The Long Night

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXV.

  BASTERGA AT ARGOS.

  The fear that Blandano might postpone the night-round, to a time whichwould involve discovery, haunted Blondel; and late on this eventfulevening he despatched Louis, as we have seen, to the Porte Neuve toremind the Captain of his orders. That done--it was all he could do--theSyndic sat down in his great chair, and prepared himself to wait. Heknew that he had before him some hours of uncertainty almostintolerable; and a peril, a hundred times more hard to face, because inthe pinch of it he must play two parts; he must run with the hare andhunt with the hounds, and, a traitor standing forward for the city hehad betrayed, he must have an eye to his reputation as well as his life.

  He had no doubt of the success of Savoy, the walls once passed.Moreover, the genius of Basterga had imposed itself upon him as that ofa man unlikely to fail. But some resistance there must be, somebloodshed--for the town held many devoted men; one hour at least ofbutchery, and that followed, he shuddered to think it, by more than onehour of excess, of cruelty, of rapine. From such things the capturedcities of that day rarely escaped. In all that happened, the resistanceand the peril, he must, he knew, show himself; he must take his part andrun his risk if he would not be known for what he was, if he would notleave a name that men would spit on!

  Strangely enough it was the moment of discovery and his conduct in thatmoment--it was the anticipation of this, that weighed most heavily onhis guilty mind as he sat in his parlour, his hour of retiring longpast, his household in bed. The city slept round him; how long would itsleep? And when it awoke, how long dared he, how long would it benatural for him to ignore the first murmur, the succeeding outcry, therising alarm? It was not his cue to do overmuch, to precipitatediscovery, or to assume at once the truth to be the truth. But on theother hand he must not be too backward.

  Try as he would he could not divert his thoughts from this. He sawhimself skulking in his house, listening with a white face to the rushof armed men along the street. He heard the tumult rising on all sides,and saw himself stand, guilty and irresolute, between hearth and door,uncertain if the time had come to go forth. Finally, and before he hadmade up his mind to go out, he fancied himself confronted by an enteringface, and in an instant detected. And this it was, this initialdifficulty, oddly enough--and not the subsequent hours of horror,confusion and danger, of dying men and wailing women--that rode hismind, dwelt on him and shook his nerves as the crisis approached.

  One consolation he had, and one only; but a measureless one. Bastergahad kept his word. He was cured. Six hours earlier he had taken the_remedium_ according to the directions, and with every hour that hadelapsed since he had felt new life course through his veins. He had hadno return of pain, no paroxysm; but a singular lightness of body,eloquent of the change wrought in him and the youth and strength thatwere to come, had done what could be done to combat the terrors of thesoul, natural in his situation. Pale he was, despite the potion; inspite of it he trembled and sweated. But he knew himself changed, andsick at heart as he was, he could only guess at the depths of nervousdespair to which he must have fallen had he not taken the wondrousdraught.

  There was that to the good. That to the good. He would live. And lifewas the great thing after all; life and health, and strength. If he hadsold his soul, his country, his friends, at least he would live--ifnaught happened to him to-night. If naught--but ah, the thought piercedhim to the heart. He who had proved himself in old days no mean soldierin the field, who had won honour in more than one fight, felt his browgrow damp, his knees grow flaccid, knew himself a coward. For the lifewhich he must risk was not the old life, but the new one which he hadbought so dearly; the new one for which he had given his soul, hiscountry, and his friends. And he dared not risk that! He dared not letthe winds of heaven blow too roughly on that! If aught befel him thisnight, the irony of it! The mockery of it! The deadly, deadly folly ofit!

  He sweated at the thought. He cursed, cursed frantically his folly inomitting to give himself out for worse than he was; in omitting to taketo his bed early in the day! Then he might have kept it through thenight, through the fight; then he might have avoided risks. Now he feltthat every ball discharged at a venture must strike him; that if heshowed so much as his face at a window death must find its opportunity.He would not have dared to pass through a street on a windy day now--forif a tile fell it must fall on him. And he must fight! He must fight!

  His manhood shrivelled within him at the thought. He shuddered. He wasstill shuddering, when on the shutter which masked the casement came aknock, thrice repeated. A cautious knock of which the mere sound impliedan understanding.

  The Syndic remained motionless, glaring at the window. Everything on anight like this, and to an uneasy conscience, menaced danger. At lengthit occurred to him that the applicant might be Louis, whom he had sentwith the message to the Porte Neuve: and he took the lamp and went toadmit him, albeit reluctantly, for what did the booby mean by returning?It was late, and only to open at this hour might, in the light cast byafter events, raise suspicions.

  But it was not Louis. The lamp flickering in the draught of the doorwaydisclosed a huge dusky form, glimmering metallic here and there, that ina trice pushed him back, passed by him, entered. It was Basterga. TheSyndic shut the door, and staggered rather than walked after him to theparlour. There the Syndic set down the lamp, and turned to the scholar,his face a picture of guilty terror. "What is it?" he muttered. "Whathas happened? Is--the thing put off?"

  The other's aspect answered his question. A black corselet with shoulderpieces, and a feathered steel cap raised Basterga's huge stature almostto the gigantic. Nor did it need this to render him singular; to drawthe eye to him a second time and a third. The man himself in this hourof his success, this moment of conscious daring, of reliance on his starand his strength, towered in the room like a demi-god. "No," heanswered, with a ponderous, exultant smile, slow to come, slow to go."No, Messer Blondel. Far from it. It has not been put off."

  "Something has been discovered?"

  "No. We are here. That is all."

  The Syndic supported himself by a hand pressed hard against the tablebehind him. "Here?" he gasped. "You are here? You have the town already?It is impossible."

  "We have three hundred men in the Corraterie," Basterga answered. "Wehold the Tertasse Gate, and the Monnaye. The Porte Neuve is cut off, andat our mercy; it will be taken when we give the signal. Beyond it fourthousand men are waiting to enter. We hold Geneva in our grip atlast--at last!" And in an accent half tragic, half ironic, hedeclaimed:--

  "Venit summa dies et ineluctabile tempus Dardaniae! Fuimus Troes, fuit Ilium et ingens Gloria Teucrorum! Ferus omnia Jupiter Argos Transtulit!"

  And then more lightly, "If you doubt me, how am I here?" he asked. Andhe extended his huge arms in the pride of his strength. "Exercise yourwarrant now--if you can, Messer Syndic. Syndic," he continued in a toneof mockery, "where is your warrant now? I have but this moment," hepointed to wet stains on his corselet, "slain one of your guards. Dojustice, Syndic! I have seized one of your gates by force. Avenge it,Syndic! Syndic? ha! ha! Here is an end of Syndics."

  The Syndic gasped. He was a hard man, not to say an arrogant one, littleused to opposition; one who, times and again, had ridden rough-shod overthe views of his fellows. To be jeered at, after this fashion, to bescorned and mocked by this man who in the beginning had talked sosilkily, moved so humbly, evinced so much respect, played the poorscholar so well, was a bitter pill. He asked himself if it was for thishe had betrayed his city; if it was for this he had sold his friends.And then--then he remembered that it was not for this--not for this, butfor life, dear life, warm life, that he had done this thing. And,swallowing the rage that was rising within him, he calmed himself.

  "It is better to cease to be Syndic than cease to live," he saidcoldly.

  But the other had no mind to return to their former relations. "True, Osage!" he answered contemptuously. "But why not both? Because--shall Ite
ll you?"

  "I hear----"

  "Yes, and I hear too! The city is rising!" Basterga listened a moment."Presently they will ring the alarm-bell, and----"

  "If you stay here some one may find you!"

  "And find me with you?" Basterga rejoined. He knew that he ought to go,for his own sake as well as the Syndic's. He knew that nothing was to bemade and much might be lost by the disclosure that was on his tongue.But he was intoxicated with the success which he had gained; with theclang of arms, and the glitter of his armed presence. The true spirit ofthe man, as happens in intoxication of another kind, rose to thesurface, cruel, waggish, insolent--of an insolence long restrained, theinsolence of the scholar, who always in secret, now in the light, pantedto repay the slights he had suffered, the patronage of leaders, thescoffs of power. "Ay," he continued, "they may find me with you! But ifyou do not mind, I need not. And I was just asking you--why not both?Life and power, my friend?"

  "You know," Blondel answered, breathing quickly. How he hated the man!How gladly would he have laid him dead at his feet! For if the foolstayed here prating, if he were found here by those who within a fewmoments would come with the alarm, he was himself a lost man. All wouldbe known.

  That was the fear in Blondel's mind; the alarm was growing louder eachmoment, and drawing nearer. And then in a twinkling, in two or threesentences, Basterga put that fear into the second place, and set in itsseat emotions that brooked no rival.

  "Why not both?" he said, jeering. "Live and be Syndic, both? Because youhad the scholar's ill, eh, Messer Blondel? Or because your physician_said_ you had it--to whom I paid a good price--for the advice?" Thedevil seemed to look out of the man's eyes, as he spoke in shortsentences, each pointed, each conveying a heart-stab to its hearer.

  "To whom--you gave?" Blondel muttered, his eyes dilated.

  "A good price--for the advice! A good price to tell you, you had it."

  The magistrate's face swelled till it was almost purple, his handsgripped the front of his coat, and pressed hard against his breast."But--the pains?" he muttered. "Did you--but no," with a frightfulgrimace, "you lie! you lie!"

  "Did I bribe him--to give you those too?" the other answered, with aruthless laugh. "You have alighted on it, most grave and reverend sage.You have alighted on the exact fact, so clever are you! That wasprecisely what I did some months back, after I heard that you, beingfearful as rich men are, had been to him for some fancied ill. You hadtwo medicines? You remember? The one gave, the other soothed yourtrouble. And now that you understand, now that your mind is free fromcare, and you can sleep without fear of the scholar's ill--will you notthank me for your cure, Messer Blondel?"

  "Thank you?" the magistrate panted. "Thank you?" He stepped back twopaces, groping with his hands, as if he sought to support himself by thetable from which he had advanced.

  "Ay, thank me!"

  "No, but I will pay you!" and with the word Blondel snatched from thetable a pistol which he had laid within his reach an hour earlier.Before the giant, confident in his size, discovered his danger, themuzzle was at his breast. It was too late to move then--three pacesdivided the men; but, in his haste to raise the pistol, Blondel had notshaken from it the handkerchief under which he had hidden it, and thelock fell on a morsel of the stuff. The next moment Basterga's huge handstruck aside the useless weapon, and flung Blondel gasping against thewall.

  "Fool!" the scholar cried, towering above the baffled, shrinking manwhose attempt had placed him at his mercy. "Think you that CaesarBasterga was born to perish by your hand? That the gods made me what Iam, I who carry to-night the fortunes of a nation and the fate of aking, that I might fall by so pitiful a creature as you! Ay, 'tis thealarm-bell, you are right. And by-and-by your friends will be here. Itis a wonder," he continued, with a cruel look, "that they are not herealready; but perhaps they have enough to fill their hands! And come orstay--if they be like you, poor fool, weak in body as in wit--I carenot! I, Caesar Basterga, this night lord of Geneva, and in the time tocome, and thanks to you----"

  "Curse you!" Blondel gasped.

  "That which I dare be sworn you have dreamt of being!"--the scholarcontinued with a subtle smile. "The Grand Duke's _alter ego_, Mayor ofthe Palace, Adviser to his Highness! Yes, I hit you there? I touch youthere! Oh, vanity of little men, I thought so! "He broke off andlistened, as sharp on one another two gun-shots rang out at no greatdistance from the house. A third followed as he hearkened: and on it aswelling wave of sound that rose with each second louder and nearer."Ay, 'tis known now!" Basterga resumed, in a tone more quiet, but notless confident. "And I must go, my dear friend--who thought a minuteago to speed me for ever. Know that it lies not in hands mean as yoursto harm Caesar Basterga of Padua! And that to-night, of all nights, Ibear a charmed life! I carry, Syndic, a kingdom and its fortunes!"

  He seemed to swell with the thought, and in comparison of the sickly manscowling darkly on him from the wall, he did indeed look a king, as heturned to the door, flung it wide and passed into the passage. With onlythe street door between him and the hub-bub that was beginning to fillthe night, he could measure the situation. He had stayed late. The beatof many feet hastening one way--towards the Porte Tertasse--the clatterof weapons as here and there a man trailed his pike on the stones, theroar of rising voices, the rattle of metal as some one hauled a chainacross the end of the Bourg du Four and hooked it--sounds such as thesemight have alarmed an ordinary man who knew himself cut off from hisparty, and isolated among foes.

  But Basterga did not quail. His belief in his star was genuine; he wasintoxicated with the success which he fancied lay within his grasp. Hecarried Caesar and his fortunes! was it in mean men to harm him? Nay, soconfident was he, that when he had opened the door he stood an instanton the threshold viewing the strange scene, and quoted with anappreciation as strange--

  "At domus interior gemitu miseroque tumultu Miscetur, penitusque cavae plangoribus aedes Femineis ululant; ferit aurea sidera clamor"--

  from his favourite poet. After which without hesitation but also withouthurry he turned and plunged into the stream of passers that was hurryingtowards the Porte Tertasse.

  He had been right not to quail. In the medley of light and shadow whichfilled the Bourg du Four and the streets about the Town Hall, in theconfusion, in the rush of all in one direction and with one intent, noone paid heed to him, or supposed him to belong to the enemy. Some cried"To the Treille! They are there! To the Treille!" And these wheeled thatway. But more, guided by the sounds of conflict, held on to the pointwhere the short, narrow street of the Tertasse turned left-handed out ofthe equally narrow Rue de la Cite--the latter leading onwards to thePorte de la Monnaye, and the bridges. Here, at the meeting of the twoconfined lanes, overhung by timbered houses, and old gables of strangeshapes, a desperate conflict was being fought. The Savoyards, masters ofthe gate, had undertaken to push their way into the town by the RueTertasse; not doubting that they would be supported by-and-by, upon theentrance of their main body through the Porte Neuve. They had proceededno farther, however, than the junction with the Rue de la Cite--a pointwhere darkness was made visible by two dim oil lamps--before, the alarmbeing given, they found themselves confronted by a dozen half-cladtownsfolk, fresh from their beds; of whom five or six were at once laidlow. The survivors, however, fought with desperation, giving back, footby foot; and as the alarm flew abroad and the city rose, every momentbrought the defenders a reinforcement--some father just roused fromsleep, armed with the chance weapon that came to hand, or some youthpanting for his first fight. The assailants, therefore, found themselvesstayed; slowly they were driven back into the narrow gullet of theTertasse. Even there they were put to it to hold their ground against anever-increasing swarm of citizens, whom despair and the knowledge thatthey were fighting on their hearths, for their wives, and for theirchildren, brought up in renewed strength.

  In the Tertasse, however, where it was not possible to outflank them,and no dark side-alley, vomiting now an
d again a desperate man, gave oneto death, a score could hold out against a hundred. Here then, with thegateway at their backs--whence three or four could fire over theirheads--the Savoyards stood stubbornly at bay, awaiting thereinforcements which they were sure would come from the Porte Neuve.They were picked troops not easily discouraged; and they had no fearthat aught serious had happened. But they asked impatiently whyD'Albigny with the main body did not come; why Brunaulieu with theMonnaye in his hands did not see that the time was opportune. Theychafed at the delay. Give the city time to array itself, let it recoverfrom its first surprise, and all their forces might scarcely avail tocrush opposition.

  It was at this moment, when the burghers had drawn back a little thatthey might deliver a decisive attack, that Basterga came up. Fabri theSyndic had taken the command, and had shouted to all who had windowslooking on the lane to light them. He had arrayed his men in some sortof order and was on the point of giving the word to charge, when heheard the steps of Basterga and some others coming up; he waited toallow them to join him. The instant they arrived he gave the word, andfollowed by some thirty burghers armed with half-pikes, halberds,anything the men had been able to snatch up, he charged the Savoyardsbravely.

  In the narrow lane but four or five could fight abreast, and the GrandDuke's men were clad in steel and well armed. Nevertheless Fabri boreback the first line, pressed on them stoutly, and amid a wild _melee_ ofstruggling men and waving weapons, began to drive the troop, in spite ofa fierce resistance, into the gate. If he could do this and enter withthem, even though he lost half his men, he might save the city.

  But the Savoyards, though they gave back, gave back slowly. Withintwenty paces of the gate the advance wavered, stopped, hung an instant.Of that instant Basterga took advantage. He had moved on undetected,with the rearmost burghers: now he saw his opportunity and seized it. Heflung to either side the man to right and left of him. He struck down,almost with the same movement, the man in front. He rushed on Fabri, whoin the middle of the first line was supporting, though far from young, asingle combat with one of the Savoyard leaders. On him Basterga's cowardweapon alighted without warning, and laid him low. To strike downanother, and turning, range himself in the van of the foreigners with amighty "Savoy! Savoy!" was Basterga's next action; and it sufficed. Thepanic-stricken burghers, apprised of treason in their ranks, gave backevery way. The Savoyards saw their advantage, rallied, and pressed them.Speedily the Italians regained the ground they had lost, and with thetall form of their champion fighting in the van, began to sweep thetowns-folk back into the Rue de la Cite.

  But arrived at the meeting of the ways, Basterga's followers paused,hesitating to expose their flank by entering this second street. TheGenevese saw this, rallied in their turn, and for a moment seemed to beholding their own. But three or four of their doughtiest fighters laystark in the kennel, they had no longer a leader, they were poorly armedand hastily collected; and devoted as they were, it needed little torenew the panic and start them in utter rout. Basterga saw this, andwhen his men still hung back, neglecting the golden opportunity, herushed forward, almost alone, until he stood conspicuous between the twobands--the one hesitating to come on, the other hesitating to fly.

  "Savoy!" he thundered, "Ville gagnee! The city is ours! Cowards, comeon!" And waving his halberd above his head, he beckoned to his followersto advance.

  Had they done so, had they charged on the instant, they had changed allfor him, and perhaps all for Geneva. But they hung a moment, and thenext, as in shame they drew themselves together for the charge, theirchampion stooped forward with a shrill scream. The next instant hereceived full on his nape a heavy iron pot, that descending withtremendous force from a window above him, rolled from him broken intothree pieces.

  He went down under the blow as if a sledge-hammer had struck him; and sosudden, so dramatic was the fall--his armour clanging about him--thatfor an instant the two bands held their hands and stood staring, asindifferent crowds stand and gaze in the street. A dozen on thepatriots' side knew the house from which the _marmite_ fell, and markedit; and half as many saw at the small window whence it came the greylocks and stern wrinkled face of an aged woman. The effect on theburghers was magical. As if the act symbolised not only the loved onesfor whom they fought, but the dire distress to which they were come,they rushed on the foreign men-at-arms with a spirit and a fury hithertounknown. With a ringing shout of "Mere Royaume! Mere Royaume!"--raisedby those who knew the old woman, and taken up by many who did not--theyswept the foe, shaken by the fall of their leader, along the narrowTertasse, pressed on them, and, still shouting the new war-cry, enteredthe gateway along with them.

  "Mere Royaume! Mere Royaume!" The name rang savagely in the groining ofthe arch, echoed dully in the obscurity in which the fierce strugglewent on. And men struck to its rhythm, and men died to it. And men whoheard it thus and lived never forgot it, nor ever went back in theirminds to that night without recalling it.

  To one man, flurried already, and a coward at heart, the name carried aparalysing assurance of doom. He had seen Basterga fall--by this woman'shand of all hands in the world--and he had been the first to flee. Butin the lane he tripped over Fabri, he fell headlong, and only raisedhimself in time to gain the gateway a few feet in front of the avengingpikes. Still, he might escape, he hoped to escape, through the gate andinto the open Corraterie. But the first to reach the gates had taken inhand to shut them, and so to prevent the townsfolk reaching theCorraterie. One of the great doors, half-closed, blocked his way, andinstinctively--ignorant how far behind him the pike-points were--hesprang aside into the guard-room.

  His one chance now--for he was cut off, and knew it--lay in reaching thestaircase and mounting to the roof. A bound carried him to the door, hegrasped the handle. But a fugitive who had only a second before savedhimself that way, took him for a pursuer, dragged the door close andheld it--held it in spite of his efforts and his imprecations.

  Five seconds, ten, perhaps, Grio--for he it was--wasted in strugglingvainly with the door. The man on the other side clung to it with adespair equal to his own. Five seconds, ten, perhaps; but in that spaceof time, short as it was, the man paid smartly for the sins of his life.When the time of grace had elapsed, with a pike-point a few inches fromhis back and the gleaming eyes of an avenging burgher behind it, he fledshrieking round the table. He might even yet have escaped by a chance;for all was confusion, and though there was a glare there was no light.But he stumbled over the body of the man whom he had slain without pitya few hours before. He fell writhing, and died on the floor, under adozen blows, as beasts die in the shambles.

  "Mere Royaume! Mere Royaume!" The cry--the last cry he heard--swelledlouder and louder. It swept through the gate, it passed through to theopen, and bore far along the Corraterie, far along the ramparts, ay, tothe open country, the earnest of victory, the earnest of vengeance.

  Geneva was saved. He who would have betrayed it, slain like Pyrrhus theEpirote by a woman's hand, lay dead in the dark lane behind the house inwhich he had lived.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  THE DAWN.

  Anne was but one of some thousands of women who passed through the trialof that night; who heard the vague sounds of disquiet that roused themat midnight grow to sharp alarms, and these again--to the dull, pulsingmusic of the tocsin--swell to the uproar of a deadly conflict waged bydesperate men in narrow streets. She was but one of thousands who thatnight heard fate knocking at their hearts; who praying, sick with fear,for the return of their men, showed white faces at barred windows, andby every tossing light that passed along the lane viewed long years ofloneliness or widowhood.

  But Anne had this burden also; that she had of herself sent her man intodanger; her man, who, but for her pleading, but for her bidding, mightnot have gone. And that thought, though she had done her duty, laid acold grip upon her heart. Her work it was if he lay at this moment starkin some dark alley, the first victim of the assault; or, sorely wounded,cried for water; or waited in
pain where none but the stricken heardhim. The thought bowed her to the ground, sent her to her prayers, tookfrom her alike all memory of the danger that had menaced her thismorning, and all consciousness of that which now threatened her, ahelpless woman, if the town were taken.

  The house, having its back on the Rue de la Cite, at the point wherethat street joined the Tertasse, stood in the heart of the conflict; andalmost from the moment of the first attack on the Porte Neuve, whichClaude was in time to witness, was a centre of fierce and deadlyfighting. Anne dared not leave her mother, who, strange to say, sleptthrough the early alarms; and it was bowed on the edge of her mother'sbed--that bed beside which she had tasted so much of happiness and somuch of grief--that she passed, not knowing what the turning page mightshow, the first hour of anxiety and suspense.

  The report of a shot shook her frame. A scream stabbed her like a knife.Lower and lower she thrust her face amid the bed-clothes, striving toshut out sound and knowledge; or, woman-like, she raised her pale,beseeching face that she might listen, that she might hope. If he fellwould they tell her? And how he fell, and where? Or would they hold herstrange to him? Would she never hear?

  Suddenly her mother opened her eyes, lay a while listening, then slowlysat up and looked at her. Anne saw the awakening alarm in the dear face,that in some mysterious way recalled its youth; and she fancied that toher other troubles, the misery of one of the old paroxysms was going tobe added. At such an hour, with such sounds of terror filling the night,with such a glare dancing on the ceiling the first attack had come on,years before. Then the alarm had been fictitious; to-night the calamitywhich the poor woman had imagined, was happening with every circumstanceof peril and alarm.

  But Madame Royaume's face, though anxious and serious, retained to anastonishing extent its sanity. Whether the strange dream which she hadhad earlier in the night had prepared her for the state of things towhich she awoke, or the weeks and months which had elapsed since thatold alarm of fire dropped in some inexplicable way from her--and as oneshock had upset, another restored the balance of her mind--certain it isthat Anne, watching her with a painful interest, found her sane. Nor didMadame Royaume's first words dispel the impression.

  "They hold out?" she asked, grasping her daughter's hand and pressingit. "They hold out?"

  "Yes, yes, they hold out," Anne answered, hoping to soothe her. And shepatted the hand that clasped hers. "Have no fear, dear, all will gowell."

  "If they have faith and hold out," the aged woman replied, listening tothe strange medley of sounds that rose to them.

  "They will, they will," Anne faltered.

  "But there is need of every one!"

  "They are gone, dear," the girl answered, repressing a sob withdifficulty. "We are alone in the house."

  "So it should be," Madame Royaume replied, with sternness. "The man tothe wall, the maid to the pall! It was ever so!"

  A low cry burst from Anne's lips. "God forbid!" she wailed. "God forbid!God have mercy!"

  The next moment she could have bitten out her tongue; she knew that suchwords and such a cry were of all others the most likely to excite herpatient. But after some obscure fashion their positions seemed thisnight to be reversed. It was the mother who in her turn patted herdaughter's hand and sought to soothe her.

  "Ay, God forbid," she said softly. "But man must do his part. I mindwhen----" She paused. Her eyes travelling round the room, fixed theirgaze on the fireplace. She seemed to be perplexed by something she sawthere, and Anne, still fearing a recurrence of her illness, asked herhurriedly what it was. "What is it; mother?" she said, leaning over her,and following the direction of her eyes. "Is it the great pot you arelooking at?"

  "Ay," Madame Royaume answered slowly. "How comes it here?"

  "There was no one below," Anne explained. "I brought it up this morning.Don't you remember? There is no fire below."

  "No?"

  "That is all, mother. You saw me bring it up."

  "Ay?" And then after a pause: "Let it down a hook."

  "But----"

  "Let it down, child!" And when Anne, to soothe her, had obeyed and letthe great pot down until the fire licked its sides, "Is it full?" Madameasked.

  "Half-full, mother."

  "It will do." And for a time the woman in the bed was silent.

  Outside there was noise enough. The windows in the room looked into theCorraterie, from which side no more than passing sounds of conflict roseto them; the pounding of running feet, sharp orders, a shot, and thenanother. But the landing without the bedroom door looked down by ahigh-set window into the narrow Tertasse; and from this, though the doorwas shut, rose an inferno of noise, the clash of steel, the cries of thewounded, the shouts of the fighters. The townsfolk, rallying from theirfirst alarm, were driving the enemy out of the Rue de la Cite, penninghim into the Tertasse, and preparing to carry that street.

  On a sudden there came, not a cessation of the uproar, but a change inits character. It was as if the current of a river were momentarilystayed and pent up; and then with a mighty crashing of timbers andshifting of pebbles, and a din as of the world's end, began to run theother way. Anne's face turned a shade paler; so appalling was the noise,she would fain have stopped her ears. But her mother sat up.

  "What is it?" she asked eagerly. "What is it?"

  "Dear mother, do not fret! It must be----"

  "Go and see, child! Go to the window in the passage, and see!" MadameRoyaume persisted.

  Anne had no wish to go, no wish to see. She pictured her lover in the_melee_ whence rose those appalling cries; and gladly would she havehidden her head in the bedclothes and poured out her heart in prayer forhim. But Madame persisted, and she yielded, went into the passage andopened the small window. With the cold air entered a fresh volume ofsound. On the walls and timbered gables opposite her--and so near thatshe could well-nigh touch them with her extended arm--strange lightsplayed luridly; and here and there, at dormers on a level with her, palefaces showed and vanished by turns.

  She looked down. For a moment, in the confusion, in the medley of movingforms, she could discern little or nothing. Then, as her eyes becamemore accustomed to the sight, she made out that the tide of conflict wasrunning inward into the town, a sign that the invaders were gaining themastery.

  "Well?" Madame Royaume asked, her voice querulous.

  Anne strove to say something that would soothe her mother. But a sobchoked her, and when she regained her speech she felt herself impelled,she knew not why, to tell the truth. "I fear our people are fallingback," she murmured, trembling so violently that she could barely stand.

  "How far? Where are they, child?" Her mother's voice was eager. "Whereare they?"

  "They are almost under the window!" And then withdrawing her head with ashudder, while she clung for support to the frame of the window: "Theyare fighting underneath me now," she said. "God pity them!"

  "And who is--are we still getting the worst of it?"

  Forced by a kind of fascination, Anne looked out again. "Yes, there isone man, a big man, leads them on," she said, in the voice of one who,painfully absorbed in a sight, reports it involuntarily. "He is drivingour people before him. Ah! he has struck one down this moment. He isalmost underneath us now. But his people will not follow him! They arestanding. He--he waves them on!"

  "He is beneath us?" Madame's voice sounded strangely near, strangelyinsistent. But Anne, wrapt in what she saw, did not heed it.

  "Yes! He is a dozen paces in front of his men. He is underneath us now.He urges them to follow him! He towers above them! He is----"

  She broke off; close to her sounded a heavy breathing, that even abovethe babel of the street caught her ear. She drew in her head, looked,and, overwrought by that which she had been witnessing, she shriekedaloud.

  Beside her, bending under the weight of the great steaming pot, stoodher mother! Her mother, who had scarcely left her bedroom twice in atwelvemonth, nor crossed it as many times in a week. But it was hermother; endowed at
this pass, and for the instant, with supernaturalstrength. For even as Anne recoiled thunderstruck, the old woman liftedthe huge _marmite_, half-full and steaming as it was, to the ledge ofthe window, steadied it there an instant, and then, with the gleamingeyes and set pale face of an avenging prophetess, thrust it forth.

  A second they gazed at one another with suspended breath. Then from thestreet below rose a wild shriek, a crash, and lo, the huge pot layshattered in the kennel beside the man whom, Heaven directed, it hadslain. As if the shock of its fall stayed for an instant even themovement of the world, a silence fell on all: then, as the roar ofconflict rose again, louder, more vengeful, with a new note in it, shecaught her mother in her arms.

  "Mother! Mother!" she cried. "Mother!"

  The elder woman was white to the lips. "Get me to bed!" she muttered."Get me to bed!" She had lost the power even to stand. That she had everborne, even for a yard, the great pot which it taxed Anne's utmoststrength to carry upstairs was a miracle. But a miracle were all thecircumstances connected with the act.

  Anne carried her back and laid her on the bed, greatly fearing for her.And thenceforth for a while the girl's horizon, so wide and stormy aninstant before, was narrowed to the bed beside which she stood, narrowedto the dear face on which the lamplight fell, disclosing its death-likepallor. For the time Anne forgot even her lover, was deaf to thestruggle outside, was unmindful of the flight of the hours. For her,Geneva might have lain at peace, the night been as other nights, thehouse below been heavy with the breathing of tired sleepers. She lookedneither to the right nor the left, until under her loving hands MadameRoyaume revived, opened her eyes and smiled--the smile she had for oneface only in the world.

  By that time Anne had lost count of the time. It might be hard onmorning, it might be a little after midnight. One thing only was clear,the lamp required oil, and to get it she must descend to the groundfloor. She opened the door and listened, wondering dully how theconflict had gone. She had lost count of that also.

  The small window at the head of the stairs remained open as they hadleft it; and through it a ceaseless hum, as of a hive of bees swarming,poured in from the night, and told of multitudes astir. The alarm-bellhad ceased to ring, the wilder sounds of conflict had died down; in theparts about the Tertasse the combat appeared to be at an end. But thismight be either because resistance had ceased, or because the battle hadrolled away to other quarters, or--which she scarcely dared tohope--because the foe had been driven out.

  As she stood listening, she shivered in the cold air that came from thewindow. She felt as if she had been beaten, and knew that this came ofthe shocks she had suffered and the long strain. She feared for hernerves, and hated to go down into the dark parts of the house as if somedanger lurked there. She longed for morning, for the light; and thoughtof Claude and his fate, and wondered why the thought of his danger didnot move her to weeping, as it had moved her a few hours earlier.

  In truth she was worn out. The effort to revive her mother had cost herthe last remains of strength. Her feet as she descended the stairs wereof lead, the brazen notes of the alarm-bell hummed in her ears. When shereached the living-room she set the lamp on one of the tables and satdown wearily, with her eyes on the cold, empty hearth and on the settlewhere she had sat with his arms about her. And now, if ever, she mustweep; but she could not.

  The lamp burned low, and cast smoky shadows on the ceiling and thewalls. The shuttered windows showed their dead faces. The cheerful soulof the room had passed from it with the fire, leaving the shell gloomy,lifeless, repellent. Anne drowsed a moment in sheer exhaustion, andwould have slept, if the lamp on the point of expiring had not emitteda sound and roused her. She rose reluctantly, dragged herself to thegreat cupboard under the stairs, and, having lighted a rushlight at thedying flame, put out the lamp and refilled it.

  She was about to re-light it, and had taken the rushlight in her handfor the purpose, when she heard through the shuttered windows and thebarred door a growing clamour; the tramp of heavy feet, the hum of manyvoices, the buzz of a crowd that, almost as soon as she awoke to itsnear presence, came to a stand before the house. The tumult of voicesraised all at once in different keys did not entirely drown the clash ofarms; and while she stood, sullenly regarding the door, and resigned tothe inevitable, whatever it might be, thin shafts of light pierced theshutters and stabbed the gloom about her.

  With that a hail-storm of knocks fell on the door and on the shutters. Adozen voices cried, "Open! Open!" The jangle of a halberd as its bearerlet the butt drop heavily on the stone steps added force to the summons.

  Anne's first impulse was to retreat upstairs, and leave them to do theirworst. Her next--she was in a state of collapse in which resistanceseemed useless--was to open. She moved to the door, and with cold handsremoved the huge bars and let down the chain. It was only when she haddone so much, when it remained only to unlock, that she wavered; thatshe trembled to think on what the crowd might be bent, and what might beher fate at their hands. She paused then, with her fingers on the key;but not for long. She remembered that, before she descended, she hadheard neither shot nor cry. Resistance therefore had ceased, and that ofa single house, held by two helpless women, could avail nothing, couldbut excite to fury and reprisals.

  She turned the key and opened. The lights dazzled her. The doorway, asshe stood faltering, almost fainting, before it, seemed to be full ofgrotesque dancing faces, some swathed in bandages, otherspowder-blackened, some hot with excitement, others pallid with fatigue.They were such faces, piled one above the other, as are seen in baddreams.

  On the intruders' side, those who pressed in first saw a girl strangelyquiet, who held the door wide for them. "My mother is ill," she said ina voice that strove for composure; if they were the enemy, her onlyhope, her only safety, lay in courage. "And she is old," she continued."Do not harm her."

  "We come to do harm neither to you nor to her," a voice replied. And theforemost of the troop, a thick dwarfish man with a huge two-handedsword, stood aside. "Messer Baudichon," he said to one behind him, "thisis the daughter."

  She knew the fat, sturdy councillor--who in Geneva did not?--and throughher stupor she recognised him, although a great bandage swathed half hishead, and he was pale. And, beginning to have an inkling that thingswere well, she began also to tremble. By his side stood MesserPetitot--she knew him, too, he had been Syndic the year before--and aman in hacked and blood-stained armour with his arm in a sling and hisface black with powder. These three, and behind them a dozen others--menwhom she had seen on high days robed in velvet, but who now wore, oneand all, the ugly marks of that night's work--looked on her with astrange benevolence. And Baudichon took her hand.

  "We do not come to harm you," he said. "On the contrary we come to thankyou and yours. In the name of the city of Geneva, and of all those herewith me----"

  "Ay! Ay!" shouted Jehan Brosse, the tailor. And he rang his sword on thedoorstep. "Ay! Ay!"

  "We come to thank you for the blow struck this night from this house!That it rid us of one of our worst foes was a small thing, girl. Butthat it put heart into our burghers and strength into their arms at acritical moment was another and a greater thing. Which shall not, ifGeneva stand--as stand by God's pleasure she shall, the stronger forthis night's work--be forgotten! The name of Mere Royaume will at thenext meeting of the Greater Council be inscribed among the names ofthose whom the Free City thanks for their services this night!"

  A murmur of stern approval that began with those in the house rolledthrough the doorway and was echoed by the waiting throng that filled thestreet.

  She was weeping. All it meant, all it might mean, what warranty ofpowerful friends, what fame beyond the reach of dark stories, or awoman's spite, she could not yet understand, she could not yetappreciate. But something, the city's safety, the city's gratitude, thecountenance of these men who came to her door blood-stained, dark withsmoke, reeling with fatigue--came that they might thank her mother anddo her honour--somethin
g of this she did grasp as she wept before them.

  She had but one thing to ask, to desire; and in a moment it was givenher.

  "Nor is that all!" The voice that broke in was harsher and blunter thanBaudichon's. "If it be true, as I am told, that a young man of the nameof Mercier lives here? He does, does he? Ay, he lives, my girl. He issafe, have no fear. For the matter of that he has nine lives,and"--Captain Blandano continued with an oath--"he has had need of allthis night, God forgive me for the word! But, as I said, that is notall. For if there is any one man who has saved Geneva, it is he, the manwho let down the portcullis. And if the city does not dower you, mygirl----"

  "The city shall dower her!" The speaker's voice came from somewhere inthe neighbourhood of the doorway, and was something tremulous anduncertain. But what it lacked in strength it made up in haste andeagerness. "The city shall dower her! If not, I will!"

  "Good, Messer Blondel, and spoken like you!" Blandano answered heartily.And though one or two of the foremost, on hearing Blondel's voice,looked askance at one another, and here and there a whisper passed of"The Syndic of the guard? How came----" the majority drowned suchmurmurings under a chorus of applause.

  "We are of one mind, I think!" Baudichon said. And with that he turnedto the door. "Now, good friends," he continued, "it wants but little ofdaylight, and some of us were best in our beds. Let us go. That we liedown in peace and honour"--he went on, solemnly raising his hand overthe happy weeping girl beside him, as if he blessed her--"that our wivesand children lie safe within our walls is due, under God, to this roof.And I call all here to witness that while I live the city of Genevashall never forget the debt that is due to this house and to the name ofRoyaume!"

  "Ay, ay!" cried the bandy-legged tailor. "I too! The small with thegreat, the rich with the poor, as we have fought this night!"

  "Ay! Ay!"

  Some shook her by the hand, and some called Heaven to bless her, andsome with tears running down their faces--for no man there was hiscommon everyday self--did naught but look on her with kindness. And so,each having done after his fashion, they trooped out again into thestreet. A moment later, as the winter sun began to colour the distantsnows, and the second Sunday in December of the year 1602 broke onGeneva, the voices of the multitude rose in the one hundred andtwenty-fourth psalm; to the solemn thunder of which, poured fromthankful hearts, the assembly accompanied Baudichon to his home a littlefarther down the Corraterie.

  Anne was about to close the door and secure it after them--with feelingshow different from those with which she had opened that door!--when itresisted her shaking hands. She did not on the instant understand thereason or what was the matter. She pushed more strongly, still it cameback on her, it opened widely and more widely. And then one who hadheard all, yet had not shown himself, one who had entered withBaudichon's company, but had held himself hidden in the background,pushed in, uninvited.

  Uninvited? The rushlight still burned low and smokily, and she had notrelighted the lamp. The corners were dark with shadows, the hearth wascold and empty and ugly, the shutters still blinded the windows. But thecoming of this uninvited one--love comes ever unexpected anduninvited--how strangely, how marvellously, how beautifully did itchange all for her, light all, fill all.

  As she felt his arms about her, as she clung to him, and sobbed on hisshoulder, as she strove for words and could not utter them for thehappiness of her heart, as she felt his kisses rain on her face in joyand safety, who had not left her in sorrow, no, nor in the shadow ofdeath, nor for any fears of what man could do to him--let it be saidthat her reward was as her trial.

  Madame Royaume lived four years after that famous attack on the FreeCity of Geneva which is called the Escalade; and during that time sheexperienced no return of the mysterious malady that came with one shock,and passed from her with another. Nor, so far as can be ascertained atthe distant time at which I write, did the suspicions which the night ofthe Escalade found in the bud survive it. Probably the Corraterie andthe neighbouring quarter, ay, and the whole city of Geneva, had for manya week to come matter for gossip and to spare. It is certain, at anyrate, that whatever whispers were current in this house or that, notongue wagged openly against the favourites of the council, who werealso the favourites of the crowd. For Mere Royaume's act hitmarvellously the public fancy, and, passing from mouth to mouth, andfrom generation to generation, is still the first, the best loved, andthe most picturesque of the legends of Geneva.

  And Messer Blondel? Did he evade the penalty of his act? Ask any man inthe streets of Geneva, even to-day, and he will tell you the fate ofPhilibert Blondel, Fourth Syndic. He will tell you how the magistratetriumphed for a time, as he had triumphed in the council before, how heclosed the mouths of his accusers, how not once, but twice and thrice,by the sheer force and skill of a man working in a medium which heunderstood, he won his acquittal from his compeers. But thoughpunishment be slow to overtake, it does overtake at last; nor has theworld witnessed many instances more pertinent or more famous than thatof Messer Blondel. Strive as he might, tongues would wag within thecouncil, and without. Silence as he might Baudichon and Petitot, smallermen would talk; and their talk persisted and grew, and was vigorous whenmonths and even years had passed. What the great did not know the smallknew or guessed, and fixed greedy eyes on the head of the man who haddared to sell Geneva. The end came four years after the Escalade. Toconceal the old negotiation he committed a further crime, and beingbetrayed by the tool he employed was seized and convicted. On the 1stSeptember, 1606, he lost his head on a scaffold erected before his ownhouse in the Bourg du Four.

  The Merciers had at least one son--probably he was the eldest, for hebore his father's name--who lived into middle life, and proved himselftheir worthy descendant. For precisely fifty years after the date ofthese events a poor woman of the name of Michee Chauderon was put todeath in Geneva, on a charge of sorcery; and among those--and they werenot few--who strove most manfully and most obstinately to save her, wefind the name of a physician of great note in the Canton at thattime--one Claude Mercier. He did not prevail, though he struggledbravely; the long night of superstition, though nearing its close, stillreigned; that woman suffered. But he carried it so far and so boldlythat from that day to this--and the city may be proud of the fact--noperson has suffered death in Geneva on that dreadful charge.

  THE END.

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