The Plowshare and the Sword Part 15

"Mother!" Madeleine shrank back, appealing with her lovely eyes.

"Lutheran!" screamed the little woman. "Make the holy sign, and so strive to save your wicked soul from the pit of destruction wherein your father lies."

"My faith is fixed," murmured the girl. "Ah, ah!" she panted.

Madame Labroquerie struck the girl thrice upon her fair cheek, staining the white skin red as a roseleaf.

"Madame, forbear!" Viner stood between them, his blood hot with shame.

"This is no sight for a stranger and a man to witness."

The little woman smiled at him and abandoned her daughter, who bent over the fire to hide her crimson face.

"You are English, sir. Your brave countrymen yield to none in their respect for a woman, when she be young and fair to see. Let her be old, they shall call her witch and fling her in the nearest pond.

There be young witches, good sir, better able to seduce the soul of man than the old, though they keep neither cat nor toad, nor ride at night across the face of the moon."

Madame Labroquerie made him a low courtesy, and walked noiselessly to the gate of the palisade.

"That so lovely a daughter should be cursed with such a mother!"

muttered the youth as he watched her go.

He came to the side of Madeleine, and found her crying.

"My mother has a strange temper. She has suffered much," the girl sighed.

There was a pause, one of those rare intervals when ears are opened to the music of the spheres, and souls may meet.

"You are not happy here," he said.

Her glorious eyes were two blossoms heavy with dew.

"Friend!" She put out one hand, groping for something to hold. "I am miserable."

They stood together, hand in hand.

"She struck you."

There was no answer. Divine pity dropped upon his heart, sweet and dangerous pity out of heaven.

"Stay a little," she whispered. "For the sake of your religion, stay.

If for a day only, stay. Stay, for a woman's sake."

It was dark in the grove outside the circle of the fire. He drew at her fingers. He bent his head suddenly and breathed upon them. She placed her other hand--a cold little hand--upon his.

Then the evening breeze flung itself sportingly into the trees, and all the branches sprang before it, and the foliage danced and shouted in a laugh, singing noisily the old secret of the river reeds, singing, "Midas is a king of gold--a king of gold."

So the fire died down into an angry red, and all the birds of the grove were songless. Madame walked alone from the rude house, her small face white against dark clouds, and pa.s.sed into the clearing. The Indian who worked for the widow and daughter approached with a burden of wood.

"Wind is coming," he said in his own tongue.

"May it blow away heresy and all heretics," muttered the little woman.

CHAPTER XIII.

ENCHANTMENT.

Within the gra.s.s-roofed cabin another fire glowed, and beside it Madeleine entertained the guest, her white hands clasped upon her knee, her eyes l.u.s.trous as she listened to the tale of adventure which her young companion had to tell.

"And now you would reach the south and bring your countrymen hither,"

she said with the sweet practicability of her s.e.x, after hearing his story of ventures both by land and sea. "You would win territory, perhaps fame. Then what would you do?"

"Then? Why, I would return home," answered Geoffrey.

"And then?" the girl pursued, the colour rising in her cheeks.

"Then I would fight for the king."

Madeleine sank back.

"Would your fighting-days never be done?" she sighed reproachfully.

"Friend, the world gives better things than the sword. Think you," she went on hurriedly, "we are put upon this world to hate one another and be always at strife? Ah no. We are here to live! The soldier's day must pa.s.s, his arm grow stiff, and 'tis then he sighs for life--the sword gives only death. How wretched is that soldier's lonely end! It is love in life that enn.o.bles the body, and 'tis death in love that clothes the soul in its flight to G.o.d."

Her eyes had been fixed upon him. She cast them down suddenly and sat trembling.

"My father taught me the use of the sword, and explained to me the action of the gun," Geoffrey faltered. "He taught me nothing else."

"Your mother?" Madeleine whispered.

"She died when I was a child."

"She would have taught you. She would have told you to take the best,"

murmured the girl.

He could see only a rich coil of hair glowing in the firelight.

"But I am untaught," she went on. "My father was ever a stranger, my mother has never been a friend. I grew up with Jean-Marie, my brother, who was a follower of your creed. He too believed that life has nothing better than the sword, so went away to fight, and I have had no word of him again. Alone I have taught myself to live, to see that life is glorious, to find joy in drawing each healthy breath. I have studied the birds and animals, and spoken to them, until they have answered me so that I could understand. It is so magnificent, this life!"

A chill crept into the cabin and with it Madame Labroquerie, who peered at the comely couple, and said in her grating voice: "You are weary, sir. Daughter, show our guest where he is to rest."

With another courtesy to the Englishman the bitter little woman pa.s.sed into her own room, and almost immediately the muttering of prayers and clicking of beads disturbed the silence which her entry had created.

"Rest you here," Madeleine whispered, pointing to a pallia.s.se partly covered by a bear-skin. "You shall sleep soundly I promise, for I have filled that pallia.s.se with the sweet-scented gra.s.s which grows in yonder valley. May you rest there like Endymion, and may his dreams be yours."

"His dreams were of love--if the old tale be true," said Geoffrey, flus.h.i.+ng at his boldness.

"Soft," she prayed, but she too had flushed. "My mother's ears are keen. G.o.d be with you, my friend."