The Abbess Of Vlaye

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  TWO IN THE MILL.

  It is possible that Bonne did not herself know in what proportionspity and a warmer sentiment entered into her motives when sheundertook to pass for the Countess and assume the girl's risks.Certainly her first thought was for the Countess; and, for the rest,she felt herself cleared from the reproach of unmaidenliness by thedanger of the step which she was taking. Even so, as she rode acrossthe camp in the dusk of the first evening, into the half pain, halfpleasure that burned her cheeks under the disguising hood entered someheat of shame.

  Not that it formed a part of her plan that des Ageaux should discoverher. To be near him unknown, to share his peril whom she loved, whilehe remained unwitting, to give and take nothing--this was the essenceof the mystery that charmed her fancy, this was the heart of theadventure on which her affection had settled. He, by whose side sherode, and near whom she must pass the dark hours in a solitude whichonly love could rob of its terrors, must never know what she had donefor love of him; or know it only from her lips in a delicious futureon which reason forbade her to count.

  In supporting her disguise she was perfectly successful. No suspicionthat the girl riding beside him in depressed silence was other thanthe Countess, the unwilling sharer of his exile, crossed his mind.Bonne, hooded to the eyes and muffled in her cloak, sat low-hunched onher horse. Fulbert, who was in the secret, and to whom nothing whichany one could do for his adored mistress seemed odd or extraordinary,helped her to mount and dismount, and nightly lay grim and starkacross the door of her hut repelling inquiry. Add the fact that theLieutenant on his side had his delicacy. Fortune compelled theCountess into his company, forced her on his protection. It behovedhim to take no advantage, and, short of an indifference that mightappear brutal, to leave her as much as possible to herself.

  Bonne therefore had her wish. He had no slightest suspicion who waswith him. She had, too, if she needed it, proof of his honour; proofcertain that if he loved the great lady, he respected her to the sameextent. Love her he might, see in her a grand alliance he might; buthad he been the adventurer the Abbess styled him, he had surely mademore of this opportunity, more of her helplessness and her dependence.The Countess's fortune, the wide lands that had tempted Vlaye, what achance of making them sure was his! No great lady was here, but ayoung girl helpless, terrified, hedged in by perils. Such an one wouldbe ready at the first word, at a sign, to fling herself into the armsof her only friend, her only protector, and promise him all andeverything if he would but save her scatheless.

  Bonne had imagination enough, and perhaps jealousy enough, to picturethe temptation. And finding him superior to it--so that in thesweetness of her secret nearness to him was mingled no gall--shewhispered to herself that if he loved he did not love overmuch. Was itpossible that he did not love--in that direction? Was it possible thathe had no more feeling for the Countess than she had for him?

  Perhaps for an hour Bonne was happy--happy in these thoughts. Happywhile the tones of his even and courteous voice, telling her that sheneed fear nothing, dwelt in her ears. For that period the pleasures offancy overcame the tremors of the real. Then--for sleep was in nohaste to visit her--a chance rustle, caused by something moving in herneighbourhood, the passage it might be of a prowling dog, made herprick her ears, forced her against her will to listen, sent a creepychill down her back. After that she was lost. She did not wish tothink of such things, it was foolish to think of such things; but howflimsy were the walls of her hut! How defenceless she lay, in themidst of the savage, grisly horde, whose looks even in the daylighthad paled her cheeks. How useless must two swords prove against amultitude!

  She must divert her thoughts. Alas, when she tried to do so, she foundit impossible. It was in vain that she chid herself, in vain that sheasked herself what she was doing there, if des Ageaux' presence wereno charm against fear, if with him at hand she was a coward! Alwayssome sound, something that seemed the shuffle of feet or the whisperof murder, brought her to earth with quivering nerves; and as by theLieutenant's desire she burned no light, she could not interpret themost innocent alarm or learn its origin. She was no coward. But to liein the dark, expecting and trembling, and thrice in the hour to sit upbathed in perspiration--a short experience of this left her no rightto despise the younger girl whose place she had taken. When at lastthe longed-for light pierced the thin walls, and she knew that thenight was past, she knew also that she looked forward to a second withdread. And she hated herself for it.

  Not that to escape a hundred such nights would she withdraw. If shesuffered, what must the child have suffered? She was clear that theCountess must not go again. But during the day she was more grave thanusual; more tender with her father, more affectionate to her sister.And when she rode across the camp in the evening, exciting as littlesuspicion as before, she carried with her, hidden in her dress, athing that she touched now and again to assure herself of its safety.She took it with her to the rough pallet on which she lay in herclothes; and her hand clasped it under the pillow. Something of a linkit seemed between her and des Ageaux, so near yet so unwitting; for asshe held it her mind ran on him. It kept at bay, albeit it was astrange amulet for a woman's hand, the thought that had troubled herthe previous night; and though more than once she raised herself onher elbow, fancying that she heard some one moving outside, thepanic-terror that had bedewed her brow was absent. She lay down againon these occasions with her fingers on her treasure. And towardsmorning she slept--slept so soundly that when the light touched hereyelids and woke her, she sprang up in pleased confusion. They werecalling her, the horses were waiting at the door. And in haste shewrapped herself in her travesty.

  "I give you joy of your courage, Countess!" the Lieutenant said, as hecame forward to assist her to mount. Fortunately Fulbert, withapparent clumsiness, interposed and did her the office. "You haveslept?" des Ageaux continued, as he swung himself into his saddle andtook his place by her side. "That's good," accepting her inarticulatemurmur for assent. "Well, one more night will end it, I fancy. Igreatly, very greatly regret," he continued, speaking with more warmththan usual, "that it has been necessary to expose you to this strain,Countess."

  Again she muttered something through her closely drawn hood.Fortunately a chill, grey mist, through which the huts loomedgigantic, swathed the camp, and he thought that it was to guardherself from this that she kept her mouth covered. He suspectednothing, though, at dismounting, Fulbert interposed again. In twominutes from starting she was safe within the shelter of theCountess's hut, with the Countess's arms about her, and the child'sgrateful kisses warm on her cheek.

  He had praised her courage! That was something; nay, it was much if helearned the truth. But he should never learn it from her, she wasresolved. She had the loyalty which, if it gives, gives nobly; nor bytelling robs the gift of half its virtue. She had saved the youngerwoman some hours of fear and misery, but at a price too high were sheever to speak and betray her confidence. No one saw that more clearlythan Bonne, or was more firmly resolved to hide her share in thematter.

  The third night she set out, not with indifference, since she rode byhis side whose presence could never be indifferent to her, but with aheart comparatively light. If she took with her the charm which hadserved her so well, if it attended her to her couch and lay beneathher pillow, it was no longer the same thing to her; she smiled as sheplaced it there. And if her fingers closed on it in silence anddarkness and she derived some comfort from it, she fell asleep withscarce a thought of the things its presence imported. For two nightsshe had slept little; now, worn-out, she was proof against allordinary sounds, the rustle of a dog prowling in search of food, orthe restless movements of a horse tethered near. Ay, and against othersounds as stealthy as these and more dangerous, that by-and-by creptrustling and whispering through the camp; sounds caused by a cloud oflow stooping figures that moved and halted, lurked behind huts, andanon swept forward across an open space
, and again lurking showed likesome dark shadow of the night.

  A shadow fraught, when it bared its face, with horror! For what wasthat cry, sharp, wild, stopped in mid-utterance?

  Even as Bonne sprang up palpitating, and glared at the open doorway,the cry rose again--close by her; and the doorway melted into a pressof dark forms that hurled themselves on her as soon as they were seen.She was borne back, choked, stifled; and desperately writhing, vainlystriving to shriek, or to free mouth or hands from the folds of thecoverlets that blinded her, she felt herself lifted up in a graspagainst which it was vain to struggle. A moment, and with a shock thattook away what breath was left in her, she was flung head and heelsacross something--across a horse; for the moment the thing felt herweight it moved under her.

  Whoever rode it held her pitilessly, cruelly heedless of the pain herposition caused her. She could hardly breathe, she could not see, themovement was torture; for her arms, pinned above her head, were caughtin the folds of the thing that swathed her, and she could not use themto support herself. Her one thought, her only thought was to keep hersenses; her one instinct to maintain her grip on the long sharp knifewhich had lain under her pillow; and which had become more valuable toher than the wealth of the world. The hand that had rested on it inher sleep had tightened on it in the moment of surprise. She had it,she felt it, her fingers, even while she groaned in pain, stiffenedabout its haft.

  It was useless to struggle, but by a movement she managed at last torelieve the pressure on her side. The blood ceased to run sotumultuously to her head. And by-and-by, under the mufflings, shefreed her hands, and by holding apart the edges of the stuff was ableto breathe more easily, and even to learn something of what washappening about her. Abreast of her horse moved another horse, and oneither side of the two ran and trotted a score of pattering nakedfeet, feet of the unkempt filthy Crocans from the hill-town, or of themore desperate spirits in the camp--feet of men from whom no ruth ormercy was to be expected.

  Were they clear of the camp? Yes, for to one side the water of thestream glimmered between the pattering feet. As she made the discoverythe other horse sidled against the one that bore her, and all butcrushed her head and shoulders between their bodies. She only savedherself by lifting herself convulsively; on which the man who held herthrust her down brutally with an oath as savage as the action. Sheuttered a moan of pain, but it was wrung from her against her will.She would have suffered twice as much and gladly to learn what sheknew now.

  The horse beside her also carried double; and the after rider was aprisoner, a man with his hands bound behind him, and his feet ropedunder the horse's body. A prisoner? If so it could be no other thandes Ageaux. As she swung, painfully, to the movement of the horseacross whose withers she lay, her pendant hands lacked little oftouching, under cover of the stuff, his bound wrists.

  Little? Nay, nothing. For suddenly the footmen, for a reason which shedid not immediately divine, fell away leftwards, and the horse thatbore the other prisoner strove to turn with them. Being spurred itsidled once more against hers, and though she raised herself, her headrubbed the rider's leg. The man noticed it, patted her head, and madea jest upon it. "She wants to come to me," he said. "My burden foryours, Matthias!"

  "Wait until we are through the ford and I'll talk," her captoranswered. "What will you offer for her? But it is so cursed darkhere"--with an oath--"I can see nothing! We had better have crossedwith them at the stepping-stones and led over." As he spoke he turnedhis horse to the ford.

  She knew then that the footmen had crossed by the stepping-stones, ahundred yards short of the ford. And she felt that Heaven itself hadgiven her, weak as she was, this one opportunity. As the men urgedtheir horses warily into the stream she stretched herself out stiffly,and gripping the bound hands that hung within her reach, she cutrecklessly, heeding little whether she cut to the bone if she couldonly cut the cords. The man who held her felt her body writhing underhis hand; for she knew that any instant the other horse might move outof reach. But he was thinking most of his steed's footing, he had nofear that she could wrest herself from him, and he contented himselffor the moment with a curse and a threat.

  "Burn the wench," he cried, "she won't be still!"

  "Don't let her go!" the other answered.

  "No fear! And when we have her on the hill she shall pay for this!When----"

  It was his last word. The keen long knife had passed from her hands todes Ageaux', from her weak fingers to his practised grip. As the manwho held her paused to peer before him--for the ford, shadowed byspreading trees, was dark as pitch--des Ageaux drove the pointstraight and sure into the throat above the collar-bone. The actionwas so sudden, so unexpected, that the man he struck had no time tocry out, but with a low gurgling moan fell forward on his burden.

  His comrade who rode before the Lieutenant knew little more. Before hecould turn, almost before he could give the alarm, the weapon wasdriven in between his shoulders, and the Lieutenant, availing himselfof the purchase which his bound feet gave him, hurled him over thehorse's head. Unfortunately the man had time to utter one shriek, andthe cry with the splash, and the plunging of the terrified horse, borethe alarm to his comrades on the bank.

  "What is it? What is the matter?" a voice asked. And a score of feetcould be heard pounding hurriedly along the bank.

  The Lieutenant had one moment only in which to make his choice. If heremained on the horse, which he could not restrain, for the reins hadfallen, he might escape, but the girl must perish. He did nothesitate. As the frightened horse reared he cut his feet loose, andslid from it. He made one clutch at the floating reins but missedthem. Before he could make a second the terrified animal was on thebank.

  There remained the girl's horse. But Bonne, drenched by the dyingman's blood, had flung herself off--somehow, anyhow, in irrepressiblehorror. As des Ageaux turned she rose, dripping and panting besidehim, her nerve quite gone. "Oh, oh!" she cried. "Save me! Save me!"and she clung to him.

  Alas, while she clung to him her horse floundered out of the stream,and trotted after its fellow.

  The pursuers were no more than thirty yards away, and but for the deepshadow which lay on the ford must have seen them. The Lieutenant hadno time to think. He caught the girl up, and as quickly as he could hewaded with her to the bank from which they had entered the water. Onceon dry land he set her on her feet, seized her wrist and gripped itfirmly.

  "Courage!" he said. "We must run! Run for your life, and if we canreach the wind-mill we may escape!"

  He spoke harshly, but his words had the effect he intended. Shestraightened herself, caught up her wet skirt and set off with himacross the road and up the bare hill-side. He knew that not far abovethem stood a wind-mill with a narrow doorway in which one man mightmake some defence against numbers. The chance was slight, the hopedesperate; but he could see no other. Already the pursuers weresplashing through the ford and scattering on the trail, some runningup the stream, some down, some stooping cunningly to listen. To remainbeside the water was to be hunted as otters are hunted.

  His plan answered well at first. For a few precious instants theirline of retreat escaped detection. They even increased their start,and had put fifty or sixty yards of slippery hill-side betweenthemselves and danger before a man of sharper ears than his fellowscaught the sound of a stone rolling down the slope, and drew the hueand cry in the right direction. By that time the dark form of thewind-mill was faintly visible sixty or eighty yards above thefugitives. And the race was not ill set.

  But Bonne's skirt hung heavy, her knees shook; and nearer and nearershe heard the pursuers' feet. She could do no more! She must fall, herlungs were bursting! But des Ageaux dragged her on ruthlessly, and on;and now the wind-mill was not ten paces before them.

  "In!" he cried. "In!" And loosing her hand, he turned, quick as ahare, the knife gleaming in his hand.

  But the nearest man--the Lieutenant's ear had told him that only onewas quite near--saw the action and the knife, and as quickl
y sheeredoff, to wait for his companions. The Lieutenant turned again, and inhalf a dozen bounds was through the low narrow doorway and in the milltower.

  He had no sword, he had only the knife, still reeking. But he made nocomplaint. Instead, "There were sheep penned here yesterday," hepanted. "There are some bars somewhere. Grope for them and find them."

  "Yes!" she said. And she groped bravely in the darkness, though herbreath came in sobs. She found the bars. Before the half-dozen men wholed the chase had squeezed their courage to the attacking point, thebars that meant so much to the fugitives were in their places. Thendes Ageaux bade her keep on one side, while he crouched with his knifebeside the opening.

  The men outside were chattering and scolding furiously. At length theyscattered, and instead of charging the doorway, fired a couple ofshots into it and held off, waiting for reinforcements. "Courage, wehave a fair chance now," the Lieutenant muttered. And then in adifferent tone, "Thanks to you! Thanks to you!" with deep emotion."Never woman did braver thing!"

  "Then do you one thing for me!" she answered, her voice shaking."Promise that I shall not fall into their hands! Promise, sir,promise," she continued hysterically, "that you will kill me yourself!I have given you my knife. I have given you all I had. If you will notpromise you must give it back to me."

  "God forbid!" he said. And then, "Dear Lord, am I mad? Who was it Ipicked up at the ford? Am I mad or dreaming? You are not theCountess?"

  "I took her place," she panted. "I am Bonne de Villeneuve." The placewas so dark that neither could see the other's face, nor so much asthe outline of the figure.

  "I might have known it," he cried impulsively. And even in that momentof danger, of discomfort, of uncertainty, the girl's heart swelled atthe inference she drew from his words. "I might have known it!" herepeated with emotion. "No other woman would have done it, sweet,would have done it' But how--I am as far from understanding asever--how come you to be here? And not the Countess?"

  "I took her place," Bonne repeated--the truth must out now. "She isvery young and it was hurting her. She was ill."

  "You took her place? To-night?"

  "This is--the third night."

  "And I"--in a tone of wonder that a second time brought the blood toher cheeks--"I never discovered you! You rode beside me all thosenights--all those nights and I never knew you! Is it possible?"

  She did not answer.

  He was silent a moment. Then, "By Heaven, it was well for me that youdid!" he murmured. "Very well! Very well! Without you where should Ibe now?" His eyes strove to pierce the darkness in which she crouchedon the farther side of the opening, scarce out of reach of his hand."Where should I be now? A handsome situation," he continued bitterly,"for the Governor of Perigord to be seized and hurried to a dog'sdeath by a band of brigands! And to be rescued by a woman!"

  "Is it so dreadful to you," she murmured, "to owe your life to awoman?"

  "Is it so dreadful to me," he repeated in an altered tone, "to owe mylife to you, do you mean? I am willing to owe all to you. You are theonly woman----"

  But there, even as her heart began to flutter, he stopped. He stoppedand she fell to earth. "They are coming!" he muttered. "Keep yourselfclose! For God's sake, keep yourself close!"

  "And you too!" she cried impulsively. "Your life is mine."

  He did not answer: perhaps he did not hear. The Crocans who had spentsome minutes in consultation had brought a beam up the hill. They wereabout to drive it against the stout wooden bars, of which they musthave guessed the presence, since they could not see them. The plan wasnot unwise; and as they fell into a ragged line on either side of theram, while three skirmished forward, with a view to leaping into theopening before the defenders could recover from the shock, theLieutenant's heart sank. The form of attack was less simple than hehad hoped. He had exulted too soon.

  Whether Bonne knew this or not, she acted as if she knew it. As theleader of the assault shouted to his men to be ready, and the menlifted the beam hip high, she flitted across the opening, and desAgeaux felt her fingers close upon his arm.

  He did not misunderstand her: he knew that she meant only to remindhim of his promise. But at the touch a wave of feeling, as unexpectedas it was irresistible, filled the breast of the case-hardenedsoldier; who, something cold by nature, had hitherto found in hiscareer all that he craved. At that touch the admiration and interestwhich had been working within him since his talk with Bonne in the oldgarden at Villeneuve blossomed into a feeling infinitely more tender,infinitely stronger--into a love that craved return. The girl who hadsaved him, who had proved herself so brave, so true, so gentle, what awife would she be! What a mother of brave and loyal and gentlechildren, meet sons and daughters of a loyal sire! And even as hethought that thought and was conscious of the love that pervaded hisbeing, he felt her shiver against him, and before he knew it his armwas round her, he was clasping her to him, giving her assurance thatuntil the end--until the end he would not let her go! He would neverlet her go.

  And the end was not yet. For his lips in that moment which he thoughtmight be their last found hers in the darkness, and she knew secondsof a great joy that seemed to her long as hours as she crouchedagainst him unresisting; while the last orders of the men who soughttheir lives found strange echo in his words of love.

  Crash! The splinters flew to right and left, the two upper bars weregone, dully the beam struck the back of the mill. But he had drawn herbehind him, and was waiting with the tight-grasped knife for the manbold enough to leap through the opening. Woe betide the first, thoughhe must keep his second blow for her. After that--if he had to strikeher--there would be one moment of joy, while he fought them.

  But the stormers, poor-hearted, deemed the breach insufficient. Theydrew back the beam, intending to break the lowest bar, which stillheld place. Once more they cried, "One! Two!" But not "Three!" Inplace of the word a yell of pain rang loud, down crashed thebattering-ram, and high rose--as all fled headlong--a clamour ofshrieks and curses. A moment and the thunder of hoofs followed, andmail-clad men, riding recklessly along the steep hill-side, fell onthe poor naked creatures, and driving them pell-mell before them amidstern cries of vengeance, cut and hacked them without mercy.

  Trembling violently, Bonne clung to her lover. "Oh, what is it? Whatis it?" she cried. "What is it?" Her spirits could endure no more.

  "Safety!" he replied, the harder nature of the man asserting itself."Safety, sweetheart! Hold up your head, brave! What, swooning now whenall is well!"

  Ay, swooning now. The word safety sufficed. She fell against him, herhead dropped back.

  As soon as he was assured of it, he lifted her in his arms with a newfeeling of ownership. And climbing, not without difficulty, over thebar that remained, he emerged into something that, in comparison ofthe darkness within the mill, was light--for the day was coming.Before the door two horsemen, still in their saddles, awaited him. Onewas tall, the other stout and much shorter.

  "Is that you, Roger?" he asked. It was not light enough to discernfaces.

  The shorter figure to which he addressed himself did not answer. Theother, advancing a pace and reining up, spoke.

  "No," he said, in a tone that at once veiled and exposed his triumph,"I am the Captain of Vlaye. And you are my prisoner."