Chapter XXIX

Captain Barringer--as the young officer of dragoons had now told Sylvia and the Comtesse his name was, while presenting the lieutenant to them as Sir George Saxby--showed both by his tone and words that the gravity of Bevill's position was extreme, though he took care to add that the fact of there being no Court of Inquiry ready to be formed at the present moment was a considerable point in his chance of ultimate escape.

In absolute fact, however, had it not been for the grief-stricken face of the handsome girl before him, the girl in whose eyes the tears now welled and hung upon the lids, even if they did not drop, and also the grave, solemn face of the Comtesse--he might have told them, as gently as possible, that in his soldier's mind the chances of Bevill's escape were almost nonexistent. "What," he asked himself, the question being but a flash of thought through his brain, and not expressed in words, "would our commanders have done had a Frenchman made his way into one of the strong places we now hold, as Bracton has made his way into Liége? What, if he were accused of slaying one of our supposed spies, if he had in his possession a letter from as great a hater of England as Lord Peterborough is of France, and if, contrary to all orders issued, he had endeavoured to escape out of one of those places with a young Frenchwoman who might divulge to her countrymen our plans and intentions? What, also, if that Frenchman had passed as an Englishman and had possession of two false passports made out in English names?"

Yet in another instant there had flashed to this astute young officer's mind another thought--one that was, this time, a recollection.

He recalled how at Nimeguen an almost similar case to this had occurred a little before Marshal de Boufflers had attempted to retrieve that city for the French, to wrest it from the Allies' hands. A Frenchman, named the Marquis de Cabrieres, a gentleman and gallant, too, had managed to obtain entrance into the place under the guise of an Englishman--a Jersey man--armed with papers describing him as a subject of the Queen; and had then endeavoured to assist a young French lady, his affianced wife, to leave in disguise under his care. Now he lay under sentence of death, since the warrant awaited the signature of Marlborough or Athlone when they should be in the neighbourhood again.

But a flash of thought alone, of memory, was all that passed through the young officer's mind, even as Sir George Saxby was telling Sylvia and the Comtesse that at this moment the Earl was encamped near a village called Asch, but half a day's journey off; yet his sudden recollection was enough--enough to convince him that, even as De Cabrieres was doomed by the English, so must Bevill Bracton be by the French for a parallel offence.

Now, however, he had no further time for reflection. Sylvia, hearing of their nearness to the one man who, in their minds, could by any possibility save her lover, was imploring both captain and lieutenant to either conduct them to where the great English commander was, or at least to direct them on the way to him.

"We can escort you," Captain Barringer now said, forcing himself to drive the above thoughts away and answer her, "since we are even now on our way to Asch. There is little more to be learnt here; for the moment the ground is clear of Frenchmen and Spaniards. Though, doubtless, ladies, you will scarcely believe," he went on in a purposely assumed lighter vein, hoping thereby to banish the agony of mind in which both the Comtesse and Sylvia were, "what excellent neighbours, warm and close, we have been sometimes with those Frenchmen and Spaniards. A hedge, a little copse, has sometimes only divided our pickets and outposts from theirs; the very tables on which we have broken our fast at some tavern have been used by them for the same purpose but an hour before; and sometimes, too, we have courteously exchanged a few volleys of musket balls with each other, but that is all! The great battle that must come soon is not yet; not yet. Still, it will come," he added more gravely.

And now they set forth for Asch, though but slowly and with difficulty, since the wheels of the carriage (which was only a coarse country thing, large and cumbersome and roughly made) had by now sunk deep into the oozy morass, and required not only the efforts of the driver, but also those of the troopers, to force it on its way. Nevertheless, Sylvia and her companion were soon on their road towards the goal of their hopes, but, although such was the case, Captain Barringer deemed it necessary to say that it was by no means certain that, even when they had reached the end of their journey, they would be able to see and speak with Marlborough.

"For his secretary, Mr. Cardonnel, guards him like a fiery dragon," the captain said; "and he is surrounded by his staff, who are also veritable watch-dogs; notwithstanding which we will hope for the best. While, since my Lord Marlborough is a very gallant gentleman, he will surely turn no deaf ear to ladies who desire to ask his services?"

With which, and many other courteous as well as hope-inspiring phrases, not only Captain Barringer but also Sir George Saxby endeavoured to cheer the way for these who were now under their protection.

It was as the sun set that, from the windows of the rough carriage, Sylvia and the Comtesse gazed out upon the lines of the English army upon which were fixed the hopes of all who still trembled in fear of the powerful and arrogant monarch who from Versailles sent out his orders for wholesale spoliation and aggrandisement. He was the hope of Protestants in the sunny south of France, as well as of those in the more temperate land of Prussia and of those who dwelt all along the fair banks of the Rhine; the hope of all those who inhabited that vast district which stretched from the German ocean to the north of France on one side, and to Hanover another. While--bitter mockery when it is remembered what the origin of the present war was!--the same hopes for the downfall of this Grand Monarque--this prince termed the "God-sent"--were felt in far-off Spain by Roman Catholic hidalgos who loathed the thought that a French king should sit upon the throne once owned by those in whose veins ran the blood of Castile, of Aragon, the Asturias, and Trastamara. Hopes shared, too, though silently, by the rude fishermen of Biscay and Galicia as well as by the outlaws and brigands of Traz os Montes and Cantabria, who, while they bowed the knee to Romish emblems and statues, cursed in their lawless hearts the monarch who would endeavour to obtain for himself the throne that they and their forerunners of centuries had fought for, while putting aside temporarily their existence of plunder and brigandage.

Beneath a blood-red sun setting behind purple clouds that told of further storms and downpours still to come, the Comtesse de Valorme and Sylvia saw the long English line stretching from village to village; from the hamlet of Asch on the right to that of Ghenck on the left, and with Recken and Grimi on either flank. Also, they saw that with which both were well acquainted--the banner of England flying from a large tent in the middle of the camp, as well as the colours of regiments which, in that day, young in service, have since transmitted and gloriously maintained the reputation then acquired.

"Here, if nowhere else," the Comtesse said, "one should feel safe; yet, oh!" she whispered half to herself, "that I, a Frenchwoman, should have to seek double succour from my country's enemies! Simply because the ambition, the fanaticism of one man bears heavily on thousands of lives. Double succour! On one side for my own people; on the other for one, also my country's foeman, whom I have learned--to pity."

But Sylvia heard her words, low as the murmur was in which they were spoken, and answered gently:

"You are but one of all those thousands whose hearts he--this splendid bigot--is turning from him; but one alone of those who, throwing off their allegiance to him for ever, are peopling lands strange to them. Regret it not, reproach not yourself for that. Better die an outcast, yet free; a voluntary exile than an ill-treated subject, a slave. While as for Bevill--but ah! I dare not speak, not think of him. Beyond Heaven, in whose hands we all are, his--our--hopes are in him whom now we go to seek."

The carriage, escorted by the two dragoon officers who rode ahead of it, and by their handful of troopers behind, was now nearing that great tent over which streamed in the light of the setting sun the flag of England, and also passing through lines of English soldiers. Past the Cuirassiers, or Fourth Horse, it went--Sylvia's hand to her heart as she recognised that this was the regiment to which _he_ had once belonged, from which he, wickedly, unjustly, had been cast out. Past, too, the gallant Scots Regiment of White Horses, as well as "Coy's Horse," or 2nd Irish Horse, the King's Carabineers, and many others of the cavalry, as well as several infantry regiments, including fourteen companies of the Grenadiers. And, at last, they were outside Marlborough's tent: the moment to which both had looked forward, from which they hoped so much, was at hand.

"I will enter to my lord's staff," Captain Barringer said, "and state your desires. Meanwhile, something of your names and condition I must know. What shall I tell him, whom announce?" and his eyes fell on the Comtesse, perhaps because she was the elder. Upon which she answered:

"Tell him," she said, "that a Protestant Frenchwoman from Languedoc seeks assistance from him on two matters--both grave, and one vital. A Frenchwoman whose name is Radegonde, Comtesse de Valorme."

The captain bowed, while repeating the words to himself as though to impress them thoroughly in his mind; then he looked at Sylvia.

"Tell him," she said in turn, "that an Englishwoman, one Sylvia Thorne, is here to seek succour from him for the man she loves--the man who, if God so wills it, is to be her husband. And that man is a countryman to both my lord and her. Also he has been an English soldier. But this you know."

It was half an hour later that the captain came back, and, speaking in a low voice, said that the Earl of Marlborough would receive the ladies who desired to speak with him. After which he handed them out of the carriage, and, taking them to the opening of the tent, passed them through the sentries on either side. From there he confided them to a man who had the appearance of being a body-servant, one who bade them respectfully follow him.

But as they left the captain he whispered in their ears:

"Have no fear, no trepidation; and tell him all--all! You are about to see the most brilliant soldier, the most courtly gentleman, in Europe."

A moment later the man had held a curtain aside and had retired after letting it drop behind them again, and they were face to face with the greatest captain of the age.

He was standing in front of a brazier in which burned some logs, for the evenings were growing colder now and the damp was over all, and as the women's eyes fell on that handsome presence and noted the wonderful serenity of the features, any trepidation they might have felt vanished.

Clad in his dark blue coat--he was Colonel of the Blues--with, beneath it, the ribbon of the Garter across his breast, he stood facing the curtain until they appeared, and then, advancing towards them, lifted the hand of each to his lips, while murmuring some courteous phrase, immediately after which he placed two rough chairs before them and begged them to be seated.

"Madame la Comtesse," he said now, and they noticed the refined, courtly tones of a voice that, though soft and even, was a little shrill. "I have heard your tale briefly from Captain Barringer. If help can come from me it shall. Yet am I vastly concerned to know how I can offer aid."

"My lord," said Sylvia, lifting her eyes to his, while little knowing how he had noticed her beauty in one swift glance, "it is said in Liége that you will be soon there; and then--then--then the French will be no longer in possession of that city."

His lordship smiled slightly as she said this and seemed to muse an instant, after which he said:

"It may be so; but ere that can be, I must clear my way to Liége. There are towns and fortresses upon the road. Venloo is one, and time is necessary."

"Time! Oh!" the girl almost gasped. "Time! And in that time they may have tried Mr. Bracton and--ah! I cannot utter it!"

"It may indeed be so," he murmured, seeing the look on Sylvia's face. "I would not say a word to alarm you; but courts-martial, trials in war time, are apt to be swift. And the condition of Mr. Bracton is perilous; he has placed himself in a dangerous position."

"My lord," the Comtesse said, "we have heard but lately that in your hands is one, the Marquis de Cabrieres, who lies under sentence of death for a similar offence against you and a town in your possession. Yet he still lives. May it not be the same, may we not hope the same respite, for Mr. Bracton?"

As she spoke, not only she, but Sylvia too, saw that her words had had some strange effect on the Earl. They observed a light come in his eyes, a little more colour mount to his cheeks--evidences that those words had produced in his mind some striking effect. That effect they were soon to learn.

He went to a coarse, wooden table, covered with papers--a table that had, doubtless, been purchased with many others for a few gulden at some town through which the army passed, and, taking from off it two of those papers, said, as he held them in his hand:

"Here is a letter to M. de Boufflers which I have caused to be written--such things are usual enough between the conflicting armies--suggesting an exchange of prisoners----"

"Ah!" exclaimed Sylvia. "I understand."

"Yet, see," Marlborough went on imperturbably, "I destroy it," and he suited the action to the word. Then observing, as he observed everything, the look of horror, of broken-hearted grief, on the faces of the others at his action, he added, "Because Mr. Bracton's name is not in it; because I was ignorant of him, though now I remember his name and the circumstances of his removal from the Cuirassiers. Yet, I beseech you, be easy in your minds. Another letter shall be written; it shall contain his name."

"God in heaven bless you!" Sylvia murmured.

"This," his lordship went on, touching with his finger the second paper, "is my warrant for the execution of the Marquis de Cabrieres--as a spy; but that too shall be destroyed," and again he suited the action to the word. "Each of those men has committed the same offence--for an offence it is against the opposing forces. Only, it is war time, and, as the offence is equal, so may the pardon be. If it can be done, if Mr. Bracton has not yet paid the penalty, it may be that the Maréchal de Boufflers and I can adjust matters."

With a sob wrung from her heart by those last words as to Bevill having possibly paid the penalty, Sylvia flung herself at Marlborough's feet while uttering all that she felt at his graciousness and mercy. But, as she did so, as still she held his hand and called on heaven again and again to bless and prosper him, and while he, gallant, chivalrous as ever and always, endeavoured to raise her to her feet, he said:

"Only, above all, hope not too much. Do not allow your hopes too full a sway. England and France, Anne and Louis, De Boufflers and I are at war to the death, and war is merciless. Further defeat may drive the Marshal to desperation. Also, we know not what may be transpiring at Liége. I would not rouse more fears in your heart than it already holds. Heaven knows, I would not do so. Yet still I say again, 'Hope not, expect not, too much.'"

"I must hope," Sylvia moaned. "I must, I must. I have nought but hope left. I must hope in God's mercy first, and--under Him--in you."

It was well indeed that she should have hope to comfort her at this time--well, too, that she did not know what was doing in Liége even as she knelt at Marlborough's feet.

For had she done so she must have deemed there was no longer any hope to be expected on earth either for her lover or herself.