Clash of Arms

And he heard other sounds ere he was gone from outside that door-those from the human throats within!

First the voice of the man he supposed to be Beaujos, shouting:

"Awake, you vagabonds, awake! Hark to the dogs! Unbar the door. Heaven and earth, there are some without! 'Tis sure! Unbar, I say."

Also, he heard cries from the men themselves, the clatter of their wooden-shod feet upon the flags-of this there was no doubt-a grating noise in the great lock, and a thumping sound as though some ponderous transverse wooden bar had been thrown back to admit of the door being opened.

And, from where he was, he could perceive now a vast body of light streaming out into, and mixing with, that of the moon, could hear the deep-mouthed bay of the hounds broken by short angry barks.

From where he was by this time, namely, passing swiftly down to the open spot where the three saplings grew, pushing branches large and small aside, trampling down the wet leaves and sodden grass, he prayed fervently that he might reach the spot outside where his horse stood ere they found him. For, brave man as he was, and ready to face a dozen, or a score, of human foes, his blood curdled in him at the thought of those ferocious fangs tearing him to pieces; the thought of the hot breath of the brutes in his face as they sprang at his throat and dragged him to the earth.

"Any number of men," he said, "and armed to the teeth I can face and laugh at, but five men and two hounds such as those-nay, I am no coward to avoid them."

Yet, even as those thoughts coursed through his brain, he shuddered and his flesh crept. The deep bays had ceased; so, too, the equally deep barks; but now he heard another and a more fearsome sound in their place. A sound of snorting, of heavy soughing, low down on the earth, mingled with the crushing and snapping of brush and underwood.

He knew what those sounds meant.

The hounds had found his trail, were on the scent.

There was no doubt of it, there could be no chance of doubt-a glance back over his shoulder showed him it was so. Close to the ground, not fifty paces off, were sparkling two pairs of beautifully green circles. Those circles were the eyes of the dogs that were tracking him, as they glistened in the darkness of the wood.

CHAPTER XIX

WHERE IS DE BOIS-VALLÉE?

Andrew thanked God for one thing! He was near the wall, near the spot outside which the horse stood. Down through an opening a little way ahead of him he could see the three trees-the shadow which they cast being directly under them now as the moon rose higher-a hundred feet to the left, and there was the wall and the branches of the tree by which he had descended! But-could he reach them?

The dogs were nearer now-their eyes scintillating less as they approached more closely, but their grunting and soughing as they sniffed the earth more distinct. They would be upon him soon-in another moment or so-and then!

Still, he ran as hard as the thick growth of the trees and the underbrush would allow him; once he stumbled and nearly fell, recovered himself, and, as he did so, saw them-saw their dark forms close behind him! Yet, now, he was near the spot where safety lay. Only-he was too late!

As they rushed at him he sprang behind a tree-it would save him for an instant! – and one of the brutes tore past it ahead of its companion, and went on some paces ere it could stop the impetus it had upon it. The other came full at him.

"Now," he murmured, "now, God give me courage!" and as the beast came he thrust full with his sword at its breast, and just as it reared to drag him down. Then he felt his weapon torn from his grasp, wrenched from out that great brawny hand as no human foe had ever yet had power to wrench it-but it was by the falling body of the hound, pierced through and through. The good sword had entered the animal's breast and come out close by its spine; as the dog fell, with a hideous roar, the weight of its body carried the sword within that body to the earth. Yet, he knew there was no time to waste; in spite of the dying creature's snappings and plungings at him-its ferocity as great in death, if not greater, as in life-he must regain his sword. Otherwise he would have to use the pistol on the second dog, and thereby give a signal to the men, whom the beasts had far outstripped, as to his whereabouts.

By the grace of heaven the dying creature had fallen on its back, the hilt of his sword protruded from its chest; in a moment he had seized it and drawn it forth-never before had Andrew been forced to so exert his strength to release his weapon from the body of a prostrate foe! It seemed as though it were wedged in wood! But, now, he was ready for the other! And, leaping back, he stood on his guard against those monstrous claws and the hideous white fangs that gleamed in what light there was; the body of the convulsive creature between him and the other hound.

Yet there happened that which he could not have hoped for-could never have dreamt of nor anticipated. His wildest expectations, even had he had time to think in those exciting moments, could never have pictured this.

The animal-it was the female-paused in its onward rush astonished-almost, it would appear, dismayed-at the sight of its fallen companion; then walked round it-crawled round it, indeed-sniffing, and lifting its head next, and emitting a loud and long howl. It seemed as if its agony was so great that all else was forgotten-even Andrew, its quarry.

Slowly, therefore, he backed away from it, keeping ever his eye upon the moaning, grief-stricken creature-taking care, too, that his reeking sword was ready for thrusting out at any sudden attack made, and also taking care to have ever some tree in front of him as he retreated, which might ward off for the moment any rapid rush. Yet, moving swiftly backwards all the time, for now he heard other sounds coming near-the sounds of men talking hurriedly to each other and calling the names of the hounds; above all others, the harsh rasping voice of Beaujos, if it were he, being the most distinct.

At last his back was to the wall that bounded the domain. Propelling himself sideways along it, and facing always towards the quarter whence the attack must come if renewed by the stricken beast, he felt the leather of his jacket scraping against the tendrils of the ivy with which the wall was overgrown; a few more seconds and he was by the tree that had helped him to descend. And his horse whinnied as he sent a whispered word over the wall to it-whinnied and moved; he could hear its hoofs striking the earth as though the creature rejoiced at his return.

Another moment and he would be safe. His hands were on the lower branches; he was drawing himself up level with the top of the wall, when there came an awful roar and the crash of the dog's great body tearing through the brush after him, while an instant later it had reached the spot-was close by the escaping man. And the horse, affrighted by these sounds, neighed piteously in its terror.

But Andrew was safe. As the huge jaws clashed together at the same time that the hound sprang at him, and, missing his mark, hurled itself heavily against the wall in its onrush-while, at the same time, it uttered a grunt of pain-he was on the ledge. Another instant, and he was in the saddle. Another, and the bridle chains were clanking and his saddle creaking merrily as he went down the road and left behind him the noise of the yelling and shouting of the five men-caused, doubtless, by the discovery of the dead hound.

He wiped the sweat from off his face and hands as he rode along, while inwardly he sent up a devout prayer of thanksgiving for his preservation.

"Heaven defend me from such another encounter," he muttered. "It is too much! Henceforward, send me only men, not brutes." Yet, because he loved all animals-especially those of the noblest orders-his heart was sore within him, both at the slaying of the first hound and at the pitiable grief of its mate. "I have killed a nobler creature than the master it owned; at least, it faced me, rushed boldly to its fate-but where is that shrinking, unworthy master? May fortune grant that, when next I see him, my sword makes as clean a passage through his breast as through that of his dog."

Where was his foe? He had pondered upon that more than once since the time he had brought his eye to the large and worn keyhole, and had seen through it only that foe's menials. Where? Surely if he had been in his house he must have been aroused by the baying of the dogs and the excitement and noise of his servants-must have joined in the search made by them. Yet, of all the voices, Andrew had not heard his.

"He must be away-for some reason he has not remained here long-what does it mean? Did he fly his post by Turenne's side for other purposes than his fear of me, and of what he imagined I had learnt-does he even dread now to remain in his own fortress-for such it almost is! It must be so. Had he been there to-night the turmoil would surely have roused him-brought him forth-and-" at which thought Andrew smiled. "He could not have suspected I was there, however. Even his men can but have supposed the intruder was some midnight thief, or poacher, creeping about the house."

He passed through Remiremont as it lay sleeping quietly under the moon's rays, and with no light glimmering from any windows except that of the inn-from which, even now, at midnight, came forth the eternal chant of "Lorraine, Lorraine, ma douce patrie," and he would have given something considerable for a drink of wine, or even of water, to quench the thirst which his late adventure had created. But he knew he must forego it until he reached Plombières-the road he was upon came only from Bois-le-Vaux; to halt here would be to give a clue as to what kind of man had been within its precincts that night, should inquiry be made the next day.

Instead, therefore, he went quietly by the auberge, riding slowly so as to make no more clatter than necessary, and looking carefully as he passed to see if any face came to the window or any form to the door. But none did; the provincial song drowned the sound of the horse's hoofs, and he went through the village unheeded.

And then, once on the little pass that led from Remiremont to Plombières, he put his animal to the trot again, and so reached the latter place as the church clock tolled one, finding some of De Vaudemont's men still drinking and singing, and some lying about on the settles and benches, their carousals over for that occasion.

In the morning he told Jean-who had spent the night in Plombières at another inn with some acquaintances who were also back from the war for the winter-all that had happened to him, and the latter appeared much struck by the encounter with the hounds. Yet, he shook his head, too, on hearing of the conclusion of the adventure, and muttered a few words as to the effect of its being "a pity."

"What is a pity?" asked Andrew, looking up from his plate. They were alone now, for most of the De Vaudemont men had already set out for the outlying villages to which they belonged, others were not yet risen, and others, still, were wandering about Plombières chatting with friends and acquaintances, and beginning another day of wassailing. Therefore, they had the living-room of the inn to themselves.

"What is a pity?"

"That also you did not slay the second dog, I know the breed, though I knew not that the scélérat, De Bois-Vallée, possessed any. They are mountain dogs-old Cantecroix-whose daughter was affianced, if not married, to the Duke-some do say that she was his lawful wife-bred them, up at Gerardmer. One scarce knows, though, what this strain is-the old man would never tell-but they are terribly fierce, as monsieur has learned. Also, their scent is remarkable; they never forget those they have once smelt, and-"

But here he broke off and put a question.

"Monsieur intends to visit Bois-le-Vaux again?"

"Without doubt I do. Only, next time in a different way."

"You should have slain the other. She will remember you."

"Peste, man! how could I slay her? I was on the branch-on the wall-as she reached me; my sword is not a mile long, and it would have been folly to shoot. The men were near; the report would have brought them to us-and I was saved. That was enough."

"All the same, 'tis a pity. The dog should be dead ere monsieur goes again. Of a surety she will smell him out if he is in or about the house. And, when she scents him, she will go nigh mad in her desire to reach him; will make noise enough to wake the dead."

"Humph!" said Andrew. "Perhaps 'tis a pity, too, since such is the case. Yet, 'tis too late now. There is nothing to be done."

"Ho, la, la!" exclaimed the other, "'tis not yet too late. She can be made away with. There are more ways than one of killing a dog."

For a minute or so Andrew reflected on the man's words. Reflected, because it was repugnant to him that the creature should be put out of the way-a creature who, although a brute, was a noble one. Yet, must her life stand in the way of what he had to accomplish-must he spare the hound and, thereby, fail in what he had to do, namely, to find his way to Marion Wyatt, to avenge his brother? No! If the animal stood between him and his task, better she perished a hundred times-better a hundred noble animals perished than that he should fail.

"She is certain to remember me-to discover my presence there when I return-you think?" he asked, still touched with regret at the necessity for her fate.

"I do not think. I am sure."

"How to do it, then?"

"Leave that to me, I will do it. To-day, I will go to my cousin-we had best know what they conclude from the affray last night-and then I shall find my chance. To-morrow, or the day after, the dog will have gone to join its mate. When next you visit Bois-le-Vaux you will not have her to contend with for one."

Andrew would not ask him in what way the creature was to be destroyed, though he imagined it was by the simple method of poison; he preferred that he should simply learn later that it was removed from his path. He had seen enough of the alertness of both it and its mate to thoroughly understand how keen their senses were-they had discovered his presence outside on the place when not one of the human sleepers had been disturbed; also, he had had solid proofs of their fierceness. And, if now, to that fierceness and that keenness, was to be added also the certainty that the dog would be doubly alert through its previous knowledge of him, it must be removed. The lives of countless noble hounds must not stand in his way, he thought again.

"So," he said, therefore, "it must be. Let me know ere I go there once more that it is done. Also, bid Laurent meet me here as soon as may be. I have work for him-need his assistance."

"To enter Bois-le-Vaux-the house this time, perhaps?"

"Ay, the house this time."

"You do not count nor dread the risk?"

"I dread nothing. As for counting, it is done. I count my life against the undertaking. One or the other will rise uppermost. Either the undertaking succeeds, or I fail. If I fail, the price of failure will be, must be, death."

"Monsieur is very brave," said Jean, looking at him with eyes full of admiration.

"He is very determined," Andrew answered. "That is all."

"And," the man asked, after a moment's pause, "the instructions are the same? If you come not back soon-in a day or so-we are to be sure you are dead? Then, to take our own way."

"Remembering always the woman's safety."

"That always."

After which Andrew told him there was one other thing he desired to know ere paying his next visit to the house, namely, where De Bois-Vallée was! If that could be discovered it would be useful intelligence to him. Did he think he could find out?

He could try, at least, Jean said. And, though gone, he might be able to find out where the Vicomte was. He could, he thought, discover whether he was at home or not.

"Do that," said Andrew, "and it will suffice."

CHAPTER XX

ACROSS THE CHASM

"The moon," said Andrew, "is past her full, therefore she will not rise until close upon eleven. Now is the time."

He was seated in the general room, or parlour, of La Tête d'Or, and opposite to him was Laurent-it being the third day after his visit to Bois-le-Vaux.

He had the inn to himself now, as far as regarded visitors, since all of De Vaudemont's service, as well as several other Lorrainers who had returned with their masters from the campaign, had by this time gone to their respective homes. Yet, to some of them a hint had been given-a whisper sent round-that one of those who were most hated amongst the seigneurie might ere long be brought to his account, and that, if they desired to participate in the knowledge of what was happening, they should let Jean know their whereabouts.

"For," said he, over many an ale-house table in various villages around, "there may be some brave doings ere long-doings in which some of you may like to share. There are many of us who have had our noses to the grindstone a long while-many who have eaten hard bread so that those who have dominated us should feed well-some, too, whose hearths have been made desolate. Well! it may so happen now-God, He only knows! – that there will be one more hearth desolated soon. That-well! – that the oppressor shall have no hearth to warm himself at."

He had given many other hints, too-accompanied by divers winks and nods and shrugs, common to peasants of his class-hints that there might be a house to be burnt down and so forth; a fearful retaliation to be made on one whom they, in that part of Lorraine, had come to regard as a pest and curse; a man who was a traitor to all their traditions; one who-this being in the eyes of many the worst crime possible-had given in his allegiance to France.

And in the telling of all this he had so inflamed the imagination of his hearers-rude soldiers, mostly, who had been born and nurtured in the one idea that, above all other things, France was never to be permitted to enfold in her grasp their fair province of Lorraine-that, at any moment, they would be willing to rise and wreak their vengeance on the man at whom Jean hinted. And, their curiosity being also much aroused, as was natural enough, they tried hard to extract from him the name of the identical seigneur against whom such retaliation would probably be practised. This, however, he would not divulge-having been warned by Andrew and Laurent on no account to do so-and, thereby, inflamed their imagination the more! So that, when he left them, he did so knowing that they were fully primed to join at any moment in any attack to which they might be summoned, should the necessity arise; both he and Laurent believing in their own minds that that opportunity would not be long in coming.

For, though both these men considered that it was most probable Andrew would obtain the entrance to the mansion of Bois-le-Vaux which he desired, neither of them thought he would ever return or escape from that mansion alive. And, with him destroyed, there would be no further necessity for delaying the project on which they and others had long meditated-the project of destroying and razing to the ground the ancient home of the De Bois-Vallées. Therefore, the warning to those others had gone forth; they were bidden to be ready.

"So," said Laurent now, in answer to Andrew's remark, "it is to be to-night?"

"It is to-night. If all goes well I shall be in the house by ten o'clock, and out of it again an hour later with, I trust and pray, the lady safely rescued."

"I pray so," Laurent answered. But again he whispered to himself, as he had done before, that the English stranger would never return alive. He would be caught, discovered by some of the servitors-men thoroughly in their master's interests, since he at any moment could send them to the gallows-tree for past offences-and would be set upon and slain. Yet, when he told Andrew this, the other turned a deaf ear to him-refused to believe in such peril.

"There are five," he replied, "since their master is away-what devil's work is he on now, I wonder? What are five? How many times think you, my friend, have I been opposed to five men in the campaigns I have made? Why! 'twas but at Entzheim the other day that I was alone and unsupported amongst a dozen of the Duke of Holstein-Pleon's soldiers; yet, as you see, I am here, and without a scratch."

"Ay, I see," muttered Laurent, "but 'twas on an open field, your friends and comrades near you, ready at any moment to come to your assistance as, doubtless, they did. Oh! I know, I have been a soldier myself! But now, see, it is different. You will be alone in a strange house-in the dark-egress impossible during an attack on you. Mon Dieu! you will be run through and through or shot ere you can get back to the slope-with no possibility of help from friends and comrades there. Heavens!" he concluded, "the risk is fearful."

"Bah!" answered Andrew, his nerves not touched one whit by Laurent's forebodings. "Bah! 'Twould want forty men to place me at such disadvantage as you speak of. For, observe! I shall be at the top of the house, since I enter that way, and she is also there-do not you-one who has been a soldier-see the advantage I have? Five cannot mount the stairs abreast, 'tis unlike they will be broad in that part of the house. As they come singly, or in twos, I shall have my chance."

"They will use firearms."

"And so shall I. Fear not, my friend, I shall return alive."

And again Laurent said, "I pray so," while, again, he thought to himself, "It is impossible."

Then Andrew asked him if it was certain, as Jean had reported, that the dog was dead?

"He says," replied the other, "that almost for sure it must be. He and his cousin have laid the poison carefully; the cousin, indeed, getting at the meat with which it is fed. It cannot be still alive."

"Therefore," said Andrew, "I am safe from its discovery. Yet, poor beast, I would it had not been necessary."

"Pray God it is dead," replied Laurent. "Pray God it is. For if it still lives when you are in that house, nothing can save your presence from being known."

"Bah! croaker! Even if it still lives it must have a strong scent to discover me in the topmost part of the building when they are all below. I will not believe it."

After which he set about making all necessary arrangements for reaching the mansion into which he had resolved to penetrate that night.

They were soon concluded, as he himself had pondered much over them during the time that had elapsed since his escape from the jaws of the hounds on that, his first and only, visit-it but remained for him to go over them carefully with Laurent. Therefore, he asked now, "Is the coil of rope safely bestowed?"

"Ay, it is," Laurent replied. "Thirty good metres of the newest and best. Placed in our hut far down the slope, where the wood is kept after the felled trees are cut into billets. It is there. To-night we shall find it."

"'Tis very well. Now listen. To-night I set forth from this inn and shall reach Gaspard's cabin about the hour of nine. You will be there. Then we shall descend without loss of time and, ere ten minutes have elapsed, I shall be across. It will not take long, once the rope is fixed to that chestnut which grows close down to the summit of the wall."

"It will not take long, in truth," Laurent replied. "That will not, Monsieur," and the man's face testified true anxiety. "It is the returning I fear."

"Dispel your fear-I shall return."

"And with the lady?"

"And with the lady!"

"Suppose," said Laurent, "you find her guarded by the woman. It may be she sleeps with her, or close by her side. What then?"

"I must find means to silence without hurting her." While, impetuously, he said, "My friend, all is thought of-as far as may be, all foreseen. I know well the risks and dangers I have to encounter. See. Let me tell them over to you," and swiftly he proceeded to do so.

"First-there is the risk that the rope may break-then-"

"For that never fear! I guarantee that!"

"So be it. Then, first-since that counts not-I may be seen ere I reach the roof by someone on the look out-'tis not very like, yet it may be so. Whereon I shall be shot like a sparrow, and die hanging 'twixt earth and heaven. Or, let me reach the roof, and be hacked to death, or hurled to the paved court below. Is not all possible?"