THE RANDOM SHOT.
My life hung by a hair, as it were; but this thorough-paced bravo was
too wary for me.
Before I could either rush upon him, or tear the document to pieces,
he snatched it from me, and thrust me furiously back by the muzzle of
the loaded pistol, which, by heaven's mercy, rather than his, did not
explode. He then placed the letter carefully in his breast, and
dragged me by the throat--for his power and strength were far greater
than mine--to the window.
'Look your last upon your friends, for in ten minutes I will hang
your dead body from the tower-head, and the ravens of the Vosges may
be picking your bones, when Mademoiselle Louise is reading your
letter. Presumptuous fool,--who dared lift his eyes in love to the
bride of Pappenheim--to a daughter of the house of Lorraine! But on
receiving this letter, with its enclosure, she will cast you from her
heart and memory, and accept with joy the lover chosen by her father
and the Emperor. Look--what do you see?'
'Coward!' I exclaimed, 'coward and villain! Ah! if Hepburn knew I
was here?'
'And would it avail you?' he asked, while his eyes filled with a
dusky light, and I felt his hot, and snake-like breath on my face;
'but 'tis not Hepburn who commands yonder.'
'Who then?'
'Roger de St. Lacy, the Duc de Bellegarde. See! yonder is his
regiment, the dragoons of Brissac, with an infantry battalion of
Picardy. Look ye, Scot, and look well,' (here his voice trembled,
and grew hoarse, with an emotion so wild and fierce that I believed
him to be mad or drunk with wine and pride,) 'for I tell thee by the
God who hears us, thou seest the last of war, and all its terrors--of
the sun, and all his glory!'
He suddenly raised the pistol to my head--
There was a screaming sound--a tremendous crash, as if the solid keep
had rent beneath our feet to its deep foundations, and I was thrown,
breathless, and stunned for a time, on the floor. In a minute, or
less, sense returned, and the knowledge of immediate danger restored
my energy. I staggered up, and looked around me.
A cannon-shot--whether discharged at random, or because our figures
had been seen struggling at the large window of the turret, I know
not; but this cannon-shot--an eighteen-pound ball--had entered the
aperture, dashing it to pieces, and tearing, as if it had been a
gossamer web, the strongly interlaced bars of the iron grating,
half-buried itself in the stone-wall beyond us. A large splinter of
the grating, and a fragment of stone, had struck De Bitche on the
breast and right arm, hurling him furiously on the floor, and causing
the pistol, with which he was threatening my life to explode, and
send its bullet through the ceiling. He was lying on his back and
breathing slowly, with his eyes half-closed, and so far turned back
within their sockets, that the white of them alone was visible.
Amid the din of the cannonade, and the many sounds which filled this
fortified tower, the crash of this random shot, and the report of the
pistol were unnoticed or unheard.
De Bitche was moaning heavily, and when I placed a foot upon his
breast, a half-stifled sob escaped him. I surveyed him steadily, and
I fear me furiously, as with something like a laugh of exultation, I
possessed myself of his girdle, with its poniard, and remaining
pistol; and I now deem it singular, that in the revulsion of my
emotions, and in my fury and despair, having so many affronts to
avenge; I did not then and there beat out his brains with my heel, or
strangle him by placing my foot on his neck to destroy him as I would
have done a wild beast. I placed the loaded pistol to his head, and
said,
'Recover your senses as quickly as possible, M. le Comte; 'I have
little time for trifling.'
'Viper!' he groaned, 'it is _your_ turn now.'
'And believe me, I shall not neglect it,' I replied, spurning him
with my foot; 'ha--ha! M. le Comte, I hope your mother has been
forgiven--'
'For what, fellow?'
'For bringing into the world, a villain so unparalleled as you! Now,
hear me. You have in your possession a letter which you compelled me
to write a few minutes ago--to write with this pistol at my ear. You
will please to deliver up that letter?'
He hesitated.
'The letter!' I hissed through my teeth; 'or, by heaven! I will cut
off your head with this dagger, and toss it through that shattered
window.'
By the left hand he drew it from his breast, and in doing this, I
perceived by a futile effort he made to move the right arm, that it
was _broken_. I carefully tore the letter into the smallest pieces,
and scattered them about.
'Good! now M. le Comte, I have another favour to ask. The letter of
Mademoiselle de Lorraine?'
This he also delayed to give; but the pressure of my foot on his
breast, proved an argument so persuasive, that he was forced to
yield, and I carefully consigned it to my breast.
'Now, M. le Comte, I have still another little favour to ask; the
pass-word for the day--the parole--speak, or die! ha, ha! a minute
ago, it was you who said, "sign or die;" the parole?' I added,
fiercely, 'or I will crush you, like the worm you are--ay, strangle
you as the Lady of Lutzelstein was strangled.'
A frightful pallor came over his damp visage at this threat, and
under his heavy black moustache he faltered out--
''Tis the name of the Emperor.'
'_Mathias?_'
'Yes.'
'And the countersign?'
Again he delayed.
'Quick--quick.'
'_Vienna._'
'Good--now I have done with you, until your arm is cured, and we can
meet again in our helmets, and under better auspices; and then--dog,
coward, and murderer--be wary of the worthless life a mistaken
humanity causes me to spare to-day!'
Regardless of his broken arm, and of the sickening agony it caused
him, I bound his hands behind him by his waist-belt. I then tore his
scarf in two; tied his heels by one half, and with the other gagged
him, in such a position, that he could neither summon aid nor give an
alarm. I then possessed myself of his violet-coloured velvet mantle,
and broad Spanish hat, and tearing out the scarlet plume by which it
might be recognised, armed with his poniard and pistol, I left the
chamber.
On withdrawing, I gave him a farewell glance; and never did I read in
human eyes, the snaky, fiend-like expression of hatred, rage, baffled
spite, and bodily agony, that glared in those of the bruised and
fettered De Bitche, when I left him with a fierce and mocking laugh.
I double-locked the chamber-door, and as I crossed the deserted hall,
flung the key into a fire of wood that blazed on the hearth, under
the arched fireplace.
'Now,' thought I, 'my tormentor is secure enough!'