Prisoners of Chance. Randall Parrish

emergency arose. I realized how small a part any preliminary survey holds in such an enterprise as now fronted me, an enterprise to be worked out amid darkness and grave personal peril, where any bungling act or false move might overturn everything in an instant; yet it is always well—or at least so I have found it—to trace some outline of procedure, rather than trust wholly to the intuitions of the moment. God's aid seems usually granted to those doing most for themselves.

      I felt little confidence by the time Alphonse returned, yet my firm determination to make the effort had in no way abated. Indeed, had failure been an absolute certainty I should have gone forward exactly the same, for I was bound to it by my pledge to Eloise de Noyan. I have reason to suppose dogged determination a part of my nature, but then something far more compelling than this inherited tendency drove me irresistibly forward to my fate. This is no story of the rescue of a prisoner of war, but rather of how love impelled an ordinary man to the accomplishment of deeds which seemed impossible.

      It was evening, already quite dark, it fortunately proving a night of cloud and threatened storm, when I ventured to steal into the little cottage on the Rue Dumaine, and found there, even as I had left them, Madame de Noyan and the père awaiting me. How anxious a day she had been compelled to pass since the hour of my departure was plainly imprinted upon her beautiful face, gently touched by the softened light from a shaded candle near which she rested; nor was the naturally pale, emaciated countenance of her spiritual adviser entirely free from outward marks of care impressed upon it by his patient vigil.

      I recall still, a pang tugging at my old heart, with what unspeakable gentleness Eloise came forward, holding forth both white hands in greeting, while unrestrained tears glistened upon the long lashes partly veiling the eager glow of soft eyes searching my face. She uttered never a word of questioning relative to the result of my mission; merely stood there silent, her warm hands in mine, her gaze fastened upon me, as if within my eyes she sought to read everything unasked. Perhaps she did, yet to me it seemed the perfect abandon of trust, and often since have I thought upon it as illustrative of her unswerving confidence in my honor.

      "I do so thank you, Geoffrey Benteen," she said in all simplicity, "for thus coming to us once more."

      "I returned the earliest moment possible, Madame," I replied quietly, although all my heart must have leaped responsive into my eyes, contradicting such coolness of speech. Be that as it may, my sweet mistress never glanced aside, nor drew back her hands from mine. It was the gravely observant priest, standing behind within the shadows, whose natural impatience caused him to interrupt our greeting, although he spoke not unkindly.

      "My son," he said, deep anxiety evident in the tone of his soft speech, "we have remained in solemn prayer ever since the hour of thy departure, and, while we doubt not our petitions have found favor of both Mother and Child, yet the flesh sorroweth, and we yearn greatly to know all from thine own lips as to the fortunes of this day. Tell us, I beg thee, hast thou discovered aught of comfort or help for the condemned?"

      His words brought me back to earth with sudden rush. Releasing the soft hands I had been clasping so tightly in momentary forgetfulness, I led the lady to a seat, even finding another myself before venturing upon reply.

      "I thank you heartily for your prayers, Sir Priest. Often have I heard my father say the prayer of the righteous availeth much, and although I be not of Holy Church—for those to whom I looked in earlier years for guidance were of the dissenting breed—yet I yield respect to all true religion; and even in the woods, where men grow rough, giving small thought to the voice of their souls, I have discovered much to tell me of God, and to make me thankful for His mercies. But you ask a difficult question. The day has not been ill spent nor wasted. This much, at least, I may say—I have discovered one weak spot in the Spanish guard-line, and intend to make the best possible use of it. Yet the venture is bound to prove a desperate one, and nothing except the overruling care of Him who guides us all can secure the desired outcome."

      He piously crossed himself, his thin lips moving silently above the silver crucifix resting in his white fingers, but Eloise only leaned more eagerly forward, her dark eyes anxiously scanning my face.

      "Have you seen my—the Chevalier de Noyan?" she questioned tremblingly.

      "No, Madame, yet I have been aboard the 'Santa Maria,'—though in truth 'twas not altogether an enjoyable experience—and now know precisely where the prisoners are confined, even to the room of the Chevalier. If you will listen patiently I will briefly relate the story; then we can outline together our further plans for the night. Are we alone?"

      Both nodded, far too eager to waste time in words, and as rapidly as possible I described those incidents already narrated. At the close Eloise simply thanked me in silence with an appreciative glance, but the priest proved more demonstrative.

      "Thou hast, indeed, accomplished much, my son," he exclaimed impulsively, clasping and unclasping the slender fingers of his white hands nervously. "Surely but for our fervent prayers the good Lord would never have led you amid such imminent and deadly peril. Yet to me the venture appeareth even more hopeless than before. You made mention of plans; shall we not discuss such at once, for the rapidly speeding time must greatly press us. The great Apostle once said, in connection with the work of the Spirit, 'Brethren, the time is short'; it seemeth a fit text for us even now."

      "It is too early for action," I replied thoughtfully. "I require food, and it will be best to delay until a late hour before moving in such a scheme as mine. As to plans—faith, the word was ill-chosen if I used it, for excepting the mode already outlined for attaining the deck, I have none. Yet there are certain matters I require to have arranged before I depart. Madame de Noyan, can you furnish me with a strong boat and two stout oarsmen? They must be men to trust, who will care little where they go."

      "It shall be done," she answered promptly, her eyes brightening. "Alphonse will gladly go, and he can select another from among the slaves."

      "The Chevalier, can he swim if occasion arise?"

      "He is perfectly at home in the water."

      "Good; then we need run no extra risk by keeping a boat beside the frigate. Let it await our coming beneath the darkest shadows of the cotton sheds near the North Gate. Have them place within it my rifle and ammunition, together with whatever weapons of war your husband may be accustomed to use; see that the boat be well provisioned for a long voyage, as it will require much travel before we get beyond Spanish reach, and we go not into a region of settlements. Bid the men exhibit no light, nor converse above whispers. My word to them will be 'Virginia'; they are to pay heed to no other. You understand all this?"

      "It is engraven upon my heart," she responded gravely. "You need have no fear."

      "That I think will be all you can do to aid success—nay, wait! instruct them also, if we have not arrived before the dawn to bide no longer; it will be useless."

      "Oh, say not so, Geoffrey Benteen," she cried, a sudden sob evidencing the strain upon her. "Surely the good God will aid us now."

      "It is upon Him I rely," I responded, not knowing how best to minister to her deep distress. "We will do all we can, Madame, to win His favor; beyond that nothing remains but to submit to His will."

      She hid her face in her arms upon the table, the light of the candle streaming almost golden in the heavy masses of her hair. Instinctively I rested my hand caressingly upon it.

      "Nay, Madame, this is time for strength, not weakness. Afterwards we may have opportunity to weep; to-night there is call for action."

      She glanced up with a quick, impulsive gesture, and I saw her eyes were dry of tears.

      "You think me unduly nervous and unstrung," she said quietly, and I could detect a touch of indignation in the tone. "It is merely my nature, for the impatient blood of the South has place in my veins, yet whatsoever a lady of France may do, you can trust me to accomplish, Monsieur."

      Faith! but she had a way with her which ever left me helpless, and no doubt my face exhibited how abashed I felt at the regal manner in which she fronted me. At least I spoke no word, yet the proud look faded from