The Scourge of God

Then they bade the sentry on the walls fire a salute from the old saker which had stood them since Ru de Servas had held the castle for Henry of Navarre.

It was answered by a blast from a trumpet far down in the valley, after which the two men standing there, watching the oncoming relief, traced its progress until at last the band were on the slopes beneath the castle gateway.

"You are welcome," the commandant called out to one who rode ahead of all the others, richly apparelled in the bleu du roi coat, and wearing a well-powdered, deep wig à la brigadier which hid all of his head except his features beneath the great felt hat that he wore above the peruke; "welcome in the name of the king for whom I stand here. Are you sent, monsieur, to increase our garrison or to escort mademoiselle, his Excellency's daughter, to safety?"

"Mademoiselle, his Excellency's daughter, to safety!" the young officer exclaimed, repeating the other's words in evident astonishment-an astonishment equally testified by all at his back. "His Excellency's daughter! Is she here?"

"She is here. Did you not know it?"

"Not I! or be very sure we would have been here before. Her safety is indeed precious." Then at once he commenced an explanation of their appearance at the château.

"Monsieur," he said, "I am the nephew of M. de Broglie, and with these others have escaped the fate which has fallen on his followers. Also, by good chance, we have taken these six villainous attroupés prisoners. Yet, since they delay our progress to Alais, we have come here to ask your permission to imprison them in your château. They will be safe with you."

"Ha!" laughed the old commandant, "mort de ma vie they will. Safe! Yes, till they stand with their backs against the wall of the courtyard and with a platoon of musketeers en face. Oh, yes, very safe! Bring them in, monsieur, the gates shall be open; also to yourselves. You must not proceed to-night ere you have supped and slept-"

"It is impossible," the nephew of M. de Broglie answered. "It is impossible; we must journey on to Alais."

"And I say it is impossible you can do so. What! refuse a bite and a sup, a bed with a comrade, also the acquaintance of Monsieur l'Intendant's daughter? Fie! Nay, more, you must turn back at dawn and escort the lady to Montpellier. Ho! 'twill not be long ere you find yourself brigadier after that service."

Again the young officer protested, again said it was impossible. They must proceed even though they missed a sight of les beaux yeux de mademoiselle. Yet, even as he so protested, the commandant saw signs of his yielding and urged his plea still more.

At last, however, he won upon the other. After still more refusals, M. de Broglie's nephew, having consulted with a second officer of the troop, yielded by degrees, saying finally that they would remain until daybreak; would so far forego their duty as to sup and sleep in the castle.

And now the great gate of the château opened and all the dragoons of De Broglie and Hérault came in, the horses being tethered in the courtyard, while the wretched prisoners were told roughly by the second in command that they could throw themselves down there. Soon, he said, they would sleep well enough. Need neither pillow nor bolster!

"Yet give us bread," one whispered, "bread and to drink, though only water. Kill us not before our time."

"You shall have both," the commandant replied. "We do not starve those to death who are reserved for other things."

They all turned away after this, leaving the prisoners amid the troopers and the horses, the commandant inviting the two officers to accompany him and Martin to the platform of the castle, there to await the supper and the pleasure of being presented to his Excellency's daughter, while, as they went, Martin, who had been regarding M. de Broglie's nephew from the first moment when the troop had appeared under the castle, could not resist saying to him:

"Monsieur, I can not but think we have met before. Your face is familiar to me."

"Possibly, monsieur," the other replied with a courteous bow, though one that, Martin thought, scarcely savoured of that ease and grace which a member of the De Broglie family should possess, a great house whose scions were almost always of a certainty trained to all the courtlinesses of Versailles and St. Germain. "Possibly, monsieur. I am much about in various places. Can monsieur, par hazard, recall where we may have met?"

"Nay, nay," Martin said, "nay. And 'tis but a light fancy. Doubtless I am mistaken."

CHAPTER XVII

THE RUSE

Nevertheless he was convinced that he was not mistaken. Yet where-where had he seen this nephew of De Broglie before?

As one racks his brain to call up some circumstance or surrounding in connection with a face that puzzles him, to recollect some action associated with that face which shall assist the struggle of memory to assert itself, he racked his brain now. Yet all was of no avail, even though he brought before his mind every scene he could recollect since first he had returned to France.

Of no avail!

The full deep wig à la brigadier, the laced blue coat, the ivory-hilted sword of the young aristocrat, helped him not in the least; refused rather to assimilate themselves in his memory with the features which teased his recollection so. Yet, even as he meditated thus, while these four men-himself, the commandant, the man who perplexed him, and the officer under him-sat at supper in the old banqueting room used by generations of the De Servas, he found himself repeating those very words which had risen to his mind, "the young aristocrat."

Young aristocrat! Well, if so, a strange one, and surely not possessing the marks of breeding which a De Broglie should be the owner of! He ate roughly, coarsely, almost it seemed greedily; also he drank as a peasant drinks, in great copious draughts; laughed noisily and loudly. Moreover, from out of the ruffles of Valenciennes there protruded hands that scarcely proclaimed him a member of a well-born family. Hands broad and with ill-shapen fingers, the nails of which were flat and broken and none too clean; not the hands of one in whose veins ran the blood of countless well-born men and women!

"Pity 'tis," this scion of la vieille roche muttered to the commandant, "that mademoiselle does not honour us to-night. Tired, you say, after the fatigue of her escape from those base fanatics? Ha, sans doute! May she always escape as easily! 'Twill be well for her."

As he spoke, Martin, removing his eyes from his face, saw a sight that startled him-a sight that told him something terrible was in the air.

Far down, at the end of the old room, there was a small door, it not being the main one; and at that door, which was open about half a foot, he saw the face of Urbaine Ducaire, with, on it, an awful look of horror-a horror which had brought to her face a whiteness such as that which is upon the countenance of a corpse within its shroud; in her eyes a glare such as is in the eyes of those who have seen a sight to blast them. A glare, a look of agony, piteous to see.

At first he knew not what to do, yet even as he hesitated, undecided, he felt sure he must not draw the attention of those at the table to her, unless indeed he could attract the attention of the commandant alone, for it dawned on him, though he could not have explained why, that she, standing there behind the door, showing only that white face and those terror-haunted eyes, had been endeavouring to make the old man see her without being observed by the others.

What did it mean? What portend?

The conversation was eager between the remaining three at the table, the commandant advancing a plan for trapping the Camisards in their mountain fastnesses which Julien had a week or so before propounded, the nephew of De Broglie and his companion listening, it seemed scornfully, certainly deriding such plan.

"It will never succeed," the first of these two said; "never, never," and he laughed. "We, we of the king's forces, shall be driven back by these vile fanatics, or led into a snare, or guet-apens up in the mountains. And then woe, woe to all! Not one will return to the valleys, to the towns, to tell the tale."

Yet as he spoke, uttered such predictions of disaster, it seemed almost as though he gloated over the picture he drew.

And still Martin saw ever before him the terrified face of Urbaine Ducaire peering from behind the far-off door, the eyes glaring into the room like the eyes of one who knows that behind her comes some awful thing. With, in them, too, as it seemed to him, a piteous glance, a glance of agony that she could not attract the gaze of the man she sought-the commandant.

He could bear it no longer. Somehow he must reach her, communicate with her, know what it was that has struck such fear into her soul.

An excuse for him to leave the table seemed easy. The room had grown very hot. Already the nephew of De Broglie had protested he must remove his great wig. The commandant had said they must have air.

"I will go and open the door," Martin said, rising from his place. To open the windows would have been impossible since they were set high up in the walls, as was the case in most châteaux of the day, and could not be reached without a ladder. "The one at the farther end." And as he went toward it he prayed Heaven none would follow him. Also he saw that the girl's face was withdrawn as he rose from his chair, the door closed-to gently. Then, a moment later, he reached it.

Setting it open, he glanced into the narrow passage that ran outside, the farthest wall of this corridor having several low windows in it which gave on to the courtyard; and, turning his eyes into its dimness, he perceived Urbaine standing there, her back against the wall, her arms extended droopingly against it too, as though thereby to prevent herself from falling.

"Mademoiselle," he said, in a low voice, advancing toward her, "mademoiselle, what has distressed, terrified you thus? I fear that-"

Was she gone mad, he wondered! As he spoke she put both her hands out in front of her, removing them from the wall and extending them from her body as though to ward him off, to defend herself from him. Also she pressed her body back against that wall as if thereby she might shrink into it-away from him.

"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, amazed. "Mademoiselle-" but paused again, for still she drew herself away from him as from some unclean, loathsome thing. Then her white lips moved; he heard the words that issued from them.

"Traitor!" she said. "Perfidious traitor! Come not near me!" and with her hands she drew her travelling robe close round her as though to prevent even that from being contaminated by him.

"Are you distraught, mademoiselle?" he asked. "Are-?" yet stopped once more in his speech, for now, in the dusk of the night, he saw those staring eyes, which he had deemed so lovely but a few hours ago, glancing out through the passage window to the courtyard below; saw them rivetted upon something beneath in that courtyard; saw, too, that she shuddered as she gazed.

Then he too looked forth into it.

Upon the stones where the six attroupés had been flung down in their chains he saw those men standing now, free and unbound, in their hands naked weapons. The light of a newly lit flambeau flickering on one of their blades showed that it was deeply stained red. Also he saw that they too were now clad in scarlet and blue, their own rude mountain clothes discarded, flung in a heap in a corner.

And more he saw! Some were lying dead, or dying, in that courtyard; men who had but a few hours ago formed part of the garrison; the men whose clothes the others had already donned.

Like the lightning's flash there came to his mind what had happened; he understood all. The ruse was successful. The Camisards, disguised in the uniforms and trappings of the defeated soldiers of the day before, had surprised and captured the château; the trick of transporting those false prisoners had been a perfect one. Also he knew now where he had seen M. de Broglie's nephew. The deep powdered wig, the rich costume, served as disguises no longer. He recalled him! Recalled him as one who, young as he was, had taken a leading part in the massacre of the Abbé du Chaila, in the attack on Poul's convoy.

He understood, too, Urbaine's bitter words now. He was of these men's faith; she deemed him one of them! Also that he had brought her here only to betray her later into their hands. Bitter words that had sunk into his heart perhaps forever, yet she should see.

He drew his sword, advanced a step nearer to her, then retreated.