No sooner was he alone than a legion of demons seemed to people the room, filling it with hideous forms and voices, mocking and scoffing, and asking him what he had done with his brother. He stamped in rage, and dashed his hands through his hair, and began to walk rapidly up and down. But the spectres kept pace with him, grinning and hooting and repeating with maddening iteration: “What have you done with your brother?”
“What had he done with him?”
cried Gaston aloud—“why, only what François would have done with himself sooner or later. And was he to let his house be burnt down and his gold melted to postpone the day perhaps for twenty-four hours? Pshaw! what an idiot he was to take on so about it. It was all that whistle that set his nerves on an edge. Why did it keep on hissing and hissing? The bleus and their capture were half a mile out of ear-shot by this. Fate had been good to Gaston, and served him much better than he could have served himself. It had taken the matter out of his hands, and he had been no more than a passive agent in its grasp, in the grasp of law and might—ay, and right too. When François came back like a simpleton and thrust his head into the lion’s mouth, what could he expect but that it would close on him and crunch him? It was over now. Marie would never hear of his return and need never curse the day she gave her hand to Gaston, and Gaston might sleep in peace, and without being haunted by terrors of his brother’s return.” Thus did he argue with the fiend and strive to beat him off, and stifle remorse that had entered his soul, and was gnawing at him with fierce, relentless tooth. But it would not do. Across the legion of fiends there flitted visions of the past, that he could not shut his eyes to, struggle as he would. First, there rose before him a curly-headed little brother whose small arms were round Gaston’s neck, clasping him as they lay in a little cot beside their mother, breathing softly in sweet child slumber; then he beheld a frank, bright boy kneeling with him beside that mother’s death-bed, while she blessed them and promised to meet them in heaven. Then the boy was a youth who stood with his hand on Gaston’s shoulder, and looked
into his eyes, and said: “Brother, I trust thee as I trust my soul!” This faded away, and he saw the same youth bronzed and war-worn, and betrayed in his manly trust, but still holding out his hand to Gaston, and saying with the well-remembered voice, now husky with the strong man’s agony: “I do not blame thee, brother; God’s will be done!” Slowly but vividly the visions rose before Gaston’s soul, and he could not but look on them, and, as he looked, sweet memories of his childhood rushed upon him like a torrent and bore him down; his boasted courage was gone, his pride, his love, his gold melted away like false phantoms, and he was alone with his sin and his despair. He remembered François’ noble unselfishness, his truth, his grateful love of their common mother, his reverence for her lightest wish; he remembered his many acts of kindness to the poor and the suffering, and how he had seen him followed by blessings from the old and young whom his generosity had helped and comforted; and oh! bitterest of all was the memory of their parting, when François gave him his little hoard in trust, and bid him take care of Marie. And this was the brother he had sold! O God! It was all too horrible to be true. Gaston seized the bag of gold, rushed from the house and into the stable, and, without waiting to saddle her, leaped on his mare’s back, and dashed off in pursuit of les bleus. They were only six, and he had gold enough to buy them if he only came in time. The mare flew as if she knew what hung on her speed, dashing up the snow that spattered her flanks and enveloped her rider in a moving cloud as they galloped along. The moon was still magnificent, and the stars shone down with the same calm splendor—the patient, far-away stars
that 1793 years ago rang out the glad tidings to the watchers on the hills of Judea: Glory to God! Peace to men! Gaston, as he flew past the scene of his recent struggle, felt a chill of supernatural terror freeze him to the marrow of his bones. The stars stooped down till they seemed to touch him, and pierce him with needles of fire; the hills, the stern, uncompromising hills, shook their pale brows at him, and turned and ran with him through the waste of snow; and above them, from the battlements of heaven, rang out a myriad voices in ecstatic song: Glory to God! Peace to men! But ever and anon, breaking the high harmony of that song, came a shriek as of a mocking fiend: “What hast thou done with thy brother?”
The mare took a longer stride and put out her strength with a sudden increase of vehemence as they came to a turn in the road where it crossed the river and rounded the base of the hills. Gaston’s heart leaped up to his throat, as he caught the hammering of hoofs ahead. Thank heaven! he was in time. The horsemen came in sight. They slackened their speed, nay, they were dismounting now. Out in the open road with no shelter of any sort in sight? What did it mean? The mare strode on. A few more pulls, and she would be up with them. Gaston could distinguish the trim figures of the soldiers and François’s loose peasant dress. But now he lost sight of them; they had moved behind a hedge. Only for a moment. The six slim figures emerged from the snowy foreground, and six muskets gleamed horizontal in the moonlight.
“Hold! in the name of heaven, hold!” shrieked Gaston.
He flung down the bag, that burst and sent the gold rippling on the ground—but it was too late; there
was a rattle, and flash followed flash, as he sprang from his horse and rushed between the murderers and his brother. François lay prostrate, writhing in the snow, that his blood was turning to crimson. Their eyes met for one moment, and then François’ closed for ever. Gaston fell on the body with a cry that was like the shriek of a condemned soul; and then he felt a hand on his arm.
“There are the midnight bells sounding,” said old Gervoise, in a querulous voice. “I have been calling to you through the door these ten minutes, and you wouldn’t awake. I thought you were dead, so I got my own key and opened it.”