Francbois, his face become suddenly ashy, as both ladies observed,
from the moment he had heard Bevill's voice and saw its owner standing
at the foot of the steps, nevertheless did as he was invited and went
out to the verandah. Then, seeing that, without any further word or
sign, the Englishman was slowly making his way towards the gate, he
followed him. Yet once the thought came to his mind as he did so, "If
this were not the garden of the house wherein I dwell, if those women
were not there, how easy 'twould be--now, as he walks ahead
disdainfully--to put him out of my path, for ever." While, as he thus
thought, his hand itched to draw the spadroon at his side.
In the room which he had left, the women were now standing at the open
window, gazing down at the figures of the retiring men. On Sylvia's
face there was a look of intense anxiety, of nervousness--an
expression that, on the face of a woman of less heroic mould, might
have been construed into one of fear. But, though this look was not,
truly, one that depicted fear, the agitation that possessed her whole
being was the outcome of fear. Not for herself--that could never
be!--but for him--him--the man whose every path, every footstep, was
day by day and hour by hour becoming more environed and beset by
danger.
"And the bitterness of it all is," she thought to herself, "that the
danger need never have arisen. I was safe. Short of this city being
besieged by the English and fired by grenades or bombarded, or sacked
and destroyed by the French in their rage, naught could harm me. Yet,
to protect me, to shield me from harm, as he deemed in his chivalry,
danger surrounds his every movement, his whole existence. How--
how--shall I therefore save him, how repay him in turn? If we
cannot leave this city, if I cannot save him by the pretence, the
make-believe, that he is saving me--oh! what shall become of him?
What?"
"They have passed out through the gate," the Comtesse said at this
moment. "They----"
"What! is he going to kill him? To force him into a duel?"
"'Twere well he should do so," the Comtesse de Valorme said in a hard,
dry voice that sounded strangely in Sylvia's ears, or would have done
so had she not been too agitated to observe the tone of the other.
"Very well it would."
"Radegonde! How can you speak so of one allied to you, one dwelling
beneath the same roof as you? He has not harmed you; he is only
dangerous in so far that we fear the harm he may do."
"While Francbois and Monsieur de Belleville inhabit this city there is
no safety for your friend. I know Francbois. He is treacherous, subtle
as a snake, and--and--it is much to his interests to have M. de
Belleville removed from--well, from your companionship."
"Why?" the girl asked, looking at her companion. "Why?" Though, as she
spoke, there came to her face the rose-blush that had but recently
quitted it.
"You should guess why as easily as I. M. de Belleville," the Comtesse
continued quietly, "is the representative of your guardian. Do you
imagine that, holding this office, he would look with approval on
Francbois' desires to--to--ah! you know what he desires."
"If," said Sylvia, speaking now with her usual calm, "neither my
guardian nor Monsieur de Belleville had any existence, M. Francbois'
desires would be no nearer their attainment. Ah," she exclaimed
suddenly, "what is that? Is it the clash of swords? Listen!"
"I heard nothing. The night is tranquil; there is no sound. Sylvia,
you are overwrought, overstrung. What do you fear? Such as Francbois
cannot slay one such as he, except by treachery, by betrayal."
"If I fear aught it is that he should slay Francbois. I would not have
a gallant gentleman stain his sword with the blood of such as that man
is. I would not have Monsieur de Belleville bring fresh trouble, fresh
risks of danger on himself."
That Sylvia was, indeed, overwrought must have been the case since,
undoubtedly, she could have heard as yet no clash of swords proceeding
from the spot which the two men had reached some minutes before.
When Bevill Bracton, followed by Francbois, had passed through the
gate giving from the garden into the lane, he had continued for some
paces until, arriving beneath the foliage of a tree that protruded
over the wall of another property, he halted and, turning round, faced
the other. Then he said:
"Monsieur Francbois, you remember me. We were at school years ago at
the Lycée Saint Philippe. You have not forgotten?"
[Illustration: "'Monsieur Francbois, you remember me.'"--_p_. 553.]
"I have forgotten nothing. You are an Englishman. Your name
is--_peste!_--I--I know it, yet for the moment it has escaped me.
Nevertheless, I shall recall it."
"It would be best that you should not endeavour to recall it," Bevill
said, looking down on the man--and there was light enough for
Francbois to see that the glance was a stern, determined one. "Also
that you do not intrude on my affairs. If you do so, it will be
dangerous for you."
"Dangerous for me!" the other exclaimed, with a contemptuous laugh.
"For me! On my life, monsieur, it is not I who stand in danger here.
Liége is dominated by the French, and I am a Frenchman. You are an
Englishman. Your life is not worth a fico if that is once known."
"Short of you and what you may do, it cannot be known. Now listen to
me. I am here in the garb of a private man, desiring not to draw my
sword either in the disputes between your country and mine, or in
personal quarrel. But that sword lies against my side ever ready to
leap from its scabbard--as it will if I am thwarted in what I have set
myself to do; if I am betrayed or falsely denounced by anyone--by you,
since there is no other here who can do so. Ponder therefore on
whether it will profit you to thwart, to betray me."
"_Ohé!_" Francbois exclaimed in a light and airy tone, which was
probably but a poor outward sign of what his inward feelings were. "If
it comes to drawing swords--ay, and crossing them too--there are
others who can do as much. We Frenchmen know something of the
swordsman's art. Witness how you English cross the Channel to take
lessons in it from us."
"That is true. I myself took those lessons, and I have profited by
them."
"Ah I it may be so," Francbois said, though the recollection of this
fact, which for the moment he had forgotten, did not add much to his
equanimity. "But as for the betrayal! Once betrayed, a man has little
chance of avenging himself on his betrayer. The rat in the cage cannot
bite his captor."
"He can bite him before he is caged. Now listen to me, Francbois. If I
supposed to-night that you came into that house with a view to
betraying me, you would never return to it. I know, however, why you
followed me to it, why you were resolved to discover if I was within
it. I know that you pester Mademoiselle Thorne with your
addresses----"
"And I know," Francbois exclaimed, stung beyond endurance at the
contemptuous tones of the other, "that you are an English lover of
hers; that you have come here to be by her side, to endeavour, if it
may be so, to remove her from Liége to your own land."
"It is false. I am no lover of hers. Except when she was a child of
ten I have never set eyes on her until I did so here a week ago."
"It is very strange," Francbois sneered. "You found your way, made
your entrance, to the Weiss Haus with ease. From the balcony
Mademoiselle Thorne extended you a gracious welcome, bade you enter.
Is it the habit for English donzelles to extend such cordial greetings
to every passer-by? Do----"
But he stopped, seeing that he had said too much, for he had gone too
far.
For the moment Bevill Bracton said nothing, yet his action was,
indeed, louder than any words could have been. His hand drew forth his
sword, lightly he ran the glittering blade across his left cuff; then,
pointing with his left hand to the weapon by Francbois' side, he
uttered one word--the word "Draw!"
"What if I refuse?" Francbois asked.
"Your fate will be the same, therefore you must defend yourself. You
rogue," he went on through his teeth, "you dare to make aspersions on
my countrywoman! You dare--you!--such as you!--to raise your eyes to
Sylvia Thorne and, to make yourself safe with her, as you suppose you
can do, you intend to denounce me to the French here. So be it. Only
there shall be no betrayal. Either you remove me from your path now
and for ever--now, this very instant--or I put an end to all your
hopes and all your intended treacheries."
"You had best beware," Francbois said, and Bevill perceived that there
was a laugh in his voice--a laugh that was half jeer, half sneer. Also
he observed, and the observation surprised him, that there was no fear
in the man. If he was treacherous and crafty--a villain--at least he
was a bold one.
"Far best," Francbois continued. "I have crossed the Alps in my time.
Monsieur may have heard of the _stoccala lunga_ and the _botte
secrete_ and other strange passes taught in Italy----"
"Ay," said Bevill, "as well as the _botte des laches!_ I will essay
them. Doubtless it is the latter I have most to fear. Monsieur I am
your servant. _En garde_."
And now, through the calmness of the night, the two women must have
heard--sorely they heard--a sound not often familiar to women's ears,
yet one that, once heard, especially in such days, could scarcely be
misunderstood, even if not fully recognised.
A sound not unlike the hiss of the hooded snake as it glides towards
its victims--or, as one of those old Italian fencing-masters has
described it, "water hissing on hot iron." Also they must have heard
the "tic-tac" that steel makes as it grates against steel--a sound
that is not noise. And once, also, they must have heard a voice, the
voice of Francbois, ejaculate, "Ah!"
"They are engaged," the Comtesse whispered hurriedly to Sylvia.
"They----"
"Engaged!" the girl replied. "He and that man! Oh, Radegonde, hasten!
Come! Come, ere it is too late."
"Ay," Madame de Valorme exclaimed, "Francbois is a master of fence.
Monsieur de Belleville's life is too good for such as he to take."
Then, together, they sped down the garden path and through the gate
into the lane.
But now the scraping of the steel had ceased, while the obscurity of
the night beneath the overhanging tree was such that they could
scarcely perceive the figures of the two men. Yet that they were there
they knew. The darkness of the lane could not disguise their presence.
"Stop!" the Comtesse said, advancing towards the deeper gloom that
stood out in that darkness and testified to, at least, the figure of
one man. "Stop, I command you. Monsieur de Belleville, hold your hand.
Francbois, if you injure him, you are lost!"
While uttering these sentences in a clear voice, though in a somewhat
incoherent manner, she, followed by Sylvia, reached the spot where the
men were.
That Bevill was uninjured the Comtesse and Sylvia recognised at once.
He was standing upright in the middle of the path between the hedges,
and in his hand he held his sword, point downwards to the earth; on
which Sylvia murmured, "Thank Heaven above!" as she recognised this to
be the case.
As for Francbois, he, too, was standing upright, only his sword was
not in his hand; and now both ladies heard Bevill say:
"As for your _lungas_ and _bottes_, Monsieur Francbois, truly they are
not wonderful. A somewhat strong wrist and a trick of disengaging has
defeated them. Pick up your weapon and sheathe it: we will renew the
matter elsewhere."
"Nay," the Comtesse said, "you will not renew it. I," she continued,
"have that which should render Emile Francbois harmless. Come," she
said now, turning to the other. "Came, follow me some steps farther
down the lane. I must speak with you, and at once. Come," she said
again, and this time she spoke in a tone that plainly showed she
intended to be obeyed--a tone that would have required no great effort
of imagination on a listener's part to cause him to suppose that a
disobedient dog was being spoken to.
"You are not hurt?" Sylvia asked softly, as she stood alone with
Bevill and looked up at him through the density of the night--a
density that now, however, the swift rising of the moon was
dispersing. "Oh! I pray not."
"In no way," Bracton replied. "He plays well, yet his defence is weak
in the extreme--and it may be that the darkness was my friend. But,
Sylvia," forgetting his courteous deference for the moment, yet
observing, as he recalled himself, that either she had not remarked
his utterance of her name, or heeded it not, "but I have left him
free--free for harm, for evil."
"I think not. It would appear the Comtesse has some hold over him,
knows something that may keep him silent; yet, nevertheless----"
"Yes--nevertheless?"
"We--we must go. Escape! I--we," she went on, speaking tremulously,
"are not safe. I am afeard."
"Afeard? You? Yet you have told me the French, even though the worst
befall, will not hurt a woman."
"I have changed my thoughts. It is--a--woman's privilege to do so. I
would put leagues and leagues betwixt myself--betwixt us--and Liége:
betwixt us and all this land ravaged by war and contending armies.
I--I--cannot bear to remain here longer. In truth, I fear--I am sick
with fear."
Remarking Sylvia's strange agitation, an agitation so strangely
new-born, so different from the calm indifference and absence of all
apprehension which she had testified when first he reached her, Bevill
could not but wonder at the change that had come over her. For now she
was but in little more danger--if any--than she had been a week past.
There were, it is true, the rumours that the Allies were drawing near,
that Kaiserswörth had fallen to them, that Nimeguen had either done so
too or was about to do so, that Marlborough was hastening to take
chief command of all the forces. Yet what mattered this! She, like
every other woman in all the land, in every hemmed-in, beleaguered
town and city, was safe from personal violence--safe as a child
itself.
"And she knew it," he thought, as he gazed at the outlines of Sylvia's
face, now plainly visible in the light cast by the moon through the
leafy branches of the great tree. "She knew it, and she knows it
still. What is it she fears? What fear has come to her?"
Suddenly he asked:
"Is it Francbois you fear?"
For a moment Sylvia did not answer, turning her head away instead, but
saying in a whisper a moment later, "Yes."
"And I have let him live--live, when I might have slain him without
effort," while adding the next instant, "How can he harm you? No man
can force a woman to listen to his plaint, to accede to it. And I--am
I not by your side?"
"Ah, yes," she whispered again, while murmuring next through closed
lips some words he did not catch--words that almost appeared to sound
as though they were the words "Knight" and "Sentinel."
After which, speaking more clearly, Sylvia went on, "Still I would
fain depart. Ah! let us go."
"In spite of my protection! Through fear of Francbois?"
"In fear of Francbois--yes," looking straight into his eyes, while
adding inwardly, "Fear of him--for you."
"But Liége, the exit from Liége, is forbidden to all except the
French, since all others would avail themselves of the opportunity of
divulging the disposition of their forces round the city and in the
city also. It is impossible to go."
"Yet you are French--are supposed to be French. You have the means
wherewith to be De Belleville, the _attaché_, or Le Blond, the
mousquetaire. You can baffle suspicion with your knowledge of their
tongue, with your accent."
"Nay; I could not baffle a true Frenchwoman, the Comtesse, whatever I
may do with these Netherlanders. Neither could I deceive a
mousquetaire, and Francbois knows I am an Englishman. I will not go. I
will not expose you--and Madame de Valorme to the danger of travelling
with me the few miles necessary, to the danger of endeavouring to pass
out of Liége."
As he uttered these words it seemed to him that there came a low, yet
swiftly suppressed moan from the girl's lips, and, looking down
wonderingly at her while not understanding--for had she not said that,
come what might, all women were safe in Liége--he was about to ask her
why his determination moved her so much, when the Comtesse and
Francbois returned to where they stood.
"Emile will not divulge your nationality," the former said now to
Bevill. "He--well, I have persuaded him. Is it not so!" addressing
Francbois.
"Monsieur de Belleville may rely on me. He--he--misunderstood my
intentions," Francbois replied, holding out his hand to Bevill.
Owing possibly to the darkness, the young man failed, however, to see
that hand, whereon, a moment later, its owner allowed it to drop to
his side.