Clash of Arms: A Romance

by John Bloundelle-Burton

The desolation was complete--was penetrating to the senses of those who now regarded it--yet this very desolation seemed an appropriate monument to the downfall of the race which had so long been known and feared as "The Wolves of Lorraine." For the family was gone, extinct now--the last member of it, Camille De Bois-Vallée, could never build it up nor restore it again, any more than he could build up and restore the house which had sheltered that family for generations--'twas perhaps well, therefore, that it should go too. In years to come, these now blackened walls would tell the tale of how the vengeful Lorrainers had swept away at last those who had used their power to trample on and ill-treat them.

Against the side of the building, under the shattered window from which the three had eventually escaped, they found the logs and billets of wood piled up precisely as they had been left--there were none to disturb them now!--and, leaving their horses in the very outhouse where the wood had been discovered, they entered at once the ruined mansion.

"'Twill take but little time to reach the roof," Andrew said, "and as little to see if by chance he found a passage that way. Come, Valentin." Whereon, each carrying some of the necessaries they had brought with them, they entered by the window.

To the younger man the scene of ruin and devastation on which he gazed was appalling--also, it was saddening. For, as a child, and even later in his still short existence, he had been here often--had run up and down those huge staircases which were now torn from their settings and lying in ruins below; in those rooms by which they passed swiftly--and in one of which the dead body of Beaujos was stretched, as Andrew knew--he had slept many a night; from that great yawning doorway, now open to the cold wind that blew up from the west and whistled through the empty vastness of the hall, he had issued forth often enough, bent on a hawking or a hunting party.

And now--what a scene to gaze upon! What desolation and silence--what an atmosphere of death and ruin, and the decay that time would bring, prevailed over all!

They stood at last upon the roof of this remaining wing, arriving at it by the way the others had left a few nights ago, their feet embedded in the dank, decaying leaves blown on it by the autumn winds--leaves now becoming skeletons under the winter rain and frost--and made inspection of the whole to see what outlet there might be for the fugitive. Yet there was none. Upon those leads there was no opening beneath all that rotting mass--as they found quickly enough--nothing except the trapdoor leading to the garret, to which they now returned.

"As for the chimney stacks," said Andrew, "they are impossible. Observe their height; he could never have reached their summit alone and unaided--and--even though he had--what then? Come--'tis time to inspect the oubliette."

In the dull, dim light that penetrated to the garret from the open trapdoor above, they made their preparations swiftly--indeed, there were but few to make. A turn or two of the rope (already previously knotted at intervals of four feet to aid in the descent) around the iron bar was made by Andrew, he fastening it by what is known to sailors as a bowline knot, and he was ready to descend.

Then he sat down upon the edge of the oubliette, grasped the bar, and, with his two hands, worked himself immediately over the middle of it, the rope being between his legs.

"Now, Valentin," he said, "the search begins. What shall I find below?" and as he spoke he ignited his tinder, communicated the flame to the lamp attached to his belt, and peered down into the depths beneath him.