"TREASON HAS DONE HIS WORST."
Some of those who came to Amiens as attendants upon the fair had not yet sought their beds, whether in the straw of the stables, on the brick floors of the kitchens, or in the sweltering garrets under the red-tiled roofs. Night birds, however, were most of these, creatures who found their account in roaming the streets, seeking whom they might devour. Night birds, such as the bellowing, red-faced bullies who had been shouting all day for drink and food in the Croix Blanche, and who, managing to keep sober in spite of all their potations, sallied forth at midnight. For it was then their work began. Then horse dealers, merchants, buyers, dissolute members of the local bourgeoisie and the petite noblesse, making their way to their lodgings or houses, found themselves suddenly seized by the throat or from behind, and their watches, trinkets and rings taken from them and their purses cut--nay, might deem themselves fortunate if their throats were not cut too.
Once or twice men of this stamp passed Douglas after he had quitted his friend--fellows in soiled finery with great swords by their sides, and with their huge hats drawn down over their faces--who looked at him askance, seeing his sword also by his side and noting his well-knit form and military bearing. But, as they observed his glance fixed keenly on them and his hand ready enough to his weapon, they passed on with a surly "Good-night."
Making his way back to the inn, Douglas came to a sudden halt as he arrived under the Beau Dieu on the pillar of the great west doorway of Nôtre Dame d'Amiens, for, in the open space in front of that entrance he saw two of these very night birds standing, evidently, as he supposed at first, planning and concocting some villainy. Regarding them from behind a buttress of that old cathedral of Robert de Luzarches, he could observe them and all their movements plainly enough, since the full moon was high in the heavens by now; and, although the towers obscured somewhat the light, a great stream of it poured down into the place before the west doorway and with its rays illuminated the space.
Great brawny fellows they were, he could see; good types of the half swashbuckler, half highwayman, of the period--the class of men who would be found one day fighting as mercenaries at Placentia or Raucoux, another robbing a church or some lonely grange, another hung or broken on the wheel, or swinging in chains on a gibbet on some heath or by the seashore.
"By St. Firmin!" he heard one say to the other, while he balanced something in his hand which sparkled in the moonlight as he gazed down at it, "who would have thought the scarecrow had such valuables upon him? Regardez moi ça!" and again he moved what he had in his hand, so that it glittered as though on fire.
"'Tis enough," replied the other, "we have done well this fairing. Now for Paris and vogue la galère! We have the wherewithal to amuse ourselves for a year. Come, let us ride to-night; to-morrow he may raise a hue and cry. Come, the horses are outside; the gates do not shut till midnight. Hark! it wants but a quarter," he broke off as the big clock above them boomed out that hour. "Come," and clasping his companion's arm they disappeared round the other side of the cathedral.
The first impulse of Douglas was to seize these men, if possible; the next, since they were two to one, to follow them to the gate and there to call on the watchman to prevent their exit. And knowing that some robbery had been committed, perhaps some murder--as was very likely--he was about to put this idea in practice when his action was arrested by what startled him far more than the sight of the two scoundrels regarding their stolen wealth had done.
That which so startled him was a man's form creeping up behind him in the shadow of the cathedral, a man who had come so near to him without his knowing it that, as Douglas turned and faced him, he sprang out at him and endeavoured to seize him by the throat. And as he did so he shrieked out, "Villain, thief, give me back my property! Give it back, I say, or," and he hissed the words out, "I will kill you! See, I am armed: you have left me this," and he brandished a long knife that shone in the moonlight--into which Douglas had now dragged him--as the jewels had heretofore shone.
Of the man himself, nor of his dagger, Douglas had no fear; he was stronger than his antagonist, and his hand held the other's, which grasped the weapon, as in a vice. But what appalled, almost unnerved him, was that he knew the voice--and he knew the man. It was Fordingbridge.