstances, and beyond the
pale of her native country.
They dragged him on, however, across the short space which lay between
the rock on which the castle stood and the chapel, to a spot where a
doorway presented itself, hewn in the solid stone, under the arch of
which appeared a soldier with a light. Into his hands those who brought
him thither consigned the young French gentleman, pushing him forward,
and saying, "There, take him, and put him where my lord told you."
The man with the light replied nothing, but with another, who had been
standing behind him, received the prisoner from the hands of his
comrades, and, with somewhat more gentleness than they had shown, led
him onward. The moment he had taken a step or two forward, a large,
oblong mass of solid rock, which, turning upon a pivot, served the
purpose of a door, and, when shut, blocked up the whole passage that led
under ground to the castle, rolled slowly to behind him. He went on
patiently, for it was clear that no effort of his own could effect
anything towards his deliverance; and when he had gone on some way and
ascended a small flight of steps, he found another armed man standing
with a light at a door plated with iron. Those who followed told him to
go in, and he found himself in a dungeon, of which he was evidently not
the first tenant, for there was a crust of bread covered with long green
mould upon the table, and a broken water-pitcher in one corner of the
room. There was a bed, too, with some straw, at one side of the door,
and a single chair; but besides these necessaries there appeared hanging
from the wall, to which they were attached by a stanchion imbedded in
the solid masonry, a large, heavy ring, and some strong linked fetters.
At these Bernard de Rohan gazed for a moment fiercely, and then turned
his eyes to one of his jailers, who had been removing the mouldy crust
from the table and the broken water-cruise from the corner of the
dungeon.
The man seemed to understand the look at once. "No!" he said, "no! They
are not for you unless you are violent. But we may let you speak now as
much as you like;" and he untied the scarf from Bernard de Rohan's lips.
The young cavalier drew a deep breath, and then demanded, "What is this?
Why am I here? Take notice, and remember that I am an officer of Henry
the Second, king of France, now actually on his service; that I came
hither from the Marechal de Brissac, with despatches and messages to the
Lord of Masseran; and that bitter will be the punishment of all those
who injure or detain me."
The man heard him to the end with the most perfect composure, and then
replied, "We neither know nor care, young gentleman, who or what you
are, or in whose service you are. We obey the commands of our own lord;
and, if you are inclined to give up all resistance and be quiet, we will
untie your arms, and let you have the free use of your limbs and tongue.
There is only one thing necessary for you to tell us. Will you be quiet
and peaceable, or will you not?"
"I have no choice," replied Bernard de Rohan, in a bitter tone. "As you
have wrongfully and unjustly made me a prisoner, I have no power of
resisting whatsoever you choose to do with me."
"That is talking sensibly," replied the man; "but, in the first place,
if you please, we will take away all these pleasant little things from
you, as I would rather have them in my hand than my throat." And he
deliberately stripped the prisoner of all his weapons, to keep them, as
he said, with a laugh, for his use at a future time. He then untied his
arms, which were benumbed with the tight straining of the cords with
which they had bound him, and saying, "I will bring you some food," he
moved towards the door where his companions stood.
"I want no food," replied Bernard de Rohan, gloomily; and in his heart
he asked himself if any human being could find appetite to eat in such
an abode as that.
"You will come to it, young gentleman, you will come to it," replied the
man; "before you get out, you will come to it well enough. I have seen
many a one who thought of nothing else all the day long but the time for
eating and drinking. Why, it was the only thing they had to do with
life. They might as well have been a stone in the wall if it had not
been for that."
With this awful sermon upon the imprisonment that awaited him, the
jailer set down the lamp he held in his hand and went away. He returned
in a minute or two, however, with some food, which he placed upon the
table before which the young cavalier was still standing, exactly as the
other had left him. The man gave him a cold look, as if merely to see
how he bore it, and then once more quitted the dungeon, turning the key
in the heavy lock.
Bernard de Rohan remained long in that same attitude, and filled with
the same dark and melancholy thoughts. Still, still they pressed upon
his brain, although he sought to banish them and to bear his condition
with his usual equanimity and fortitude. He was not one ever to give way
to despair where any opportunity existed for active exertion; but here
he could do nothing. With his own hand he could not right himself. With
his own voice he could not plead his cause. Talent or genius he might
possess, but all in vain. Vigour and courage were useless. There was but
one thing left--endurance; a species of courage which the very bravest
do not always possess. Bernard de Rohan strove to summon it to his aid.
It came but slowly, however; and, when he thought of Isabel of Brienne,
his own sweet, beautiful bride, snatched from him in the very first
moment that he could call her so, resolution forsook him, and in agony
of heart he cast himself down upon the straw in his dungeon. Was that
his bridal bed?