Nothing I could say would dissuade him, and I more than regretted my speech. His preparations were quickly made. He but buckled his sword tighter, drank another cup of Rochecorbon, and unbarred the window.
“It is cold,” he said, as he looked out, “and snowing swords.”
“Be advised, Ponthieu!”
But he shook his head and wrung my hand. Then he hung over the window for a moment, and dropped into the snow. As I closed the shutter, I saw him, a dark figure, crossing the dim shaft of light that ran out into the night, and a moment after he was lost in the dark. With a shiver, I put up the bar, and turned back to my seat at the fire.
I was alone now. Ponthieu had made no allusion to our last meeting; but rough soldier as he seemed, he was possessed of rare tact. And now he had gone on his reckless mission. I had given my right hand to have gone with him. It was a jest worth the playing. But it was impossible. I was bound to Marcilly, and the odds were heavy enough against us to tempt the most desperate gambler with life. With solitude my thoughts came back to me and racked me. I had sought for the bread of strength, and come back with a stone. All this may be nothing to you who pass by, but where could I turn for help? I, who was fighting for my soul. As evil thoughts steal into the heart like a fog, as good thoughts come to us like sunlight through the mist, so once again the light flashed on me, and I swore to myself to tear up the past, and face my sorrows like a man. Sleep was impossible. My nerves were too strung for that. I leaned back, and staring into the fire, began to think. My dishonor was known but to myself, and with God’s grace I would win back my own self-respect. The past could not come back; but there was still the future—and hope. I would fight this battle of the soul here to-night—here as I sat alone. Alone, did I say? No; I had a hundred companions. Out of the shadows in the room, out of the dull red embers in the fireplace, out of the forked flames they came in troops to me, gray phantoms of sin and shame. There was one, that red-handed spirit of murder, that could almost hail me brother. There were others, winged regrets that flitted to and fro. There were the ghosts of high hopes and noble aspirations, that floated before me with veiled faces and downcast heads. But through all this the new-born strength was coming to me. I would be true to Marcilly, true to myself; and when it was over, if I lived—well, the world was wide, and Gaspard de Vibrac would find a new life in distant lands. It was as if from afar a soft voice called to me, “Come unto me, ye that are weary.” I sank on my knees, and then—some one laughed behind me. I sprang to my feet and faced round, and standing before me was a tall, black-robed figure, with a white face and shining eyes. It was Achon.
“Monsieur,” he said, the bitter laugh still on his lips, “I want a word with you.”
“I—I thought——” I stammered; I was completely taken by surprise.
“That Achon of Arles was some one else,” he put in; “you will see him in time, Monsieur de Vibrac, not yet. You will see him where hope shall be cut off, and trust shall be as a spider’s web.”
But I was myself by this. “Monseigneur! You speak in riddles—and strangely, for a prince of the Church.”
He looked at me keenly. “The Church—what is it that you know of the Church, monsieur? You, a heretic! You were praying. Think you such prayers as yours are heard? You might as well have cast them to the wind that howls outside. It is the Church, the Church alone, that can save you and yours, monsieur. But enough of this! It is of other matters I came to speak, and, to be brief, I overheard most of your talk with your friend.”