A Maid of Brittany: A Romance

by Mabel Winifred Knowles

So on the terrace walk the lovers, so ill assorted, yet so faithful, pledged undying constancy and truth, and in the hall of the château the Sieur de Mereac smiled at his new-found serpent's wisdom, then altogether dismissed from his mind the ill thought of Gwennola's unwelcome lover, to turn instead to think of the man to whom he had pledged his daughter's troth, and to swear vengeance on the subtle brain which had so nearly wrought the undoing of his house. Even in his racial hatred he could not but admit that Henri d'Estrailles claimed his gratitude in striving, even though vainly, against the coward hand which had struck the traitor's blow on his Yvon. And so, from thoughts of that scene in the wood of St Aubin, once more the old man's wandering reflections went back with a shuddering fury to the tale which Yvon himself had so haltingly told them as he stood there in the dim hall, with his father and sister beside him, his hands—such thin, trembling hands!—locked in theirs as he spoke.

And the tale itself! Ah! why had the chief actor in it gone so summarily from justice—his justice? Almost he could find it in his heart to quarrel with the faithful hound that had done its work of retribution so swiftly and so well. At first it had been almost impossible to believe that this broken, feeble-minded man with Yvon's eyes could really be the gallant youth on whom his fond hopes had been set. And then he had heard—yes, heard of the little cellar chamber in the old house at Rennes where his son had awaked from his long unconsciousness and found it so hard to struggle back through the shadowland of delirium into realization of where he was, and in whose keeping. And the realization, too, when it came, how terrible and how bitter! The father, conning over the tale, could well fit in the bare outline of it all, with lurid touches of imagination. As he stared, leaning his elbow on the table before him, with unseeing eyes on the faded tapestries of the wall, he could picture that dark cell, the sick, fevered man, whose youth struggled so madly within him for life; then the mocking, jeering face of his captor as he told him the truth which there was no need to hide—the truth that he was to lie there as this villain's trump card, the instrument with which he was to work on another's fears; how indeed that he was to be kept there to pine and languish, but not to die, until his kinsman should enter upon his inheritance, when his captor would be able to use him as a constant menace to the unlawful Sieur de Mereac, wherewith to extort gold and favour for himself. Oh, it was a cunning scheme! and how gleefully the originator of it would have laughed as he unfolded it to his victim! And then the long waiting time, the dragging by of month after month, in which death indeed must have been yearned for as the best good, and yet came not at his call. Then the delirious fancy, born of that terrible captivity, that his gaoler was ever waiting an opportunity to come creeping into his cell with his murderous dagger. And even though he had prayed for death and longed for her restful kiss, yet the terror of this swift and bloody end must have become unendurable. Then, when hope seemed dead, the sudden fresh upleaping of it in the pity and friendship of the old crone who brought him food, and, on rare occasions, fresh garments—the resolve for flight, the breathless excitement of creeping up those long and winding flights of stairs, with the old hag muttering and sobbing out fears that her master would kill her when he heard the truth, then the mad joy of drawing in once more the pure draught of outer air, and finally the ill-timed escape—an escape so nearly successful, however, that he had reached the river side and stood in very view of the château, when the sight of his cruel captor had unbalanced the weak, cowed spirit once more, and he had incontinently fled into the forest, only to be easily overtaken and overpowered by Kerden, who with oaths and blows threatened torture and punishment for his temerity when once more he had brought him back to his prison. But here the ruffian had been himself outwitted, for, in his search for his victim, he had himself been seen and recognised by his late master, and anxious, not only to elude, but put the latter off his scent entirely, he had determined to lie low until de Coray's suspicions were allayed. Accordingly he had carried Yvon to the cave he had found on the hillside, and had secreted himself beside him, only to steal out at night in search of provisions, which he procured from the peasants of Mereac and the little town of Martigue close at hand. That very night he had told Yvon of his intention of fetching his horse and returning to Rennes, leaving his trembling prisoner in suspense as to his own fate. Whether he had changed his mind, or whether the vigilant search of Pierre the fool had alarmed him, it was impossible to say, seeing that death had so swiftly overtaken the heartless schemer; but as de Mereac recalled the terror-haunted face of his son as he told his story, he brought down his clenched fist on the table before him with a fierce curse on the soul of the man who had done this deed.

"My son," said a gentle voice at his side, "saith not the Holy Script, 'Forgive, as we forgive to others their trespasses'?"

De Mereac turned swiftly with outstretched hand towards the black-robed figure standing by his chair.

"Ambrose!" he cried softly. "Nay, it does me good to hear thee speak of forgiveness, seeing how much I need at thy hands."

The Benedictine smiled as he laid his slender hand on the other's broad shoulder.

"Nay," he replied, "it is not for thee to crave my forgiveness, Gaspard, for in very truth methinks I was to blame for yielding to a maiden's whim, albeit a generous one."

"Bah!" laughed de Mereac heartily, as he drew forward a chair and gently pushed the old priest into it. "Thou wert not to blame for that, my friend. Gwennola, I fear me, is her father's own daughter, and when she setteth her mind to a thing there is no rest till it is performed. But truly all was ordered for the best, and my little maid's judgment was not ill, though whether she defied her father from love of justice, or because she so hated the man whom in my folly I would have had her wed, I know not."

Father Ambrose's smile was somewhat whimsical, for from his window he had seen the two figures by the river side.

"Nay, old friend," he said gently, "perchance 'twas neither altogether justice nor hatred that made a heroine of romance of the child, but a stronger power than both, namely, love, which ever moveth a maid to strange deeds and fancies."