That night Bevill Bracton slept well, and as he had not slept since he
first went on board _Le Grand Roi_ at Harwich two days ago. For the
vessel had been full of persons, and especially children, who suffered
from the sea; the passage had been rough and, consequently, noisy;
while, although the wind was favourable for reaching the Dutch coast,
it had rendered sleep impossible.
But this night had made amends for all, and Bevill Bracton, springing
out of bed as he heard the clock of St. Peter's striking seven,
prepared to make himself ready for the day's journey. Overnight,
before he had sought sleep, he had thanked Heaven devoutly for having
allowed him to penetrate so far as even this old city of Louvain, and
into what was, in truth, the enemy's country--by seizure, though not
by right. Now once more he prayed that, as he had been thus far
favoured, so he might still be.
One thing he observed at once as he threw back the heavy shutters from
his windows, which looked down into the great courtyard. He saw that
the great travelling coach was gone. The Comtesse, whose title he had
learnt from the landlord ere he sought his bed overnight was De
Valorme, had departed with any following she might have other than the
ancient domestic he had seen at table, and the woman, Jeanne, of whom
they had spoken.
"Yet," Bevill said to himself, "at the pace La Rose," as he had now
named the mare, "can travel as against the speed that heavy lumbering
coach can attain, I should pass her ere she has accomplished half the
distance to Liége--long before she has reached St. Trond, indeed.
And," for still there was in his mind a thought, a fear--engendered
doubtless by the dangers with which he must be now surrounded, and
would be doubly surrounded as he progressed farther, and when he had
entered Liége--that in this woman there might be hidden something that
would imperil his safety, "and if she is a spy, at least it is as well
I should be there before her. Let me waste no time therefore."
He folded up his haversack and cloak, although, as he could see by the
courtyard, which was wet and had little pools of rain lying in the
hollows between the old, worn stones, it must have rained during the
night or early morning, although it was now a fair, sweet day. The
late May sun was shining down fiercely on the red roofs; a thrush was
singing blithely in its wicker cage as though rejoicing in the warmth
and light; one or two of the heavy, clownish domestics of the inn were
making an early meal of black bread and blacker beer at a table below
him; all nature smiled.
He descended, therefore, carrying his haversack and cloak, and with
his recently purchased pistols thrust in his sash under his coat,
since no traveller left such weapons far from his hand when he slept
in strange houses, and, going once more to the _Speiseraum_, ordered
some breakfast. Then he went out to see that all was well with La
Rose.
Half an hour later he was on the way to Liége, and was riding along
roads that passed through orchards which were now losing all their
pink and white blossoms as the fruit slowly developed on the trees.
Because he was young and strong and healthy; because, too, he had
great hopes before him, he took a keen delight in all that was around
him--in the fresh morning air that he drew into his lungs in great
draughts, in the sight of the full-leaved, half blossom and half fruit
gardens and orchards, even in the brooks that had been cut by the
sides of those orchards in long past days, and through which the water
ran with a swishing sound--he was jocund. He felt how good it was to
live and to be passing through the land on such a morning as this, to
hear the birds singing and twittering, and to see the cattle already
seeking shade from the morning sun; to cry out "Good-morning" to the
peasants in the fields or "God be with you" to the old people sitting
outside their houses, their life's labour done. He felt thus because
he was young, and strong, and full of life; because, too, his blood
was stirred by the thought of the adventures which must surely lie
before him; because almost he felt as though he were some young
knight-errant of dead and long-forgotten centuries riding forth to
rescue a lady fair who, immured in some gloomy town or fortalice,
waited for him with longing, eager eyes.
"And if the miniature does not belie sweet Sylvia Thorne," Bevill
murmured to himself as the mare cantered along the white roads which
the sun had now dried, "then no knight in armour ever rode in far-off
days to the assistance of woman more fair than she. As a child she was
winsome. I wonder if this stately woman, whose portrait I have gazed
on so of ten since my lord gave it into my charge, is winsome still?
Winsome--yes, it may well be so. But grave, almost austere, as those
eyes that look out at me whenever I gaze on the portrait proclaim;
stately in her bearing, almost cold. Well! Cold let her be. What
matters it to me? She is not the guerdon that I seek to win, but only
the means by which I shall win the guerdon I would have. Let me but do
my best, and all will be very well. Mistress Thorne may freeze me with
one glance from those calm eyes, and yet my lord Marlborough shall
warm me back to life with his approval."
The day went on, the sun rose high in the cloudless sky, and, except
for the various halts which Bevill made under shady trees, or on the
cool side of old Lutheran churches and quaint Flemish houses, to rest
La Rose--and once to refresh himself--he had wasted no time. So that
he knew, not only by the sign-posts and the hamlets he had passed
through, but also by a _routier_, or chart of the district, which hung
in the dark hall of the "Duc de Brabant," that he must be nearing a
small town called St. Trond, a place that lay nearer to Liége than to
Louvain.
"Madame de Valorme set out at six, the landlord told me," Bevill
reflected, "and I ere the clocks struck eight; I marvel much that I
have not come up with her coach yet. Her horses must travel faster
than I thought, or that coach be lighter than its appearance
warranted."
Then, at this moment, there came an interruption to any further
meditations on his part.
A shot rang out on the clear noontide air, one that caused the
nervous, excitable mare to swerve and spring across the road, almost
unseating Bevill; and then, while he recovered himself, to gallop
wildly along the white straight road bordered by pollard trees.
"Gently, gently," Bevill exclaimed, as he endeavoured to soothe her,
while, since he was a finished horseman, he knew better than to
attempt to check her suddenly, but drew her up gradually. "Gently.
Though, 'fore Heaven, that sudden report was enough to startle one
less flighty than she. Whence," he mused, "did that shot proceed? To
my left, surely, and from a side road which I passed a moment ere the
report rang forth. Was," with a dark look on his face, "the ball
intended for me? Well, we will see to it."
Whereupon, since now La Rose was, by the aid of much stroking of her
neck and patting and soothing, restored somewhat to calmness, Bevill
turned her head round in the direction they had come, and at last
persuaded her, though it was not easy to do, to retrace her steps to
the crossroads.
Also, he opened the covers of his holsters and threw them back, so
that the butt of each of his new pistols should be ready to his hand.
"I may be indebted for a favour to some marauder," he muttered, "and I
abhor debt. If I owe one, it shall be repaid in full." After which he
loosened his sword in its sheath, and so reached the crossroads.
As he turned into it he saw nothing at first, unless it was the
ominous twitching of the mare's ears; but a moment later he heard a
voice, and that a woman's--a voice that exclaimed:
"You cowardly dastards! You--you Flemish boors! To attack a woman--to
slay an old man!"
"Great powers!" exclaimed Bevill to himself, as now a touch of his
knee sent La Rose forward swiftly, while at the same time he drew
forth the pistol from the right holster. "'To slay an old man.' And
that voice hers. Hers!"
"French! French! French!" he heard several voices exclaim together in
the raucous, guttural, Low Frankish dialect of the district. "You are
all French Papists, servants of the great Papist King in Paris, of the
Italian Priest in Rome. We will not spare you. Or," one voice said,
"not your wealth, if we spare your lives. And he, this dead one,
should not have resisted us."
Whatever the ruffians who thus spoke might have intended doing was
now, however, doomed to be frustrated. Bevill Bracton was amongst
them--a party of seven men, armed some with great horse pistols, one
or two with reaping hooks, and another with a rusty sword. In a moment
they were, however, scattered, the mare knocking down two as she
lashed out, while one received a bullet in the shoulder from Bevill,
and, falling to the ground, vowed that he was dead.
But amidst the confusion, and while Bevill cried, "Stop, all of you.
He who attempts to fly shall be shot on the spot," he was able to see
at a glance what had happened.
The coach--the driver had doubtless been misdirected, or the horses'
heads had not been turned down this side road--stood lower down the
lane than those who had occupied it. At the feet of the horses lay the
man who was undoubtedly the coachman; by his side knelt the Comtesse
de Valorme, looking up at the boors who had attacked the party.
Jeanne, her maid, an elderly woman, seemed to have fainted inside the
coach; while old Ambroise, who was weeping and shaking all over, stood
with a footman close by the side of his mistress.
Now, as Bevill dismounted, Madame de Valorme, looking up at him,
exclaimed:
"Ah! The Capitaine Le Blond. Heaven be praised!"
[Illustration: "By his side knelt the Comtesse."]
But Bevill had no time to be startled at hearing himself addressed
thus, nor to speculate as to whether the Comtesse had discovered his
assumed name from the landlord, or had herself searched for it in the
register. His attention was otherwise needed.
"You brute dogs!" he exclaimed in the best Dutch he could muster. "So
'tis thus war begins with you--by attacks on women and old men."
While, as he spoke, he thrust his discharged pistol back into the
right holster and drew out that in the left.
"We are starving," one man said. "You--you--French trample us down,
take all--you, who are as bad as the Spaniards were. We retaliate when
we can."
"Is there a rope?" Bevill asked, looking down from his seat on the
horse and addressing Ambroise and the younger man, the footman. "One
used in the coach? If so, fetch it."
"A rope!" the men howled now, while two of them flung themselves on
their knees and whined and screamed for mercy. "A rope! Spare
us--spare us! We have taken nothing."
"Except a life," Bevill exclaimed, glancing at the body of the
coachman.
Meanwhile, the footman had mounted the box of the coach and was busily
engaged in uncording the valises piled up on top of it. But while he
did so the Comtesse de Valorme had risen to her feet and had held out
her hand to Bevill, which he, after dismounting, took in his.
"How shall a helpless woman, travelling with only serving men in
attendance on her, thank one who is strong and brave enough to rescue
her?" madame asked. "How? Ah! monsieur----"
"Madame in Comtesse." Bevill replied, "I have but done that which
every man would do for a woman. I beseech you say no more."
"It may be that at Liége," the Comtesse continued (and Bevill could not
but observe how, as she spoke, her blue eyes looked into his as though
endeavouring to read, to decipher, what impression her words might
make on him), "at Liége I can return----"
"Madame!"
"----Some of your chivalrous service. Even though proffered to a
French officer," and now those eyes shone like sapphires, "in
safety--in--a French garrison, a woman's assistance may be worth
acceptance."
"She knows me for what I am," Bevill thought; "or, rather, for what I
am not. And she will not betray me."
The few words that had been exchanged between him and the Comtesse de
Valorme were uttered in low tones, though, even had they been spoken
clearly, it is doubtful if the boors who were trembling close by them
would have heard, or, in hearing, have understood. For now their
courage, their Dutch courage, had left them; they deemed their fate at
hand, since, armed as this man was and with a horse on which to pursue
them, flight would have been vain.
At this moment their fears were at their height; their whimpers were
turned into shrieks and supplications. The footman had descended,
bearing in his hand a rope some ten or twelve feet long; while, as the
man who had shot one of them and, in a moment, terrified the rest into
abject fear, took it in his own hands, they saw that his eyes were
directed towards an elm that grew by the side of the road.
"In mercy's sake," the Comtesse whispered, since she, too, saw
Bevill's glance, "in the name of Him Who forgives all sinners, proceed
to no extremities. And--and--Joseph, my coachman, is not truly dead.
The ball has but grazed his face and stunned him. Monsieur, I beseech
you--nay, I----"
"Madame," Bevill replied, turning his back to the men who were, in
absolute fact, his prisoners, "I had no thought of executing them. But
still punishment is their meed. Therefore, I will have them bound to
that tree and, at the next village or town--it should be one called
St. Trond--there may be some Prévôt-Maréchal or Captain of
Maréchaussée to whom we can denounce them. The French, our troops----"
"Yes. Our troops?" with another swift glance.
"Are all about. The line stretches from Antwerp to Cologne, and across
the Rhine. Into their hands shall these ruffians be delivered. They
shall be the instruments of justice."
Half an hour after this decision had been come to the coach of the
Comtesse de Valorme was on its way once more; but now it was driven by
the young footman, at whose side Ambroise sat. Outside was Joseph
also, who had recovered from the shock he had received, and was now
engaged in thanking Heaven for the narrow escape that had been
vouchsafed to him, and in calling down blessings on the Comtesse and
Jeanne (on whose shoulder his head rested) and Bevill indiscriminately.
Sometimes ahead of the great travelling carriage, and
sometimes--though not often--by the side of the open window, where
Madame sat, Bevill Bracton rode now as escort. But, as he did so,
while keeping ever a vigilant look-out to right and left and in front
of him--for he knew not if other groups similar to those who were now,
with the exception of the man wounded by him, all tied firmly and back
to back to the elm tree, might be about--his thoughts did not dwell on
the rescue he had by chance effected, but on the woman he had
preserved from outrage and insult. Also, they dwelt on what must be
the state of that woman's mind at this time.
"For she is French, and I am a subject of her country's bitterest
foe--and she knows it. Or, not knowing, still suspects. And yet--and
yet--if I mistake her not, if I have read her aright, I have rendered
her harmless. Likewise, she is a good woman. She pleaded for mercy for
those vagabonds, not knowing that there was no need for pleading,
since I am no hangman; she spoke of Him Who pardons all sinners. 'Tis
not of such stuff as this that spies, denouncers, women who rend the
hand that is held out to them, are made. Yet, knowing all, she must be
torn with vastly conflicting feelings. How shall she reconcile herself
to befriending one who is of those who would render her ambitious,
evil King harmless? How shall she, a Frenchwoman, bring herself to be
the ally of an Englishman?"
But still, even as Bevill mused, he knew that he and his secret, or as
much as she knew or could guess of it, were safe in this woman's
hands.
A moment later, he had certain proof that he had divined aright.
They were drawing near St. Trond now; ahead of them they could see the
smoke curling up in the afternoon air, and they could also see the men
lounging at the barrier through which admission was gained to the
town.
"We shall be there," the Comtesse said to Bevill, who was at this time
riding by the window of the coach, while directing her glance to the
little place, "ere many moments are passed. Monsieur," and she put her
gloved hand upon the sash and leant forward towards him, "those men
will have suffered enough by the time they are released from that
tree. I ask you not to call the attention of any Prévôt or officer of
Maréchaussée to their being there, or to their attack on me."
"Madame is truly of a forgiving nature. Yet, since it is her concern,
not mine----"
"It would be best, even though, unhappily, forgiveness plays no part
in my desire. Questions might be asked, explanations required; nay,"
and once more the deep blue eyes looked full into Bevill's, "some of
monsieur's brother mousquetaires may be here." And now those eyes
looked strangely; almost it seemed as though they conveyed a menace.
Yet, Bevill asked himself, even as a chill seemed to strike to his
heart, as icy fingers seemed to clutch at it, could this woman be
false; a traitress to one who had helped and succoured her? Was she no
better than a female Sparmann?
"She spoke," he said to himself, "of Him Who pardons all sinners; she
besought mercy for those who had molested her. Can such as she be a
spy? I will never believe it."
Then, suddenly gazing down at her--and now the intensity of his glance
equalled her own, while he saw she did not blench beneath it--he said,
not roughly, yet determinately:
"Have done with equivocations, madame, with pointed words,"
remembering the accentuation of those words "monsieur's brother
mousquetaires." "Speak plainly. Truth, openness, are ever best."
"If," the Comtesse said now, though still all was not open, her
meaning not altogether apparent, "if you are what I believe--nay, what
I know you to be--and you are discovered, your life is in awful
danger. If you reach Liége you will, if betrayed, never quit it
alive."
"Who shall betray me to my death? Answer me. Since you have told so
much, tell more. What is it you know, and who and what are you?"
"A woman," the Comtesse answered. "One who does not betray gallant men
to their deaths."
"This death you speak of is certain?"
"Certain. Beyond all doubt. For you are----"
"What?"
"Listen. Bend down from your horse. Not even they," with a glance
above to where the servants were, "must hear."
"Great Heaven!" Bevill exclaimed when he had done so and she had
whispered in his ear.
For the words she had thus whispered were: "You are an Englishman, and
your name is not Le Blond. Have I not said truly? If you are
discovered your doom is certain."