Chapter VIII: Part 8

De Maupas had for some moments gazed thoughtfully around him before he set about his part of the task of destroying the fugitives. His eyes fell upon the great bonfire which now marked the spot whence the mangonels had discharged their deadly missiles, and with a grim smile he directed the men about him to pick up some of the big bundles of brushwood that had been left over when the filling-in of the moat had been accomplished. Then he led the way to the tiny glade where the tree with the hollow trunk had stood when Edgar had escaped with Sir John a short time before. Pointing to a certain spot in the ground, he directed his men to fling down their bundles and scoop away the earth. A large flagstone was soon disclosed, and on its being lifted a black pit, down which led a flight of steep stone steps, yawned before them. Kneeling, De Maupas called:

"Bruyard! Ho, there! Bruyard!"

After a moment's pause, a muffled voice replied:

"Who calleth?"

"De Maupas. Come hither!"

The noise of the opening and shutting of a door next ascended to the ears of the men above, and presently a man-at-arms appeared. He climbed the steep steps in leisurely fashion, and then stood blinking in the sunlight.

"What is it ye want, Sir Knight?" he asked surlily.

"Hast locked the door?" asked De Maupas impatiently.

"Nay, I have not. What need, if the enemy is driven off?"

"No matter," replied De Maupas shortly. "Come, men, pile your faggots about these steps, and hasten back for more. We will make a merry blaze, for I expect visitors from yon dismal depths. Pile the faggots high, and let us see if they will escape by the secret way a second time."

With a roar of savage enjoyment the men hastened to obey. They now saw the object of the move, and with many a joke to one another they hauled great bundles of wood to the fatal spot with every sign of gusto.

A brand was brought from the blazing mangonels, and the pile ignited. It blazed up and burned fiercely. Heavier and thicker pieces of wood were then flung on until the exit from the tunnel was ringed about with a veritable wall of fire. Satisfied that any man who attempted to plunge through such a furnace must perish miserably, De Maupas strolled up and down, awaiting with some impatience the news that the fugitives had indeed taken refuge in the tunnel, and that De Brin had succeeded in sealing up the castle end.

As he paced the greensward he noticed the two men who had been sent upon an errand by De Brin. They were just then busily engaged in sharpening the end of a long thick pole which they had obtained.

"What is this?" asked De Maupas. "Who set ye on to this, and for what purpose?"

"De Brin," replied one of the men laconically, giving his thumb a jerk in the direction of the castle gates. Then he indicated the moat, and ejaculated: "Cold water."

De Maupas stared at the man for a moment in some perplexity. Then the truth dawned upon him, and he went off into a fit of laughter.

"Ha, ha! Now I see what De Brin meant. Chill his hot blood--ha, ha! But even he knoweth not the final reception we have prepared for his uninvited guests. Ha, ha, ha!"

* * * * *

"Yield thyself!" cried De Brin, bearing down upon Edgar as he stood, sword in hand, at the head of the stairs leading to the underground tunnel. "Yield thyself, for thou art trapped!"

"I will yield myself when thou hast vanquished me, De Brin," replied Edgar, fencing vigorously as their blades clashed together. "How hast thou trapped me?"

"Thou seekest to escape through the passage, as once before. Know then that the farther end is guarded by thine enemy, De Maupas, and a dozen men. Thy friend, the priest, and all his flock are in full flight, and all is lost."

Edgar could not but believe. He had hoped that his pursuers would ransack the donjon for him before coming to the conclusion that he had flown to the tunnel for refuge. But unfortunately for him they had guessed that he would make for the passage, and had sealed it up. And with him were the two maidens.

The responsibility of their charge was crushing. Had there been only Peter he would, with a light heart enough, have dashed for the farther end in an attempt to break through, though to be unsuccessful was death. But his heart almost failed him when he thought of the terrible situation of the ladies. In his preoccupation he gave ground before De Brin's onslaught, and in a minute or two was driven back to the head of the flight of steps. Here he stood his ground for a few moments, and then, after feinting fiercely and compelling De Brin to give back, sprang down the steps to the open door below.

At this moment a man-at-arms pressed through the body of men about their leader, and whispered a few words in the knight's ear.

The effect was electrical.

"Ho, there! Edgar Wintour!" cried De Brin furiously. "Madman that thou art, they tell me that thou hast carried away the lady Beatrice and her maid with thee. 'Tis to certain death thou art dragging them. Yield them up, fool! There is escape neither for them nor for thee."

"If thou wilt promise to let them ride hence in peace, I will yield them up," replied Edgar quickly.

"Bah!" cried De Brin. "Thou hast yet to learn how completely thou art trapped. Let this teach thee!"

As he spoke the black knight set his weight against one of the huge blocks of stone piled by the head of the flight of steps. It moved, and bounded down the slope with tremendous weight and force. Luckily for Edgar it struck the massive doorpost, and did not come full into the doorway, or he must have been struck down and perhaps killed outright. Dreading lest such a mass of stone should bound along the tunnel and perhaps reach the ladies, our hero whipped the door to and put his weight against it.

Somewhat to Edgar's surprise, De Brin made no attempt to force the door, but instead ordered his men to hurl down upon it the piled-up blocks of stone. For some minutes a perfect avalanche of these rolled and bounded down upon the door, and every minute Edgar feared that it would be burst open. In the hope of adding a little to its strength he kept his weight against it, though the shock of each stone jarred him to the bone. At last the well formed by the steps began to be filled, and the jar and shock lessened until but a slight tremor followed as the rocks were still flung down. Soon the work was complete, and the castle end of the passage was blocked by a mass of stone that it would take hours' work by a score of men to clear away.

There was no more to be done there, and with a heavy heart Edgar left the door, and made his way along the tunnel. In the far distance a light had sprung up, and he guessed that Peter had managed to obtain a spark and had lit one of the torches they had been careful to snatch from the wall before they left the upper room.

"What was that dreadful noise?" asked Beatrice anxiously, as Edgar joined them. "It echoed along the passage until we thought giants indeed must be battering at the door."

"Nay, 'tis worse even than that, Beatrice," replied Edgar solemnly. "They have hurled down stones and walled us in."

"Well, is not that good news? They cannot pursue, and if we hasten we shall escape before they can cut off our retreat. Peter telleth me that we are almost through this dreadful passage."

"They have already cut off our retreat, Beatrice," replied Edgar. "Like a fool, I have brought thee into nothing but a trap. De Brin taunted me that the farther end was guarded, and I fear 'tis true. I had hoped that ye would all have been out long ere this. What hath delayed thee, Peter? The little chance that once we had hath, I fear, gone for ever.

"We came upon some obstruction in the passage, Master Edgar," replied Peter earnestly, "and I dared not go on with the ladies in the darkness, not knowing what pitfalls might lie in wait for us. I stopped to light a torch, and my flint and steel work none too fast in this damp and dismal dungeon. But here is the door, and I see no sentinel."

"Was yon great chest the obstruction? Didst open it?"

"Nay, I would not stop. Shall I go batter it in?"

"Nay, let us press on and test the strength of the guard about this end. Perchance, after all, when the good priest heareth the sound of a conflict, he may bring down some of his men and make an attack. We might then break through. Come, hew down that door."

"How stifling is this passage, Edgar!" cried Beatrice appealingly. "The heat is becoming dreadful. Whence cometh it?"

"I cannot understand it," replied Edgar, whose face, in spite of his brave words of hope, had grown grey and pinched. "No such heat was here when last we-- But see!--what is that light that glinteth beneath the door? Give me the axe, Peter! Something is going on beyond that barrier that giveth me fears I never felt before."

Swinging the axe with feverish impatience, he smote the lock with tremendous force. The door instantly flew open, and a glare of light and a wave of hot air burst in upon them, blinding and scorching them so fiercely that, with one impulse, they fled backwards a dozen paces into the shelter or the passage.

"What is this--dreadful fate--thou hast brought us into, Edgar?" cried Beatrice in gasps, as Jeannette sank to the ground by her side in a deep swoon. "Are we, then, to be choked and scorched alive?"

"Reproach me not, Beatrice," replied Edgar in a tremulous voice, almost unmanned by the terrible plight into which he had unwittingly brought the two maidens. "I told thee the hope of escape was faint, but I never dreamed that such a fearful end might be in store for us."

"Forgive me, Edgar," cried Beatrice impulsively, placing her hand gently on the young esquires arm. "I was overhasty in my alarm. I am a warrior's daughter, and I will not play the coward again."

"'Tis nothing. Myself I shall not forgive," muttered Edgar. In his prostration he had sunk back against the wall, his arms resting on the haft of his great axe and his head bowed down upon them. For a few minutes he was silent with the silence of despair. Then he resolutely roused himself from his stupor. "Come," he said, "we are in no immediate danger here, except it be from stifling. Let us retreat back beneath the moat. It will be cooler there."

Headed by Peter with the torch, the little party threaded its way in dumb despair back into the deeper recesses of the tunnel, Edgar bearing the limp form of the insensible Jeannette. On arriving at the spot where the great iron-bound chest half-blocked the passage, Peter halted and proposed that they should seat themselves. Jeannette was laid upon the top of the box and Beatrice took her seat upon it, while Edgar and Peter stood at her side, conversing in low tones upon the hopeless situation in which they found themselves. The spot at which they had halted was, as near as they could judge, beneath the castle moat, and the air was far cooler than at the end towards the fire.

"At least they cannot reach us," said Edgar presently. "The fire which bars our escape equally bars their attack. If they have no desire to encounter us hand to hand beneath the ground, they will have to keep the fires burning night and day."

"That will not be difficult with the woods so close at hand," replied Peter, shaking his head. "They will know that after a day or two we shall be weakened by hunger and thirst."

"But if the priest liveth he will guess the reason of these great fires, and will gather men to harass De Brin. They will find it hard to maintain themselves."

"I fear the Father will be dead. When De Brin and his men swept across the broken drawbridge, doubtless he would head the peasants. Who so likely to be slain?"

"Hark!" exclaimed Beatrice suddenly. "Surely that is the sound of knocking I hear above my head?"

Both men ceased talking and listened intently.

A slow and measured beat could be heard distinctly. Even as they listened it seemed to increase in volume, until it sounded as though someone were striking the roof above their heads with a muffled sledge.

Peter stared at his young master wide-eyed. Stout-hearted and faithful though he was, even he seemed to have been struck with fear at last.

"They are----" he began.

"Hush!" whispered Edgar warningly, turning away and again leaning head and arms on the haft of his great axe.

"What is it, Edgar?" asked Beatrice softly, placing her hand gently on the young man's shoulder. "Hide it not from me. Thou wilt, I hope, find that I can show fortitude when need be."

"I doubt it not," replied Edgar in a breaking voice. "But can I bring thee to such a pass and see thee perish unmoved?"

"But what is it?" reiterated Beatrice appealingly. "What meaneth this knocking which grows louder every moment? Look! The very wall seems to shake beneath these mysterious blows."

"Aye. It meaneth, Beatrice, that Black Eustace or blacker De Maupas is driving in the tunnel where it passes beneath the moat. Doubtless they are using an iron bar or a baulk of wood. Their unknightly and shameful plot is to drown us like rats, or to compel us to run the gauntlet of their fires. A few minutes and one or other fate is ours."

Horror-struck, Beatrice gazed at the roof of the passage, now perceptibly quivering beneath the blows from above. Already the water was trickling in between the widening cracks of the masonry and running in tiny streams down the wall to their feet. Once a block of stone had been driven in, an onrush of water must ensue that would quickly fill the tunnel. Though the dam that had held up the waters of the moat had been broken down, the stream water still flowed in volume sufficient to fill the tunnel a hundred times over.

"I must return to the mouth of the tunnel and seek speech with De Brin," cried Edgar, suddenly starting to his feet after contemplating the widening cracks in gloomy silence. "Better that thou shouldst wed De Maupas, evil fate though it be, than that thou shouldst perish thus miserably here."

"Nay, Edgar," replied Beatrice firmly. "Thou shalt do no such thing. 'Tis for me to say which fate is the better, and I elect to perish here among friends rather than to live elsewhere among enemies. Calm thyself and fret not at this mischance. _I_ reproach thee not."

In spite of his agitation, Edgar could not help gazing in sheer admiration at his companion. She seemed the calmest and most unconcerned of the three. His attention was then caught by Peter's movements.

The lad had, half-absentmindedly, prized open with his dagger a loose board near the top of the great chest. He had then plunged in his hand and taken out a handful of its contents, which seemed to be merely black dry earth. Holding the substance close to the torch, he examined it in some perplexity.

"What hast thou there, Peter?" eagerly asked Edgar, in whose mind a suspicion of the truth had already begun to dawn.

"I know not. 'Tis a handful of black grains, of which the chest seems full."

"Ha!" ejaculated Edgar with a gasp of excitement, reaching out and drawing Peter's hand to him. "'Tis that mysterious new powder of which we have heard of late. It possesseth a strange and mighty power which some think will bring great changes. I have heard it said[#] that it showeth promise of becoming a force to be reckoned with in warfare, even by knights clad in full armour."

[#] Gunpowder was used at Crecy shortly afterwards. It had, of course, been used in battle by the Venetians years before.

"What doth it here?" asked Peter, glancing at the chest with sudden awe.

"'Twas not here when last we came this way, and perchance Black Eustace, hearing of the unrest among his vassals, thought to overawe them by this strange and wellnigh supernatural force. Our sudden attack, and the rapid blows we never ceased to strike, have given him no opportunity to make use of his dread possession. Lift down the maid, Peter, and let us prize open the lid."

Peter obeyed, and in a moment the great chest lay open before them. It was full almost to the brim with the little black grains.

"A way of escape is opening before us!" cried Edgar, in a voice which vibrated with a new and mighty hope. "Beatrice, wilt thou permit us to leave thee and thy maid while we make a last attempt to carve a way to freedom? The risk is great, and it may well prove that we shall burst in the gates of death rather than wedge open those of life. But to remain here is to abandon hope."

For a moment Beatrice hesitated. The thought of being left alone with the insensible Jeannette in the gloomy tunnel evidently terrified her. In a moment or two, however, she answered bravely: "I will stay, Edgar."

"Then follow to the far end. We will leave thee a torch. Come, Peter, not an instant is to be lost--see how the water begins to gush through in streams!"

Rapidly Beatrice and Jeannette were conveyed to the castle end of the passage. Then the two young men sped quickly back to the great chest, replaced the lid, and lifted and carried it along in the opposite direction. Soon they reached the place where the door stood open, admitting the glare and heat of the great fires burning fiercely above.

"Set this down for a moment," cried Edgar, dragging the door to. He then seized his axe and attacked the hinges which held it in position. A dozen heavy blows rained down with the fierce rapidity of one fighting for his life, and the door fell outwards with a crash, letting in again the fierce glare which had been momentarily shut out.

As the door fell, the sound of cheers, followed by loud laughter, became audible. Evidently the thunder of the axe strokes had reached the ears of the men above, and had been received by them as evidence that the fugitives, driven frantic by the fear of an inrush of water, had thoughts of making an effort to break through the ring of fire.

"Wilt yield thee now, braggart esquire?" rang out the stentorian voice of De Brin, high above the crackling of the fires.

"Doubtless--an he gets the chance," answered De Maupas with a loud laugh of derision.

The sally was received with a roar of laughter from the assembled men-at-arms, whose enjoyment of the anticipated proceedings seemed great. At last they were obtaining some return for the alarms and defeats inflicted upon them by the despised peasantry.

"We shall see," muttered Edgar to himself as he darted out into the blazing heat about the steps, lifted the door, and bore it back into the tunnel. Then he again darted out, and with quick swings of the foot scattered the heap of burning brands at the foot of the steps until a space was cleared. The heat was great--wellnigh insupportable.

"Now, Peter," he gasped, once more bounding back into the partial shelter of the passage, "aid me to carry the chest to the foot of the steps. 'Tis our last and only hope."

Livid with superstition and fear, Peter obeyed. The box was quickly lifted to the foot of the steps and there set down. Then Peter darted back into the tunnel and Edgar followed, grasping the door as he passed and carrying it along with him.

The peril was tremendous, for at any moment the burning brands which dropped and rolled down the steps with every puff of wind might set light to the box and explode its contents. Knowing this, Edgar strained every nerve to put as much space between himself and the fires as possible. Half the length of the passage was traversed in safety, and then, with the thought of Beatrice in his mind, he called Peter back and raised the door upright so that it nearly closed the tunnel.

"Aid me to hold it thus, Peter. Set all thy weight against it. Perchance we may then keep the flame from penetrating to our charges. I know not much of this powder, but I fear the explosion will be terrible."

For nearly half a minute the two young men waited, holding the massive door in position. Then with a mighty roar and flash the explosion came. The noise was terrific, and the shock made the very earth tremble. The door was blown back flat, dashing the two young men to the ground like straws, and a rush of hot air sped over them like a hurricane. Jumping to their feet the instant it had passed, they lifted the door back into position and held it there, choking and gasping with the thick fumes and smoke of the fiery blast.

For a moment there was a calm, followed by the ominous sound of falling objects as the rocks, flung into the air by the explosion, dropped heavily back to the ground. Then all was still again.

"Prop this in position while we go back and see how fared the lady Beatrice," gasped Edgar. "If all is well with her, I believe we may yet win through to safety."

Back through the passage beneath the moat, now knee-deep in water, the young men pressed. The torch had been blown out by the rush of air, and all was pitchy dark.

"Beatrice! Beatrice!" shouted Edgar loudly.

"Here--I am safe--but in sore distress," came the reply, and with a cry of triumph Edgar sprang to her side.

Half-choked by the smoke and fumes, with torch blown out and knee-deep in water, Beatrice's heart had almost failed her, not knowing how her friends had fared exposed to the nearer shock of the dread explosion. Had they perished, her plight and that of poor Jeannette, whom she bore in her arms, would have been mournful indeed.

Burning with a desire to see the last of the passage which had almost become their tomb, Edgar lifted Jeannette without a word, grasped Beatrice by the hand, and stumbled back along the tunnel, Peter going on ahead. A faint light could be seen gleaming in the distance, and full of hope that the way lay open to the sky, they pressed on faster and faster.

Two-thirds of the length of the passage had been traversed when they encountered great heaps of fallen earth and masonry, over the top of which the gleam of daylight dimly struggled. Crawling and scrambling on all-fours as best they could, they made their way onward still, until at last they emerged into the open air in the midst of a great pit torn in the earth by the force of the explosion.

The air was still sultry with the heat of the fires, burning embers and blackened branches lay strewn about in all directions, and a thin veil of smoke lay over all. But not a sign of life was there, save upon the walls of the castle, where one or two figures could be seen peeping fearfully over the battlements.

Clambering up the side of the pit, the little party plunged hurriedly into the woods. The fate of the soldiery who had revelled about the fires they knew not, but they had no mind to be recaptured after all the terrors and privations they had endured. Even when well within the shelter of the woods, they still pressed breathlessly onward until they met a party of the peasants approaching the scene of the strange explosion with slow and timid steps. At the sight of Edgar's party they stopped and made as though to flee.

"Where is Father Armand?" cried Edgar quickly. "Fear not--we are flesh and blood. Take us to Father Armand--if he still lives."

With their fear changed into amazement the peasants clustered about the fugitives with every manifestation of joy and gladness. Then, at Edgar's repeated request, they led the way for a few hundred yards through the woods to where a larger number of the peasantry were gathered, doubtless awaiting the report of their scouts before venturing to approach the scene of the explosion. In their midst, supporting himself against the trunk of a tree, was Father Armand. At the sight of Edgar and his companions he gave a cry of pleasure, and, wounded as he was, made shift to stumble towards them with hands eagerly outstretched.

"All hope had I given up of seeing you again," he cried in a voice trembling with emotion. "I feared that you had stayed to fight on, and had been beaten down at last. Thank God you are safe!"

"Thank God indeed!" replied Edgar reverently, "for were it not for a strange discovery at the last moment we must have met a dreadful fate. Almost we were spent."

"That dread noise and quaking of the earth was it then thy doing?"

"Aye, Father; but of that I will tell thee later. Canst now have these maidens taken to a place of calm and safety, where some of the peasant women may minister to them? They have been through a trial this day that might well shake the courage of men used to facing death in many forms."

"They shall be taken to the cave, and there treated with loving care and hospitality," cried the priest; and calling two of his men he sent them off running to the village. Soon they were back with two women, who took charge of the maidens, and set out with them for the shelter of the cave.

With the departure of the ladies, Edgar's thoughts turned again to the task still remaining unaccomplished. Their enemies had no doubt been thrown into a panic by the strange and unexpected explosion, and, though exhausted and nerve-shaken, he felt reluctant to lose an opportunity of subduing them before they had had time to recover. So he proposed to Father Armand that he should lead those among the peasantry whose courage was still unbroken to the attack of the castle once more. The spirits of the depressed peasants had risen considerably at the appearance of the second of their leaders, and when the priest called for volunteers to follow Edgar nearly all responded.

Without a moment's delay, and straight forward to the gates of the castle, Edgar led the men. Crossing the filled-in moat, the band pressed through the gateway, and found their way barred by the merest handful of the defenders of the castle. At the first attack these, dumbfounded and dispirited, threw down their arms and surrendered.

Directing several men to take charge of the prisoners and to treat them well, Edgar next made for the door of the keep. This again was weakly defended, and he realized that almost without a stroke the castle had been won. What, then, could have become of De Brin and De Maupas? Could they have perished in the explosion?

Questioning the prisoners, Edgar found that only a bare half-dozen of burnt and panic-stricken men had succeeded in making their way back into the castle from the circle of fires in the woods. From none of these could news be obtained of their leaders, and it could only be concluded that they had been blown to pieces in company with the major part of their followers.

Desirous of avoiding the giving-up of the castle to promiscuous plunder, Edgar posted a guard at the gates, and withdrew with the rest of the band to the woods. Amid the rapturous cheers of the peasantry he reported their success to Father Armand. The good priest was indeed overjoyed to hear that the power of the oppressors of his flock was broken at last, and that no more bloodshed need be incurred.

With Edgar's desire to prevent indiscriminate plundering he heartily agreed, and a plan was quickly arranged by which all that was useful and valuable in the castle might be saved and used for the common good, and the building then be razed to the ground.

This arrangement was carried out to the letter, and in a day or two the site which had been disgraced by the grim Castle of Ruthenes bore nothing but a heap of tumbled ruins. No more could the mercenaries of the castle sally out and burn and destroy without let or hindrance, and no more need the poor villagers live in hourly dread of violence and extortion.

The survivors of the garrison were given the choice of settling down in the neighbourhood, where they could be kept under observation, or of being conducted over the mountains into Spain, well out of harm's way. Most elected to take the former offer, and were soon living on good terms with their erstwhile enemies.

As Father Armand and Edgar well knew, such summary justice might in ordinary times have brought a fresh body of soldiery to the spot, intent to rivet a yoke, perchance every whit as irksome, afresh upon their necks. But the confusion caused by the invasion of the English was so great that they had hopes that it might pass unnoticed.

Indeed, the invasion of the English was followed closely by the fearful depredations of the Free Companies and the general insurrection of the peasantry. Convulsed by these successive blows, France had little time or energy to spare for internal affairs, and if the news of the capture of Ruthenes ever reached the ears of the authorities, they were too much occupied to take any action, and the matter was allowed to fade into the obscurity of the past.

*CHAPTER XXII*

*The Last of Ruthenes*

The shock and strain of their trying ordeal beneath the castle moat was so great that it was some days before the lady Beatrice and her maid were sufficiently recovered to leave the shelter of their quiet retreat on the slopes of the mountains. They were tended devotedly by the kindly women-folk of the peasantry, and regularly visited by Edgar and Peter; but even so, it was nearly a week before Beatrice, eager to be gone though she was, could pronounce herself fit to travel on horseback.

When the news of their approaching departure was told to Father Armand he showed much concern.

"Deeply sorry shall I be to lose thee," he said to Edgar in a voice in which there was more than a trace of sadness. "I know that thy path and mine must diverge widely and that I shall never see thee more. We have been comrades, and stood shoulder to shoulder for a brief space, and it wrings my heart that it must be so no more. But come, 'tis useless to dwell upon our sorrows; the last act in the story of the freeing of Ruthenes is about to commence, and at least thou wilt stay to witness it?"

"What act is that, Father? The castle is now razed to the ground, and all seemeth already over."

"Nay, there is still one thing more to be done. Ye men of war think that once the citadel is captured all is done that is worth doing. Stay with us for a few short hours and then all will be ready."

Edgar assented gladly enough, for the thoughts of a final parting from the brave old priest were far from pleasing. The time was occupied in preparations for the departure, and when a summons came from Father Armand to meet him before the castle ruins all was in readiness for the journey.

Leading their horses through the wood, the little party presently emerged on the strip of sward which once surrounded the castle, and found themselves in the presence of an assemblage of the whole of the peasantry of the neighbourhood, drawn up in orderly array as though summoned to a ceremony. In front stood the priest, and as the ladies, Edgar, and Peter came into sight he beckoned them to approach. The contrast was great. Father Armand was robed as for Mass, while Edgar and Peter had donned most of their armour, and looked as martial as could be.

"'Tis a simple act I have now to perform," the priest said with solemn dignity, in a voice which reached to the farthest point of the assembly. "The emblem of cruelty and oppression is gone, and in its place I purpose to plant emblems of new life, pure and undefiled, which shall be to my people a sign of new hopes, new progress, and new joys."

Turning towards several young men and maidens clad in white near him, the priest spread his hands to heaven, and besought that a blessing might descend upon the act they were appointed to perform. Then he signed to the others to commence, and, with slow and subdued tread, the young men and maidens scattered over the ruins, bearing young shrubs, shoots, and climbing plants, and began to plant them everywhere.

"As these plants blot out the ugly blood-stained wreck of the stronghold of Eustace de Brin, so I trust will the memory and the injury of the wicked deeds this place has known grow dim and fade away. As the new shoots spring up to heaven so shall our faith in God and His goodness receive fresh life until we are a new people."

Reverently the priest spoke, and reverently his people listened and watched until the simple task was ended. Still the priest spoke to them, warning them that they let not slip the chance of fuller life and growth. Gently, too, he chided them that naught would be gained were the yoke of their oppressors but exchanged for an inward yoke of unrestrained selfishness or indulgence.

To Edgar the simple act, and the gentle, earnest words with which it was accompanied, seemed deeply impressive. The profession of arms, of which he had till then thought so highly, seemed to shrink and to become mean and transient when brought into contact with the healing powers of the good old priest. Almost he regretted that the future held out no hopes of his being able to relinquish the trade of arms, and to follow a profession more peaceful and more fraught with benefit to the world at large.

Presently Father Armand began to refer to their visitors' approaching departure.

"In the sudden appearance of Sir Squire here at the moment when our need was greatest I see the finger of God, and to God our thanks are firstly due. But we must yet tell our friend how much we owe him and his comrade for the dauntless courage with which they led us peasants, ignorant of the art of war, to the assault of the mighty castle upon whose dust we stand. How wisely they counselled us and how gallantly they led us, ever taking the foremost and heaviest tasks upon their own shoulders! Upon these maidens, whose misfortunes were the cause of our doughty friends' appearance, we bestow our blessing, and we trust that the memory of their sufferings may soon be blotted out in happiness and joy.

"Sir Squire hath refused to accept any presents from the contents of the castle, save only two mounts for the ladies from the best steeds the stables could provide. With those chargers and our thanks we must bid Godspeed to them, hoping that such a dread experience as the siege beneath the castle moat may never again be thrust upon them. Farewell, true friends, farewell!"

The priest advanced and embraced each of the party in turn, while the simple peasant folk crowded about, and, with many ejaculations of gratitude, signified in their own way their thanks for the strong and timely aid rendered them in their fight for freedom. As soon as he could, Edgar gave the signal for the party to mount, and with a last farewell they rode slowly and thoughtfully from the scene.

* * * * *

The shadow which lay over the Wolsingham ladies and their escort all the time they were in the neighbourhood of Ruthenes gradually lifted as they left the thick, dark woods and the slopes of the Pyrenees behind them. More and more freely they rode, until they were almost as gay as in their departure from Wolsingham but a month or two--though it seemed a lifetime--before.

Edgar took the journey in easy stages. True, Sir John would be anxiously awaiting their return; but the ladies were still scarcely recovered from their ordeal, and he had no mind to make any calls upon their endurance. Besides, somehow he seemed to look forward to the time when he should hand his charges over to his master with strangely little eagerness. So they lingered somewhat, and enjoyed to the full their journey through the beautiful land which was so soon to be devastated by invasion and internal strife. Beatrice, too, seemed to be content, and made no complaint that the pace was slow. One day Edgar had been speaking of Sir John, and wondering whether he would now be recovered sufficiently to take his place with the earl's force, which had doubtless by this time moved forward.

"Wilt thou stay with Gertrude in Bordeaux or travel to Faucigny, Beatrice?" he asked.

"I know not, Edgar," she replied. "I wish with all my heart that we might take Sir John back to Wolsingham. I am sure he will not be really strong enough for more campaigning for months to come."

"Ah--then I fear I shall have to bid you all a long adieu."

"Why--what meanest thou? Thou must come, of course."

"Nay, how can I? If Sir John cannot lead the Wolsingham men-at-arms against the foe, he will be certain to bid me take his place."

"That must not be. I will myself speak to Sir John. Thou hast warred enough--let others do their share. Thou oughtest now to settle down in peace."

"Ah--'tis the impossible of which thou speakest. Thou know'st, surely, that I have naught but my sword. 'Tis easy for those with broad acres to speak of peace, but for me, war and preparations for war are my sustenance."

"Take, then, of my acres--my possessions in Guienne, take them in part payment of my debt to thee. With our country at war with the King of France, they will need a strong arm indeed to defend them if they are not to be lost for ever."

Edgar's face flushed. "Nay----" he began, and then stopped suddenly. Absorbed in the conversation he had been caught napping. He and his companion had been riding some paces in advance of Peter and the maid, and had topped a rise without taking any precaution to see first what might be beyond it. Thus they found themselves in full view of what looked like an army on the march, with banners streaming and helmets and lance points gleaming in the sunshine.

One glance, however, was sufficient to tell Edgar that the force was at any rate largely English, and the hand he had momentarily laid in alarm upon his companion's bridle dropped again by his side. "'Tis the earl," he said. "Let us ride straight forward."

It was evident that they had been seen at least as quickly as they had seen, for half a dozen knights were already spurring rapidly towards them.

As they drew near, the foremost slackened speed and, addressing Edgar, cried:

"Who art thou and what is thine errand?"

"I am Edgar Wintour, esquire to Sir John Chartris. I and my party are riding into Bordeaux."

"Ha! Methinks I remember seeing thee in the lists a while agone. But come, follow me to the earl, for he will be glad to question thee and find out what thou know'st of the movements of our enemy."

Peter and Jeannette had by this time ridden up, and, preceded by the knights, the whole party moved forward to the head of the advancing army. As they drew close the column was halted, and in a moment Edgar found himself in the presence of the Earl of Derby and the other lords and nobles of the English and Gascon forces. All were mounted and clad in full mail in readiness for instant action.

"They tell me," said the earl, glancing keenly at the young man who had just ridden steadily up and saluted him, "they tell me thou art Edgar Wintour, the esquire of our good Sir John Chartris. If so, tell me what thou art doing here, in the enemy's country. I have heard somewhat from Sir John, but tell me all--and briefly, for our time is short."

In a few quick sentences, Edgar told the earl the story of his quest, its strange vicissitudes, and its successful accomplishment. Though the story lost much by its baldness and absence of detail, he could see that it made no small impression upon his hearers. One or two exchanged glances, though what they meant he scarce knew what to think.

"Humph!" said the earl shortly, "so thou hast been in league with the subjects of the King of France, hast thou? That remindeth me: was it not thou who masqueraded as Sir John Chartris in his combat of honour with our worthy Sir Gervaise de Maupas? Dost remember that, Sir Walter?" he said, turning to Sir Walter Manny. "Thou wert one of the marshals that day. Nicely wert thou tricked by this fledgling here."

Sir Walter frowned and growled an inarticulate reply.

Edgar turned pale. Things seemed to be going awry. He glanced at Beatrice, but she seemed merely amused. Angered at her indifference, he turned resolutely to the earl:

"I am not ashamed," he said, with a touch of haughtiness. "What I did seemed for the best, and who can do more?"

"We must see about that," responded the earl, quite unmoved. "Dismount, Sir Squire."

Mechanically Edgar obeyed. Disgrace and humiliation were hard indeed to bear, but firmly he held up his head and faced the earl. He would not flinch, he vowed, before his countrymen any more than he had flinched before his enemies in the Castle of Ruthenes. The earl's face had flushed and his eyes sparkled.

"Bow thy head," he cried peremptorily, and his sword flashed from its sheath. Rapidly but gently it fell upon Edgar's shoulder.

"Sir Edgar Wintour, we are proud of thee. Knightly hast thou borne thyself in field and castle, and the knight's spurs are thine indeed." There was a loud murmur of assent from the knights and nobles crowding about, and as it ceased, the earl went on: "Mount now and come with us a furlong or two, for time presses and I would ask thee if thou hast seen aught of our enemies. Then thou canst resume thy journey. But when and wherever thou wilt, we shall welcome thee to our banners."

Again there was a murmur of cordial agreement, and, with his head in a whirl, Edgar mounted and rode by the earl's side, answering his eager questions as best he could. Then he rejoined his companions, and, halting a few paces from the path of the army, watched them move forward upon their march of conquest. The sight was an inspiriting one, for the force seemed to strike the highest note of both hardihood and chivalry, and Edgar, as he watched, longed to take his place within its ranks.

Presently the last files of the army had passed by, the waving banners had receded into the distance, and the Wolsingham party, feeling a sudden sense of loneliness, had nothing left them but to resume their march towards Bordeaux.

For a long time the party was a silent one. Edgar was thinking over the changes which must ensue now that he was a gold-spurred knight. For one thing, he could no longer remain in Sir John's service. His late master could now scarce afford to support a knight, even if he desired to do so. Thus his connection with Wolsingham would seem to be at an end. The thought was hardly a pleasant one.

Beatrice, too, rode as though lost in thoughts none too bright, though once or twice she stole a quick look at her silent companion. Presently she roused herself with an effort, and began to rally Edgar on his gloominess.

"Thou art glum, Sir Edgar," she cried gaily. "Surely thou hast all thou canst desire--knighthood and a goodly fame, the earl's approval: what more canst wish for?"

"Yes, yes, Beatrice," replied Edgar half absently, "'tis as thou sayest. I have much to be thankful for--and yet there are some things I regret, for I fear 'twill mean that I must leave Sir John's service."

"Is that all?" asked Beatrice, raising her eyebrows in indifference.

Edgar's absence of mind vanished, and he stared at his fair companion with a chagrin that his sudden astonishment did not give him time to conceal.

"Is it--is it nothing to thee, then?" he stammered, after an awkward pause.

"Why should it be, Sir Edgar?" asked Beatrice easily.

"I know not--but I thought that perhaps what hath passed----" Edgar stopped quickly, feeling that what he was about to say was far from generous.

"What thou hast done for me, thou meanest? Thou shalt be paid."

"Paid!" almost shouted Edgar. "Not one groat will I accept. How can'st think of such a thing, Beatrice?"

"Dost scorn payment, Edgar? Mayhap thou wilt one day be glad to accept what ye now so scorn."

"Never, Beatrice!" cried Edgar emphatically. "'Tis true I am landless, but at any rate I can always ride away and join the league of the 'knights of the sword', or one of the other bands of knights who spend their lives defending Christendom from the inroads of the Turks. Long have I thought that with no means but a ready sword such might be my fate."

"Dost then look forward to warring all thy days?" asked Beatrice, a look of trouble coming into her face for the first time.

"Nay, how can I, with Father Armand's words still ringing in my ears? But----" and Edgar relapsed again into a silence which his companion for a long time did not care to disturb.

The following day they arrived at Bordeaux.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

*Sir John's Choice*

Our story draws to a close, and we must pass over the eager welcome that awaited the travellers from Sir John and his daughter, who were still at the inn. Sir John, indeed, had not progressed so rapidly as had been expected. His fever and his wounds had left him very weak, and he had but the day before resolved to leave France and return to Wolsingham until such time as he might have completely recovered. Gertrude, of course, was to go with him, and now that Beatrice had returned she, too, must accompany her guardian, and the visit to Faucigny had perforce to be completely abandoned.

With Edgar a knight, there was no question as to his movements. It was obvious that his duty was to join the earl's force without delay.

"Thou hast begun well, Edgar," remarked Sir John, when Edgar's final visit was drawing to a close. "Thou must go on and win fame, for I believe that this campaign will be filled with deeds which will add much to the honour and glory of England's name. I would that I might fling my sword into the conflict and strike a few more blows for my beloved country. But no--thou must represent me for the nonce."

Edgar bowed slightly.

"As for Beatrice here," went on Sir John, turning suddenly towards his ward, "she must home with me. I fear she is getting wayward and headstrong, and if I am to keep close watch upon every gallant who dreams of the revenue of her lands, my task will be no light one. Fortunately for me, I have the bestowal of her hand in marriage, and, with no little relief, I have decided to find a suitable husband for her. 'Twill lighten my responsibilities, and her lands need a good sword to defend them in these troublous times. I have for some time had in mind a knight of good descent and of staid demeanour, and I shall now bring matters to a head."

"But, Sir John----" stammered Beatrice in hot amaze.

"Be silent, maid!" cried Sir John angrily. "Wouldst dare to oppose thy wishes against the considered judgment of thy guardian?"

But Beatrice stood her ground rebelliously, tossing her pretty head in unmistakable anger and defiance. Nevertheless, Sir John showed no sign of relenting, and, not daring to oppose him openly, at last she turned with a look of appeal to Edgar, who was staring at the floor with an air that betokened no little disturbance of mind. His glance met hers, and it was clear to her that he knew as little of Sir John's plans as she.

"Who is this knight, then?" she cried in a stifled voice, turning again towards Sir John.

"He is a knight of some fame. One, moreover, of sober and godly habits."

"But who is he?"

"Think not that I will allow thee to question my----"

"Torture me not, Sir John!" cried Beatrice vehemently. "Who is he?"

"'Tis Sir Edgar Wintour, Beatrice."

"_Oh!_"

"Darest thou oppose my will, Beatrice?"

Beatrice was flushed, and looked as though she hardly knew which way to turn. Edgar was staring at Sir John as if he thought his ears had played him a trick.

For some moments there was silence, and then Sir John repeated his question, for Beatrice had turned away and was toying with her brooch.

"Dost oppose my will, Beatrice?"

"It would grieve me to disobey thee, Sir John," she said at length, in a tone of dutiful submission.

"He will make thee a good husband," replied Sir John, smiling in a way that made Beatrice inwardly furious. "What dost think of my choice, girl?"

Beatrice subdued her resentment as best she could, and replied demurely:

"Mayhap he is better than De Maupas."

"De Maupas! Canst say no more than that, Beatrice?" cried Edgar, breaking in impetuously.

"Not one word," replied the maid, with a haughty stamp of the foot as she turned the vials of her resentment upon the luckless Edgar. Sir John laughed outright, and with the best grace he could Edgar was, for the moment, forced to rest content. But a time would come, he vowed to himself, when a much more satisfactory reply should be forthcoming.

The farewells were soon said, and in a few hours Edgar was on his way to join the earl, while Sir John and his daughter and ward were en route for England. Though scarce another word was exchanged, it was nevertheless well understood between Beatrice and our hero that, on his return from the wars, he would receive a warmer welcome and the full payment promised him so readily a day or two before.

The campaign proved to be a brilliant one. It opened with a sudden and desperate onslaught upon Bergerac, where the French had strongly entrenched themselves. The town was stormed with a swing that so astounded the French that their forces dispersed before the earl, and allowed him to overrun Perigord and the Agenois with scarce an attempt at resistance.

Presently, however, the French collected a new army, and, returning to the attack, laid siege to Auberoche with ten thousand men. The news of the attack reached the Earl of Derby too late to enable him to collect a proper force, but, with the true spirit of chivalry, he started away for the scene with but three hundred lances and six hundred archers.

Arrived in the vicinity of the beleaguered town, the tiny English force stole upon the enemy under cover of a wood, and, regardless of their overwhelming strength, attacked them so furiously that the whole French army were glad to save themselves by flight. So great was the respect this feat brought to the English name that fortress after fortress fell into their hands with scarce a check, and it was not until France was completely aroused, and sent the Duke of Normandy with one hundred thousand men, that the small force of conquering Englishmen could be stayed.