Chapter III: Part 3

"Go to thy chamber, girl!" commanded de Mereac of his daughter sternly, "and seek repentance of thy waywardness and sin in prayer; it may be that if thy heart still remaineth obdurate, a convent cell shall be made to cure it."

"Nay," interrupted de Coray with a smile; "methinks 'twere wiser, mon oncle, to give to me the sweet task. When I have the felicity to call mademoiselle my wife, be assured that I shall take good care to teach her how much foolishness there is in such acts which leave even the shadow of reproach upon so fair a fame."

He looked for a tempest of anger or scorn doubtless from the girl beside him; but this time he was mistaken. White to the lips, Gwennola curtsied silently to her father, and without so much as a glance towards de Coray, walked with head erect and proud step down the long hall and up the narrow winding stairway which led to her own apartment. But coldness and pride vanished as, in a tempest of tears, she flung herself into Marie's arms.

"Would I were dead," she sobbed passionately. "Oh, Marie, Marie, such cruel words my father flung at me, and he scorned me, Marie--me, his little Gwennola, till I thought my very heart would break; and oh! the bitterness of it when that foul traitor, my kinsman, stood near, pouring forth his venomous lies into my father's open ears; and he believed him, Marie. Ah! the shame of it, he believed him rather than trusting the fair honour of his daughter."

"Ah, mademoiselle," cried Marie, whose rosy face was pale also with fear, and whose eyelids were swollen with the tears of sympathy she had already shed for her young mistress, "how terrible a mischance is here! But, mademoiselle, 'tis, I warrant me, much the doing of that evil imp, Pierre the fool, for Job hath been telling me what chanced whilst we were out yonder plucking daisies and dreaming little of the ill in store for us."

"Pierre the fool?" echoed Gwennola, drying her tears and looking at her handmaiden in surprise. "Nay, what hath the saucy varlet to do in the brewing of such pickle?"

"He loveth well Monsieur de Coray," said Marie, nodding her head wisely, "and hath as little liking for thee, sweet lady, as he hath for aught that is good and true and unlike his own crooked person and soul; and so it chanced that last night, instead of sleeping beside Reine and Gloire, as any well-ordered Christian fool should have done, he poked and pryed into what concerned him not, and, creeping softly in the darkness down the chapel steps, because, forsooth! he thought to hear voices, he cometh so suddenly upon Father Ambrose--who, for some purpose of which the saints alone wot, was waiting there near the chapel door--that the poor priest fell backwards in his alarm down the two steps that remained, and so cracked his head that he hath lain unconscious ever since, and cannot be questioned, which perchance is well for him, as it may be that my lord's anger against him will have time to cool, as he suspects him of aiding you also, dear lady, seeing that the mischievous Pierre, not content with well-nigh killing the good father, goeth into the chapel, where, failing to find aught to account for voices, he further pryeth till it seemeth he picked up your kerchief on the very steps of the altar, and this with his lying tale he carries to his master at dawn, whereupon Monsieur de Coray laid his accusations upon you for the escape of the French monsieur."

"Nay," said Gwennola quietly. "That were a tale I must needs have told, were it but for the saving of the poor Father Ambrose, of whose sorry plight I grieve to hear. Fain would I to his side, Marie, but that even is forbidden me, for here must I bide a prisoner, whilst, alas! alas! it may be that even now they discover the hiding-place of--of----" She checked herself, meeting Marie's curious eyes. "Nay, wench," she said sharply, "heed not my foolish words; and yet, oh, Marie, Marie! my heart breaks with fears and sorrow. Was ever maid so unhappy as thy poor mistress?"

"Nay, dear lady," said the girl affectionately, laying her hand softly on her mistress's. "Courage! it may yet be that all will be well. See, we will pray to our Blessed Lady, whose protection and aid will most surely be vouchsafed to the persecuted and innocent."

But in her distress and excitement even prayer proved small solace to the impatient spirit of the unhappy maiden. To and fro she paced with all the restless agony of a newly caged, wild creature, now weeping, now crying to Marie to aid her, though in what she neither said nor seemed to know. But presently the paroxysm of her passion passed, and after kneeling for a lengthy space before the carved figure of her patron saint, she rose and smiled more calmly into Marie's anxious face.

"I was distraught," she said simply, "methinks with very weariness as well as grief. Now go, Marie, leave me to compose myself in sleep; last night I rested little and my eyes are heavy for need of slumber. Go then, little one, and glean for me what news thou canst anent the return of my father; 'twill be a fruitless quest, I wot well, on which they ride, seeing that the holy saints have him I love in their keeping."

Her foster-sister, with wide eyes of wonder, not unmingled with dismay, echoed her last words.

Gwennola smiled, and though her colour rose, she replied quietly--

"Nay, Marie, thou art over-bold, wench, and yet, ah! there is none other to whom I may confess it, and by the love we bear each other, my Marie, well I know my secret is safe with thee. Yes," she added softly, whilst a glad light stole into her tired eyes; "yes, it is true, my Marie, I love him, this noble Frenchman, who is a true and noble knight, neither traitor nor murderer, but my faithful servant and lover."

"But," stammered Marie, forgetful of aught in her sheer amazement, "he is a Frenchman, mademoiselle! an enemy! one who would take away liberty from us of Brittany and bend our necks in the yoke of servitude."

"Tush, little foolish one!" replied her mistress severely. "Thou pratest of that of which thou knowest naught. Indeed," she added, with an air of knowledge which sat quaintly on her childish head, "the love of Breton maid to French knight may well be, since men say our Duchess herself would fain have given her heart to the Prince of Orleans, had he not been already wed."

"Nay," murmured Marie, abashed, yet persistent, "but Madame the Duchess is the bride of the noble King of the Romans."

"That goeth not to say that she loveth him," retorted Gwennola wisely; "indeed, poor Duchess! how can she, seeing she hath never seen him? And ill is it to wed without love, be a maid queen or peasant wench; and verily I will have none of it on such terms, though my father command me to take the veil in choice. Ah, Marie!" she cried, stretching out her hands towards the hesitating girl, "thou wilt help me, wilt thou not? For I love him, this poor, persecuted knight, Frenchman though he be--ay, and shall love him and none other for all time: and love is sweet, my Marie, though as yet mayhap thou hast not tasted of its sweetness; but when it cometh----"

"Nay," retorted Marie tossing her head, "small love have I for any man, save only for my father and brother Job, for well I wot, as my mother hath oft told me, that they are but poor creatures at best, and little worth the tears and pains they put us foolish women to. Yet, sweet mistress," she added, laying her hand affectionately on Gwennola's, "I would aid _you_ with my very life, ay, though my lord verily putteth me to the torture for so doing."

"Nay," murmured Gwennola, turning pale, "that my father would never do, as well thou knowest, foolish one."

"As for that," replied Marie with a shrug of her buxom shoulders, "I know little of the kind, for my lord is a terrible man in passion, and for the torture--did not my Lord of Quimperel so do to death one of his wife's maidens who refused to confess her mistress's secrets?"

"Nay," sighed Gwennola with a shudder, "my Lord of Quimperel is a man of bloodthirsty moods and evil repute, ever loving to inflict pain; but my father, changed though he be to his little Gwennola, by the poisoned tongue of lies, would never so forget his honour."

"Be that as it may, sweet mistress," replied Mane, smiling, "I am yours, to do your will, even to the death; command me then, and blithely will I obey!"

"I must e'en think," murmured Gwennola, pressing her hand to her forehead, "for well I can guess that at least my kinsman will leave no unguarded door of escape from his watchful eye. Yet methinks we may outwit even him, my Marie, with caution and daring, if so be that my father's search to-day is fruitless."

"Then monsieur lies yonder?" inquired Marie, eager, now that her scruples and surprise were overcome, to assist in this unexpected romance.

"Hush!" whispered her mistress with raised finger. "Better it were not to speak on such matters, seeing that even walls have ears; but hie thee, Marie, below, and see what news thou canst bring me of how matters go."

Those were days when the romance of love indeed reigned paramount in every woman's heart, from the lady who, from her casement, smiled down at her knight riding by with her favour in his helmet, to the serving wench who watched her swain go from her to the wars with a tear in her eye and a choking pride in her throat at sight of his gallant bearing and the bunch of bright ribbons she had herself pinned to his breast. And, alone now in her chamber, Gwennola was dreaming tenderly of the romance which had been borne so swiftly and unexpectedly into the grey gloom of her young life, flushing it with all the rosy dawn of love and beauty. She told herself, as her heart throbbed gladly to her thoughts, that she had loved him from the moment she had seen him lying all unconscious in the forest. And what wonder, seeing how empty of such dreams her heart had been before?--and yet how hungry for them, with the hunger for such romance as is dear to seventeen summers in any century! And she had found him, her knight, noble, handsome, surrounded with the glamour of strange and thrilling circumstances, chivalrous and devoted. Ah! it could not be that a foul lie and a hempen rope of shame should, rudely terminate so sweet an idyll? Her heart seemed to beat to suffocation as she strove against the thought, listening with anxious ears for the return of Marie.

How long the time seemed, and yet all too short, ere she heard the swift sound of returning feet! Was it possible that even now the news would be that all was over, and that guile had triumphed bloodily over innocence and truth?

"Mother of Help," she moaned, sinking once more on her knees before the little shrine--"Mother of Help, save him!"

"Nay, lady," whispered Marie's voice behind her. "Have no fear, I have no news but what is good to hear, although I fear me that my lord and Monsieur de Coray have returned in no holy frame of mind from their bootless search, and resignation to failure sits not placidly on either brow. I had speech with Jobik, poor fool! who, it seems, would fain have been cursing yon poor French monsieur for killing his young master, and perchance might have spoken evil words of you, had I not twitted him for a moon-faced oaf and told him all the truth."

"Mother of Mercies, I thank thee!" cried Gwennola softly, as she bowed her head in thanksgiving. Then, raising a radiant face to Marie, "Now," she cried softly, "cometh the time for brave hearts and wise heads, my Marie, for we must e'en find some mode of taking to monsieur both food and drink, for starvation were little better than the rope, though perchance more honourable."

"Nay, mademoiselle," said Marie earnestly; "you must leave such work to Jobik or to me. Tell me but where the noble knight lies, and, I warrant me, he shall not die of starvation."

But Gwennola shook her head, laughing and blushing as she replied--

"Nay, Marie, be not too ready with thy offers, for, alas! what would the poor Job say"--she dropped her voice to a whisper--"did I bid him go by moonlight to the Chapel of the Brown Friar?"

"Merciful saints!" gasped Marie, paling as she crossed herself. "Nay, lady, you do but jest; it is not possible that a noble knight could find so fearful a resting-place?"

"I say nothing," smiled Gwennola, "because, little curious one, it is better for thee not to be too wise; but verily it is truth that I must to the forest, this night, alone, to take food and wine to this gallant knight."

Marie hesitated; the thought of her young mistress going alone into the dark and lonely forest was terrible, but honest and steadfast as was the girl's devotion, she would a hundred-fold rather have faced death itself than the grim spectre of the haunted chapel.

"I beseech you, sweet mistress," she murmured through rising tears--"nay, I implore you--it is not possible that you, Mademoiselle de Mereac, should go alone, at midnight, through yon forest, for the sake of--the sake of----"

"One whom I love," whispered Gwennola, half shyly, half defiantly. "Nay, maiden, chide me not; the name of Gwennola de Mereac shall lose none of its honour by so daring; and for cruel tongues, see you, my Marie, there will be none. Fie on thee, child! dost not know yet, or hast listened to minstrel lays in vain, that love hath no fear so long as it reigns in purity and virtue?--and therefore such love shall be my amulet, did the Brown Friar himself strive against me."

Again Marie crossed herself, with pale cheeks and frightened eyes, yet silenced by her mistress's glance more than her words, for well she knew by the compression of those small, rosy lips, and the sparkle in those bright eyes, that there was no resisting the proud young will.

"An this be love," murmured the handmaiden as she turned aside, "may the holy St Catherine protect me from such spells! for verily my lady is distraught with it to dream of so mad an enterprise. The saints preserve us from the wrath of my lord should some evil chance reveal it!"

*CHAPTER VII*

Softly the moonlight stole through the interlacing branches of the trees, like white-robed fairies who come earthward to kiss the sleeping flowers into fresh beauty for the morrow's sun. Darkly against the silver sheen stood out the rugged, ivy-grown walls of the forest chapel. It was a spot sufficiently romantic for the youngest and tenderest of lovers, and yet not without its thrill of that gloom and foreboding which seems to haunt the land of Brittany, where such stern shadows seem indissolubly mingled with the wild beauties of poetry and romance.

But, for the moment at least, shadows had fled into the darkness of the surrounding forest, and romance reigned clear and beautiful as the Queen of Heaven, who shed her silver beams down so softly on the two lovers sitting there amongst the ruins which superstition had clad with such terror and awe.

It was the third night that Gwennola had successfully stolen out from her father's chateau, leaving two faithful hearts to beat in anxious fear for her safety until her return. So little dreamt any of such an undertaking, that the task had been less difficult than she had supposed, and so, night after night Job had watched with gloomy fear the dark, hooded figure slip past him and vanish like some grim shadow into the grimmer blackness of the forest, and there, divided betwixt love and the overpowering fear of superstition, he had been fain to watch for her return, whilst the moments dragged by leaden-footed, till more than once love overcame fear, and he started from his post in search of his young mistress, only to come to a halt midway down the terrace path, whilst the beads of perspiration stood thickly on his brow as he muttered aves and paters, and finally with a groan of terror fled back to his place as he recalled the dread vision which had already looked at him, hollow-eyed and beseeching, from amongst the trees, till his knees knocked together in a perfect frenzy of terror.

But no such fears now troubled Gwennola, for love had bidden such phantom terrors a mocking adieu. Yes, they were lovers now, not bowing and curtsying to each other, with eyes more bold and eloquent than the stiff phrases of their tongues; there was no more speech of gratitude or duty, or the many foolish subterfuges by which love must first hide himself, but instead all the glamour and passion of first love, which exaggerates itself and its dreams of sentiment and finds in itself so sweet a delirium that it forgets all else and mocks gaily at staid middle age, which shakes its head so wisely at such quaint fantasies and preaches truisms against its tender madness which are listened to with deaf ears; for youth must have its way and dream its dreams of love and fair ideals, which clothe it in all its springtide of beauty, little recking of the winter that must perchance disperse all, or sober them down to greyer tints.

"Ah, sweet," whispered d'Estrailles as he bent down to look into the blue eyes raised so happily to his; "what shall I say to prove to thee the devotion with which thou hast inspired me, or thank thee for the tender heroism which brings thee thus to me through such perils?"

"Nay," she replied gaily, "speak not of thanks, my Henri, but rather of our love. What fear have I, my beloved, save for thy safety? Ah," she cried, clasping her hands with a sudden gesture of pain, "every time my father rides forth my heart beats with terror for fear that by some unlucky chance he should discover thy hiding-place, for his heart is still bitter against thee, my Henri, for de Coray still distilleth his poisoned words into his ears; neither will he so much as look on me, his daughter; whilst for the poor Father Ambrose, he hath sworn to send him back to his monastery in disgrace so soon as his sickness is healed."

"Nay, weep not, little one," said d'Estrailles gently, as he drew her into his embrace, "but let us rather dream of the days when all this suffering and wrong be past, and when thou, sweet Gwennola, art my wife, and ridest with me to our chateau on the gay Loire, where I will give thee sunshine and mirth, beauty and laughter instead of these dreary forests and grey gloom, which seem fitting surroundings for traitor hearts and sad forebodings."

"Nay," she said with a sigh, "it is of my Brittany thou speakest, dear heart, and I would not that thou shouldst find it so ill a place, for I love it dearly, ay, so dearly!" she whispered, clinging to him, "though perchance in time thy chateau of sunshine shall be more dear, my Henri, because of thy presence; but I would have thee also to love in some measure the Chateau of Mereac, and in time, it may be, my father, who is good--ah! so good, so noble, so brave!--although now it would seem his ears are closed and his eyes blinded by a treacherous foe."

"Nay," said her lover tenderly, "I was wrong, sweet, to speak of gloom where I found such sunshine as hath before never lighted the fairest spot of fair Touraine. See then, it shall be that which thou lovest, I love, and what thou hatest----"

He broke off to turn swiftly in the direction of the forest, his hand on his sword, as though he had caught a sound other than the constant murmur of cries from bird and beast which arose in plaintive cadences around.

"What is it?" breathed Gwennola, with a little gasp of fear, as she bent forward to gaze in the same direction as that in which his eyes were still turned.

"Methinks 'twas but a fancy," he replied softly; "and yet--see, sweet, what is that which moves yonder? Nay, 'tis naught, but some animal, or----"

But Gwennola's face had grown white with terror, as with horror-stricken eyes she gazed across the open space towards where, in a bright patch of moonlight, sat a small, wizened creature perched on its haunches, the very impersonation of some imp of darkness, which, after pausing one brief instant to mouth at them in seeming mockery, fled nimbly back into the forest with a shrill cry.

"Bah," murmured d'Estrailles, devoutly crossing himself, "'tis verily a spirit of evil, little one, that fled at the glance of thy sweet eyes."

"Nay, rather," faltered Gwennola tremulously, "'twas the ape of Pierre the fool, and verily the spirit of evil was doubtless lurking unseen in the shadows behind," and in a few brief words she told her lover of Marie's tale and the devotion of the fool to Guillaume de Coray.

"Fly, Henri, fly!" she pleaded. "Surely there is yet time; thy wound heals well, and methinks even at some pain 'twere better to fly before discovery overtakes us. Alas, alas, how evil grows our case when it seemed to promise so fairly!"

"Nay," laughed d'Estrailles undauntedly, "'twere better first to strive to teach fools their foolishness," and without awaiting her reply he plunged into the forest, only to emerge some moments later crestfallen and indignant. "Truly the knave is in league with de Coray's own master," he said with a grimace of discomfiture. "Not a trace of him is to be seen. But come, sweet, wear not so troubled a brow; methinks the danger is as little pressing as heretofore, seeing that none know of yon snug chamber, where I may well mock their vigilance for many days."

"Nay, Henri," entreated Gwennola, as she clung afresh to him. "Go, I beseech thee, whilst there is yet time. Oh, what agony shall I endure till thou art in safety!"

But for all her pleading he refused to be turned from his purpose of lingering another day, yet less, perchance, from selfish motives as from fear of what might befall her did the fool's tale move her father's anger more mightily upon her.

"To-morrow eve," he cried, laughing at her fears, as he held her two white hands in his, and kissed her on her quivering lips. "Courage, little one, 'tis but a terror that will pass with the dawn, and if thou fearest the malice of this crooked fool, why, smile upon him with thy sweet eyes, and thou must needs make him thy slave for ever."

So, perforce, seeing he was a man and wilful, she was fain to yield, though her blue eyes still looked into his with wistful foreboding as she entreated him to be careful, and remain in the safe shelter of his hiding-place. So back through the forest they went together till they caught sight of Job Alloadec's broad figure standing stiff and straight by the outer postern of the wall, when they bade each other once more a tender adieu.

"Farewell, little one," whispered d'Estrailles, the more gaily as he felt his cheek wet with a stray teardrop which had fallen from her soft lashes. "Fear not yon impish fool, who dared thus insolently to look within the gates of Paradise; seal his tongue with sweet looks, and perchance a silver piece, and to-morrow----"

"Ah, to-morrow," she sighed. "Alas! to-morrow."

"Ay, alas indeed," he murmured, "since I must needs, it seems, bid farewell to my sweet lady, and yet not farewell, but only au revoir, dear love, for if thy father relents not, nor opens his eyes to treachery and falsehood, I shall very speedily return to steal thee away, since till thy coming there will be no sunshine in the Chateau d'Estrailles, and the hours will go slowly for the very weariness of the waiting."

She smiled sadly back into his face.

"Ah, my Henri," she murmured, "what lies between those days and these? Verily my heart groweth heavy in wondering whether they will ever be."

"Nay," he cried boldly, with all a man's insistence and scorn of danger's shadows, "they must needs be, sweet one, since love demands it."

"Our Lady grant it," said she, and passed on her way towards the gloomy chateau, leaving him to ponder on what lay so dimly and mysteriously before them on the path of life; for verily it seemed that the course of true love was little likely to run smoothly for Breton maid and French noble in those days of bitter enmity and danger.

*CHAPTER VIII*

The next day was at last drawing to a close. All through the long hours Gwennola had sat waiting in torturing suspense for what news Marie might bring her. Still a prisoner in her chamber, she had seen none save her foster-sister and brother since the day of Henri d'Estrailles' mysterious disappearance. Had it not been for de Coray's insistent suggestions of ill, the Sieur de Mereac's heart would long since have softened towards his cherished daughter, and he would, perchance, after the fashion of love, have found some excuse for conduct which his inmost heart told him had some other motive than those maliciously suggested by de Coray's evil tongue; as it was, the latter so successfully kept the warmth of his anger stirred within him that he fiercely shunned any suggestion either of seeing or being reconciled to Gwennola, whilst upon Father Ambrose's innocent head were heaped the bitterest invectives of his fury.

But even the news of her father's unrelenting anger towards her failed to move Gwennola's heart. All thought, all feeling, was for the time being centred on her lover, after the manner of foolish and wayward maidens who, in the awakening of such passion, forget the love which has sheltered them from childhood; and in the case of Gwennola de Mereac such forgetfulness might in some measure be excused, seeing that love had been born with her twin-sister pity for a sick and innocent man, and such pity roused to the depths the finer fibres of her woman's heart. The instinctive feeling of protection towards one who was helpless had, even more than the vague, unnamed whisperings of love, steeled her to her purpose and inspired her courage in defiance of what she felt to be foul injustice to an innocent man. But now pity was forgotten--submerged, as it were, in her passionate love, for Gwennola was a true daughter of Brittany, strong to hate as to love, undaunted, brave with that powerful tenacity of purpose which seems inherent in these people whose whole lives are set, as it were, against the adverse forces of nature, which strive for the mastery of that grey, bleak shore. She had given her love to Henri d'Estrailles, and for that love's sake all ties were swept aside, save only those which upheld her own pure young soul and guarded the honour which must ever be more cherished even than love itself in a noble woman's heart. Yet honour itself seemed to call her now to act the part she had set herself, honour not only her own but her father's, who little knew the part that fate was striving to force upon him.

So it was with a clear conscience that Gwennola knelt in prayer before the little shrine of the Virgin Mother, asking help in her secret enterprise.

"And oh, Blessed Mother of Heaven," she cried with a sob, as she buried her face in her hands, "grant that all may be well, and that the saints may have him in their good keeping till we meet again." But even with the words her heart grew chill as she pondered how that meeting might be, and how, even did he escape present danger, they, whom circumstances had called to enmity rather than love, might hope to meet to plight their troth in happier days. Instead, there uprose before her eyes the mocking, cruel face of Guillaume de Coray, and when she turned with loathing from it, there seemed to meet her only the sunless gloom of grey, convent walls.

"At least," whispered hope and youth, "there is still to-night; once more his arms shall hold thee in his tender embrace, and thou shalt read fresh vows of love in those dark eyes which speak only of faith and constancy; surely it will be that love hereafter shall find another way in the darkness of the future."

So she comforted herself, and listened also to Marie's cheering words of confidence with a smile on her lips; but the smile faded as amongst the dark shadows of the trees gloomy forebodings gathered once more and pressed their weight of sad presentiment on her beating heart as she hurried along the narrow path.

How foolish it was to pause with a fresh throb of fear as from the thicket near the rustle of a scurrying rabbit startled her ear! And why should she tremble so violently when a great white owl almost swept her cheek with its soft wings as it vanished into the darkness with a low melancholy hoot? So overstrung indeed were the poor girl's nerves that she must have fled homewards in sheer terror of she knew not what, did not a stronger emotion impel her forward.

At last, however, the outskirts of the wood were reached; yonder through the trees she caught a glimpse of the grey, ivy-covered walls. How still all seemed! Even for the moment the distant cries of birds and beasts were hushed; the sound of her own footsteps alone broke the silence--a silence which had oppressed her ever since she had left the slumber-bound chateau. Her heart bounded as she hurried forward, looking, with eager eyes, to see the tall figure standing there with outstretched arms and welcoming whispers of love. It was strange that he had not heard her approach and hurried forth to greet her, as he had before, but still----

The wondering thought was suddenly checked as she stepped from the shadow of the trees into the moonlit space surrounding the forest chapel. All was as silent and untenanted as that first night when she and her lover had stood there glancing with half-scared looks towards the weird old ruin.

"Henri," she cried, and in the silence her voice seemed to ring shrill and clear, "Henri!"

A vague note of terror rang in the cry as she hurried with panting breath towards the ruin itself, telling herself that he might perchance have fallen asleep in his hiding-place. But no; no answer was returned to her cries; the chamber under the altar was empty and deserted. For a moment she stood there, paralyzed with fear, yet scarcely realizing what could have happened. It could not be that he was taken? She put the idea from her in agony. No, no, not that! How foolish she was!--how could he have been taken without the knowledge of Job or Marie? All day neither her father nor de Coray had left the castle, not even for their favourite hawking or boar hunting; no whisper of suspicion had been breathed in the hearing of either of her faithful servants; it had seemed, so Marie said, that all thought--if they thought at all--that the French knight had long since ridden away far beyond pursuit. Then a hundred eager suggestions filled her mind: he had gone to meet her as she came, and had missed his way; or perhaps, learning of some new danger, had been forced to fly without awaiting her coming. But a hurried search of the shed close by convinced her at least of the futility of this last idea, for Rollo still stood in his place, turning with a low whinny of inquiry to see if it was his master who had come with his evening meal.

"Alas! alas!" moaned Gwennola, fresh fears assailing her, as she turned once more towards the gloomy ruin, "what hath chanced? Oh, wherefore heeded he not my warning to fly yesternight? Ah, if----" She had stooped, with the last words on her lips, and, with the confirmation of her fears before her, raised from the ground a tiny cap decorated with one tiny bell--it was the cap of Petit Pierre, the fool's ape. "He is taken," whispered the girl to herself in a dull, unrealizing tone; "he is taken."

With dawning comprehension she gazed round with a shiver, picturing the scene which, like the vision of a crystal-gazer, began slowly but clearly to rise before her.

Here he had waited for her, unconscious of danger, with a smile on his lips and the love-light in his eyes, perchance in his folly humming the air of a ballad, as he had yesternight. Then through the trees treachery had stolen upon him, and where he had looked to see love, death himself had stalked grimly on the scene. She shuddered, covering her face with her hands, as if to shut out the sight of some terrible phantom. Yet for all that her restless brain conjured up before her unwilling eyes fresh scenes of terror; her father, stern, implacable, revengeful, as he remembered the fair-haired boy so cruelly done to death in that far-off wood of St Aubin, and beside him the true perpetrator of the deed, smiling, triumphant, full of cruel and evil suggestions and words, with the cunning, vacant face of Pierre the fool, gleeful at the part he had been doubtless paid to play, at his elbow; whilst the background was filled up with grim, curious faces, pitiless, for the most part, save where Job and Marie Alloadec stood fearful, and perchance weeping, yet not for his sake, but for hers. Alas! not one there to pity _him_, to look kindly on _him_; he was alone, surrounded by cruel enemies, with death standing in the shadows beside him--death, in all its hideous garb, without even the golden glamour of glory to hide its mocking features. A resolve to hasten back to the chateau and to stand beside the man she loved overcame the sense of faintness which at first threatened her, but even as she rose, with that aching pain of sorrow, too deep for tears, at her heart, a cold touch on her hand sent the blood throbbing back with a sudden frenzy of fear. The memory of the unrepentant friar who so grimly strolled around the earthly scene of his sins came vividly before her, and as she bent her eyes she fully expected to see them rest upon the shadowy cowl of the chapel's ghostly inhabitant. Instead it was the lean, grey form of the wolf-hound Gloire on which her eyes fell, meeting the beast's dumb, affectionate gaze with the thrill which sympathy in distress ever brings, even if that sympathy is but a dog's--perchance at times a truer and more helpful one than his human master's.

"Gloire," she whispered, bending down with a sudden impulse to kiss the shaggy, faithful head. "Ah, Gloire, how camest thou hither? Was it because thou knewest--wise beast!--that thy mistress was in sore need of a comforter, and alone in this terrible place, with a heart which, I fear me, must break ere dawn?"

The great animal whined as it licked her face, then suddenly drew back with a low, ominous growl as a rustle of branches near caught their ears. In an instant Gloire was transformed from the sympathizer into the outraged guardian, his grey hairs bristling, his teeth gleaming white from drawn-back gums, his whole aspect one of angry antagonism. But the quick footsteps, instead of coming up the path towards them, had turned aside, as if their owner were hastening towards the open heath beyond the forest. But Gloire was not minded to let even an unseen intruder go without his passport of approval, and, breaking loose from the gentle, restraining hand of his mistress, leapt forward, with an angry bay, in pursuit.

"Gloire, Gloire, come back!" cried Gwennola softly, in much alarm, as she hastened forward in the direction which the great hound had taken. "Shame on thee, Gloire! return instantly."

But Gloire was little minded to obey the gentle command, for he had already reached the open, and his quarry was in view.

It was a wild, picturesque scene, with a weird grimness in it which was to remain ever imprinted on Gwennola's memory. The clear moonlight shone over the vast tract of heath with the radiance of day, clumps of broom and gorse here and there casting black shadows in the white light. No sign of habitation was visible, naught seeming to flourish in this desolate region saving only briars and thistles. Here and there piles of stone, almost druidical in shape, lay scattered about, these, the people of the country affirming to be the houses of the Torrigans or Courils, wanton dwarfs, who at night bar your road, and force you to dance with them until you die of fatigue, whilst others declare that they are fairies, who, descending from the mountains, spinning, have brought away these rocks in their aprons. For the most part these shapeless monuments consisted of three or four standing stones with another laid flat on the top, and, seen by moonlight, presented a fantastic appearance, dotted as they were over the barren heath.

From the forest, where Gwennola stood, the ground stretched away in a sharp declivity, to rise again beyond, thus forming a small valley. It was down this valley that the figure of a man was seen flying, it would seem for very life, as indeed he was, though, perchance, scarcely yet aware of the fact, for behind him, swift upon his track, came Gloire, a gaunt, grey figure of doom, seen thus in the moonlight.

For a moment Gwennola stood uncertain, swiftly weighing in her mind what she had best do, but the man's peril decided her, and in imperious tones she called the hound to return. At the sound of her voice both man and dog paused, turning towards her for an instant, and with a throb of alarm the girl recognised in the clear moonlight the features of the man who had so suddenly sprung on to her path the day she returned through the forest from her visit to Mere Fanchonic.

It was not a face to be easily forgotten, with its red, stubbly beard, broad, flat nose, and bold, insolent eyes, and Gwennola, with an instinctive cry, had stepped back towards the shadow of the forest, when Gloire, with a sudden bay of fury, leapt forward, and, before he had time to spring aside or draw his sword, had borne the man backwards upon the ground, with his mighty fangs fixed firmly into his flesh.

Forgetful of herself at sight of the unexpected tragedy which was going forward before her eyes, Gwennola sped down the valley, crying frantically to Gloire to leave his unfortunate victim; but a very demon of rage seemed to have entered the great beast, and he continued furiously to rend his quarry, until, at Gwennola's approach, he crouched with a whine, which was half a growl, crept aside, and lay panting on the heath with gory jaws, and eyes which pleaded almost defiantly the excuse that he had done but his duty in defending her.

Meantime, with a shudder of horror, Gwennola knelt beside the mangled figure, even then her thoughts flying back in agony to that judgment hall at the Chateau de Mereac. But torn as she was with the desire to be beside the man she loved, her womanly pity forbade her to forsake the obviously dying wretch who lay panting out his life before her.

With her dainty kerchief she softly wiped away the froth of blood upon his lips, and hastily fetched water from a pool close by to bathe his brow, for it was evident that, dying as the unfortunate man was, he fought stubbornly to regain power of speech before he passed out into the land of silence and mystery.

It was a terrible sight to the poor girl, scarcely more than a child, to witness this death-struggle of a strong man, brought thus swiftly to his end, and the terror was enhanced by the eeriness of both time and place. But Gwennola was no nervous, timorous woman to start at her own shadow; born of a hardy, undaunted race, in rough and warlike times she did not shrink from the spectacle of death, grim and terrible as it was. The nervous fears of superstition, too, which had haunted her an hour ago, had passed with this awful reality of suffering.

Presently the man's gasping breath became calmer, and though the death sweat stood out thickly on his brow, he appeared to be capable of both thought and speech.

"Mademoiselle?" he gasped with an upward look of inquiry.

"De Mereac," she said gently, raising his head and resting it upon her knee, whilst she, wiped the sweat from his brow. "Is there aught you would tell me, poor fellow? or shall we not rather pray together for your soul, since here is no priest to shrive you?"

"My soul," muttered the man with a groan. "He had that long since--my soul," and he smiled mockingly into the fair face bent over him. "Nay," he continued with another groan; "'tis ill to jest in death's own face, though I have laughed in outwitting him many a time before, but yon devil hath brought me to bay at last, though I'll not go without my revenge."

He muttered the last words over several times, as if trying to recollect something, then continued to speak rapidly and pantingly, as one who, having raced, would fain deliver his message without delay; and, verily, it was a grim race he ran, with death swift on his heels to cut the tale short.

"Guillaume de Coray," he muttered, "he was my master, I, his slave, body and soul, mistress--body and soul. Ah! I could tell you stories, but there is not time, suffice to say that he was the tool--the thing--of the tailor of Vitre[#]--and I--well, no matter, the past is dead, but there is still revenge..... It was the battle of St Aubin--the son of de Mereac was there--his heir--my master was the next in succession..... He slew young Yvon, as he thought, in the wood there .... by treachery, and came to Mereac to be welcomed as the heir, and to marry the sister of the slain youth. Is it not so, mademoiselle? Ah! I read it in your eyes that the bridegroom was not to your pleasing, for your eyes are true and his .... Well, Guillaume de Coray rode to Mereac, but before he did so, it chanced that he had found that he had no more occasion for my services, therefore he had bidden another to hasten my departure to another land, from whence no tales return to inconvenience monsieur; but he who was so clever made a mistake..... The man was my friend..... He told me his mission..... We drank to each other's health and the confusion of our master. So it came to pass that when he fled from that wood at St Aubin with a murderer's fear in his heart, I sought the body of Yvon de Mereac. He was not dead .... nay, he was not dead. Merciful God! why then does he haunt me with those eyes? Nay .... was it not I who saved him, and tended him for months?--aye years?--for, for long the blow on his head had rendered him little better than a fool. Then, when understanding returned, he demanded many things...... Ah! but he was proud and impatient .... that youth .... perchance I pleased him not for a guardian..... He commanded to be set free .... he raved at times .... foolish one .... saying that I kept him prisoner to murder him .... I, who but bided my time till the fruit was ripe for the picking..... But he escaped from my safe shelter. I was angry .... I followed him quickly. What, mademoiselle, after these years was I to be robbed of my reward? Grand Dieu! not so, I arrived whilst he still wandered in the forest, so far still distraught that he had lost his way. I found him .... but ere I did so was myself seen by ill fate by my enemy, Guillaume de Coray. It became impossible that I should escape too hastily with my friend, therefore we concealed ourselves .... de Coray and his devil's imp seeking us all the time..... To-night"--the blood in his throat well-nigh choked him as he spoke--"to-night--we--we...."

[#] The nickname of Pierre Laudais, the hated and infamous minister of Francois II., Duke of Brittany. The angry nobles at last took justice into their own hands, and hanged the miscreant who had ruined their country.

He stared vaguely up at the moon--already the finger of death was resting on his shoulder.

"But my brother--Yvon--he lives? Oh, where--where is he?" cried Gwennola, whose emotions had scarcely been controlled during the gasping confession which seemed to foreshadow forth so grim a tragedy. "Speak!"

But already death had sealed those lips with his cold kiss, only with a convulsive effort the man raised his arm and pointed towards one of the heaps of piled stones which gleamed white in the moonlight halfway up the opposite slope. Then a spasm seized him, and he lay in the last dread struggle, with his black eyes fixed upwards in horror, as if around him he saw crowding the reproachful victims of a sinful life, gathering about to arraign him before the dread Judge Who awaited him beyond the veil.

Falling on her knees, Gwennola whispered a prayer into the dying ears, till, with one last gasping groan, the jaws relaxed, the dark eyes, still terror-haunted, became fixed, and a soul fled forth in shame and awe into the silence of eternity.

With a sob--the outcome of overwrought nerves--the young girl rose to her feet, and stood looking from the dead man at her feet towards the rude cairn which seemed to form so poor a clue to her search. And yet her heart beat rapidly as she thought of what that search might mean, and recalled that not only a brother's but a lover's life lay as a guerdon for success. Then with a low breathed prayer she hastened to turn and scramble up the slope towards the spot indicated by the dead man's finger.

*CHAPTER IX*

For a few minutes Gwennola's heart sank; in spite of a rapid but careful search, the possibility of a human presence anywhere in the neighbourhood of that rough pile of stones seemed impossible. But once again Gloire was to come to her assistance, and retrieve his lost character, which he seemed to feel instinctively had seriously suffered in the late encounter,--though why he should be reproached for thus ridding the world of one whom canine sagacity had recognised as a black-hearted villain, he could not altogether realize. Nevertheless, the sound of his mistress's reproving voice had damped poor Gloire's self-congratulations, and he had followed her with drooping tail and melancholy mien towards the reputed home of the mischievous dwarfs. Here, however, his spirit of inquiry was freshly aroused, and with a short yelp of excitement he proceeded to investigate a hole, partly concealed by gorse, partly by a slab of stone which had apparently slipped from the pile near.

Attracted by his excitement, Gwennola ran to his side, and, after some moments of desperate tugging and pulling, succeeded in rolling the stone aside.

Yes! the dead man's clue was a true one; the opening obviously led into one of those natural caves so often found in Brittany. Gloire, with cocked ears and wagging tail, stood by the side of the aperture, evidently only awaiting his mistress's bidding to continue his investigations. But Gwennola waved him back, and, bending low, looked down eagerly into the darkness.

"Yvon," she called softly, her voice trembling as she pronounced the long-unused name, "Yvon--brother--are you there?"

In the silence that followed she could hear only the panting of Gloire's breath close to her ear.

"Yvon," she cried again, "Yvon."

Then faint but clear came back the answer, in the voice of a man who answers as in a trance--

"Gwennola."

"Mother of Mercies, I thank thee!" cried the girl, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks, as without hesitation she scrambled quickly through the aperture. All was darkness within, although she gathered from the faint glimmer of moonlight at the cave's mouth that she was in a small subterranean chamber. In breathless suspense she called her brother's name again, and this time the reply came from somewhere close beside her, almost, it would seem, at her feet. But still the voice which spoke upwards through the darkness was that of a man who speaks as one who replies rather to some inward call than answering to his name from the lips of a fellow-creature.

"Where art thou, Yvon?" cried Gwennola, sinking on her knees and spreading forth her hands vaguely in the darkness. "Brother, brother, is it indeed thou?"

"Gwennola--my sister." This time the voice beside her rang with a sudden feeble exultation, as of one who, for the first time, realized that his name had verily been pronounced by a denizen of earth. "Gwennola, Gwennola! nay, it is impossible. Hence, mocking demon, and taunt me not in my last hours!"

But already, groping in the darkness, guided by the feeble voice, the girl had found the object of her search, and bent over the prostrate figure, weeping and laughing in a very paroxysm of joy.

"Yvon, Yvon!" she cried, as she clung to him, pressing her warm young lips to the damp brow. "Ah, my brother, whom for these past years we have mourned as dead, is it possible that thou livest? What mystery is here? what foul and terrible plot? But, what is this?--thou art bound and helpless? a prisoner! Oh, tell me, Yvon, tell me all! and yet no, we must not linger one instant in this terrible place, for already a still fouler wrong is being done to one altogether innocent."

"Nay," groaned Yvon de Mereac faintly, "in that thou speakest wisely, little sister, if it indeed be thou thyself, as these tears and kisses assure me, rather than one of the mocking fiends of delirium which ever haunt me, for truly the chief fiend himself will return anon, and then----"

Gwennola felt the shudder that ran through the gaunt frame, and the thought of Gloire's vengeance seemed to her less terrible than heretofore.

"He is dead!" she cried, divining swiftly of whom he spoke. "Gloire hath killed him but now, on the heath without; but ere he died methinks he repented of the ill he did thee, which the rather took the form of vengeance to another, even blacker-hearted than himself, than from hatred to thee."

"Dead?" echoed Yvon with a sob of sudden joy. "Francois Kerden dead? and thou here, little Gwennola, to save me? Nay! tell me not it is a dream, but rather free me from these bonds, and let me breathe once more the pure air of heaven."

"These bonds?" cried Gwennola in dismay, as her slender hands felt the tight thongs which bound the helpless man beside her. "Nay, but how shall I unloose them, Yvon? They are too strong for me to break, and, alas! I have no dagger."

Yvon groaned. "Can naught be done?" he sighed. "I faint for very longing of the cool night breezes; for days have I lain here, little sister, waiting for death, but he delayed; yon fiend suffered me not to die, though he kept me looking ever down into the abyss, and now----" His voice quivered, as with the feeble insistence of a child he repeated his plea to be liberated.

"Ay, verily," cried Gwennola joyfully, a sudden inspiration coming to her, "and so thou shalt, my Yvon; tarry but one instant, and I wot well I shall find what we seek."

"Ah, go not," cried her brother in despair, "lest thou return not, but instead that evil one with his cruel eyes and sharp dagger."

"Nay," laughed the girl, stooping once more to smooth and kiss the clammy brow, "'tis indeed his dagger which lieth yonder on the hillside that I go to seek. Peace, brother, have no fear; he will return no more to fright thee, and speedily shall thy cruel bonds be cut and we will return home."