Orrain. S. Levett Yeats

around me here, there, and everywhere, for I knew we were in a trap, and trapped by my own folly. As I looked I saw something white showing beneath the cushions of a settle, and taking the cup of wine that La Marmotte handed to me I moved thereto, and, sitting down, looked more closely. It was a white mask. Softly drawing it forth, and, unobserved, slipping it into the pocket of my cloak, I saw in doing so that it was stained with fresh blood, and then I knew we were in the house of death.

      At this moment Torquato Trotto appeared at the door with suave apologies, and stepping forward, rubbing his hands together, he said: "I regret to have appeared so discourteous; I trust that monsieur and madame will remain here for to-night."

      "I am afraid, Signer Torquato Trotto, that is impossible."

      "Per Bacco! You know me!" exclaimed the Italian in slight surprise.

      "The name of Torquato Trotto is known in France," I said, and the brow of the man darkened.

      "Perhaps I too can return the compliment, monsieur. You are——"

      "Bertrand Broussel, bourgeois, of the Rue des Lavandières, Paris," I interrupted, and I caught a strange expression of disappointment in mademoiselle's eyes. "Hum!" I thought, "does the furrier's niece take me for a prince of the blood in disguise?"

      La Marmotte, however, cut in at this juncture, for she saw the storm in the air, and I again said that we would go on at once, if Messire Trotto would of his kindness provide us with a guide; if not, we would go without one.

      And Trotto answered blandly:

      "Impossible! My lieutenant is away with my men, and I have no one here who knows the way. I am totally ignorant myself, or I would willingly help you. Besides, to go now would be madness. The road is infested by robbers—faith of a gentleman!"

      "That is indeed true! I have just escaped them—thanks to the bravery of this gentleman here," exclaimed mademoiselle.

      "Madame, you are lucky to have escaped; but you must tell us of your adventures as we sup," and he moved towards the table.

      In the meantime Pierrebon, looking well to the right and left, led the horses towards the stables. Every shadow in the winding walk, every recess in the over-grown privet, hid a secret enemy to him. He avoided passing near the ruined summer-house for fear of the ambush that might be within, and then, finding the hedges close in upon the road, boldly took his beasts along the neglected parterres until at last he reached the stables. Here, near the open door he saw Malsain, tall and thin, but muscular and strong as whipcord, sitting down by the light of a guttering candle to a meagre repast of bread and cheese, washed down with water—for Malsain never touched wine.

      "An evil-looking man," Pierrebon thought, as he glanced at Malsain sitting on a stool; and evil-looking indeed he was, with his hawk's face, thin cruel slit of a mouth, and one wicked eye that glowed with the same sombre fire as the fuse of his arquebus, which leaned against the wall behind him. And then from the man himself Pierrebon glanced at the hermit's fare before him. "St. Siege!" he groaned, "bread and cheese and cold water—with a dagger-thrust to follow for digestion, perhaps."

      But now Malsain heard him, his hand went out silently to the arquebus, and he turned a yellow, threatening face towards the visitor.

      "Hola!" exclaimed Pierrebon. "It is I. I have brought monsieur's horses for a feed and a rest."

      "Ho! it is you." And Malsain, putting down his arquebus, returned to his cheese again as he added: "There are two stalls vacant there, and you will find oats in that barrel." He had not, of course, it will be understood, received Trotto's message as yet.

      Pierrebon entered without further ceremony. There were already three horses in the stables; but, as Malsain had said, there were still two stalls vacant, and here he put the nags. Whilst attending to them, however, he kept glancing uneasily at the supper before Malsain, which was diminishing at a frightful rate, for the thin man ate like a cormorant. At last, unable to endure this more, he stopped rubbing down the brown hackney, and, stepping up to the table, took a seat on a stool opposite Malsain. Then, drawing his dagger, he helped himself without further ceremony to some cheese and bread, and glanced somewhat ruefully into the jug of water.

      "Diable!" grumbled Malsain, "you are eating my supper."

      "Well," and Pierrebon looked at him, "am I not your guest, as my master is your master's?"

      Malsain said nothing, but scowled across the table at Pierrebon; and the latter, who was as alert as a weasel when it came to the push, went on: "But, compère, they feed you thinly here—and no wine!"

      "I eat to my taste, and drink to my taste," growled Malsain; but

       Pierrebon, not heeding his ill temper, continued:

      "Now, with my master there is always a bottle of Rochecorbon, and a cut from a pasty, not to mention a crown-piece here and a crown-piece there; and I wager that in the house yonder there is something more than acid cheese and dry bread for hunger, or spring water for thirst."

      "Be silent, fool! Take what you can get, or leave it," said Malsain sullenly, his hand slipping down to his side; but Pierrebon laughed cheerily as he cut another slice of cheese, his two blue Burgundian eyes steadily fixed on Malsain's sallow face, and as they looked at each other there came a heavy footfall outside, and Piero called out in his deep voice:

      "Malsain! Here! A word with you!"

      Malsain rose slowly, and went outside, and Pierrebon, following him with his glance, saw Piero's huge figure in the moonlight, and a chill came upon him.

      "By St. Hugo! 'tis the ogre himself! And they consult together!" he murmured, wishing himself a hundred miles away, and he watched the twain moving off into the shadow, straining his ears to catch a word if possible, but at first he could hear nothing. Thus a minute or so passed, whilst the evil pair outside stood in the shadow of a copper beech whispering together. If Pierrebon could but hear a word to guide him! He dared not attempt to approach them, but was forced to stay where he was. At last he caught something. Malsain laughed out like a hyena: "I would slit their throats for fifty, and throw the Vidame into that——" But Piero roughly bade him lower his voice, and the whispering continued.

      Pierrebon heard no more. That there was danger in the air he knew. He had not forgotten my warning pressure on his arm as we entered the gates of Le Jaquemart, and now his worst fears were confirmed. For a moment his heart sank, but for a moment only, for as he looked around him his eyes fell on the arquebus, where it leaned against the wall. The fuse was still alight. There was no time to hesitate. Malsain was already returning; and if it were to be war Pierrebon thought he might as well begin, and strike the first blow. Quick as thought he arose, and taking up the arquebus moved off near the horses, and he was blowing on the match to hearten the fire when Malsain stepped in.

      "Blood of a Jew! what are you doing with the arquebus, fool? Put it down this instant, or I slit your throat." And Malsain, his poniard in his hand, stood near the table, glaring savagely at Pierrebon.

      "Pardon!" said Pierrebon. "I was but looking at it. 'Tis a noble weapon. And one well suited to a soldier's hand."

      "It could kill too, I wager," said Pierrebon, laughing, as he raised the weapon, and pointed it at Malsain, who went back the step he had taken, saying, with an oath,

      "It is loaded, fool! Put it down at once."

      "Hein! it is loaded. It would kill, then, if I fired—eh?" And then, with a sudden change of voice and manner: "Ah, bandit! move a step, utter the slightest cry, and you are a dead man! Throw down your poniard!"

      Malsain looked at the barrel of the arquebus. It was steady as a rock, and behind the little black muzzle the match burned bravely; whilst behind the match was a red face with two blue eyes that looked as if they meant what their owner said. Malsain let his dagger drop with a clash.

      Pierrebon then advanced a couple of paces nearer, still holding the arquebus at Malsain's breast.

      "Now, my friend! Take that bridle from the peg at your hand