Marcille groaned. "Alas, monsieur!" he said. "Mademoiselle has the courage of a man. She stood there, in the darkness, so that we who were near could scarce see her face; but her voice was steady and calm as she replied that, though she thanked the good Job with all her heart, her place was there, in the hall of the Château, to prove her innocence of the foul crime of which she had been so maliciously accused, and if possible to save her brother from the cruel clutches of his false friends. In vain Marie entreated her, whilst I also could not refrain from showing the many dangers to which she might be exposed; but she would not be shaken from her purpose by tears or warnings, protesting that a maid's innocence and honour were dearer to her than life itself, and that she would uphold them before the bitterest foes, knowing that God would not forsake her cause. Nevertheless, monsieur, she did not forget you, but bade me conceal myself in safety and return with the first streak of light to bid you escape before the cunning of your enemies discovered you; for well did she guess that soft-footed treachery must have long crept in her shadow. Also did she strive to persuade Marie to seek safety in flight with Job; for if the charge of witchcraft were truly brought against her, there might be much danger for her too, seeing that such fiends would be little likely to spare the torture they were at liberty to inflict in the hopes of wringing a false confession from lips which writhed in agony till twisted to their will. But the brave Marie was also firm, declaring that if her mistress were to die she would die with her, for it would be impossible that she should forsake her; but, as at length we went forward, she bade me wait close there by the river side, and that before dawn she would contrive to bring or send me news of her lady's case and her own. Therefore, monsieur, in much fear I waited, for it is little to an honest man's liking to thus skulk in safety behind trees when perchance the maid he loves is in danger of her life; but I knew it was no work then for muscles, but for wisdom, and so with sore heart I lay watching for dawn; and in due time from the shadow of the Château walls there stole forth a man who came swiftly to where I waited, and I perceived that it was once more the good friend Job, though by his distraught appearance I augured ill even before he spake. And ill it was, such ill that methought hell itself must be already yawning for the plotters of such villainy; for it appeared that they were clever, these devils, so clever that the plight of mademoiselle and the little Marie was terrible indeed. It was already rumoured throughout the Château that Monsieur de Mereac was dead; and whether that were the case or not, Monsieur de Coray assumed very speedily his place, whilst the false demoiselle his sister, with the black-browed wench her maiden, and Pierre the fool, whose neck should long since have been wrung, told their lying tale. Ah! how he wept, the poor Job, monsieur, as he repeated it! Such a ring of evil, cruel faces, said he, full of Satan's own malice, and opposite them the Demoiselle de Mereac, beautiful, calm, innocent as an angel, looking at these her accusers with the proud scorn of a noble lady who sees the canaille howling execrations at her from below. And yet, calm and innocent as she was, even she blanched to hear the foul lies with which these slanderers blackened her fair name, and to see with what skill they had plotted for her life. It was the lying wench Jeanne Dubois who brought the first false statements against her, speaking of voices she had heard talking at midnight in mademoiselle's closet, of weird laughter and chantings and such-like foolishness, till even de Coray himself cut her short, seeing the discontent on the faces of the men around, who looked, Job said, little pleased to see their young mistress in such a plight, and on such slender grounds. But the next to speak was the devil's imp Pierre the fool; and when he told of the Brown Friar with whom the lady talked and walked at midnight by the chapel, there were many who looked askance and crossed themselves. But no word spoke mademoiselle herself, only standing there in all the purity and pride of her innocence, facing her accusers with contempt. But it was now the turn of Mademoiselle de Coray herself, and, as she spoke to those gathered around, even the heart of Job himself sank, for the very tones of her voice possessed the fascination which engenders belief. In mournful tones she dwelt on the love she had possessed not only for Monsieur de Mereac, but for his sister also; of how sorrow had filled her heart at the sudden and mysterious sickness which had laid so low the one to whom she was already betrothed; of Mademoiselle Gwennola's strange behaviour; of her own suspicions; of her scorn, however, of Jeanne's allegations and the story of Pierre the fool until she had proved the truth for herself. In a few vivid words she pictured the meeting of mademoiselle with you, monsieur, declaring you to be the agent of evil by whose aid she worked her hideous spells; the horror of her lover at discovering also for himself the infamous dealings of his sister; his fierce denunciation of her, and command that she should be brought to death, ere a fresh seizure robbed him of speech and, she feared, of life. Finally, amidst the murmured execrations from those around, she produced a small waxen figure, bearing a vague resemblance to Monsieur de Mereac, which had apparently been partly melted before a fire, and which she declared had been discovered in the accused's own chamber. Yet in spite of the loud murmurs of horror and loathing which now rilled the hall, Mademoiselle Gwennola flinched not at all. 'I am innocent,' she said once, loudly and clearly. 'May our Lord and Lady forgive you, Diane and Guillaume de Coray, for the false tale you have brought against me.' But Mademoiselle Diane only laughed, pointing to the black hood and cloak which were damp with night dews. 'A lie!' she cried in mockery, so that Job would fain have struck her down as she stood there, mouthing and grinning. 'A lie, sayest thou?—witch and murderess that thou art. Whence comest thou, then, honest maiden, with the dews of night around thee, instead of from thy slumbers? Thy chamber was empty when they went to search for thee, and anon thou comest to us fresh from thy unholy revels, and darest thus to upbraid me with a lie! Nay! thou canst not thus hope to hoodwink justice, girl, with the signs of thy guilt clinging around thee, or turn outraged love from its righteous vengeance!' But mademoiselle replied not at all, only drawing her cloak more closely around her, as if to guard her secret the safer; and truly, as Job said, the words of Mademoiselle de Coray savoured of truth to those who knew not the sequel."
"Alas! alas!" cried d'Estrailles passionately, "why was I not there to proclaim that truth? Better a hundred deaths than that one breath of such shame should soil the purity of such a maiden's honour! But it is not too late,—fool that I was to delay! Let us hasten then, quickly, Jean, and tell to these foolish ones the truth."
"Nay, master," said Marcille, laying a detaining hand on his master's arm; "methinks 'twould little benefit the lady to run your head into a sure and certain noose. Moreover, even so the charge would still stand good, so craftily have they contrived it. Besides, already are the poor demoiselle and the pretty Marie on their way to Martigue under the escort of Monsieur de Coray himself, who declared that ere dawn they should be delivered to justice."
"To justice?" echoed d'Estrailles, whilst his eyes stared in horror before him, as if he were indeed viewing already the dread picture which the significant words brought before him. "To justice?"
"Ay," groaned Marcille with a sob; "they would fain burn her as a witch, my master; and alas! perchance also the little Marie beside her,—devils that they are!"
But Henri d'Estrailles had as yet scarcely grasped the full import of the stunning blow which had fallen so swiftly upon the sweetness of love's dream. As vaguely as Yvon de Mereac himself he repeated the words to himself, "Gwennola a witch!—to be burnt as a witch!—She!" His voice choked in a sudden wild rush of emotion and fury, as his imagination conjured up the terrible picture of his beloved standing alone and helpless amongst her enemies. He could see her, ah! so vividly, with her proud, girlish figure drawn to the utmost of its slender height, and the great, blue eyes challenging haughtily her false accusers,—those eyes which had so short a time ago looked with love and tenderness into his, and which—Holy Mother of God shield him from the thought!—might ere long be staring in the agony of death from amidst the smoke and flames of the cruel stake.
But, though his blood leapt madly in his veins to ride in all the strength of his love and anger and wrench her single-handed from her enemies' hands, he knew the thought was too hopeless, such a scheme so impossible that it would but seal afresh her doom. Yes!—doom! For full well he knew how inexorably it was written already; well he knew that with such evidence to hand there would be short shrift for the noblest or the fairest, more especially with the powerful hand of the new Sieur de Mereac behind to push his victim forwards to the flames awaiting her. The situation was indeed desperate. So closely were the threads of the web woven that there was no breaking them. Did he come forward and reveal the identity of the Brown Friar, there would still be the deadly evidence of the waxen image and the unaccountable and mysterious death of Yvon de Mereac. Clear as the plot of de Coray was to him, its very boldness rendered the plotter's position impregnable, and all d'Estrailles might expect to gain by attempting to disclose his rival's perfidy and murderous schemes was the death of a French spy caught wandering in disguise within the borders of Brittany.
Only one last desperate hope there seemed, and to this hope he turned with the energy of despair. He would ride to Rennes with all speed, where, close to the city, lay the passive armies of the King of France. Seeking his master, the Count Dunois, he would pray to be allowed to take a body of French troops wherewith to ride to Martigue in the hopes that by threats, backed with military power, he might induce the authorities to deliver up their prisoners. A wild hope, so wild that he dared not glance too closely at its shadowy outline; yet the only one to which he might cling in his extremity.
"Farewell, Marcille," he cried, as, doffing robe and cowl, he sprang into his saddle. "Nay, my friend, I will not take thee, and short time I ween is there for instructions. All I can bid thee is to watch, and should immediate peril threaten thy lady, ride with loose rein towards Rennes. Thou shalt find me on the road, I warrant; and can I not beg a company from Dunois, I will e'en steal one, for, by the faith of a French knight, I swear to save her!"
But there were tears in the eyes of Jean Marcille as he watched his impetuous young master's retreating form, as with spurs struck deep into his horse's sides Henri d'Estrailles galloped madly away, over the heath where the morning mists still hung heavily.