The Chevalier's daughter

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

I SAT in my mother's room that night till it was nearly twelve o'clock, and then, wrapping myself in the long black cloak which is, or was, worn by women of every rank in Normandy, I stole down-stairs and across the courtyard to the ruined chapel.

All was lonely and deserted. The servants had gone to bed hours before; the horses were safe in their stables, and I encountered nobody and nothing but our great English mastiff, Hal, who sniffed at me a little doubtfully at the first, and then stalked solemnly at my side, carrying in his mouth a stick he had picked up—a ceremony which for some unknown reason, he always performed when he wished to do honor to any one. I was not sorry to have his company, for the place was lonesome enough, and I had never in my life been out of doors so late.

The moon, several days past the full, had risen, but was still low in the sky, and only gave light enough to perplex me with mysterious reflections and shadows, which seemed to have no right reason for their existence. Owls whooped dolefully, answering each other from side to side. The sea roared at a distance, and now and then a sudden gust, which did not seem to belong to any wind that was blowing, shook the ivy and sighed through the ruined arches.

And there were other sounds about as I entered the dark chapel—deep sighs, hollow murmurings and whisperings, sudden rushes as of water—no one knew from whence. My father always said that these sounds came from the wind sighing in the deep vaults below the chapel, and perhaps from some subterrane passage which the sea had mined for itself at high tides. But the servants considered them as altogether supernatural, and nothing would make them approach the chapel after nightfall.

I believe I have said there was a door opening from the chapel through the outer wall, but I had never seen it opened in my time. By this door I now took my stand, Hal sitting in solemn wonder at my side, and listened in awful silence, holding in my hand the great key dripping with oil.

It seemed an age to me, though I do not think that more than half an hour passed before I heard a slight noise, and then three low taps thrice repeated on the outside of the door. Hal roused up, growling like a lion, but my upraised finger silenced him. Quickly, and with a firmness of hand which surprised me, I opened the door and saw, not the old man I expected, but a peasant in Norman dress. For a moment my heart stood still, and then I was reassured.

"The name of the Lord is a strong tower!" said the stranger.

"To them that fear him," I added, giving the countersign. "Come in quickly; we must lose no time."

He entered, and I closed the door. Then dismissing old Hal, who was very unwilling to leave me in such dubious company, I led the way to the chancel, by means of the little dark-lantern which I had held under my cloak. I pressed the button with all my strength; the whole of the stall moved aside, and showed a narrow passage in the thickness of the wall.

"Enter, monsieur," said I; and then, giving him the lantern to hold, I pulled back the stall and heard the bolt drop into its place. Then taking the light again and holding it low to the ground, I went on, and the stranger followed. The road was rough, and he stumbled more than once, but still we proceeded till we reached a very narrow and broken stair, which led steeply upward till at last we came to a heavy wooden door.