Captain Barringer--as the young officer of dragoons had now told
Sylvia and the Comtesse his name was, while presenting the lieutenant
to them as Sir George Saxby--showed both by his tone and words that
the gravity of Bevill's position was extreme, though he took care to
add that the fact of there being no Court of Inquiry ready to be
formed at the present moment was a considerable point in his chance of
ultimate escape.
In absolute fact, however, had it not been for the grief-stricken face
of the handsome girl before him, the girl in whose eyes the tears now
welled and hung upon the lids, even if they did not drop, and also the
grave, solemn face of the Comtesse--he might have told them, as gently
as possible, that in his soldier's mind the chances of Bevill's escape
were almost nonexistent. "What," he asked himself, the question being
but a flash of thought through his brain, and not expressed in words,
"would our commanders have done had a Frenchman made his way into one
of the strong places we now hold, as Bracton has made his way into
Liége? What, if he were accused of slaying one of our supposed spies,
if he had in his possession a letter from as great a hater of England
as Lord Peterborough is of France, and if, contrary to all orders
issued, he had endeavoured to escape out of one of those places with a
young Frenchwoman who might divulge to her countrymen our plans and
intentions? What, also, if that Frenchman had passed as an Englishman
and had possession of two false passports made out in English names?"
Yet in another instant there had flashed to this astute young
officer's mind another thought--one that was, this time, a
recollection.
He recalled how at Nimeguen an almost similar case to this had
occurred a little before Marshal de Boufflers had attempted to
retrieve that city for the French, to wrest it from the Allies' hands.
A Frenchman, named the Marquis de Cabrieres, a gentleman and gallant,
too, had managed to obtain entrance into the place under the guise of
an Englishman--a Jersey man--armed with papers describing him as a
subject of the Queen; and had then endeavoured to assist a young
French lady, his affianced wife, to leave in disguise under his care.
Now he lay under sentence of death, since the warrant awaited the
signature of Marlborough or Athlone when they should be in the
neighbourhood again.
But a flash of thought alone, of memory, was all that passed through
the young officer's mind, even as Sir George Saxby was telling Sylvia
and the Comtesse that at this moment the Earl was encamped near a
village called Asch, but half a day's journey off; yet his sudden
recollection was enough--enough to convince him that, even as De
Cabrieres was doomed by the English, so must Bevill Bracton be by the
French for a parallel offence.
Now, however, he had no further time for reflection. Sylvia, hearing
of their nearness to the one man who, in their minds, could by any
possibility save her lover, was imploring both captain and lieutenant
to either conduct them to where the great English commander was, or at
least to direct them on the way to him.
"We can escort you," Captain Barringer now said, forcing himself to
drive the above thoughts away and answer her, "since we are even now
on our way to Asch. There is little more to be learnt here; for the
moment the ground is clear of Frenchmen and Spaniards. Though,
doubtless, ladies, you will scarcely believe," he went on in a
purposely assumed lighter vein, hoping thereby to banish the agony of
mind in which both the Comtesse and Sylvia were, "what excellent
neighbours, warm and close, we have been sometimes with those
Frenchmen and Spaniards. A hedge, a little copse, has sometimes only
divided our pickets and outposts from theirs; the very tables on which
we have broken our fast at some tavern have been used by them for the
same purpose but an hour before; and sometimes, too, we have
courteously exchanged a few volleys of musket balls with each other,
but that is all! The great battle that must come soon is not yet; not
yet. Still, it will come," he added more gravely.
And now they set forth for Asch, though but slowly and with
difficulty, since the wheels of the carriage (which was only a coarse
country thing, large and cumbersome and roughly made) had by now sunk
deep into the oozy morass, and required not only the efforts of the
driver, but also those of the troopers, to force it on its way.
Nevertheless, Sylvia and her companion were soon on their road towards
the goal of their hopes, but, although such was the case, Captain
Barringer deemed it necessary to say that it was by no means certain
that, even when they had reached the end of their journey, they would
be able to see and speak with Marlborough.
"For his secretary, Mr. Cardonnel, guards him like a fiery dragon,"
the captain said; "and he is surrounded by his staff, who are also
veritable watch-dogs; notwithstanding which we will hope for the best.
While, since my Lord Marlborough is a very gallant gentleman, he will
surely turn no deaf ear to ladies who desire to ask his services?"
With which, and many other courteous as well as hope-inspiring
phrases, not only Captain Barringer but also Sir George Saxby
endeavoured to cheer the way for these who were now under their
protection.
It was as the sun set that, from the windows of the rough carriage,
Sylvia and the Comtesse gazed out upon the lines of the English army
upon which were fixed the hopes of all who still trembled in fear of
the powerful and arrogant monarch who from Versailles sent out his
orders for wholesale spoliation and aggrandisement. He was the hope of
Protestants in the sunny south of France, as well as of those in the
more temperate land of Prussia and of those who dwelt all along the
fair banks of the Rhine; the hope of all those who inhabited that vast
district which stretched from the German ocean to the north of France
on one side, and to Hanover another. While--bitter mockery when
it is remembered what the origin of the present war was!--the same
hopes for the downfall of this Grand Monarque--this prince termed the
"God-sent"--were felt in far-off Spain by Roman Catholic hidalgos who
loathed the thought that a French king should sit upon the throne once
owned by those in whose veins ran the blood of Castile, of Aragon, the
Asturias, and Trastamara. Hopes shared, too, though silently, by the
rude fishermen of Biscay and Galicia as well as by the outlaws and
brigands of Traz os Montes and Cantabria, who, while they bowed the
knee to Romish emblems and statues, cursed in their lawless hearts the
monarch who would endeavour to obtain for himself the throne that they
and their forerunners of centuries had fought for, while putting aside
temporarily their existence of plunder and brigandage.
Beneath a blood-red sun setting behind purple clouds that told of
further storms and downpours still to come, the Comtesse de Valorme
and Sylvia saw the long English line stretching from village to
village; from the hamlet of Asch on the right to that of Ghenck on the
left, and with Recken and Grimi on either flank. Also, they saw that
with which both were well acquainted--the banner of England flying
from a large tent in the middle of the camp, as well as the colours of
regiments which, in that day, young in service, have since transmitted
and gloriously maintained the reputation then acquired.
"Here, if nowhere else," the Comtesse said, "one should feel safe;
yet, oh!" she whispered half to herself, "that I, a Frenchwoman,
should have to seek double succour from my country's enemies! Simply
because the ambition, the fanaticism of one man bears heavily on
thousands of lives. Double succour! On one side for my own people; on
the other for one, also my country's foeman, whom I have learned--to
pity."
But Sylvia heard her words, low as the murmur was in which they were
spoken, and answered gently:
"You are but one of all those thousands whose hearts he--this splendid
bigot--is turning from him; but one alone of those who, throwing off
their allegiance to him for ever, are peopling lands strange to them.
Regret it not, reproach not yourself for that. Better die an outcast,
yet free; a voluntary exile than an ill-treated subject, a slave.
While as for Bevill--but ah! I dare not speak, not think of him.
Beyond Heaven, in whose hands we all are, his--our--hopes are in him
whom now we go to seek."
The carriage, escorted by the two dragoon officers who rode ahead of
it, and by their handful of troopers behind, was now nearing that
great tent over which streamed in the light of the setting sun the
flag of England, and also passing through lines of English soldiers.
Past the Cuirassiers, or Fourth Horse, it went--Sylvia's hand to her
heart as she recognised that this was the regiment to which _he_ had
once belonged, from which he, wickedly, unjustly, had been cast out.
Past, too, the gallant Scots Regiment of White Horses, as well as
"Coy's Horse," or 2nd Irish Horse, the King's Carabineers, and many
others of the cavalry, as well as several infantry regiments,
including fourteen companies of the Grenadiers. And, at last, they
were outside Marlborough's tent: the moment to which both had looked
forward, from which they hoped so much, was at hand.
"I will enter to my lord's staff," Captain Barringer said, "and state
your desires. Meanwhile, something of your names and condition I must
know. What shall I tell him, whom announce?" and his eyes fell on the
Comtesse, perhaps because she was the elder. Upon which she answered:
"Tell him," she said, "that a Protestant Frenchwoman from Languedoc
seeks assistance from him on two matters--both grave, and one vital. A
Frenchwoman whose name is Radegonde, Comtesse de Valorme."
The captain bowed, while repeating the words to himself as though to
impress them thoroughly in his mind; then he looked at Sylvia.
"Tell him," she said in turn, "that an Englishwoman, one Sylvia
Thorne, is here to seek succour from him for the man she loves--the
man who, if God so wills it, is to be her husband. And that man is a
countryman to both my lord and her. Also he has been an English
soldier. But this you know."
It was half an hour later that the captain came back, and, speaking in
a low voice, said that the Earl of Marlborough would receive the
ladies who desired to speak with him. After which he handed them out
of the carriage, and, taking them to the opening of the tent, passed
them through the sentries on either side. From there he confided them
to a man who had the appearance of being a body-servant, one who bade
them respectfully follow him.
But as they left the captain he whispered in their ears:
"Have no fear, no trepidation; and tell him all--all! You are about to
see the most brilliant soldier, the most courtly gentleman, in
Europe."
A moment later the man had held a curtain aside and had retired after
letting it drop behind them again, and they were face to face with the
greatest captain of the age.
He was standing in front of a brazier in which burned some logs, for
the evenings were growing colder now and the damp was over all, and as
the women's eyes fell on that handsome presence and noted the
wonderful serenity of the features, any trepidation they might have
felt vanished.
Clad in his dark blue coat--he was Colonel of the Blues--with, beneath
it, the ribbon of the Garter across his breast, he stood facing the
curtain until they appeared, and then, advancing towards them, lifted
the hand of each to his lips, while murmuring some courteous phrase,
immediately after which he placed two rough chairs before them and
begged them to be seated.
"Madame la Comtesse," he said now, and they noticed the refined,
courtly tones of a voice that, though soft and even, was a little
shrill. "I have heard your tale briefly from Captain Barringer. If
help can come from me it shall. Yet am I vastly concerned to know how
I can offer aid."
"My lord," said Sylvia, lifting her eyes to his, while little knowing
how he had noticed her beauty in one swift glance, "it is said in
Liége that you will be soon there; and then--then--then the French
will be no longer in possession of that city."
His lordship smiled slightly as she said this and seemed to muse an
instant, after which he said:
"It may be so; but ere that can be, I must clear my way to Liége.
There are towns and fortresses upon the road. Venloo is one, and time
is necessary."
"Time! Oh!" the girl almost gasped. "Time! And in that time they may
have tried Mr. Bracton and--ah! I cannot utter it!"
"It may indeed be so," he murmured, seeing the look on Sylvia's face.
"I would not say a word to alarm you; but courts-martial, trials in
war time, are apt to be swift. And the condition of Mr. Bracton is
perilous; he has placed himself in a dangerous position."
"My lord," the Comtesse said, "we have heard but lately that in your
hands is one, the Marquis de Cabrieres, who lies under sentence of
death for a similar offence against you and a town in your possession.
Yet he still lives. May it not be the same, may we not hope the same
respite, for Mr. Bracton?"
As she spoke, not only she, but Sylvia too, saw that her words had had
some strange effect on the Earl. They observed a light come in his
eyes, a little more colour mount to his cheeks--evidences that those
words had produced in his mind some striking effect. That effect they
were soon to learn.
He went to a coarse, wooden table, covered with papers--a table that
had, doubtless, been purchased with many others for a few gulden at
some town through which the army passed, and, taking from off it two
of those papers, said, as he held them in his hand:
"Here is a letter to M. de Boufflers which I have caused to be
written--such things are usual enough between the conflicting
armies--suggesting an exchange of prisoners----"
"Ah!" exclaimed Sylvia. "I understand."
"Yet, see," Marlborough went on imperturbably, "I destroy it," and he
suited the action to the word. Then observing, as he observed
everything, the look of horror, of broken-hearted grief, on the faces
of the others at his action, he added, "Because Mr. Bracton's name is
not in it; because I was ignorant of him, though now I remember his
name and the circumstances of his removal from the Cuirassiers. Yet, I
beseech you, be easy in your minds. Another letter shall be written;
it shall contain his name."
"God in heaven bless you!" Sylvia murmured.
"This," his lordship went on, touching with his finger the second
paper, "is my warrant for the execution of the Marquis de
Cabrieres--as a spy; but that too shall be destroyed," and again he
suited the action to the word. "Each of those men has committed the
same offence--for an offence it is against the opposing forces. Only,
it is war time, and, as the offence is equal, so may the pardon be. If
it can be done, if Mr. Bracton has not yet paid the penalty, it may be
that the Maréchal de Boufflers and I can adjust matters."
[Illustration: "Sylvia flung herself at Marlborough's feet."]
With a sob wrung from her heart by those last words as to Bevill
having possibly paid the penalty, Sylvia flung herself at
Marlborough's feet while uttering all that she felt at his
graciousness and mercy. But, as she did so, as still she held his hand
and called on heaven again and again to bless and prosper him, and
while he, gallant, chivalrous as ever and always, endeavoured to raise
her to her feet, he said:
"Only, above all, hope not too much. Do not allow your hopes too full
a sway. England and France, Anne and Louis, De Boufflers and I are at
war to the death, and war is merciless. Further defeat may drive the
Marshal to desperation. Also, we know not what may be transpiring at
Liége. I would not rouse more fears in your heart than it already
holds. Heaven knows, I would not do so. Yet still I say again, 'Hope
not, expect not, too much.'"
"I must hope," Sylvia moaned. "I must, I must. I have nought but hope
left. I must hope in God's mercy first, and--under Him--in you."
It was well indeed that she should have hope to comfort her at this
time--well, too, that she did not know what was doing in Liége even as
she knelt at Marlborough's feet.
For had she done so she must have deemed there was no longer any hope
to be expected on earth either for her lover or herself.