Orrain Part 7

A few strides of the good beast, a leap over a fallen tree trunk, and in a wide clearing I saw before me a deed of shame.

There was a man lying dead on the ground. There was a white-robed woman, screaming and struggling as two men tried to force her on to a horse; whilst another man, mounted on a white horse, with a white mask on his face, was urging them on to their work, and a long sword glittered in his hand.

I stayed not for a second, but, galloping straight on, made so sudden an a.s.sault that one of the knaves was down and twisting on the gra.s.s like a snake with a broken back, and the other had fled with a howl into the forest almost before my coming was realised.

But as the horse carried me on I felt a felon blow graze my cap, and I had but time to half turn and parry another when I found myself face to face with the masked man.

Even as the sparks flew from our swords, and I felt that I had met a master of fence, I knew it was Simon despite his mask. There lived not a man like him. Tall and thin, with long, bird-like limbs and a stooping back, with the features concealed by the white mask all but the eyes, which glittered like those of an angry asp, he seemed more spirit than man; and I felt as if I were crossing blade with some uncanny phantom of the woods rather than a thing of flesh and blood, as after a fierce bout we circled round, watching each other warily.

"So, brother, we meet at last," I said. But he made no answer, though his eyes flashed evilly as he came on again with a swift, lightning attack that chance alone enabled me to avoid. And then my life was on my wrist and eye; but I kept it, and began to slowly force him back.

G.o.d forgive me! he was my brother; but he would have slain me there like a mad dog--and life is dear. He never said a word until he was being driven back, and then an oath broke from him.

'Tis an ill thing to swear with a sword in one's hand. That oath gave me strength and cooled me to ice.

"Come!" I said, "you would not slay your heir; or are you going to make room for me, Simon?" And my sword point ripped his doublet.

The answer was a thrust that ripped my coat in turn, and then followed the rasp of our blades. It was almost dark above us now, but a lance height from the ground the horizon was still flaming red. We could barely see each other's blades, but guided ourselves by the little circles of light the sword points made as they flashed hither and thither, seeking for an opening, to slip forward like a snake's tongue.

Twice had I been touched. The first time it was a parry _en prime_ that saved me; the second time Simon had hit me on my bridle arm. It was only a touch; but I felt the warm blood on my sleeve, and Simon laughed like a devil.

But he mistook his man. Collecting all my strength I made so furious an attack that I slowly drove him against the belting of trees, and then there was a lightning thrust in tierce, a quick parry, and a return over Simon's heart, but the point of my blade glanced from a steel vest he wore. In glancing, however, it slipped upwards, and catching the mask almost rent it from my brother's face, leaving it half hanging, and almost blinding him.

In my fury I followed up the thrust with another, but with the skill that was his alone he partly parried it, though my blade found his sword arm, just above the elbow joint; but as Simon's now useless hand fell to his side he saw his defeat, and, with matchless presence of mind, drove his spurs into his horse, and das.h.i.+ng off at full speed was lost to view in a moment.

It was useless to follow, though I rode a few yards after him, and then, restraining myself, I pulled round and came back. Then I heard a voice thank me, and Pierrebon appeared at my horse's head, as though he had dropped from the clouds, and as I dismounted he burst forth: "Now, praise to St. Hugo of Orrain! We have defeated the bandits."

CHAPTER VII

DIANE

Man of the world and of many experiences as I was; old courtier, who had seen the fairest of my land in the galleries of the Tournelles, or the salons of the Louvre, I confess that I had never seen so graceful a figure, or heard so sweet a voice as that which thanked me now. As for her, when I stepped up, my sword still in my hand, some thought that she had only escaped the beak of the vulture to feel the talons of the hawk made her shrink back into silence.

I felt this, and, bowing, said gravely: "There is no danger now, mademoiselle. I doubt if our friends will return; but I fear it is far to any refuge to-night."

My words had effect. She was brave enough, and she answered:

"We are not far from the Mable, monsieur!"

"From the Mable! Then Marcay is behind?"

"About six miles."

"Ah! I thought we had overridden ourselves. And Richelieu is at hand?"

"'Tis but a bare league."

"Then in two hours at most we will be there. You will, of course, ride my horse, and Pierrebon and I will share the other."

"Thank you!" she said simply. And then with an effort, as she pointed before her: "Monsieur, there is a man lying there who gave up his life for me. I cannot leave him thus."

And Pierrebon answered: "There are two, lady. I have covered them with their cloaks, for they are both dead."

"A moment," I said, and I too went and looked at the twain.

There was no mistake. For these two the trees and the sky, the good and the bad of the world had ceased to be; and as I pulled their cloaks over their faces I muttered to myself, with a remembrance of the course of "The Philosophy":

"_Maximum vitae bonum mors_."

Then I came back to the lady's side. "Mademoiselle, for these two lying there, the honest man and the knave, what can be done at present has been done. Come, I pray you! It grows late."

"Oh, but I cannot!" And she too went forward to where the long dark things lay stretched out on the sward, and shrinking, she looked, and then on a sudden she sank on her knees, and prayed, and because, whatever had happened, I had never lost my faith in G.o.d, without whom we are nothing, I knelt too, and Pierrebon with me, and in our own way we each sought comfort. After a while mademoiselle rose again, and with a voice half choked with tears, said:

"Monsieur, I am ready."

We placed her on my brown horse, which Pierrebon led, I riding his, and so we took our way in silence--a silence now and again broken by a sob from the girl. I said nothing, deeming it wiser to let her be with her thoughts; but as we came to the skirts of the wood I spoke:

"Mademoiselle, I promise you that I will see to the Christian burial of your friend."

And then she wept unrestrainedly. To tell the truth, I knew not what to do, and Pierrebon kept his head well to the front, looking neither to the right nor to the left. In sheer desperation I asked her not to weep, whereat she wept the more; and then I touched her shoulder with my hand, as one would caress a child; but she shook me off, turning a face that seemed scared with terror to me, and I could only stammer out an apology, and remain silent. At last the violence of her grief abated, and I ventured to ask who the dead man was.

"He," she answered sadly, "was a trusted servant, and he was taking me home. His name was Olivet."

"Will not mademoiselle do me the honour to give me her name as well? I am called Bertrand Broussel."

She looked up as I spoke, and a nervous laugh escaped her.

"I am glad I know your name, monsieur; it is one I shall always think upon with grat.i.tude. As for me, I--I am called Diane. I am the niece of Cujus the furrier, a citizen of Tours, who is as a father to me. I was going to rejoin him from Saumur when all this happened."

"Have you any friends near, where I can leave you?"

"Oh yes! Near Richelieu I have friends; and, once in the house of the Bailiff of Muisson, I would be safe."

"I will see you there, with your permission."

"Thank you! And I want to tell you how this happened. I was going back home from Saumur, under the charge of Olivet, and we halted at Marcay to rest. About a half-hour after leaving Marcay we were set upon and taken prisoners by the men from whom you have saved me.

"Where they were taking us I cannot tell. As evening came I heard your voice singing, and, screaming for help, I slipped from my saddle, with the intention of running towards you. Olivet made a brave effort to help me--but----" And it was only with an effort that she prevented another breakdown.

"Have you any idea who these men are?"

She remained silent, as if collecting her thoughts. And I went on:

"I ask because I recognised one--the leader."