Chapter V: Part 5

"Bah!" laughed de Mereac heartily, as he drew forward a chair and gently pushed the old priest into it. "Thou wert not to blame for that, my friend. Gwennola, I fear me, is her father's own daughter, and when she setteth her mind to a thing there is no rest till it is performed. But truly all was ordered for the best, and my little maid's judgment was not ill, though whether she defied her father from love of justice, or because she so hated the man whom in my folly I would have had her wed, I know not."

Father Ambrose's smile was somewhat whimsical, for from his window he had seen the two figures by the river side.

"Nay, old friend," he said gently, "perchance 'twas neither altogether justice nor hatred that made a heroine of romance of the child, but a stronger power than both, namely, love, which ever moveth a maid to strange deeds and fancies."

De Mereac stared across at the priest for a moment with knitted brow, then, as he divined his meaning, he frowned.

"A foolish whim," he retorted shortly, "and one that I trow well will fade fast enough when this Frenchman hath taken his departure, which, thanks be to Mary! he doth speedily. I would sooner the maid became a dismal nun, all prayers and melancholy, than the wife of a French robber."

"Truly to be a bride of Heaven is a happy and exalted vocation," said Father Ambrose reprovingly, "though," he added, with a twinkle in his keen old eyes, "methinks scarcely fitted for our Gwennola."

"Nay," replied de Mereac bluffly, "the maid hath too high a spirit and too warm blood to endure the cramping life of a convent cell. A noble maid, father, a noble maid, and one who shall be as nobly wed. I have thought of young Alain de Ploeernic or Count Maurice de la Ferriere, both worthy mates for the dove of Arteze, who, alas!" he added with a shrug of his shoulders, "was so nigh to falling a prey to yonder bloody hawk, whose neck I would fain wring ere the morrow's sun. False caitiff! Nay, father, speak not to me of forgiveness, when I remember yon lying tongue and think that I might have given my daughter's hand into the red one which had thought to slay my son."

"Peace, Gaspard," said the priest soothingly, as de Mereac leapt from his seat to stride wrathfully up and down the hall, "and rather than vengeance think of the mercies vouchsafed to thee in that thou hast son and daughter safely restored to thine arms."

"Restored!" cried de Mereac bitterly. "Nay, Ambrose, think of yon poor lad's face and drooping form, all haggard and terrible, and recall the morning when young Yvon rode forth so blithely across the bridge, calling back to me, as I lay, cursing my ill luck in being unable to move with rheumatic pains, that he would bring back our banner in triumph with fresh laurels twined around it."

"It may yet be that he will recover," said Father Ambrose gently. "But now, I left him sleeping peacefully; he is young, and life still runs swiftly in his veins; here at Mereac, with love and friends surrounding him, we may well hope to blot out those years which would altogether have crazed one less strong and courageous."

"My poor Yvon! my poor son!" moaned the father. "My curses on these, his all but murderers. Nay, father, reprove me not, for curse them I must and will; I grow verily weary of delay when I think of de Coray even now escaping my justice. Nay, father, your pardon, for whilst I thus rave I forget to ask after thy hurts. Thou art still pale and worn; methinks it were not well to rise so soon from thy couch."

"Nay," said the priest with a smile, "'twas but a cracked pate, which truly somewhat acheth still, but which I trow will soon mend. Better a pain in the head, my son, than one at the heart; therefore listen to thy old friend's advice, and pray rather for thine enemies' souls than for the destruction of their bodies."

"Nay, that will I not," retorted de Mereac sturdily, "for I would not rob the devil of such choice morsels.--How now, Job, what news dost thou bring? Where is thy prisoner?"

"Nay, my lord," faltered Job Alloadec, as he advanced, sweating and abashed, towards his irate master, "I fear me that he hath escaped, for, though we searched the forest from the chateau walls to Martigue itself, we could find no trace of the miscreant."

"Curses on him!" growled de Mereac. "But I know thy searchings, knave, with one eye shut and the other gazing upwards, as if thou expectest thy quarry to drop like a ripe nut from the boughs overhead. Why, the fellow must needs be within reach, since he had no steed to carry him."

"Nay, monsieur," replied the soldier with a perplexed stare at his master, "craving your pardon, methinks he found a steed awaiting him yonder in the forest, for when we rode to the ruined chapel" (Job involuntarily crossed himself) "to fetch hitherward Monsieur d'Estrailles' steed, which he told us was harboured close by, we found no trace of it, though we searched not only the shed but the ruins too."

"By the beard of St Efflam, the villain hath escaped!" growled de Mereac furiously, "the fiends verily having assisted him, for else, how knew he where to find the Frenchman's horse?"

Job scratched his head doubtfully. It was to him altogether an affair of Satanic agencies, and as he left his lord's presence with fresh orders to continue the search, however hopeless, he again crossed himself, little dreaming that he and his fellow-searchers had been more than once that day within a stone's throw not only of the Frenchman's horse, but of de Coray himself, sitting quietly within the sheltered hut of Pierre the fool.

It was a grief indeed to Henri d'Estrailles when he heard of the loss of his favourite horse--that the poor Rollo should be condemned to carry his master's would-be murderer out of reach of the hand of justice seemed a fate altogether unworthy of so gallant a beast, and one which filled d'Estrailles with so keen a sorrow as could not well be compensated by the generous gift of a splendid grey Arab from the Sieur de Mereac himself.

The old Breton noble bade his guest a characteristic adieu, bluff, hearty, yet in no way concealing his satisfaction at his departure.

But though Henri d'Estrailles found little encouragement from his host's evident, though courteously concealed antagonism, he still clung to hope as he bade a tender farewell to Gwennola. That love must triumph over all obstacles is the gospel of youth, and so thought those two as they looked their last into each other's eyes.

"I shall return," whispered Henri gently as he leant from his saddle bow to kiss the tears from the beautiful upturned face--"I shall return ere long, little one, to claim thy promises, and perchance remind thy father of his, and for troth I shall guard this ring which thou hast given me, and thy favour, which I shall bind in my helmet in the day of battle."

She smiled at him through her tears.

"Thou hast given me no guerdon," she whispered softly.

"Have I not?" he replied tenderly. "Nay, sweet, the only guerdon I have to give is myself, and the heart that thou hast already in thy keeping, and which I shall surely return anon to claim at thy hands."

"Thou shalt not have it then," she retorted, smiling again as she raised her blue eyes to meet his dark ones. "For thou hast given it me for all time, and in place--in place----"

"In place?" he echoed, bending still lower.

"Foolish one!" she cried, with a little laugh which ended in a sob, "thou knowest very well what heart thou hast in exchange--a heart of Brittany, monsieur, for whose sake thou must be tender of its countrymen."

"I swear it," he replied--"I swear it, little Gwennola," and so rode away through the forest, and out over the wild heaths beyond, on the road to Rennes.

*CHAPTER XII*

The long-cherished dream of the astute and far-seeing Francois Dunois, Comte de Longueville, had apparently been brought to an untimely end by the imperious will of a young girl. In spite of the representations of her guardian and trusted councillors, as well as those of her faithful friend, the Count Dunois himself, Anne remained firm in her rejection of the proposal to unite herself with the King of France, and thus form an indissoluble bond of union between the kingdom and duchy.

"King Charles," she said, "is an unjust prince, who wishes to despoil me of the inheritance of my fathers. Has he not desolated my duchy, pillaged my subjects, destroyed my towns? Has he not entered into the most deceitful alliances with my allies, the Kings of Spain and England, endeavouring to overreach and ruin me? And have I not, by the advice of all of you who now counsel the contrary, just contracted anew a solemn alliance with the King of the Romans, approved by you and all my people? Do not believe that I will so falsify my word, nor that I will burthen my conscience with an act which I feel to be so reprehensible."

In vain her council urged upon her the necessity of yielding to their suggestions; in vain de Rieux, de Montauban, and the Prince of Orange joined with Dunois in pleading the state of Britanny, the impossibility of its defending itself, the certainty of its falling a prey to the first ambitious neighbour who attacked it, since their Duchess would be in a distant country, married to a man whose own subjects were continually in a state of rebellion.

Anne haughtily refused to listen to these arguments. In spite of her tender years, her will was indomitable, and her mind clear as to what her actions should be.

"Rather," she replied at length to her discomfited council, "than be found wanting in the honour and duty I owe to the King of the Romans, whom I look upon as my husband, I will set forth to join him, since he finds it impossible to come hither to fetch me."

Such a reply was decisive, and Dunois was fain to ride back chagrined and discomfited, but not yet baffled, to give Anne's answer of defiance to her royal wooer.

So also seemed to terminate the vague hopes to which Gwennola de Mereac had clung during those summer days--days which were bringing, alas! fresh sorrows to the lonely maiden of the old Breton chateau. For, scarce two months after her lover's departure, a fall from his horse during a boar hunt had left her to mourn a father who had ever been tender and loving to his daughter, although for the past few weeks somewhat sterner than his wont at her--to him--obstinate refusal to listen to the command he laid on her to accept the hand--if not the heart--of the young Comte de Laferriere, a betrothal which might indeed have been forced upon her had not death intervened to save her from an unwelcome lover, at the same time that he deprived her of a tenderly loved parent.

The mourning of those days was long, and sufficiently trying even for those whose grief was the most sincere; etiquette demanding that a daughter should retire to bed for six weeks in a funereally draped chamber, at most only being permitted to rise and sit upon a couch, also hung with trappings of woe.

Deeply as she mourned her father, Gwennola could not but breathe a sigh of relief as she stole out into the September sunshine at the conclusion of the stated period of retirement. How dreary all seemed, she told herself, and yet,--why, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and after all life was young, and death,--she shuddered as she glanced down at her black robe; but even whilst the tears dimmed her eyes, her thoughts, with the inconsequence of youth, flew back to the lover from whom she had parted, and wondered when he would come again a-wooing, and what Yvon would say when he asked her hand of him. Those months of rest and peace had wrought a great change in her brother. Much of the lost beauty of youth had returned, and the attenuated limbs had regained their strength and vigour, but still in the blue eyes there lurked that vague terror which three years of haunting dread and suffering had indelibly stamped within them. Neither would Yvon de Mereac ever be the noble, gallant knight his boyhood had foreshadowed. Cruelty and mind-torture had crushed and enfeebled a strong, brave nature in their ruthless clutch, and Gwennola's own eyes would often fill with tears of sympathy as they met the restless, anxious glance of her brother's, which betokened a mind still clouded with nervous fears. Yet, in spite of weakness, Yvon possessed an obstinate determination, when once his mind was set, from which neither argument nor entreaty would move him, and it was this vein of obstinacy which Gwennola trembled to evoke by mention of her lover's name, seeing that her brother inherited all his father's implacable animosity to their natural foes of France. Still, the love of brother and sister for each other was strong, and it would often seem as if Yvon would lean on the stronger nature of Gwennola for guidance and advice, whilst her own sisterly affection had, at times, the motherly instinct of protection for one whose mind still became shadowed with dread of an unseen, indefinable fear.

Accompanied by Marie and the faithful Gloire Gwennola was returning some few days later from her weekly visit to the now bed-ridden old peasant dame, Mere Fanchonic, when she was surprised to note the signs of an arrival at the gates of the chateau. Two strange men-at-arms were leading away horses, on the backs of which were pillions.

"See, Marie," Gwennola exclaimed, as she hurried forward, "what can it mean? It is without doubt visitors who have but lately arrived, and look, pillions also! Verily, what dames can so unexpectedly have honoured us, here at Arteze?"

"Some travellers doubtless who have lost their way," suggested Marie. "But see, lady, here cometh Job, with his foolish face all agog with news."

"Which we are as fain to hear as he to tell," cried Gwennola, laughing gaily, for her spirits had risen to hail any change which came to break the monotony of existence; besides, might this strange visit not be in some way connected with her absent lover?

"Perchance 'tis the Dame of Laferriere come hither with her noble son," suggested Marie slyly, as she watched the flush of annoyance which instantly rose to her young mistress's brow.

"'Tis little likely," retorted Gwennola with some asperity, "seeing that the good dame hath been as bed-ridden as Mere Fanchonic these past two years. An thou hast no better suggestion to give, wench, 'twere wisest to bear in mind the good Father Ambrose's homily on the virtue of silence, which he delivered last Sunday."

Marie did not reply to this rebuke, though she pursed her rosy mouth, round which the dimples played, and tossed her dark, comely head with an air of great sagacity, as one who knew well what lay in her mistress's thoughts behind the sharp speech.

But the maidens' curiosity was in no way gratified by the worthy Jobik, who conveyed only the intelligence that a dame had but lately arrived at the chateau, and that his master had bidden him speedily seek his mistress and acquaint her with the news.

"A dame? Alone and unattended?" queried Gwennola eagerly. "Tell me then, good Jobik, what name did she give? and what appearance hath she? Is she old or young? and hath knowledge of her features?"

To which Job Alloadec responded that to his knowledge the lady had given no name, and that so closely was she hooded that he had not seen her features, but that she was tall and slender, and spoke with the air of a great lady, very haughtily and proudly. For the rest, he knew naught save that she had come in company with a waiting damsel and three men-at-arms, and that the Sieur de Mereac had bidden him hasten.

Seeing that it was useless to waste time in further questions, Gwennola hastened on, wondering greatly what such a visit portended, and who the lady might be who thus rode in such troublous times with so small an escort and unattended by any cavalier.

The hall of the chateau was deserted, save for two men-at-arms who lounged near the lower end, and Pierre the fool, who lay on his stomach sporting with his ape, and emitting from time to time shrill screams of merriment in mimicry of his wizened little companion's cries of anger at being thus mocked, much to the amusement of little Henri, the page, who squatted opposite him. In reply to his mistress's inquiries, the page informed her that his master was awaiting her coming in the solar room, whilst he ran before her to raise the tapestries which hung before the inner apartment.

The solar room was one in which Gwennola most often sat with her maidens over her tapestry or embroidery work, and was more sumptuously furnished than the rest of the chateau; the floor being covered with a fine Flemish carpet, and the hangings of dark velvet, whilst in the corner stood a harp and embroidery frame.

Standing by the high, narrow window, his head leaning against the stone work, as if he strove to see beyond into the courtyard, was Yvon de Mereac, and Gwennola noted the restless, uneasy expression of his handsome face as he turned to greet her.

"Fair sister," he began nervously, as he bowed with the courtesy which in those days of chivalry even brothers paid to their sisters. "Pardon me for so hasty a summons, but--but----"

"Jobik bade me hasten to greet an unexpected guest," replied Gwennola, glancing round the room in surprise at seeing no other occupant saving her brother.

"Ay," replied Yvon with growing uneasiness. "I pray you, my Gwennola, of your courtesy, greet the lady graciously, for----"

"Nay," retorted his sister with some haughtiness. "Am I then accustomed to treat guests so unbecomingly, that thou needest to school me in my manners, Yvon?"

"Nay, nay," he replied anxiously. "Again thy pardon, little sister, but methought,--methought perchance the name might strike unpleasingly upon thine ear, did I not first explain."

"The name?" repeated Gwennola wonderingly. "In sooth, brother, I take not thy meaning."

"It is Mademoiselle de Coray," he muttered hurriedly. "Nay, sister, look not so angrily; she hath come, poor maid, on an errand of peace."

"Peace!" echoed Gwennola, her face hardening into lines so proud and cold as to recall the stern look of her father, "a de Coray bound on peace? Sooner would I trust the serpent who spoke soft words to our Mother Eve to have come on an errand of love to mankind than the sister of Guillaume de Coray to be bound on such a mission."

"Nay, thy words are unjust," said Yvon hotly. "But stay, thou shalt not judge till thou hast seen her, for once look into her eyes and thou shalt read there such wells of innocence and truth as shall shame thee of suspicion."

"Innocence and truth!" replied Gwennola scornfully. "So perchance thought Adam when he looked into Eve's eyes and plucked the apple from her hand; but tell me, then, what hath brought this paragon of beauty and perfection to our poor Chateau of Mereac? There must e'en be good reason to bring so fair a dame across Brittany in these times."

"Thy mocking becomes thee not," retorted Yvon coldly. "As for the errand of Mademoiselle de Coray, thou shalt judge for thyself whether it augurs more of deceit than of such sweetness of disposition as I fear me thou wilt scarce appreciate in thy present wayward mood."

"Wayward mood!" echoed Gwennola indignantly, for a seventeen-year-old chatelaine could hardly thus calmly brook being chidden as a child. "Wayward mood, forsooth! but we shall see in good time who is the wise one. Yet mayhap thou wilt tell me, most wise and well-discerning brother, of what import the story was? Whereof it was made I wot I know already."

Perhaps Yvon did not hear the last few words, in his eagerness to convert his sister to a more amenable mood concerning their guest.

"She had heard," he said, "that our father was no more, and would, in spite of her brother's opposition, insist straightway on coming to Mereac, deeming the time a fitting one to heal a sore breach betwixt loving kinsmen, by an explanation which should have been made long since."

"Loving kinsmen!" murmured Gwennola, plucking at the girdle round her waist. "Bah! I would have little of such love, I trow."

"And so," continued Yvon, heeding her not, "she hath come to Mereac, and told me her story."

"Which thou hast believed with all the simplicity of a yearling babe."

"Tush! child, thou pratest of what thou knowest not; little like was I to be deceived. Yet verily there was no deception in the eyes of mademoiselle; whilst, as for the story, it is simplicity itself."

"As was the hearer," whispered Gwennola. "And the story, brother?"

"Truly for the most part I knew it before. My sole enemy was Francois Kerden, who himself stole upon me in the wood, and would have killed me, for no reason but wanton cruelty, had not the fouler scheme entered his head. Yet, even as it came to him, fate furthered the plot, for Guillaume de Coray, seeing in part what was chancing, sprang to the spot, and would have revenged my death, as he supposed, on my murderer, had not the Frenchman intervened and robbed him of his prey and me." Yvon stopped with a groan as the memory of those three years of imprisonment returned to him.

"But," said Gwennola coldly, "the story scarce bears the light of truth, brother, seeing that Henri d'Estrailles saw the traitor blow struck; besides, if so innocent, why fled this so noble kinsman when he saw thee appear? and why did he strive to doom to death another, when he saw who had in reality struck thee down, according to this pretty fable?"

"Nay," said Yvon, knitting his brows, "it is easily explained, didst thou but listen, girl. It was in this way. Guillaume had already been wounded, and, faint with loss of blood, could scarce distinguish betwixt Frenchman or Breton. Both wore closed vizors, and both were near at the time of my fall; which had struck the blow Guillaume could scarce realize. The Breton fled, however, and whilst he turned to strike him down in the act, the Frenchman opened his vizor, and de Coray clearly saw his features. Methinks it was this that confused him in claiming that d'Estrailles had done the coward's act, for but one face was imprinted on his reeling memory, and surely 'twere easy thus to confuse which of the twain he had seen actually to perform the foul deed. That it was Kerden himself is shown by the part he afterwards played in so torturing me."

"Nay," said Gwennola shortly, "the story is false, my brother, and should not deceive a babe--false as the weaver of it. Did I not kneel beside this Kerden and listen to his dying words, which fitted so aptly with those of Monsieur d'Estrailles? It is impossible, Yvon, that for a moment thou couldest believe so lying a tale, or shelter beneath thy roof one who proves herself traitress with her first breath."

"Nay, mademoiselle," said a laughing voice in the doorway, and, turning, brother and sister perceived the object of their conversation standing there, the tapestry curtain half raised by one arm, as she smiled from one to the other, as if aware of the dainty picture she thus formed.

That Diane de Coray was beautiful there was no denying, but her beauty was not of the kind which perchance Gwennola had already imagined her to possess. No possibility of deceit seemed to lurk in her clear, hazel eyes, which shone with frankness and merriment. Her rosy cheeks, full red lips, and delicate features, all combined to give her an appearance of extreme youth, an embodiment of springtime, in truth, and a fair one to boot. The hair under the white head-dress was soft and wavy, and of a rich, dark brown; her figure was slender and tall, set off to advantage in a sleeveless gown of crimson velvet, edged with lettice, a fur much in vogue then amongst the fashionable, whilst round her waist she wore a handsome girdle with jewelled tassels.

As they turned to face her, Diane dropped the tapestry and with a deep curtsy towards her young hostess advanced with outstretched hands.

"Nay," she cried, still laughing, "thou shalt not thus judge me unheard, little one. Fie on thee! thy kinswoman a traitress? I pray thee tell me wherein? See! I come as a hostage for my brother's truth."

"And one that we shall hope to keep for long," responded Yvon courteously, as he placed a seat for her.

She laughed up at him, showing a set of small, pearly teeth as she did so.

"Thy sister would not too warmly echo thy words, fair kinsman," she replied with a sly glance towards Gwennola.

But Mademoiselle de Mereac was not to be moved by roguish glances, dimples, or sweet words. She had responded to her cousin's effusive greeting with a stiff curtsy, taking not the slightest notice of the outstretched hands.

"Mademoiselle," she replied icily, in answer to Diane's rallying words, "is as welcome as the sister of Guillaume de Coray is likely to be at Mereac."

Diane pouted her lips, with the sweet coquetry of a spoilt child; there would even seem to have been tears in the eyes which she raised first to Yvon and from him to Gwennola.

"It is cruel," she murmured softly, "that thou wilt not believe my word, but it is as Guillaume warned me, for oft he hath told me with sorrow of the hatred you bear him, sweet Gwennola. But no," she cried, springing from her seat and clasping her slim hands together with a pretty little air of supplication, "thou shalt be convinced, fair cousin. See, I swear to thee it is true. Wilt thou not believe me?"

"If Monsieur de Coray were innocent, why did he fly?" demanded Gwennola inexorably.

"Fly?" echoed Diane innocently. "Nay, cousin, scarcely fly! That he left in haste it is true; yet not so much from fear as from another sin--shall I confess it?" Her arch smile was met by Gwennola's grave, set face, which, however, seemed in no way to abash her. "It was jealousy," she murmured, glancing up towards Yvon and addressing him more than Gwennola. "Fie! it is an evil passion. Is it not, monsieur? but one to which poor mortals are prone. He had verily proved, as he thought, that Monsieur d'Es--d'Es--monsieur the Frenchman was guilty of his cousin's blood, and unworthy though it might be, he was the more glad to see him die as he fancied the lady of his love looked more kindly on him than he deemed befitting. So, when he found that his rival was like to be restored to liberty, in a foolish fit of unreasoning rage he hurried homewards, little dreaming how ill a construction so weak an act could have placed upon it."

"And how knew he of such construction, seeing he fled in such haste?" demanded Gwennola shrewdly; but Diane de Coray had suddenly become afflicted with deafness.

"To such foolishness doth unrequited love lead us," she sighed, addressing Yvon solely now. "Alas! 'tis a cruel passion at best, is it not, monsieur? and one better eschewed by the wise."

"Nay," replied he slowly, looking down with undisguised admiration into her face. "Not when it cometh in the guise of an angel of peace and love, mademoiselle."

"Peace and love!" whispered Gwennola to herself as she withdrew. "Mary, Mother, grant that it be not strife and bitter hate; for, alas! she is false, this demoiselle, false to the heart's core, for all her beauty."

*CHAPTER XIII*

It would seem indeed that Diane de Coray had come,--if come for that purpose she had,--to play hostage for life against her brother's truth, for almost imperceptibly she slipped into her niche in the simple, family life at the Chateau of Mereac.

Not that her presence brought peace in its train, for it seemed that where she found peace she would fain leave a sword, and many and bitter were the tears that Gwennola shed in the solitude of her chamber as she watched her enemy gaining daily more undisputed sway over her pliable and weak-minded brother. Yes, it was tacitly agreed that it was to be warfare between these two kinswomen, yet such warfare as only women can play, the scratching of claws from velvet paws, and the sweet smile veiling bitter words. Not that Gwennola was an adept at such fencing; her nature was too straightforward, perhaps also too tempestuous, to repay veiled insult with veiled insult. She would reply hotly, even angrily, thus bringing the odium of a quarrel entirely on her own shoulders, leaving her rival to smile indulgently, as if at the stormy outburst of a child, till Gwennola could have wept for very mortification. These unequal trials of strength had, however, the effect at which Diane aimed; brother and sister grew gradually more estranged, for Yvon, hot with the infatuation with which his beautiful kinswoman had inspired him, hesitated not to rebuke his sister, ofttimes with anger, for replying indignantly to Diane's sugared taunts. So the days wore on, and Gwennola's heart grew ever heavier, and the hopes which summer had whispered in her ears faded before the shrill blasts of autumn.

It had been rumoured that King Charles had taken ill the refusal of the young Duchess to listen to his proposals, and was even now assembling a mighty army to march into Brittany and demand by force what could not be his by pleading.

In face of such rumours the bitter hatred of their overweening and powerful neighbours became intensified, and Gwennola knew that her rival would make use of such national indignation to crush her hopes that Yvon would allow of a betrothal between herself and Henri d'Estrailles.

Indeed, that such was in truth the case, Yvon, all too soon, took no pains to conceal, telling his sister coldly that since she so resented the thoughts of a betrothal with Guillaume de Coray, she must choose between a nun's veil and the bridegroom her father had already designed for her, Maurice de Laferriere.

In vain Gwennola pleaded her father's promise that, should peace at length bind the two countries together, her hand might follow the dictates of her heart. With an obstinacy which, when once aroused, was immovable, Yvon refused to listen to tears or entreaties, bidding her choose without delay, seeing that it was time that her destiny should be settled, and at the same time announcing his own betrothal to Diane de Coray.

Prepared as she was for this, still, the shock was terrible to the unhappy Gwennola. The prejudice she had conceived against the sister of de Coray had ripened during those past weeks into something akin to hatred, a feeling she felt to be heartily reciprocated by Diane herself. That young lady, however, was sufficiently mistress of her emotions to conceal her dislike under a very pretty show of friendship, which entirely deceived the love-sick Yvon, who felt that his sister only was to blame in the dissensions which rose from time to time between chatelaine and guest.

Thus matters stood that October morning, as Diane de Coray entered the hall of the chateau with her falcon on her wrist, and a smile of triumph in her hazel eyes.

"Come, Pierre," she said softly, as the fool, who had been crouched shivering over the fire, at her entrance rose to his feet. "I would talk with thee yonder, on the terrace path. The Sieur de Mereac will not yet be ready for the chase, and meantime I have somewhat to say to thee. Tell me," she added, still further lowering her voice, as she reached the broad terrace and stood facing her shivering companion, "hath thy master arrived?"

"He has been for some days past at the hut of Henri Lefroi," muttered the lad, eyeing his interrogator curiously.

"For some days?" echoed Diane in surprise. "Nay, 'tis strange; to what purport should he linger thus?"

"I know not," replied Pierre moodily, "that being my master's business, and none of mine. But what is your will, lady? for methinks I hear monsieur's voice yonder, calling your name."

"No matter," said Diane lightly; "he can wait for the nonce. But attend then, little knave: thou must go this day to the house of this Lefroi, and bid my brother ride hitherward as if he had come from a journey. Tell him that his welcome is assured from all, except perchance the little fool Gwennola de Mereac; but tell him on no account to delay longer, for I am at a loss how to proceed without him." She repeated the last words emphatically, as if desirous of imprinting them on Pierre's mind, then with a brief nod she turned from him to welcome with sunny smiles the young lord of the chateau, who came striding towards her, his handsome face flushed with pleasure, his blue eyes aflame with love.

"Nay, sweetheart," he cried reproachfully, "didst not hear me call? See, I grow jealous even of a fool, who is thus overwhelmed with honour at receiving one smile from those sweet lips."

Perhaps Pierre the fool, slipping back to his corner by the fire, found the honour less burdensome than his lord supposed, seeing that he sat there chuckling at the merry flames that blazed and leapt on the open hearth. It was manifestly an effort to drag himself away from the warm glow, out once more into the keen air, yet, so pleasant seemed his thoughts, that he still chuckled softly, as he trotted along the forest path with Petit Pierre perched on his shoulder, chattering and scolding in unison.

The hut of Henri Lefroi bore almost as ill a reputation as the ruined chapel of the Brown Friar, for, folk said, this was the habitation of a wizard whose powers in the occult science were so great as to defy both heaven and hell, wherefore at the name men and women crossed themselves and repeated an ave, for very fear of incurring the wrath of so dread a personage.

But it was not to the hut of old Lefroi that Pierre turned his steps, but rather to the little dwelling-place where Gabrielle, his sister, would be sitting spinning.

It was two weeks since that her brother had also started spinning, but not in his case from flaxen thread, but the woof of romance, which had been born suddenly in his cunning mind. Why should Monsieur de Coray, he asked himself, come so many days before the time appointed by his sister? And why, instead of acquainting her with the fact of his presence, should he strive to conceal it? And also, why should he daily steal away from Henry Lefroi's dismal abode to spend the long hours of the autumn days beside the pretty Gabrielle? Aha! a pretty romance that was, which the little fool watched, safe hidden from prying eyes, amongst the undergrowth of the thicket. Yes, he told himself, without doubt Monsieur de Coray had lost his heart to Gabrielle, his sister, and without doubt the day would come when Gabrielle should be the mistress of a noble chateau, and he, Pierre the fool, would for ever doff the motley and play the role of Monsieur Laurent. Ah! how grand it sounded, how distinguished! Yet for all that he kept jealous guard over those two, for not altogether did he trust the honour of Monsieur de Coray, although he marked shrewdly with what respect he spoke to the little sister, such respect as he had surely not even shown Mademoiselle de Mereac, the proud, haughty demoiselle of the chateau yonder.

And Pierre, for all his foolishness, was right, for the passion of a bad and evil man had become purified in the presence of this child of the forest. He loved her, not as he had loved others, but with a reverence, such as one has for saints, combined with the passion he felt for the woman, and, as he sat there, day by day, watching her as she span, or listening entranced when she sang to him a sweet, simple ballad of Brittany, filled with the romance and sadness of her land, in a voice such as the birds might have envied, he swore to himself that this peasant girl should be his wife, and that for her sake he would do all things. But the snake of old ever lurks in the fairest garden of dreams, and so the very purpose of his presence in these forests became one that he swore to fulfil, evil and cruel as it was, for the sake of this beautiful child, whose guileless glances had won his sin-hardened heart. So the devil tempts us. For the sake, we say, of one we love, however pure and good, we will do evil so that we may lavish its fruits on the object of our devotion, who, forsooth! would shrink back appalled if it knew from whence those fruits came.

So in the autumn woods three souls dreamed out their dreams. Pierre the fool strutting, in his mind's eye, in a suit of velvet and chain of gold, no longer the jester or object of jest, but "Monsieur Laurent," brother, honoured and esteemed, of Madame la Chatelaine. Guillaume de Coray clasping in his arms the lovely girl whose image had blotted out so many and so varied dreams of ambitions, and leading her with proud and triumphant steps to his Chateau of Mereac, won at last by means to which he involuntarily closed his eyes. And Gabrielle Laurent, seeing only the face of the man to whom she had given her heart, and whom she must love for all time, indifferent to whether he were great lord or simple peasant, with all the pure tenderness of her young heart. Whilst at night, as she knelt in prayer within her lonely hut, she would thank the good God and all her guardian saints, with child-like simplicity and gratitude, for sending into her life one so noble and so good as Guillaume de Coray, repeating the name softly and reverently to herself, as though it possessed some charm to drive away all dreams of ill, as she lay in her wooden bed, watching the flickering moonlight as it fell across the threshold--the white, beautiful moonlight, which was no purer than her thoughts as she fell to sleep murmuring her lover's name. Alas! the poor little Gabrielle!

*CHAPTER XIV*

It was some three hours after Pierre the fool had delivered Diane de Coray's message that the brother and sister sat together in her chamber at the Chateau de Mereac.

"So thou hast succeeded?" inquired Guillaume, scanning with curiosity, not unmixed with admiration, his sister's beautiful face.

"Beyond our expectations."

There was a mocking intonation in her words which did not escape him.

"So," he said, crossing his legs and leaning his elbow against the table, so that his eyes were bent nearly opposite to hers. "Beyond our expectations? That is well. And so the poor fool, Yvon de Mereac, loves you?"

"As warmly as his sister hates me."

"Equally to their own destruction."

She laughed a trifle uneasily.

"The idea causes you amusement?"

His tone was not pleasant.

"Amusement," she said vaguely. Then, changing her tone, "Is it after all so necessary?"

"Altogether necessary. Remember your oath."

She changed colour, but clung to her point.

"Nay, but seeing--seeing he loves me?"

"Scarcely with such devotion that he would give up his inheritance to the brother of his adored."

She winced under the sneer.

"But will nothing else content you, mon frere? If I were his wife, I--I would arrange matters altogether to your will. You shall be lord in all but name. Consider, he is, after all, but a poor, weak fool, who will ever do my bidding."

Her words were rapid, and rang with a note of pleading, but Guillaume de Coray only frowned.

"It is necessary that he shall be altogether removed, or, if plain speaking be necessary, he must die. The means are already in our hands."

She shuddered involuntarily.

"Bah!" he said lightly. "Thou surely dost not love this weakling lover of thine, Diane? Grieve not for him, ma chere; the new Sieur de Mereac will wed thee to a nobler suitor when he comes to his own."

"I cannot do it," she moaned. "Nay, brother, I sicken at the very thought. 'Tis not in truth that I love him, but--but----"

"A foolish fancy," quoth her brother mockingly. "Nay, Diane, thou art not wont to blanch so easily, and bethink thee of thy sweet revenge on yon proud and scornful maid."

Her hazel eyes grew hard.

"Yes," she said, "I hate her; yes, hate her with all my soul, for she scorns me, Guillaume, and flouts me too, for all her brother's anger. Ay, revenge is sweet, and yet----"

"Courage," mocked Guillaume, leaning closer to her across the table--"courage, little sister. After all----"

He paused, watching her eyes dilate with sudden dread as she filled in the unspoken words.

"No," she cried at length, and her voice rose in a quick, decisive tone, "I cannot do it, Guillaume; sooner than be thy tool in this work I will--I will----"

"Die thyself belike," he said coolly, his eyes never leaving her changing face. "Think well, Diane, yes, very well, before thou breakest thine oath--remember the fate that awaits thee, did I so much as breathe one word concerning thy dealings in matters which have brought many a fairer maid than thee to the stake, or the torture chamber. Did I proclaim thee witch, what arm, even of love itself, would be strong enough in Brittany, ay, and in all France, to save thee?"

"I am no witch," she cried passionately, "as thou knowest well, liar and coward that thou art."

"No witch," he replied smoothly, "yet sufficiently akin to seal thy doom, were I to reveal thy secret dealings with one at whose name all Brittany shudders. And thou thyself hast been no mean pupil, my sister--therefore----"

The significant pause was sufficient, and the unfortunate girl covered her face in her hands as she moaned out--

"Nay, spare me the taunt, Guillaume. It is true I have sinned, and yet I am no witch, before Heaven I am no witch. Did I not flee from the beldame's accursed dwelling in very terror from such deeds as they would have me do? Nay, brother, little I knew with what black terror I played, I, a motherless girl, led astray by one whom I had deemed a friend."

"A fair friend," he sneered, "truly a fair friend; but enough. That thou didst flee is known to me; that thou wert _there_ shall be known, ay, and proved to the world if thou art obstinate, and thou shalt pay the penalty as surely as if thou wert as truly a servant of Satan as any hag who gathers nightly on the sands of Seville or around the nut tree of Benevento."

Diane crossed herself, white to the lips, whilst her eyes crept to his face with the fear of a dog who looks up in very terror of the lash he knows he shall see descending.

"What is thy will?" she whispered mechanically, as she read no sign of relenting in the hard face before her.

He smiled triumphantly.

"Thou wilt obey?"

"I will obey."

"That is well, but for the rest, thou knowest very well my will, and wherefore thou camest hither."

She shuddered.

"Still," continued her brother, "if thou wilt hear it again I will repeat our plan, _our_ plan, thou mindest, Diane, which thou helpedst me to form so cleverly at Pontivy."

"I had not known him then," she cried with a little sob, "and--and he loves me well."

"So much the better; the less chance of suspicion falling upon us. See, child, have done with these foolish vapourings, and mark how all falls in with our purpose. The Sieur de Mereac loves thee--a love which he will doubtless in time extend in some measure to me, thy brother, seeing that thou hast set his mind at rest concerning the affair at St Aubin. All then are at peace and filled with content, saving only Mademoiselle de Mereac, who, for some unknown reason, is consumed with hatred and jealousy against her brother's beloved friends, a hatred which, indeed, also estranges her from her brother. Suddenly, without warning, the Sieur de Mereac falls ill, wasting away, in some strange and inexplicable sickness, till in due time it is apparent that death claims him for a comrade. A whisper is rumoured throughout the house coupling the name of Gwennola de Mereac with witchcraft; the whisper grows to an outcry; proofs of guilt are discovered in the maiden's chamber; she is condemned to death, but it is too late to save her ill-fated brother, who perishes, a victim to an execrated sister's malevolence, and Guillaume de Coray, his cousin, reigns in his stead over the broad lands of Mereac. Voila, my sister, how charming and how simple a history! And the means, the _means_," he emphasized, "of its fulfilment lie here."

As he spoke he handed her a small phial containing a dark liquid, watching her, as the cat does the mouse, as she took it in her trembling hand.

"You comprehend?" he asked softly.

"I comprehend."

He smiled pensively.

"That is very well, and in due course my delightful history will unfold itself. For the whisper of mademoiselle's guilt it would be well to employ the services of the good Jeanne. She is discreet, that girl, and worthy of reward."

But Diane did not answer; she was still staring in horror at the tiny phial she held in her hand--the phial that was the price of a life.

"A charming love potion, the dear Lefroi informed me," said de Coray, spreading out his hands with an airy gesture. "Ah, what a man is that, and what a dwelling!--a very charnel-house; and yet not without its amusement. Thou mightest have done worse, my Diane, than stay to listen to thy fair friend's discourse on the occult science, that night at Pontivy. But thou dost not agree? Bah! what foolishness!--'tis surely better to mix one's own potions rather than trust to the discretion of another. But, as for Lefroi, he is no gossip, and, if one foresaw danger, a dagger thrust is a sure seal to unruly lips. And now, my sister, I will bid thee au revoir, seeing that I go to greet the beautiful demoiselle who did me the honour not long since to become my betrothed bride. Parbleu! it may well be that ere long she shall regret having scorned the hand which was once offered her in love and friendship."

"Love and friendship!" echoed Diane drearily to herself, as with a bow her brother withdrew. "Thy love and friendship! Merciful heavens! methinks the love of such an one would but bring damnation in its train, and I----" A sob choked her whispered words.

"Ah, Yvon! poor Yvon!" she muttered softly, "and thou must die!" Then, shaking back her hair, which had partly fallen across her face, she drew herself up defiantly. "At least," she said softly, as she faced her mirror, and noted the haggard countenance reflected therein--"at least I shall have revenge on yon proud girl. For her I have no pity--the scornful one!"

Meantime, so strange is human nature, Guillaume de Coray was standing looking out from his turret chamber towards the forest with a look so softened and tender that his sister would have failed to recognise the man who but a short hour before had planned murder in mocking tones. Now he was dreaming of the time when he should lead his Gabrielle forth from those forest shades, a proud and happy bride. In that dream of the future, when he saw himself at last at the summit of ambition, lord of the surrounding lands, husband of a woman already adored, it was strange that he saw himself also attaining to an honour and nobility which he could never possess. The husband of Gabrielle Laurent, he told himself, should close for ever the gates of the past which shrouded Guillaume de Coray, the blood-stained, unprincipled villain who, from serving an evil master, had afterwards served, more evilly still, his own lusts, trampling underfoot on his way any who opposed his progress to his goal, only mindful of his ends, caring no jot by what villainy they were accomplished. Yes, the gates should be shut on this man, and in the Sieur de Mereac should arise a new creature, upright, honourable, knightly, a phantom figure striving to be ever what the woman he loved had pictured him. Strange freak of complex human nature, seldom found so lost as to be beyond the pale of redemption; cruel and sin-hardened as this man was, there must needs have been a heart somewhere buried deeply within him, which afar off worshipped goodness and truth,--a heart which had been roused into life, amidst corruption, by a woman's pure touch. She had believed in him, this simple peasant girl, with the face and mind of a holy Madonna, and the trust had awakened within him that long silent chord of chivalry and honour from which love itself had sprung. In her presence he was no longer the Guillaume de Coray whom the world knew, but one who strove to cloak that evil presence in a garb of honour and nobility. And in the deception itself lay the very germ of a new-born nobler self, a desire to lay aside for ever that hidden being of sin and become that which he read himself to be in her pure eyes. He shuddered as he pictured her realization of himself as he was, and swore that sooner than that this should be he would cast the old self aside. Yet,--mark the insidious whisper of Satan,--such dreams of goodness and virtue were garments to be donned after he had accomplished his purpose. Sin was the necessary tool he must employ to win for his white dove the fair nest he coveted; therefore sin should be his boon companion till the work was done, and he almost forgot to shudder at her uncomely countenance or shrink from the foul whispers of her counsel in his haste to use her far his will. Afterwards he would spurn her--yes, afterwards, when Gabrielle reigned at Mereac--afterwards--but not now.

*CHAPTER XV*

The sound of revelry rose high in the great hall of Mereac. On the dais at the head of the table the young Sieur, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, raised his goblet of wine and drank deeply as he looked into the hazel eyes of the beautiful woman beside him. The guests around the table whispered together that Yvon de Mereac's taste had not been amiss when he chose the lovely Diane de Coray for his betrothed, and toasts were freely drunk to the future chatelaine of the castle, and admiring glances flung towards the youthful beauty who sat there laughing and smiling so gaily and happily.

Guillaume de Coray laughed too as he pledged the fair dame beside him and quaffed the choice hippocras which filled his cup. All indeed went well with those castles in the air which he was so intent on building. The first seeds were already sown, and his keen glance noted with a thrill of pleasurable excitement that the flushed cheek and sparkling eye of his young host wore anything but the bloom of health. His own eyes roamed slowly round the board as he followed the tenor of his thoughts, and fell at length on the face of Gwennola de Mereac.