Sir Isumbras at the Ford

by D. K. Broster

Now in Brittany La Vireville's nom de guerre was so much more significant than his own—which, as has been said, he made some endeavours to keep distinct from it—that it was second nature to him to be called by it, and he had never even thought of informing her of the latter. In Brittany communications also were addressed to "M. Augustin." But the topmost of the two letters which his hostess had picked up chanced to be a note from the Prince de Bouillon sent to him during his recent stay at St. Helier, and, presumably for that reason, directed to him in his real name. Hence a large "M. de la Vireville" looked up at them both from the table, for His Serene Highness wrote no crabbed hand.

"Why, yes, Madame," answered the owner carelessly. "Did you not know it? I had no intention of keeping you in the dark on the point."

"Nor had I any intention of . . . prying," she said, and, catching up the two letters, she held them out to him almost feverishly. "I will give you the names you want at once." She well-nigh snatched from him the piece of paper he was holding. "Where is the pen?"

Thoroughly puzzled, La Vireville watched her as, with set mouth and face as white as the paper itself, she wrote out the list he required. Why should his name so discompose her? M. de Kérouan, whom he had never met, had evidently not mentioned it to her while he was alive—possibly did not even know it himself. It was not as if their commands had been contiguous. But why should his 'agent' find the discovery so extremely disconcerting? Was it possible that she, like Mme. de Chaulnes . . .? No, that he could not credit for a moment. It was on the tip of his tongue to pursue the subject—and he knew he was rather a fool not to do so—but somehow he was too sorry for her to probe her distress to-night. She had but recently lost her lover, and she was so pale! When she gave him the list he merely thanked her, and bent over her hand for a moment with a grace oddly at variance with its surroundings. The hand in question was very cold.

Once again, as he took up the rushlight, she began an apology, scarcely audible, for the poorness of his quarters, and the difficulty of getting to them.

"A night in the hayloft used to be the summit of my ambition, Madame, when I was a child," replied he gaily. "I only hope that you will sleep as well as I shall." And with that he limped away to the stairs.

The ascent, indeed, was not too easy to him. At the top a last prompting of curiosity urged him to glance back over his shoulder down into the room. But his hostess was no longer visible, and he opened the door at the top of the ladder-stairs to find himself in a small, bare apartment, containing little save a truckle-bed under the window, with a rush-bottomed chair beside it, a press built into the wall by the door, and a crucifix.

Having ascertained that the crazy door possessed no means of fastening other than a latch, and a bolt on the outside, La Vireville set down the light on a chair and threw off his outer garments with celerity. He had the habit of seizing sleep when he could get it, and in Brittany a bed was something of a luxury. And though in Porhoët village he was probably less safe than he would have been sleeping, as usual, with his men in the lee of a hedge under the open sky, and knew it, and though his curiosity, if not his suspicions, had lately suffered a rousing prick, and though—more disturbing than either—his foot ached persistently, ere a quarter of an hour had elapsed he was in the enjoyment of a very refreshing slumber.

(2)

Perhaps if the guest could have known how his hostess spent the night he might have slept less well; perhaps, even, if, when he had looked back from the head of the stairs, he had seen how she stood rigid against the wall, in the lake of shadow by the press, her hands clenched at her sides, like one who has encountered some terrible vision, he might have descended to prosecute the inquiry he had abandoned. Perhaps he might have felt compassion at the tormented, desperate face she wore as the hours crept on towards morning, and every one brought conviction nearer to her, yet no guidance. "It is he! it must be he!" she said aloud, not once but many times. "He was at Coblentz then—he acknowledged it. Oh, was it god or devil showed me his name? . . . André, André, my darling, tell me what I am to do!" Rent with sobs, she would cease her agonised pacing to and fro, and throw herself down by the table, her head on her outstretched arms. . . . But of these phenomena La Vireville was not a witness.