The suburb of St. Walburgh was in flames, the French soldiers,
consisting of twelve battalions who had been stationed there, had come
into the Citadel and the Chartreuse. A hundred houses had been set on
fire by them, and, ere dawn came, all that part of Liége was as light
as day. The magistracy and the chapter against whom no orders, even if
they had been issued, could have had any effect since now the gates
were neglected by the French, had visited Marlborough in his camp
outside, and had signed articles as to the disposition of the city and
all in it, while three English battalions under Lord Cutts, and three
Dutch, held the North gate and endeavoured to keep order in the
streets. It only remained now that the artillery should arrive, the
fascines be cut and the trenches opened for the Citadel and Chartreuse
to be attacked, unless those within them surrendered.
Inside that room in which Bevill had passed so many weary days,
waiting to meet the doom that had been pronounced on him, there were
now three prisoners, namely, he who had so long occupied it, the woman
he loved so tenderly, and the Comtesse de Valorme. For she, too, had
been detained by De Violaine in consequence of her having escaped with
Sylvia out of Liége, and placed herself in communication with the
enemy. Inflexible to the last, strong in his duty towards the
interests of the country he loved and the King whom he despised, he
had done that which honour demanded and made prisoners of both women.
"Yet," he said bitterly to the Comtesse, as he informed her of what
must be done, "be cheered. Our positions must soon be reversed. The
old walls of this Citadel and of the Chartreuse will not long resist
the battering pieces and mortars, or the double grenades, that the
Earl of Marlborough is known to have with him, and then--well,
then!--you will be free. I shall be the prisoner."
"At least," Sylvia, who had heard his words, said, "you will be a
noble one--noble as I shall ever esteem you, though now I know that
your hand signed the condemnation of my lover; that in your stern,
rigid sense of honour you found the means of communicating with M.
Tallard, of obtaining his confirmation of the sentence. Ah!" she
continued, "that one so loyal as you should serve so evil a master."
"Duty before all, mademoiselle," De Violaine answered. "When Louis
gave me my first brevet, when I vowed fidelity to him and France,
there was no more noble king in Europe, in the whole world. There was
no master less cruel to his subjects, no matter what their faith was."
Now, on this night, however, De Violaine was not there, but, instead,
on the battlement of the Citadel directing all preparations to be made
for resisting the siege. For already the English artillery which had
come up the Meuse was disembarked and most of it dragged up the hill
upon which the Citadel stood, as were also forty-eight huge mortars
invented by the great engineer C[oe]horn (who was now present with the
force), as well as several Seville mortars, the bombs from which could
blow to pieces the walls and doors of fortresses. And, ominous sign
for those within the Citadel! the fuses were all lighted.
Behind these lay the troops of General Ingoldsby and Brigadier
Stanley, as well as four companies of the Grenadiers, while, to
protect them from being taken in the rear, were the dragoons and
Bevill's old regiment, the Cuirassiers.
Afar off the autumn dawn was coming now; away towards where the Rhine
lay, the eyes of those three watchers could see the darkness of the
night changing to grey, and, swiftly, the grey to a pale daffodil that
told of the dayspring which was at hand; then, next, a fleck of flame
shot like a barbed arrow above the daffodil that was changing to pink
and opal; the rim of the sun was seen to be swiftly mounting behind.
At this moment, clearly on the still, cold morning air a trumpet rang
out beneath the Citadel; another answered from below the Chartreuse
across the river; a moment later the C[oe]horns had belched forth
their bombs and the six and twelve pounders of the artillery had made
their first discharge.
"Oh! to be there!" Bevill cried. "There behind them, with the old
regiment, instead of a helpless man, a waster, here. Yet, no, no! My
place is here by you, my heart, my very own, to save and help you even
as you have saved me."
But from Sylvia there came no response, or, at least, none in answer
to his words. Instead, from the lips of both these women, brave as
each was, there came a cry, a gasp that was in actual fact a
suppressed shriek. Already against the wall of the Citadel more than
one bomb had struck and exploded with an awful crash; they saw falling
swiftly before the window huge masses of detached masonry that
thundered a moment later on to the stones of the courtyard below; they
saw, through the grime and smoke that rolled suddenly away on the
breathless, unstirred morning air, that slowly the English infantry
was creeping up nearer the great guns in preparation for a rush. For
already a breach was made below; it was not only the side of the
Citadel that was now being battered by the attackers.
Still, a little later, the mouth of the embrasure was closed by the
explosion of a bomb, that, while shattering the window into a million
pieces, burst in the stone framework and also dislodged the stones
above. Those in the room were therefore in darkness once more, a
darkness as profound as that of the night now passed away, and, with
an anxious cry, Bevill demanded if either of his companions had been
struck by the dislodged masonry.
"Ah! heaven be praised," he cried, finding both were safe. "But now,
now, the time has come to leave this. The door is still open; even
were it not so, none would keep us confined here at such a moment.
Come! Come At least let us make our way below."
Then, hurriedly escorting Sylvia and the Comtesse through the
corridors in which--though they passed now and again French soldiers
hurrying either up or down the staircase--they met with no
molestation, they reached the _salle d'armes_ on the lower floor.
Yet, as they did so, they saw also the terrible devastation that the
bombardment had already wrought. One side of a corridor, the outer one
formed by the great front of the Citadel, was entirely blown away; a
room or large cell that presented the appearance of having been
recently occupied--since they saw within it the _débris_ of a
shattered pallet and a table--was a mass of ruins; the three remaining
sides were open to the morning air. Also, more than once, the women
had to raise their dresses to step over wounded men lying in the
passages, who had doubtless been shot while themselves firing from the
windows.
But still they were in the _salle d'armes_: here, since it was not
quite so exposed to the fire of the besiegers, they might hope to
remain in comparative safety.
"Come," Bevill said to his companions. "Come to this corner. At this
spot you are farthest removed from the outer wall which is alone
likely to be struck. Meanwhile, since one knows not what violence
these soldiers may attempt in the bitterness of their defeat, it is as
well I should be armed." Saying which he moved towards the trophies of
ancient weapons that decorated all the inner side of the great
_salle_, and let his eyes rove over the swords that hung upon the
wall.
"This should serve," he said to himself, reaching out his hand towards
a great Schiavona or Venetian broadsword; one with a long bi-convex
blade that, in the hands of an expert and powerful swordsman, might do
terrible execution.
Returning now to where Sylvia and Madame de Valorme were, Bevill
seated himself by the former's side while telling both that the
Citadel must soon surrender before such an attack as this now being
made, and that, doubtless, the Chartreuse must be in the same
position. Yet his words fell almost unheard upon their ears, so awful
was the din around. From the roof of this old fortress discharge
followed discharge unceasingly; from the windows the crack of muskets
went on, and still against the walls the artillery balls and the bombs
of the besiegers thundered and crashed.
"It must cease ere long," Bevill said. "Ah! do not look. Avert your
glances. They are already bringing down the wounded from above," while
he added beneath his breath, "and the slain."
As he spoke, what was evidently either a powder magazine or one for
grenades blew up with an awful roar, while the concussion caused even
that old solid hall to rock. And now Sylvia and the Comtesse threw
themselves on their knees by the bench on which they had been sitting,
and prayed that further slaughter and devastation might be spared.
Also, each prayed for him who, by their side, was keeping watch and
ward over them; for him who, entering but a few months earlier into
their lives, had now become so dear to them.
Unwilling to disturb them even by the closeness of his presence,
Bevill softly withdrew towards the other end of the _salle d'armes_;
towards that spot where he had stood to hear his fate pronounced, the
spot where Stuven had denounced Francbois as a liar and himself as the
executioner of the renegade, Sparmann. Towards, also, that spot where
the doomsman had stood above the awful instruments of his calling. He
stood there, looking on the scene where all these things had happened,
when, suddenly, there rang through the hall the shriek of a woman,
and, next, a cry from Sylvia's lips. "Bevill! Look, look! Beware. Look
behind you!"
In an instant he saw that which had so much terrified the girl he
loved. Creeping from behind a pillar there came towards him a man with
a weapon in his hand that had, doubtless, also been taken earlier from
the collection of arms--a man whom at first he did not recognise, so
ghastly was his face, so wildly staring his eyes, so dishevelled his
whole appearance. But in a moment he knew him. He knew that this was
Francbois, Francbois who should have died this morning, but who, in
the confusion of the siege, had escaped from wherever he had been
confined.
"Wretch!" he exclaimed, as, turning, he recognised him. "Doubly
treacherous wretch! Again you seek my life, again attempt it behind my
back."
"I love her," the other hissed. "Her, her! And she loves you. So
be it. She shall have nought but your memory left to love," and he
sprang full at Bevill, while brandishing the sword he held. For a
moment--only a moment--it was in Bevill's mind to run the craven
through from breast to back, as he came on. Yet, in a second moment
the thought was gone. If Francbois were not mad he was still beneath
his vengeance. Whatever his doom might be, now or in the future, he
should not find it at his hands; those hands should not be stained by
the blood of such as he.
[Illustration: "A moment later Bevill's foot was on the blade."]
Stepping back, therefore, as the other came full at him, one turn of
the Schiavona, as it met the blade wielded by the other, was enough.
That blade fell with a clang from Francbois' hand to the stone floor;
a moment later Bevill's foot was on it.
"Go, hangdog," he said. "Seek another executioner than I."
With a cry--almost pitiful in its tone of misery, vile as the creature
was--with a howl of wild despair, Francbois rushed now across the
_salle d'armes_ to the other side of it; the side against which the
English bombs and cannon balls were being hurled, and there
endeavoured to snatch a huge mace out of another trophy of arms. But,
suddenly, not only he but Bevill, and also the two affrighted women,
started with terror at that which they saw now.
From another door than the one by which they had entered they saw a
second figure approaching, creeping towards Francbois; a figure in
whose eyes there was a more awful light than even those of Francbois
possessed; one whose lips gibbered as the lips of the raving maniac
gibber; whose face was flecked with the foam from them. It was the
form of Stuven, also free, of Stuven, now an absolute demoniac, that
they saw; the form of the man whose thirst for the blood of spies and
traitors was at its height. Armed also with an ancient weapon, a thing
pointed and sharp like the shell-dag of mediæval days, he crept as
swiftly towards Francbois as the panther creeps towards its prey,
while uttering incoherent sounds yet telling plainly all that was in
his distraught brain by the look that shone from out those awful,
scintillating eyes, and by the hideous twitching of that mouth. And
Francbois, paralysed with fear, shrieked aloud and turned to flee. At
this moment the madman flew with a bound at him, the great two-handled
knife was raised--yet it was never fated to be buried in the unhappy
wretch's breast.
There came a fresh discharge of bombs and artillery against the wall
of the _salle d'armes_, that wall already so sorely tried; the
trembling, half-fainting women, with Bevill now by their side, saw the
whole mass bulge inwardly, even as a sail bulges when a fierce gust of
wind catches it; a horrible, cracking roar was heard, a blinding dust
filled the room. In front of them a fearful chasm yawned as the
greater portion of that side of the hall fell in, while carrying below
part of the floor, and, at the same time, exposing the whole of the
besiegers to their gaze.
Francbois's would-be executioner had found him, and together they had
perished.
An instant later Bevill, looking out through the great opening made by
the fall of that side of the _salle d'armes_, observed that an order
had been suddenly given by the English for all firing to cease, and
knew that, above the Citadel, a white flag must be flying now. Also,
he saw the English flag run up upon the outer wall, he heard the
soldiers huzzaing and singing the National Anthem--then so new, now
known over all the world! he knew that Liége was in Marlborough's
hands.
Clasping Sylvia to his heart with one hand, as with the other he held
that of Madame de Valorme, he murmured: "The end of these griefs has
come," while a moment later he whispered in Sylvia's ear, "Sweet love,
all fears are done with. Hope shines resplendent on us at last."