A LITTLE LIGHT.
The first thought of both the victors was to see to the child, who,
while still screaming piteously, was unharmed--though a deep cut in
St. Georges's sleeve and, as he afterward found, a slight sword thrust
in the forearm, showed how great had been her peril and how near her
little body to being pierced by one of the ruffians' swords. Still she
was safe, untouched, and her father muttered a hasty thanksgiving to
God as he found such was the case.
Then they addressed themselves to Boussac's vanquished antagonist--the
last living and remaining remnant of their foes. For of those who had
been overcome earlier in the fray, all three were dead, lying stark
and stiff on the frozen ground across the graves where they had
fallen. As for him, the living one, he presented as ghastly a
spectacle as they who were gone to their doom--sitting up as he now
did, and endeavouring to stanch the blood that flowed from his lips
and nose in consequence of the blow dealt him by Boussac.
"Stand up," said St. Georges, as he towered over him, his drawn sword
in his hand, while by the light of the moon, such as it was, he was
able to see the fellow's face. "Stand up and answer my questions."
"What are you going to do to me?" asked the man, staggering to his
feet at the other's command.
"Hang you to the nearest tree," replied St. Georges, "in all
likelihood. Especially if you trifle with me. I will have the truth
from you somehow. Now, _spadassin_, the meaning of this attack.
Quick!"
"Monsieur, I know no more than you--monsieur, I----"
"No lies. Answer!" and he lifted his arm and drew his sword back as
though about to plunge it into the other's throat. "Answer, I say! Who
are you all, you and this carrion here?" and he spurned the dead with
his foot. "Above all, who is the fellow in the antique morion, the man
who takes double precautions to guard his head and, _ma foi!_ to hide
his features!"
"Again, I say monsieur, I know not. Nay, nay," he cried, seeing once
more the threatening aspect of the other, and again the sword drawn
back. "Nay, I swear it is the truth. Let me tell my tale."
"Tell it and be brief."
"Monsieur," the man, therefore, began, as St. Georges stood in front
of him and Boussac never took his eyes off his face, while at the same
time he held the horses' reins, "there came into our village--not this
which you see down there, but Reccy, two leagues off--yesterday the
man you call the leader, he who wears the burganet. And accompanied by
one other--this," and he looked down at the dead men lying across the
graves and touched one with his toe, thereby to indicate him. "Then,"
the fellow went on, "when he had drunk a cup and made a meal he spake
to us sitting round the fire; to him, Gaspard," pointing to a dead
man, "and to him, Arnaud," pointing to another, "and said that he and
his follower were in search of a brigand riding to Paris from the Cote
d'Or who had stolen a child from its lawful parents--a child, he said,
whom the brigand desired to make away with, since it stood between him
and great wealth."
"He said that?"
"Ay, monsieur, and more. That he must save the child at all costs,
wrench it away from the man who had it."
"Now," exclaimed St. Georges passionately, "I know you lie! Neither he
nor you endeavoured to save it, to wrench it away from me. On the
contrary, all aimed at that harmless child's life, endeavoured to stab
it through my cloak, under my arm. Villain! you shall die," and this
time he made as though he would indeed slay the fellow.
"No! no! monsieur!" the man howled, overcome with fear of instant
death--death that seemed so near now--"hear my story out; you will see
I do not lie. It was not until later--when he had bought us--that we
knew what he truly wanted. Let me proceed, monsieur."
"Go on!" said St. Georges, again dropping the point of his weapon.
"Also, he said," the man continued, "that he needed more men to make
certain of catching him and hauling him to justice and releasing the
child. Those were his very words. And he asked us, Gaspard, Arnaud,
and myself, if we would take service with him. We looked strong and
lusty, he thought--soldiers, perhaps. If we would take part in the
undertaking there were fifty gold pistoles for us to divide. Was it
worth our while? We said, Yes, it was worth our while; we were
disbanded soldiers of the Verdelin Regiment--our time expired, and we
looking for a fresh recruiting. If what he said was true--that we were
wanted to arrest a kidnapper--we would join. But for no other purpose.
Then he swore at us, told us we were _canaille_, that he explained not
his movements nor made any oath to the truth of his statements; there
was a bag of pistoles, and if we had horses and weapons--but not
without--he would employ us. So we took service. Arnaud had two horses
at his mother's farm; he lent one to Gaspard, I borrowed mine for two
_ecus_. _Voila tout._"
"Is that all?" asked St. Georges quietly.
"All of importance. The pact was made, and then he said we must, this
morning, move on toward Aignay-le-Duc. Le Brigand--as he called
monsieur--would pass that way to-night, he thought. But, later on, he
would know. A messenger from Dijon would arrive to tell him."
"A messenger from Dijon!" Both St. Georges and Boussac started at this
and looked at each other in the uncertain light. A messenger from
Dijon! Who could it be? Who was there who knew of St. Georges's
whereabouts? Yet, as the man spoke, they guessed that the fellow whom
Boussac had noticed, who had tracked them all day, mostly masked, must
have been that messenger.
"He came at last," the narrator continued, "an hour or so before
monsieur and his companion. And he told us that there were two, so
that we had to do more than we had undertaken. Yet, we thought not
much of that. We were five to two, for he, the messenger, averred he
would take no part in the fight unless absolutely necessary. He was
not well, he said; he had ridden all day--fighting was not his
business; he was a messenger, not a soldier. So our employer cursed
him for a poltroon, but told him he might stand out of the attack. We
were five without him--that was enough."
"Go on," said St. Georges once more, seeing that again the man paused
as though his narrative had concluded. "Go on. There is more to be
told."
"But little, monsieur. Only this. As you wheeled into this graveyard
he gave us one final order. 'They will resist,' he said, 'therefore
spare not. Dead or alive they must be taken. Child and man. Dead or
alive. You understand!'"
"And it was for that reason that all endeavoured to plunge their
swords into this innocent child! My God!" And St. Georges paused a
moment ere he went on; then he said to Boussac: "What shall we do to
him? He merits death."
"_Ma foi!_ he does," replied the mousquetaire, while he grimly added,
"For my part, I am willing to execute it on him now."
At this sinister remark, uttered with the callousness which a brave
soldier would naturally feel for the existence of such a creature, the
other flung himself on his feet before them and began to howl so for
mercy that St. Georges, more for fear that he would call the attention
of some who might be about the village than aught else, bade him cease
the noise he was making or he would indeed take effectual steps to
stop it. Then, when this remark had produced the desired effect,
namely, a cessation of the man's shouts, though he whimpered and
whined like a beaten hound, the other continued:
"In spite of your villainy, of your assaults on one so harmless as the
child I carry, you are too vile for us to stain our weapons with your
blood. Yet, what to do with you?"
"Throw him in there," said Boussac with _sang froid_. "That will keep
him quiet for some time at least," and he pointed to an open grave
which yawned very near where they stood, and into whose black mouth he
had been peering for some time. He added also: "It will be his only
chance of ever occupying one. Such as he end by hanging on roadside
gibbets or rotting on the wheel they have been broken upon--the
peaceful grave is not for them."
St. Georges turned his eyes to the spot indicated, exclaiming that it
would do very well. It was no newly made grave, he saw, prepared for
one who had recently departed, but, instead, an old one that had been
opened, perhaps to receive some fresh body; for by the side of it
there lay a slab that had, it was plain to see, been pushed aside from
where it had previously rested, as though to permit of it being so
opened.
"Ay," echoed Boussac, sardonically, "it will do very well. Add when
he is in--as we will soon have him--the stone shall be pushed back to
keep him safe. Then he may holla loud enough and long: no one will
hear him."
His hollas began again at once, however, for at the terrifying
prospect of being thus incarcerated in so awful a manner he flung
himself once more on his knees, and bellowed out:
"Nay! Nay! In pity, I beseech you. You know not what you do--what
terrors you condemn me to. A plague, a horrible one, a sweating
sickness, passed over this province a year back--it took many, among
others him who laid here. He was of Chantillon--a seigneur--and is now
removed by his friends. Mercy! Mercy! Mercy! Condemn me not to this.
Think, I beseech you. The grave is infected, impregnated with
contagion. Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!"
The fellow had thrust at his child's life--St. Georges remembered it
even as he spoke!--yet, being a brave soldier himself, he could not
condemn the ruffian to such horrors as these. Revenge he would have
taken earlier, in the heat of the fight; would have killed the man
with his own hand, even as he would have killed that other, the
leader, had the chance arisen; but--this was beneath him. Therefore,
he said:
"Bind him, Boussac, to this old yew. Bind him with his horse's reins
and gag him. Then he must take his chance--the night grows late. We
must away."
It was done almost as soon as ordered, the mousquetaire detaching the
coarse reins of the man's horse--which was itself wounded and seemed
incapable of action--and lashing him to the tree, while he took one of
his stirrup leathers and bade him open his mouth to be gagged.
"To-morrow," he remarked to the unhappy wretch, "at matins you may be
released. Meanwhile, heart up! you are not alone. You have your
comrades for company." And he glanced down at the others lying still
in death.
"Stay," said St. Georges, "ere you put the gag in his mouth let me ask
him one question.--Who," turning to the shivering creature before him,
"who was your leader? Answer me that, and even now you shall go free.
Answer!"
For a moment the man hesitated--doubtless he was wondering if he could
not invent some name which might pass for a real one, and so give him
his freedom--then, perhaps because his inventive powers were not
great, or--which was more probable--his captor might have some means
of knowing that he was lying, he answered:
"I do not know. I never saw him before."
"You do not know, or will not tell--which?"
"I do not know."
"Whence came he to your village? From what quarter?"
"The north road. The great road from Paris. He had not come many
leagues; his horse was fresh."
"So! What was he like? He did not wear his burganet all the time--when
he ate, for instance."
"He was young," the man replied, hoping, it may be, that by his ready
answers he would earn his pardon even yet, "passably young. Of about
monsieur's age. With a brown beard cropped close and gray eyes."
"Is that all you can tell?"
"It is all, monsieur. _Ayez pitie_, monsieur."
"Gag him," said St. Georges to Boussac, "and let us go."
So they left the fellow gagged and bound, and rode on once more upon
their road, passing swiftly through Aignay-le-Duc without stopping.
"For," said St. Georges, "badly as we want rest, we must not halt
here. To-morrow those dead men will be found, with, perhaps, another
added to their number if the frost is great to-night, as it seems like
to be. We must push on for Chatillon now, even though we ride all
night. Pray Heaven our horses do not drop on the road!"
So through Aignay-le-Duc they went, clattering up the one wretched
street, their animals' hoofs waking peasants from their early
slumbers, and the jangling of their scabbards and steel trappings
arousing the whole village. Even the _guet de nuit_--who because it
was his duty to be awake was always asleep--was roused by the sound of
the oncoming hoofs, and, rushing to his cabin door, cried out, "Who
goes there?"
"_Chevau-leger en service du roi_," cried St. Georges; and
"_Mousquetaire de la maison du roi_," answered Boussac; and so, five
minutes later, they had passed the hamlet and were once more on their
road north.
"Yet," said St. Georges as, stopping to breathe their horses, he
opened the cloak and gazed on his sleeping child, "I would give much
to know who our enemy is--who the cruel wretch who aimed at your
innocent little life. 'A young man with a fair beard and gray eyes!'
the ruffian said. Who, who is he?"
And, bending over, he brushed her lips with his great mustache.
"My darling," he whispered, "I pray God that all attacks on you may be
thwarted as was this one to-night; that he may raise up for you always
so stout and true a protector as he who rides by my side."
"Amen!" muttered Boussac, who among his good qualities did not find
himself overwhelmed with modesty. "Amen! Though," he exclaimed a
second after, "he who would not fight for such an innocent as that
deserves never to have one of his own."