The Chevalier d'Auriac. Levett Yeats Sidney

of the room where his rapier leaned against the wall. It was at the moment of this action that we heard the quick challenge of the sentry outside, the password as sharply answered, and the tramp of feet.

      The same idea flashed through both our minds – it must be the General, and de Gomeron gave expression to the thought.

      'Corbleu! de Rône perhaps – the old bat on the wing. We must defer the lesson, Chevalier.'

      I bowed and bit my lips in silence; there followed a shuffling of feet, and before a man could count two, Nicholas, the sergeant of our picket, with a file of men entered the hut, thrusting a couple of prisoners, a man and a woman, before them.

      'Two birds from La Fère, my captain,' and Nicholas with a salute to de Gomeron pointed to his prize. 'We took them,' he ran on, 'at the ford near the Red Mill, and but for the moon they would have gone free; spies no doubt. The old one is M. le Mouchard, I swear. There is fox in every line of his face; and as for Madame there – so the old gentleman calls her – in time I warrant she will learn to love the camp of the Holy League,' and the sergeant pushed the lantern so that it shone full on the lady's face. A curious light came into de Gomeron's eyes as he looked at her, and she shrank back at the sergeant's words and action, whilst the old man strained at the cords that bound his wrists till the lines of the blue veins stood high out on his forehead. The soldiers had shown Madame this kindness, that she was unbound; but her hood had fallen back, loosening in its fall a mass of chestnut hair, and from this framework her eyes glanced from one to another of us, half in fear and half in anger.

      'Messieurs!' There was a tremble in the sweet voice, and there was light enough to see her colour come and go. 'Messieurs! That man,' she made a little gesture of infinite disdain towards Nicholas, 'is lying. We are no spies. It is true we are from La Fère, but all that we did was to try and escape thence – '

      'To the camp of the Béarnais – eh, madame?' interrupted de Gomeron.

      'To the camp of the King of France,' she flashed back at him, a red spot rising on each cheek. 'Messieurs!' she went on, 'you are gentlemen, are you not? You will let us go. Surely the Holy League wars not with women and old men?'

      The mention of the League stirred her companion and he gave tongue:

      'The Holy League!' he exclaimed with a savage scorn. 'Madame, though we stand delivered unto these sons of Belial, I must speak, for my heart is full. Yea! Shall my lips be sealed before the enemies of the Lord! The Holy League! Ha! ha! There is no Holy League. It died at Ivry. There did the Lord God break it clean, as of old. He shattered the Amorites of the mountains. Lo! Even now His own champion is at hand, and ere the morrow's sun sets he shall smite these men of sin hip and thigh, as when the Chosen slew His enemies in Gibeon.'

      'Corps du diable! A rope for the old Huguenot!' exclaimed Nicholas.

      'Thou swearest rightly, villain,' and the fanatic glared at the sergeant with fierce eyes. 'Swear ever so by thy master, for thou art in truth a limb of the body of Sin.'

      'Thou shalt roast like a chestnut over a log fire for this,' roared Nicholas, shaking his halberd at his adversary. 'And thou in Hell,' was the undaunted reply; 'and the smell of thy burning will be as the scent of a savoury bakemeat to the Lord my God.'

      So savagely prophetic was his tone; so fierce a glance did the bound Huguenot cast at Nicholas that it burnt to cinders any reply he might have had ready and reduced him to a speechless fury.

      Madame shivered slightly; but meeting my eyes and the repressed laugh in them, a faint smile parted her lips. This was for an instant only, and her face was grave enough as she turned to her companion, speaking with a quiet dignity, 'There is a time for everything, mon père – at present your speech is a trifle out of place.'

      The beetle brows of the Huguenot met together as he gave reply —

      'There is no place which is out of place to testify – ' but here de Gomeron cut in with his quick stern voice, 'Be silent, sir! or else a gag will stop your tongue,' and then with a bow, 'Madame, it goes to my heart to detain you; but war is war, and we have no option. Will you not be seated? All that this poor hut affords is yours,' and he bent low again, perhaps to hide the expression in his eyes.

      She made no effort to take the chair he offered, but burst out passionately:

      'Monsieur, I see you command here, and it is to you to whom I must appeal. Monsieur, I give you my word of honour we are no spies. The rules of war allow the ransom of prisoners, and anything you name will be paid. Monsieur, I pray you let us go.'

      Whilst she spoke my glance rested on de Gomeron's face, and I saw that his eyes were drinking in her beauty greedily, and there was a look in them that recalled to my mind the stories of the sack of Ham.

      As she finished her appeal Madame turned towards the captain with a gesture of entreaty; but in this movement she too saw that in his voice and manner which paled her cheek to marble, and she made a half-irresolute step towards her companion as if for protection. De Gomeron observed this, and laughed under his heavy black moustache, and I felt that the strong wine and his evil heart were moving him to an atrocious deed.

      'Vertu de Dieu! Madame, but there are some things which have no price! And there is no ransom you could name which would tempt Adam de Gomeron to part with his prisoners – with one of them at any rate. You are no spy, I know: such eyes as yours were never made to count the strength of battalions. As for your friend there, we have means to make him tell us all about himself to-morrow; and you, ma mignonne, must not bruise your tender feet by walking through the night to the camp of Monsieur – the King of France. In a day or so, perhaps,' he went on with a horrible smile, 'but not to-night. Come! and he stepped up to her. Come, taste the d'Arbois – it is from your friends – and learn to love the poor soldiers of the Holy League.'

      Saying this he attempted to pass his arm round her waist, but slipping from his grasp, and her cheeks aflame, Madame struck him across the face with the back of her hand, such a stroke as the wing of an angry dove might give.

      The rest was done in a flash, and de Gomeron reeled back with bleeding lips, staggered back to the very end of the room, where he would have fallen but for the support of the wall. It was in me to follow up my blow by passing my sword through the man, so mad was I in my fury; but luckily for him Nicholas hung on my arm and saved the villain's life. He righted himself at once, and passing his hand across his mouth, spoke to me quite coolly and collectedly, but with livid features.

      'We finish this outside, sir; follow me,' and picking up his rapier, which lay on the table, where he had thrown it on the entrance of the prisoners, de Gomeron stepped out of the door. In the excitement of the moment the men poured after him, and I was the last to follow. It came to me like lightning that the prisoners were unguarded, and slipping my dagger from its sheath, I thrust its haft into Madame's hand, and I saw that she understood from the thanks in her eyes. As I went out I heard the voice of the Huguenot: 'They shall die as they have lived – by the edge of the sword; and the Lord shall confound His enemies.'

      It was but a stone-throw to the stretch of green, which extended as level as a tennis-court for a hundred paces or so, and then sloped gently downward towards the junction of the Serre and the Oise. Beyond rose the walls of La Fère, whose grey outlines, lit up here and there by the flare of a lamp or fire, were clearly visible in the bright moonlight. So clear was this light, that I could distinctly make out the blue flowers of the patch of borage, which lay between the hut and the thorn hedge, beyond which de Gomeron was awaiting me. When I came up I found him standing with his back to the moon. He had thrown off his doublet, and was in his shirt sleeves, which were rolled up to his elbows, and Nicholas and the men stood a little on one side, utterly forgetful of the prisoners, and eager as bloodhounds to witness the coming fight. It took but a half minute to make myself ready, and borrowing a poniard from Nicholas to help me to parry, for de Gomeron held one in his left hand, and I was determined to give him no further advantage – he already had the light – I took my position. Then there was an angry little clash and our blades met, looking for all the world like two thin streaks of fire in the moonlight. I began the attack at once in the lower lines, but soon found that my adversary was a master of his weapon, and his defence was complete. We were both sober enough now, besides being in