A single glance was sufficient. The flints had been removed—the weapons were useless! I stood staring at them in dull perplexity; and then I raised my eyes and they fell upon my lady.
She was standing upon the hearth, erect and motionless, both hands pressed against her bosom, gazing at me with a strange expression, half fearful, half defiant, as if some secret struggle were raging in her breast. She did not speak; there was no need for words. In her face, her attitude, I received the full confirmation of my suspicions—read the truth in all its naked hideousness.
Now I remembered all too late that I had left my spare flints in my holsters. Now I understood only too well for what purpose my lady had left her fan in the garden, who it was that had tampered with the weapons in my hands. With a sickening feeling of despair I realised that all this time she had been but playing a part, had been the lure to keep me from the village while they worked their will upon the men whom I commanded. Her graciousness, her altered demeanour towards me, had been but assumed—part of the snare into which, despite my boasted knowledge of the world, I had fallen as easily as any rustic Corydon.
On a sudden, still with her eyes on mine, my lady slowly raised her injured arm. Slowly, slowly, she raised it, then with a quick, passionate gesture she tore the bandage from her wrist and flung it into the empty grate behind her. That broke the spell.
With a long-drawn, shivering breath I recovered my composure. “God forgive you, madam,” I said quietly; “for I believe that you have sent me to my death.” And without further word or glance at her, I threw my useless pistols upon the floor at her feet, and, drawing my sword, stepped through the open window. But as I set foot upon the terrace I realised to the full my danger; for upon turning to the left, intending, if possible, to reach the stables, I saw the steward and the youth Martin advancing from their direction, and the moonlight shone upon the barrels of the muskets in their hands. They raised a shout at my sudden appearance, but they dared not fire, for I was between them and their friends advancing from the opposite end of the terrace, who now, indeed, were within a hundred feet of me. And before me was the moat, which even if I could by any means clear (and my heavy riding boots rendered the chance more than doubtful), to cross the open lawns exposed to their shot was but to court certain death.
Moreover, small desire of escape was there in my heart; for so stung was I by the knowledge of my lady’s treachery and of my own disgrace, that I was minded to die rather, and so to hide my shame. How after this could I face my comrades, with the knowledge that I had betrayed the trust reposed in me, and, despite my age and experience, had been tricked, cozened, cheated by a woman, like the veriest country clown.
A little to my right two buttresses projecting from the wall offered security from all save a frontal attack. Between these I ensconced myself and awaited my enemies with the desperate determination of selling my life as dearly as possible. In a moment they were around me—a score or more of the hardier rogues from the village, armed for the most part with pitchforks and scythe blades lashed to poles, and led by Sir Rupert Courtenay, my lady’s cousin.
Seeing me standing there, stern and motionless, they came to a sudden halt, and the shouts with which they had before greeted my appearance died away to silence.
“Give up your sword, sir,” said the young baronet sharply. “Your troopers are in our hands and resistance is futile.”
At that I put aside the thrust of a scythe blade from the man who was nearest to me, at the same time slashing him across the wrist, and as the knaves drew back a little, not relishing their reception, I condescended to give him an answer.