The traitor's way

by S. Levett Yeats

I removed the flowers and held them in my hand. They were soft, delicate, and pure as the girl’s heart—and I—I had cast aside a priceless gem that lay at my feet, to wander after an elf-light that led me into the deeps. I put the flowers by carefully. They are with me to this day. Sometimes I open my cabinet and look at them, and as I gaze the withered blossoms seem to renew their freshness, and their sweet scent to come back to them. And then I shut them up again reverently, as things too sacred for the light.

Be this as it may, as I put aside the sad little gift there flickered once more within me a faint hope. A way was pointed to me to seek the death that I craved. There was something of honor in it. Yes, I would die by Marcilly’s side. I could not save him; but I would try to, and the clean sword that I wore would be used for the first and the last time by me in a manner worthy of its brightness. Strength came to me with the thought; and feverish and impatient, I watched the long hours steal past, until the time came for me to go. I heard the Lauds, and although it was still black darkness I could stay no longer. Stooping down I shook Majolais by the shoulder. He awoke with a gasp and a start, but recovered himself at once, and, as I resumed my cloak, he seized and kissed my hand, his hot lips burning like a seal. I told him I was going, and that he should, when it was light, seek the Princess of Condé, there he would find rest and safety; but Majolais clung to my cloak, and somehow made me understand that he would not be parted from me. So we two went out of our refuge.

Long and slow was our passage. We must have wandered in the darkness like derelict ships, but at last we reached the Martroi. The watch-fires were burning, and here and there was the gleam of a torch, or the flash of a light; for early as was the hour, dark as it was, there were those who had already assembled to see a fellow-creature die.

Aided by the darkness, we approached near the scaffold. Close to it were a series of wooden galleries, and, drawing my sword, I slipped behind one of these, and waited for the time to come—it would not be long now—when I should die sword in hand, and whiten, if only a little, my stained shield.

Majolais was beside me when I took my place. I saw his yellow eyes watching the sword, and, as if he understood, he drew his dagger and felt the point of it with his finger. But I had no intention of sacrificing him. I whispered to him to be gone. I told him in low, quick words what I meant to do; but he remained immovable. Finally, I threatened him angrily, but to no purpose, and I was about to resign myself to fate, when a sudden idea seemed to possess him. He chuckled like a night-jar, and, drawing himself up the hoardings, he crept along them on all fours with cat-like agility, and vanished in the darkness. I was glad he was gone. He knew where to go for safety, and this business of mine had to be done alone.

And now the sky began to whiten, and night-fire and torch to pale at the coming day. From all hands there was a murmur and hum of voices. Ghostly figures swarmed in the galleries, and the tramp of feet echoed from every side of the square. Slowly the day brightened, the hum and bustle increased, while sometimes one heard a laugh or a cry, a rough oath or a ribald jest, rise above the buzz of voices.

The block was not ten paces from me, and on the opposite side was a gallery, with a balcony draped in velvet; but it was as yet unoccupied. Suddenly there came the tramp of horses’ hoofs, the clash of arms, a sharp order or two, and the space round the scaffold was filled with armed men, who were so close to me that, from where I stood in concealment, I could have touched the nearest with my hand. I heard Carouges’ voice, and then a figure stepped from his side and mounted the platform of the scaffold. It was a masked man, robed all in black, with a long, two-handed sword over his shoulder. He stood by the block, leaning on the cross-hilt of his sword, and so absorbed was I in watching him, that I fairly started as I felt a cold hand on mine, and looking down beheld Majolais. I signed to him to go, but for answer he pointed between the slits of the boards toward the gallery opposite to us. It was occupied now, and the malign countenance that looked out thence upon the morning was that of Achon. The dwarf’s face was like that of a devil; and then he suddenly and swiftly backed from me, and was gone once more. I leaned forward and watched, and, as I did so, the faint odor of something burning struck me. I glanced behind, but could make out nothing, and my attention was taken off by Carouges, as he spoke to another who stood by his side, wrapped in a long cloak.

“Are none of the Court coming? Is only he to be here?” Carouges made a movement of his hand toward Achon, and it was Richelieu who answered him.

“Oh! There are many in the galleries, but no royalties. They respect the dead King. However, Monsieur of Arles, though he sits there alone, is a host in himself.”

“Faith! If a host, he gives his guest a grewsome banquet,” laughed the other, and then this idle talk was interrupted by a murmur from the crowd that swelled to a roar, and then died away again in a death-like silence.