Rose D'Albret; or, Troublous Times.

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER XIX.

The sight of pain and suffering, to which man's heart--even if it do not become totally hard and obtuse by his own dealings with the rough things of the world--grows less sensible every day as he advances in life, is always matter of painful interest to woman. There is something in her bosom that tells her it is her own destiny to suffer. There are fine links of sympathy that bind her affections to the sufferer, and not alone the general tenderness of her nature, to which such feelings are commonly altogether ascribed. The words of a woman's compassion are always different from those of a man's; they show that she brings the pain she witnesses more home to her own heart. Man may grieve for another's anguish; she sympathises with it; man feels for the man, she actually shares his pain.

Helen de la Tremblade remained in the lower story of the house, even after the shutters had been put up and the door closed by the farmer, when the first party of fugitive Leaguers passed by. She took little note of anything that followed, but sat meditating over her own fate, with her head leaning on her hand, till the sound of a groan struck her; but then starting up at once, she advanced towards the door of the room, which led into a wide, long passage. There she found four stout soldiers bearing in a wounded man; and though she could not see his face, from his visor being down, the languid attitude in which he lay, as his men carried him in their arms, showed her clearly that he had received some terrible injuries. Self was forgotten in a moment; her own sorrows, her own wrongs, the bitter regrets of the past, the desolate despair of the future, were all swept away for the time, and, clasping her hands, she exclaimed, "Alas! alas! he is dying, I fear.--Bring him hither, bring him hither," she continued: "there is a bed in this room," and she led the way through the hall to the chamber, where she and Rose d'Albret had passed the preceding night.

Carrying him slowly forward, the soldiers laid the wounded man, still in his dinted and dusty arms, upon the couch, and instantly began to unfasten his cuirass, through, which a small hole, as if pierced by the shot of an arquebuse, might be seen, stained at the edge with blood; but he waved his hand saying, in a faint voice, "The casque, the casque! take off the casque! Where is my nephew?--Where is Louis?--He should be here."

"Ah," cried Helen de la Tremblade, "he went out to the battle not an hour ago. Perhaps he too is wounded or dead."

"Mad-headed boy!" cried the old Commander as they removed his casque, "he had no arms! Why did they let him go? Ha! Is not that Helen, the priest's niece?"

"Yes," replied Helen approaching timidly and taking his hand, "it is poor Helen de la Tremblade."

"Ay, I remember," said the old Commander; "but where is Rose? Where is Rose d'Albret? She was with my nephew Louis."

"Oh, she is without, here," cried Helen; "I will call her directly," and away she ran, through the hall, into the passage, and to the door. But she found it barred and bolted, and the Farmer bending down, with his ear to the key-hole, striving to catch the sounds without.

"Where is Mademoiselle d'Albret?" asked Helen.

"Hush," he cried sternly, waving her back with his hand, and still listening to the door. Helen listened too, but she could hear nothing but the indistinct murmur of several voices speaking, mixed with the sound of horses' feet trampling and stamping, as if brought to an unwilling halt; but a moment or two after, some one spoke in a still louder tone, crying, "To Chartres!" and then came the noise of a party moving off, and the plashing sound of cavalry marching through the ford.

"Where is Mademoiselle d'Albret?" repeated Helen, as the farmer raised his head from the key-hole.

"Good faith, I cannot tell," replied he; "run up wife, run up to the room above! and see what is going on without."

The farmer's wife did as he bade her, and the next instant her feet were heard over head coming back from the window to the top of the stairs. "Ah, heaven!" she cried in a loud voice, "they have carried off the young lady, and Monsieur de Montigni, and his servant, and all. You should not have shut the door, Jean. You are a cruel, hard-hearted man. I heard them push it myself to get in; and now they are prisoners; and no one can tell what will happen."

"Hold your tongue! You are a fool, wife," answered the farmer angrily. "Do you think I was going to leave the house open for the Leaguers to come in! We should have had the place pillaged, and all our throats cut."

But the woman's tongue, as is sometimes the case with that peculiar organ in the female head, was not to be silenced easily, and she continued to abuse her husband, for excluding poor Rose d'Albret and her lover, in no very measured terms, while Helen de la Tremblade, sad and sorrowful, returned to the bed-side of the old commander to communicate the painful intelligence she had just received.

"Where is Rose?" demanded the old officer as soon as he saw her; "why does she not come?"

"Alas!" replied Helen, "a party of the League, just now sweeping by, have taken her away with them."

The old man, who by this time had been stripped of his arms, and laid in the bed, raised himself suddenly, and gazed in her face with a look of grief and consternation. Then sinking back upon the pillow again, he closed his eyes, but said not a word for several minutes. At length one of his attendants coming forward inquired, if he had not better ride away to St. André and seek for a surgeon.

"No," replied the old Commander abruptly, "'tis no use. This is my last field, Marlot, and, the sooner I go, the better. I am fit for nothing now. I could scarce sit my horse in the battle, though I did drive my sword through that fellow on Aumale's right hand. But it's all over; and I shall soon go, too. No use of being tortured by the surgeons. I've had enough of them.--No; but I will tell you what you shall do. Go and seek for Louis; though that is most likely vain, also.--Why the fiend did he go to the field without arms? Yet, Ventre Saint Gris! I love the boy for it too. But he never can have escaped from that mêlée.--He is dead, so there is nothing worth living for."

Helen had refrained hitherto from telling him that his nephew was in captivity, as well as Rose d'Albret, for fear of weighing him down, in his weak state, under the load of misfortune; but now, seeing that his apprehensions for his nephew's fate, had a more terrible effect, than even the reality could produce, she said, "No, Sir, he is not dead. They have carried him away too, with Mademoiselle d'Albret!"

"Ha! girl, ha! Are you not lying?" demanded the wounded man.

"No, indeed," replied Helen, "it is the truth. The farmer's wife saw them a moment ago."

"Well, then, seek a surgeon," said the old man; "I will try to live, though it is idle, I think.--Look for Estoc, too. Where saw you him last?"

"He was in full pursuit with the Grand Prior, Sir," answered one of the men.

"I saw him take the red standard of the Count of Mansveldt," replied another.

"That's well, that's well," said the old commander, "take means to let him know where I lie. Then bring a surgeon if you will. They shall do with me what they like. Will you be my nurse, little Helen?" he continued, extending his hand towards her.

"That I will, if I may," replied Helen kneeling by the bedside and kissing the large bony hand he had held out.

"Well, get me a cloak or something," said the old man, "to cast over my feet, for I feel very cold. Then come, sit down and talk to me; and you fellows go away and get your dinner. It must be noon by this time."

"'Tis one o'clock, Sir," answered one of the men.

"Get your dinner, get your dinner," cried the Commander.

"I have no heart to eat, Sir," said the one nearest to him, "seeing you lying there."

"Poo!" exclaimed his master, "did you never see an old man die before? I have seen many; and they will die, whether you eat your dinner or not. Leave this young lady to tend me; dine, and, if you will, say a paternoster for my sake. That's the best you can do to help me, though you are good creatures, too, and love me well, I know,--as I love you. But we must all part, and my march is laid out."

The men departed one by one, and Helen remained alone with the old Commander de Liancourt, doing the best she could to tend and serve him. He suffered her to examine his wound, for the good old chivalrous custom which required that ladies should know something of leech-craft had not yet passed away; but it was one beyond her skill. The ball of an arquebuse or pistol, fired point blank at a short distance, had pierced his chest on the right side, a little more than a hand's breadth below the arm. Some blood had followed the wound, but not much; and all hemorrhage had ceased. He declared that the only pain he felt was, a burning sensation near the back.

"That's where the ball lies, Helen," he said; "I wish it had gone through; for these things taking up their lodging in the body, often make the house too hot to hold the proper tenant. However, God's will be done. I never valued life a straw; and now, after having known it sixty years, I certainly do not prize it more for the acquaintance. 'Tis an idle and a bitter world, fair lady, as I fear you have found out by this time."

Helen shrunk and turned pale, as the old man seemed to allude to her situation and his eye rested upon her face, she thought, with a look of meaning. He said no more, however; and in a moment after the farmer entered to offer his services to the wounded man, with whose rank he was now acquainted, and to give him farther tidings which had just arrived from the field--how the Swiss and French infantry had surrendered without resistance, and all the standards and cannon had fallen into the hands of the King.

The Commander cut him short, however, asking after his nephew, which way they had taken him, how many the party numbered, and many another questions, all of which the man might have answered without betraying the fact that, to his own fears, was in some degree owing the capture of Rose d'Albret and the young Baron de Montigni. We put our armour where we are weak, however; and the first words of the farmer were in his own defence, betraying at once all that had taken place. As the wounded man heard him, and began to comprehend what had passed, his cheek turned fiery red, and raising himself partly in bed, he bent his eyes sternly upon him, and cursed him bitterly, calling him coward, and knave, and telling him he knew not what he had done.

"Fool!" cried the Commander; "do you think they would have stayed to plunder your pitiful house with the sword of the King at their heels? Curses upon you, Sir! you have delivered a fair sweet lady to the hands of her persecutors, as gallant a gentleman as any in France to his knavish enemies. By the Lord that lives, I have a mind to make my men take thee and drown thee in the river, poltroon!"

The farmer was irritated, as perhaps he might well be; and, but little inclined to bear from another reproaches which he had endured quietly from his wife, he was about to reply in angry terms, when Helen interposed; and, with gentle firmness, which might perhaps not have been expected from the tender and yielding disposition which she had hitherto displayed, she led him from the room, and insisted upon his making no reply.

She then turned all her efforts to calm and soothe the old Commander; and so tenderly, so kindly, did she busy herself about him, that the heart of the rough old soldier was moved, and he exclaimed, "Bless thee, my child, thou art a sweet good girl; and I wish I could but live to do thee some service. But it is in vain, Helen, it is all in vain; not that I mind this burning pain; for that more or less follows every wound, but 'tis the sudden failing of my strength. All power seems gone; and, in an instant, I have become as if I were a child again. I was lame and well nigh crippled with old wounds before; for I never was in battle or combat but I was sure to receive some injury--such was my ill-luck; but still in my hands and arms I was as strong as ever, could bend a double crown between my thumbs, or break the staff of a lance over my knee. Now it is a labour to me to lift my hand to my head; and that has come all in a moment. This means death; Helen, this means death!"

"Nay, perhaps not," replied Helen de la Tremblade. "The body is strangely composed; and the ball may rest upon some sinew or some nerve that gives strength; yet all may be well again."

The old man shook his head, but still he remained cheerful, often talking of death, yet never seeming to look upon it with dread or horror. In about an hour a surgeon arrived, examined and probed the wound, and descanted learnedly upon its nature. But with him, the good old Commander showed himself irritable and impatient, writhed under his hand, declared he tortured him, and seemed to shrink more from pain, than from death itself. The man of healing soon saw that he could do but little. To Helen's anxious inquiries, however, he did not give the most sincere answers, leaving her to hope, that the wound might be cured, and saying, that he would come again at night. He calculated indeed, that his patient would live over the next day, and that there would be time enough for a priest to be summoned. That was all that his conscience required; and he judged--perhaps kindly--that it was useless to torment a sick man with the thoughts of death, for many hours before the event took place.

During the whole of the rest of the day, Helen seldom, if ever, quitted the bed-side of the Commander de Liancourt. Though careless of life, inured by long habit to suffering, and even somewhat impatient of anything that seemed like forced attention to his state, the old warrior was not at all insensible to real kindness. He saw that she sympathised with him, that she really felt for all he endured, that she did her best to soothe and to allay, to comfort and support him. He could not but see it; for though, ever and anon, the shadow of her own fate would fall upon her again, and she would sit, for a moment or two, in gloom and darkness, yet at his lightest word, at his least movement, she was up and by his bed-side. The cup was always ready for his lips, the pillow was constantly smoothed for his head, his wishes seemed anticipated, his very thoughts answered, and even the burning impatience of growing fever could not run before her promptitude. When he obtained a moment of repose, she was calm and silent. When he wished to speak, she was ready to answer, in sweet and quiet tones that sounded pleasant to his ear; when his breathing became oppressed, she was there to raise his head upon her soft arm, to open the window for the air of spring to enter, and to bathe his fiery brow. To another young and inexperienced being, the scene might have been terrible, the task hard; but to her, it was all a relief. A share in any sorrow, was lighter than the full burden of her own; and aught that took her thoughts from herself, delivered her from a portion of her anguish.

More than once, the old man gazed upon her fixedly for two or three minutes, as if there was something that he wished to say, and yet did not; more than once, he sent away his followers, who came and went during the afternoon between his room and the next, as if he were about to speak of something that lay at his heart; but still he refrained, till, just as the light was beginning to fade, he turned painfully in the bed, and murmured, "Helen."

The poor girl was by his side in a moment; and putting forth his now burning hand, he took hers, continuing, "Helen, I wish to talk to you about yourself before I go."

Helen trembled like an aspen leaf. Four-and-twenty hours before, in the first agony of desolation and despair, she would have poured forth her whole soul to any one who offered her a word of kindness and sympathy; but a change had come over her since then; the power of thought had returned, conscience and shame and remorse had made themselves heard, over even the tumultuous voices of grief and indignation and hopeless agony. The still, but all-pervading words of self-reproach, filled her ear continually; and, in the blank wilderness of existence, she saw but her own folly. She shrank then, and trembled when he spoke of herself. There was no name but one that he could have pronounced, which would have sounded more horrible to her ears than her own.

"Oh not now, not now!" she cried, drawing back.

But the old man still held her hand in his, which seemed to scorch her; and he went on, "Why not now, Helen? It will soon be too late. The minutes are numbered, my poor girl. The hand upon the dial seems to go slow, but it will soon point to the hour when this fire shall have burned itself out, and nothing but the ashes will remain.--I have learned something of your story, Helen, from the people who came with my keen, harsh sister, Jacqueline.--Old Estoc heard it, and told it to me; but I would know more,--I would know all--"

"Oh not now, not now!" cried Helen again; and, by a sudden movement of anguish and terror, she drew her hand from him, and, with a gasping sob, ran out of the room.

There was no one in the hall, and when she reached the middle, she paused. "Shall I leave him?" she asked herself, "Leave him because he means and speaks kindly--leave him because I cannot bear to hear my own folly breathed,--leave him?--Oh no!" and with a movement as sudden, but with a downcast eye and burning cheek, she returned, and seated herself near in silence, gazing upon the ground.

"Helen," said the old Commander, "I have grieved you. Come hither, and forgive me."

She sprang towards him, and, casting herself on her knees by the bed-side, covered her aching eyes with her hands, exclaiming, "Oh, no, no! It is I who need forgiveness; not you. Do not speak so kindly, Sir, do not speak so gently; for it goes farther to break my heart, than all your sister's harshness."

"Hush, hush!" said the old soldier, "Do not move me, there's a good girl. But listen to me, Helen, for I wish you well, and you have been tender and affectionate to me this day, when I have much needed it.--I am a rough old man, Helen, and know not how to speak gently. But I would fain talk to you about yourself, before I depart from this place. Listen to me then, and do not think I mean anything but kindness. I hear that my sister has been hard upon you,--driven you out of her house,--given you harsh names.--Nay never shake so.--She is a bitter woman, Helen, to all faults but her own; and I am sure if you have any, they have been but too much gentleness.--Why, I remember you as a little child in your good father's time.--There now, you weep! I know not how to speak to you.--But never mind, I'll talk no more about yourself. But whatever be your faults, Helen, take my advice. Go to your uncle, tell him all. He will forgive you; for he is a good man at heart, and loves you; and besides,--"

"Oh, no, no!" cried Helen, "I cannot go to him, for his look would kill me.--Rose, so kind and good, so gentle to the faults of others, she too, persuaded me to go to him: but you do not know him. He is good and kind, and loves me well, it is true; but he is not forgiving.--Besides, how can I go there? How can I see him without meeting,--" and she gave a quick shudder, without concluding the sentence.

"Ay," said the wounded man, "that must be thought of. But all this is partly your uncle's own fault, Helen. I warned him when he put you with my sister, that he was giving his dove to a vulture. I told him it would be your ruin; but none of those people heeded the old soldier. They followed their own plans, and thought plain truth, foolishness.--Hark! do you not hear horses? It is good old Estoc, come to see his dying leader."

The next moment, there was a knock at the chamber door, and before any one could say, "Come in," it opened, and the tall bony figure of Estoc, clothed in armour, such as was worn in that day, but with the head-piece laid aside, appeared striding up with his wide steps to the bed-side of the wounded Commander.

"How goes it, Sir?" he cried, "how goes it?"

"Fast, Estoc, fast!" answered the old knight. "I am glad you have come, for there is much to talk about before I go. Helen, dear child, run away for a while; and take some repose and refreshment, for you have scarcely tasted aught since I have been here. She has been an angel to me, Estoc,--like my own child."

"Thank you, Mademoiselle, thank you," cried Estoc, taking her hand and kissing it, while she turned away her head, "God will bless you for it!"

The tears rolled over Helen's cheeks; and, saying "Call me when you want me, Sir," she left the room.

For more than an hour the old Commander de Liancourt and Estoc remained together, while Helen, at the window of a room above, sat and gazed out upon the sky, seeing the last rays of light fade away, and the stars look forth one by one. "Ah!" she said to herself, as she watched them, "other lights come in the heavens when the sun sets; but there is none so bright as that which is gone. The moon, too, may rise with her pale beams; but it is still night, shine she ever so brightly."

At length the surgeon arrived and went in again. The next moment he sent for Helen to aid him; but when she entered the old Commander's room, she found that he would not suffer his wound to be meddled with.

"It is of no avail, master surgeon," he said; "I know I am dying. You can do no good, and you do but torture me. Let the ball alone; it has performed its work right well; you only make it angry with your probes. Put on a cool cataplasm if you will, and tell me about what hour will be the end; for I see in your face that you know what I say is true. I would not go out of the world like a heathen; but the church is the only surgeon for me."

The man of healing answered in a vague and doubtful manner, but assured the old soldier that there was no immediate danger; and, after some vain persuasions, to the end that he might once more examine the wound minutely, he took his leave, after having applied what he thought fit externally.

Helen was about to follow, and leave the Commander and his friend together, once more; but the wounded man called her to him and bade her stay. "Here is Estoc will be a friend to you, Helen, when I am gone;" he said, "but listen to me, poor child, and do that which is for your own good, and for that of others. I pressed you, a little while ago, to go to your uncle for your own sake; but now I ask it for the sake of those who were once dear to you. You used to love Rose d'Albret--I think you do so still--"

"Oh! that I do," cried Helen, clasping her hand.

"Well, then," said the Commander, "her whole happiness, her future welfare and peace may altogether depend upon your going to Marzay, and with your own lips telling Walter de la Tremblade, all that has happened to you."

"Then I will go directly," cried Helen, eagerly, though sadly, "I will go directly, if I die the next moment. But does he not know the whole already?"

"I think not," replied Estoc, who stood near. "I don't think Madame de Chazeul has told him anything, for the good man, who spoke to me about it, said she would kill him if she knew that he had mentioned anything. But he thought you hardly treated, Mademoiselle, and wished me to speak to the Commander about it, that the matter might be inquired into."

Helen covered her face and sat and mused, till, at length, the wounded man woke her from her painful dreams, whatever they were, by saying, in a compassionate tone, "Ah! my poor girl, you suffer worse than I do, for your pains are of the heart."

"I will go, Sir, I will go!" cried Helen; "though it is very bitter so to do, yet I will go, if it can serve Mademoiselle d'Albret, even in the very least."

"It may serve her much, young lady," said Estoc. "As this sad affair has happened, and she has fallen into the hands of the Leaguers, beyond all doubt they will send her to Marzay; and then the old story will begin again, and no devilish scheme will be too bad, to drive her to marry Monsieur de Chazeul."

"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Helen, vehemently; "he will betray her--he will make her miserable, as he has made me. What right has he to marry her?" she continued, with her brow contracted and a wild look coming into her eyes. "Is he not married already? is he not contracted by oaths that he cannot break?"

"Ay, but he will break them," replied Estoc.

"I rave, I rave!" said Helen, after a moment's pause; "he has broken them already--every vow he made--every pledge he gave--every oath he took! and at what should he hesitate? But how can I prevent this? What can I do to avert it?"

"Much," answered the Commander. "Your uncle, Helen, has been one of the prime movers in all this. Without him they could do little; for he is a skilful and a scheming man, not moved by the same passions that both prompt and embarrass them. What are his motives or his views, I know not; but, pardie, right sure am I, when once he hears how you have been treated, he will find means to frustrate all their plots, and to save our dear Rose, by one means or another."

"Yes, yes, he will--he will," cried Helen; "I know he will, if it be but in revenge. Oh! he never wants means to work his own will. My poor father used to say, he had ruled all his family from infancy. But I will go at all risks, at any cost.--Yet," she added, hanging her head, "yet I could wish that it were possible for me to avoid that cruel and hard-hearted man, whom I must see if I go there openly."

"Oh! that will be easily managed," said Estoc; "I will answer for that, Mademoiselle; for I took care to ensure myself and my good Commander here, the means of entering the Château of Marzay when we liked. God forbid that I should use it wrongly! But I foresaw the time might come, when, in justice to ourselves or others, we might need to stand face to face with those who have been plotting so darkly against people whose rights they should have protected."

"You are right, Estoc, you are right," said the old Commander, whose voice was growing feeble, with the fatigue of speaking so much. "You are right, my good friend. I thought not of that precaution, but it was a wise one. Have you the key of the postern, then?"

"No," answered Estoc; "that would be missed; but I have a key to the chapel, which, as no one uses that way in or out, will never be wanted by any one but ourselves."

Helen raised her eyes and smiled, with the first look of satisfaction that her countenance had borne, since she had been driven from the Château of Chazeul. "That makes all easy," she said; "for, not only can I enter by that means, but dear Rose d'Albret can come out; and oh! what would I give to guide her back again to liberty and him she loves?"

But Estoc shook his head. "That may not be so easy," he answered; "now they are once upon their guard, they will watch her closely. She will be henceforth a prisoner, indeed. Her only hope is in the priest, Mademoiselle. Gain his aid for us, and we are secure."

"I will try," answered Helen, "I will try--But look," she continued, touching Estoc's arm and speaking in a low voice, "Monsieur de Liancourt seems weary, and asleep, I think."

Estoc bent down his head, and gazed in the sick man's face, by the pale light of a lamp that stood upon the table. He almost feared, from all that he had seen, that what Helen imagined slumber, was the repose of death; but, as he leaned over him, he saw a red spot upon the cheek, and heard the quick low breath come and go; and, turning to her again, he whispered, "He sleeps; that is a good sign. I will sit with him till he wakes."

"No, no," answered Helen; "leave me to watch him. You take some repose; I neither want it, nor could obtain it."

Estoc accordingly left her, gaining the door as noiselessly as he could. Then, clearing the hall of all the persons by whom it was now crowded, he seated himself on a bench, ate some bread and drank some wine; and leaning his head upon his hand, soon fell into slumber, with that easy command over the drowsy god, which is often acquired by those habituated to the labours and the dangers of the camp.

It was past one o'clock; and all the noises of the house were still. The farmer and his family had retired to rest, the soldiers and attendants were seeking slumber in the kitchen and the barn, when Helen de la Tremblade opened the door between the sick man's chamber and the hall, and called "Estoc! Estoc!"--"Monsieur de Liancourt is awake," she added, as he started up, and then continued, in a lower tone, "he is very ill--There is a terrible change--Come quick, come quick!"

Estoc followed in haste; and, approaching the wounded man's side, he saw too clearly the change she spoke of, that awful change which precedes dissolution; that inexpressible dim shade, that cold unearthly look, never, never to be mistaken. Fever may banish the rose from the cheek; the eye may grow pale and glassy; the lip may lose its red; and sickness, heavy sickness may take away all that is beautiful in life; but yet, while there is a hope remaining, the countenance of man never assumes that hue which death sends before him as his herald on the way;--and there it was. To the eyes of Helen, it was strange and terrible, and made her heart sink though she knew not all it meant; but Estoc had seen it often, and knew it well; and whispering to her, "This is death!" he took his old friend's hand in his.

"Ah, Estoc!" said Monsieur de Liancourt, "where is Helen?--Come nearer, my kind nurse, let me see your face, for my eyes grow dim."

"Shall I send for a priest, Sir?" asked Helen.

"Not yet," said Monsieur de Liancourt, "for I have much to say. Bring me my cross of St. John. Lay it on my breast, that I may die under the standard of my salvation." Helen hurried to get it, where it lay with the armour and clothes in which he had been dressed, and placed it gently on his bosom a he told her. The old man gazed wistfully in her face for an instant, and then said, "I am going, Helen--fast. If I had lived, I would have been a father to you. Estoc, will you protect her--defend her?--Do you promise me?"

"I do from my heart," replied Estoc. "As long as I live she shall never want a home to receive her, or an arm to do her right."

"Kiss the cross!" said the old Commander; and, bending down, the good soldier pressed his lips upon it, as it lay upon his dying leader's bosom.

"So much for that," said the Commander. "When I am gone, Estoc, give her all that I have brought with me.--You, I have provided for, long ago.--See me buried as a soldier should be. Lay me before the altar at Marzay, and bid the priest say masses for my soul.--Now give me the papers that I may explain them well."

Estoc proceeded to the corner of the room in which the old commander's garments had been laid down in a heap; and searched for some minutes before he could discover the packet of papers for which he was looking. He found it at length, and, turning round, approached the bed-side where Helen de la Tremblade sat watching the wounded man. She held his hand in hers, she gazed upon him eagerly with her beautiful lips slightly open, showing the fine pearly teeth within; and, as the light of the lamp fell upon her, she was certainly as fair a creature as ever man beheld; but there was a look of anxious fear in her eyes that startled Estoc, and made him hurry his pace. The eyes of the old commander were closed, and Helen whispered, "He has had a terrible shudder."

"Here are the papers, Sir," said Estoc.

The old man made no answer, but by a heavy sigh.

"Send for a priest, quick," cried Estoc; and Helen running hastily from the room, woke one of the soldiers in the kitchen, and dispatched him to the village in haste. When she returned to the chamber, however, all was still: and, approaching with her light foot the bed-side, she saw Estoc with his arms folded across his chest, and his eyes, glistening with an unwonted tear, fixed upon the countenance of his old friend and leader, from which all expression seemed to have passed away. She listened, but could hear no breath. The lips were motionless; the breast had ceased to heave; the hand, which he had lately held in her own, had fallen languidly on the bed; the other, by a last movement, had been brought to rest upon the cross which lay upon his bosom. Life had passed away, apparently in an instant, and the sufferings of the stout old soldier were at an end.

The moment after several of the men, who had been awakened by a voice calling to one of them to seek a priest, crept into the room to see their good leader once more before he died; and Estoc, brushing away the moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand, turned towards them, saying, "You may come forward.--You cannot disturb him now. He is gone; and a better heart, a stouter hand, a kinder spirit, never lived, my friends. Few there are like him left; and we at least never shall see such another. God have mercy on his soul, and on ours too."

Thus saying, he knelt down, murmured a prayer, and kissed the hand, still warm with the life that was departed. The soldiers did the same one by one, and then carried the tidings to their fellows who where still asleep. Starting up as they had lain down, they all ran hastily into the room; and, of course, amongst the number, there were many different ways of expressing their grief. Most of them, however, had tears in their eyes, and one man wished aloud, that he knew the hand that fired the shot.

"Fie," said Estoc, "it was the chance of battle. No soldier bears revenge for anything done in fair fight. He has sent many to their account, and now is sent himself; but by the grace of God his is no heavy one, and he will find mercy for that."

There was a momentary pause, and then two or three of the soldiers whispered together; after which one of them stepping forward, said, "Will you lead us, Monsieur Estoc?"

"I am not a rich man, my friends," said the old soldier, "and cannot pay you as the good commander did. What I have, however, you shall freely share; and if you are willing to serve the King as you have done this day, I will lead you willingly, in that cause.

"We will fight in none other," replied the man who spoke for the rest; "and as for pay, we will take our chance, so that we have food and arms."

"That we will always find," replied Estoc, "but we have a duty here to perform before anything else. We must carry the corpse to Marzay, and fulfil our dead leader's last commands; then we will seek the King; and, if he cannot entertain us himself, we shall easily find some banner under which to fight upon his side."