The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

than a private soldier's, and a soldier's no higher than a tomtit's; and that is the captain for me.”

      “And see, Denys, the very mules with their great brass frontlets and trappings seem proud to carry them; no wonder men itch to be soldiers;” and in the midst of this innocent admiration the troop came up with them.

      “Halt!” cried a stentorian voice. The troop halted. The Bastard of Burgundy bent his brow gloomily on Denys: “How now, arbalestrier, how comes it thy face is turned southward, when every good hand and heart is hurrying northward?”

      Denys replied respectfully that he was going on leave, after some years of service, to see his kindred at Remiremont.

      “Good. But this is not the time for't; the duchy is disturbed. Ho! bring that dead soldier's mule to the front; and thou mount her and forward with us to Flanders.”

      “So please your highness,” said Denys firmly, “that may not be. My home is close at hand. I have not seen it these three years; and above all, I have this poor youth in charge, whom I may not, cannot leave, till I see him shipped for Rome.

      “Dost bandy words with me?” said the chief, with amazement, turning fast to wrath. “Art weary o' thy life? Let go the youth's hand, and into the saddle without more idle words.”

      Denys made no reply; but he held Gerard's hand the tighter, and looked defiance.

      At this the bastard roared, “Jarnac, dismount six of thy archers, and shoot me this white-livered cur dead where he stands—for an example.”

      The young Count de Jarnac, second in command, gave the order, and the men dismounted to execute it.

      “Strip him naked,” said the bastard, in the cold tone of military business, “and put his arms and accoutrements on the spare mule We'll maybe find some clown worthier to wear them.”

      Denys groaned aloud, “Am I to be shamed as well as slain?”

      “Oh, nay! nay! nay!” cried Gerard, awaking from the stupor into which this thunderbolt of tyranny had thrown him. “He shall go with you on the instant. I'd liever part with him for ever than see a hair of his dear head harmed Oh, sir, oh, my lord, give a poor boy but a minute to bid his only friend farewell! he will go with you. I swear he shall go with you.”

      The stern leader nodded a cold contemptuous assent. “Thou, Jarnac, stay with them, and bring him on alive or dead. Forward!” And he resumed his march, followed by all the band but the young count and six archers, one of whom held the spare mule.

      Denys and Gerard gazed at one another haggardly. Oh, what a look!

      And after this mute interchange of anguish, they spoke hurriedly, for the moments were flying by.

      “Thou goest to Holland: thou knowest where she bides. Tell her all. She will be kind to thee for my sake.”

      “Oh, sorry tale that I shall carry her! For God's sake, go back to the 'Tete d'Or.' I am mad!”

      “Hush! Let me think: have I nought to say to thee, Denys? my head! my head!”

      “Ah! I have it. Make for the Rhine, Gerard! Strasbourg. 'Tis but a step. And down the current to Rotterdam. Margaret is there: I go thither. I'll tell her thou art coming. We shall all be together.”

      “My lads, haste ye, or you will get us into trouble,” said the count firmly, but not harshly now.

      “Oh, sir, one moment! one little moment!” panted Gerard.

      “Cursed be the land I 'was born in! cursed be the race of man! and he that made them what they are!” screamed Denys.

      “Hush, Denys, hush! blaspheme not! Oh, God forgive him, he wots not what he says. Be patient, Denys, be patient: though we meet no more on earth, let us meet in a better world, where no blasphemer may enter. To my heart, lost friend; for what are words now?” He held out his arms, and they locked one another in a close embrace. They kissed one another again and again, speechless, and the tears rained down their cheeks And the Count Jarnac looked on amazed, but the rougher soldiers, to whom comrade was a sacred name, looked on with some pity in their hard faces. Then at a signal from Jarnac, with kind force and words of rude consolation, they almost lifted Denys on to the mule; and putting him in the middle of them, spurred after their leader. And Gerard ran wildly after (for the lane turned), to see the very last of him; and the last glimpse he caught, Denys was rocking to and fro on his mule, and tearing his hair out. But at this sight something rose in Gerard's throat so high, so high, he could run no more nor breathe, but gasped, and leaned against the snow-clad hedge, seizing it, and choking piteously.

      The thorns ran into his hand.

      After a bitter struggle he got his breath again; and now began to see his own misfortune. Yet not all at once to realize it, so sudden and numbing was the stroke. He staggered on, but scarce feeling or caring whither he was going; and every now and then he stopped, and his arms fell and his head sank on his chest, and he stood motionless: then he said to himself, “Can this thing be? this must be a dream. 'Tis scarce five minutes since we were so happy, walking handed, faring to Rome together, and we admired them and their gay banners and helmets oh hearts of hell!”

      All nature seemed to stare now as lonely as himself. Not a creature in sight. No colour but white. He, the ghost of his former self, wandered alone among the ghosts of trees, and fields, and hedges. Desolate! desolate! desolate! All was desolate.

      He knelt and gathered a little snow. “Nay, I dream not; for this is snow: cold as the world's heart. It is bloody, too: what may that mean? Fool! 'tis from thy hand. I mind not the wound Ay, I see: thorns. Welcome! kindly foes: I felt ye not, ye ran not into my heart. Ye are not cruel like men.”

      He had risen, and was dragging his leaden limbs along, when he heard horses' feet and gay voices behind him. He turned with a joyful but wild hope that the soldiers had relented and were bringing Denys back. But no, it was a gay cavalcade. A gentleman of rank and his favourites in velvet and furs and feathers; and four or five armed retainers in buff jerkins.

      They swept gaily by.

      Gerard never looked at them after they were gone by: certain gay shadows had come and passed; that was all. He was like one in a dream. But he was rudely wakened; suddenly a voice in front of him cried harshly, “Stand and deliver!” and there were three of the gentleman's servants in front of him. They had ridden back to rob him.

      “How, ye false knaves,” said he, quite calmly; “would ye shame your noble master? He will hang ye to the nearest tree;” and with these words he drew his sword doggedly, and set his back to the hedge.

      One of the men instantly levelled his petronel at him.

      But another, less sanguinary, interposed. “Be not so hasty! And be not thou so mad! Look yonder!”

      Gerard looked, and scarce a hundred yards off the nobleman and his friends had halted, and sat on their horses, looking at the lawless act, too proud to do their own dirty work, but not too proud to reap the fruit, and watch lest their agents should rob them of another man's money.

      The milder servant then, a good-natured fellow, showed Gerard resistance was vain; reminded him common thieves often took the life as well as the purse, and assured him it cost a mint to be a gentleman; his master had lost money at play overnight, and was going to visit his leman, and so must take money where he saw it.

      “Therefore, good youth, consider that we rob not for ourselves, and deliver us that fat purse at thy girdle without more ado, nor put us to the pain of slitting thy throat and taking it all the same.”

      “This knave is right,” said Gerard calmly aloud but to himself. “I ought not to fling away my life; Margaret would be so sorry. Take then the poor man's purse to the rich man's pouch; and with it this; tell him, I pray the Holy Trinity each coin in it may burn his hand, and freeze his heart, and blast his soul for ever. Begone and leave me to my sorrow!” He flung them the purse.

      They rode away muttering; for his words pricked them a little; a very little: and he staggered