As nothing could be done but to remain where they were, Rose was led to her bed-chamber, and told, in civil terms enough, that, by her leave, they would proceed at daybreak on the following morning. The old man paid every attention to her comfort, according to the orders he had received; and even listened, while, encouraged by his courteous manner, she ventured to remonstrate upon the conduct pursued towards her, in carrying her against her will to a place so hateful to her. He replied coldly, that the affair was none of his; he did but obey his orders; and Rose soon found, by the strictness with which she was watched, and by the placing of a guard at her chamber door, that the hope of escaping, and flying on foot at any risk, was altogether vain.
The journey of the next day went on as that of the day just gone; and it was evening when the sight of many well known objects, the wood through which she had often ridden, the little chapel where she had frequently stopped to pray, the hamlet, the church, the fountain, the stream, all of which she recollected, showed her that they were within a few miles of the place in which her youth had been spent. How changed were now all her feelings, from those with which she had wandered through the same scenes in girlhood! Where was now the sunshine of the heart, which at once lighted up every object around? Where was the interest with which imagination had invested all that now seemed so dead and cold? Some light had gone out in life since she was last there; and the visionary splendour had departed.
In about half an hour more, they came to the side of a hill, from which the Château of Marzay was visible, at the distance of about a mile. The evening sun was just setting, and casting long streams of light and shadow over the undulating country below. The snow had disappeared; the green herbage of the fields was seen; the brown branches of the wood grew warm and glowing in the evening rays; the river swollen with rain rushed on like a torrent of blood, reflecting the glowing crimson of the west, and every window of the château flashed back the bright beams of light, in lines almost too dazzling for the eye. Round the summits of the towers, however, as they rose above the eminence on which the castle was built, rolled a thin dull cloud of leaden vapour, faintly tinged with red, on the side next to the sun; and as the carriage moved slowly on, it descended lower and lower over the building, rendering the lines and angles indistinct to the eye, like the fate which awaited the poor girl who was journeying thither. She gazed out eagerly towards it with a heavy sigh, and a heart weighed down with the certainty of coming sorrow; and then turning her eyes over the open ground below, she traced the road which she had followed in her flight with De Montigni, and could have wept to think how vain had proved all the hopes that bore her up through the fatigues and discomforts of that journey.
Suddenly from behind a clump of trees, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile, emerged slowly a figure on horse-back, bearing in his hand what Rose at first imagined to be a lance. The next moment, however, she perceived that it was a cross; and, at the same solemn pace, following the first on foot, came six other men carrying something like a litter on their shoulders. The light caught upon it, however, as they began to ascend the slope towards the château, and Rose saw the fluttering of a pall; several other persons followed, likewise, on foot, and then a party of some fifteen or sixteen horsemen, with lances lowered, and a pennon flickering in the wind.
"They are bearing back a dead body to the château, Mademoiselle," said the old man, who was riding by the side of the carriage at the moment; "likely some one who has fallen at Ivry. Perhaps we had better stop and let them get before us. It is unlucky to go in with a corpse."
"Unlucky to go in at all," said Rose, sadly; "do as you will. Sir, I am a captive, and have no authority in such matters."
The old man gave orders to halt; and the funeral procession of the good old Commander de Liancourt, which was following a road that formed an acute angle with the one they were themselves pursuing, moved slowly on towards the château. When it had come within three or four hundred yards of the gates, the Count de Liancourt, with his nephew Chazeul, and a number of the soldiers and attendants, came forth to meet it, preceded by father Walter, and two boys, belonging to the chapel, dressed in their robes. The procession immediately halted; and Estoc dismounting from his horse, advanced a few steps in front to confer with the Count and his companions.
The loss of a brother, to a man in the decline of life, can never be a matter of indifference, and Monsieur de Liancourt was evidently much agitated; but there were other feelings in his bosom, besides those of mere grief, and his manner was hesitating and embarrassed, as he returned Estoc's grave salutation, and listened to the solemn words,
"I have brought back to you, Sir, the corpse of your brother, Michael de Liancourt, Commander of the Order of St. John, who fell, gallantly fighting for his King, on the glorious field between St. André and Ivry; and I claim your permission to carry it into the chapel of the château, according to his own request."
"I receive my poor brother's body at your hands, Monsieur Estoc," replied the Count, "and thank you for your letter of this morning; but as you know we have few people in the castle, and many of us not altogether holding the same opinions as yourself; you cannot, expect us to suffer you to enter with such a body of armed men."