A MAID OF BRITTANY (continued 4)

It was, however, only discreet that Jean and Marie should remain behind in the shadow of the trees, whilst she advanced alone towards the ruined chapel.

Ah! the memories that thronged around the spot!—memories of terror long past, as also of that father, so dear and yet so imperious, whose anger she had braved, and whose forgiveness she had won, all for the sake of the man who stood now once more before her. No gallant knight was here, however, as in those other days when the warm summer breezes stirred the ivy round the grey walls, and the scent of the flowers was sweet on the night air. The very moonlight seemed to shrink at sight of the tall figure whose brown cowl was drawn so closely round its head, as it stood waiting there alone. But as Gwennola, with a little cry, ran forward, the cowl fell back from a dark head which was assuredly not that of any spirit of ill, and strong, human arms caught and held her in their warm embrace, whilst passionate kisses were pressed on the rosy, trembling lips which whispered over and over again his name. No wonder that the white owl who sheltered herself amongst the ivy of the ruin fled shrieking dismally against the sacrilege which thus desecrated with human love the haunt of her ghostly friends; no wonder that the lizard which crept up the crumbling wall paused to peep with cunning, glittering eyes at the scene which his forefathers had watched in the garden of man's innocence. But at that supreme moment what cared those two for watching eyes?—so oblivious were they of any other in the wide world than the ones into which each looked.

True eyes, brave eyes, eyes in which the story of love and faithfulness was so easy to read! And then once more down to earth and the perilous present they must come, and leave the all-absorbing joy of that first moment of oblivion to the past and to the dim, sweet future to which both were looking with eager longing, the more impatient for that brief moment of rapture.

But it was no time for love dreams then, with the keen winter wind whistling around, and the still colder fear of danger which whispered of separation.

There was so much to tell, so much to hear, so much to plan, and oh! so short a time for the speaking of it all.

Together they sat there amongst the ruins of a dead past, and built golden castles for the future; shining, gorgeous castles, all love-illumined and beautiful. But even as they built them, difficulties innumerable and insuperable blew them once more to their feet. The situation was indeed one which well might dismay lovers so devoted. The vast army of Charles was already advancing towards Rennes; and though it appeared to menace rather than to attack, still the danger to the duchy seemed imminent if the Duchess Anne held fast to her determination, as it seemed only too likely she would do.

In faltering tones Gwennola told the story of the past months: of her father's death, of the coming of Diane de Coray, of Yvon's fatal infatuation, of the return of Guillaume de Coray and of the complete sway he and his sister held over her brother's weak mind; of Yvon's illness and her own estrangement from him; finally, of Diane's veiled persecution and her fears for her own future.

A stormy picture, so dark that for the moment it held both lovers speechless; till, as he bent to look into the face half hidden on his shoulder, Henri caught sight of a bright tear which trembled on the drooping lashes.

"Nay, weep not, my darling," he whispered passionately. "Thou shalt not thus weep and fear such things; it shall not be permitted. Sooner than that I will mount thee on good Charlemagne yonder, and ride with thee to Touraine, where we will laugh together at these vile plotters—ay, and at thy brother too for bringing such unhappiness to his little sister's heart. Fie on him! hath he forgotten that but for thy bravery he would even now have been rotting in some foul dungeon?"

"Nay," she whispered, smiling, "but that also was more for thy sake, Henri, than for his, though well I loved him—ay, and love him still for all his harshness, for I know that his eyes are, for the time, blinded by reason of this woman."

"But, say," cried d'Estrailles pleadingly, "is it then so impossible to aid thee, little one? Would I might go boldly to yonder château and claim thee for my bride, for it seemeth to me but a coward's part to hide like any evil-doer in such a manner."

"Ah, Henri," she sighed, "what foolishness thou wouldest speak! Surely, little couldst thou aid me by entering the lion's den, or save me from a dreary fate by dying as a spy, as thou wouldst surely be dubbed if thou camest hitherward in thy proper guise."

"The lion's den!" he echoed scornfully. "Rather I would term them jackals, seeing that their ways are cowards' ways, and their thoughts the thoughts of traitors. But tell me, sweet, is then my plan so impossible? or wilt thou fear to trust all,—even thyself,—to my honour?"

"Fear?" she smiled; "fear!"—and she raised her lips to meet his caress. "Nay, Henri, 'tis no fear that causeth me to hesitate, but because—because——"

"Because?" he questioned, holding her hands in his. "Because, little one?"

"Truly, I know not," she whispered softly; "only, perchance 'tis foolishness, but my mind misgiveth me as to what is best. Let us wait, my Henri, till to-morrow, and I will ask the advice of dear Father Ambrose, who loves me well, and who, methinks, hath no more liking for these de Corays, brother and sister both, than have I. Moreover, I am assured that he pitieth me, and would fain see me happy, which he wotteth well I could never be in convent cell or other arms than thine. So till to-morrow, Henri, let us wait, and it may be—it may be I will come."

So again they sat there side by side, dreaming of all the bliss that coming would make, whilst he told her again of the happy, merry life of Touraine, so vividly that it seemed to Gwennola that she was already riding by his side through the laughing meadows and sunny orchards singing rondeaux and virelais gay and sweet as their surroundings, with no weird melancholy such as every song reverberated with in this grey, yet for ever dear, land of Brittany. But dreams must fade ofttimes before the dawn, and erelong they must say farewell, those foolish young lovers, who found the world so entirely made for them alone. And yet not farewell, but au revoir—au revoir until the morrow, with, perchance, Father Ambrose's approval, if not his blessing, on their flight from troubles and shadows, suspicions and jealousies.

"Au revoir! Au revoir!" The very sweetness of the words made a melody in Gwennola's heart as she and her attendants hurried homewards, and her lips trembled in a smiling happiness, warm with the memory of his kisses. As for Marcille and the rosy-faced little Marie, they also had found the waiting time less irksome than might have been supposed; for the example of one's betters, see you, is a fine thing to follow, and the atmosphere of love is so infectious that perchance it had even become wafted towards the shadow of the trees where the two waited; and that may explain, the reason why Marie's rosy lips dimpled too as she smiled in the darkness and a hand which should have been holding her cloak slid downwards to meet and be grasped by another hand, strong and tender, which held it so fast that the smile nearly overflowed into a merry laugh for the very happiness of youth.

CHAPTER XVII

"Alas, poor Yvon! Nay, rest thy head so,—yes, that seemeth better; and place thy hand in mine. Ah! how cold it is! and how thou shiverest, even before this warm blaze!"

"Ay, cold as grows my heart when I think of what this sickness portendeth," groaned Yvon, as he lay back wearily on his couch, looking up with loving yet wistful eyes into the glowing, beautiful face bent so close to his. An angel of light and grace did Diane de Coray appear in her graceful, clinging gown of heavy white material, the long sleeves and throat edged with gleaming gold, whilst the high head-dress framed a face fair enough to soothe and gladden any man, and soft hazel eyes filled with sympathy, tenderness—and perhaps some other vague, undefined expression impossible to read.

She repeated his name over softly many times as she stroked the thin hand which lay listlessly at his side.

"Thou wilt be better anon," she said gently at length, in reply to his weary sigh. "See, Yvon, for my sake thou must be better."

He shook his head sadly. "Nay," he replied, "I fear not, little Diane; for me there is naught but the grave—the grave in which shall be buried all the hopes and the great love with which thou hast inspired me. Yes, little one, weep not, for it is even so, bitter as it seemeth to say it,—and how bitter the holy saints only know; for death is a sorry guest when love has stepped in before him. And I love thee, my Diane, I love thee, with all this poor heart of mine—not worthy of thee, sweet, nay, not worthy, for suffering and fear have left but a sorry wreck of the Yvon de Mereac who once was. And yet, Diane, thou hast loved this poor, weak one, so unworthy of thee! See, thou shalt hold my hands in thine and say it softly,—thus,—'I love thee, Yvon de Mereac, I love thee, although thou art but a poor, unworthy lover at best for the sweetest, fairest damsel that the good God ever made.'"

"Nay!" she cried passionately, dashing away a tear, and bending to kiss the white, upturned face; "thou knowest well that I love thee, Yvon, the saints aid me! But thou shalt not die! Listen!—I will tell thee my secret thoughts, though I fear me thou wilt be angry."

"Angry?" he questioned, smiling; "angry with thee, Diane?"

"Yes," she said, turning a flushed, half-shamed face to him, and speaking in a hard, even voice; "thou wilt be angry, Yvon; and yet I will dare that anger for the love I bear thee."

She glanced around as she spoke, but none were near; only the tapestried faces met hers as they looked calmly down from the walls as if, lifeless as they were, they scorned this woman who knelt there, knowing and hailing her as liar and traitress.

But the swift pang of remorse and fear which held the words trembling on her lips passed, and, steeling herself to her task, the girl drew close to the sick man's side.

"Listen," she said softly, "and judge, Yvon, my betrothed. Hath it not caused thee wonderment, this sore sickness of thine? None can tell its name; skilled leech as he is, Father Ambrose hath no knowledge of it; and yet, so deadly is its nature, that truly death seemeth near."

Yvon's blue eyes were fixed curiously on the speaker's face, a vague horror growing in them as she proceeded.

"Hath all this never struck thee, my Yvon? Hast thou not searched in vain for the cause of thy suffering?"

"Nay," he muttered, "I understand not what thou speakest of, Diane."

"Of witchcraft," she said softly but very clearly. "Of witchcraft, dearest love, which hath been brought to work so evilly upon thee that death stands already awaiting thee."

She crossed herself, shuddering as she saw the horror deepening in the wide eyes so close to hers.

"Witchcraft?" he echoed faintly. "But wherefore? and by whose hand should such spells be wrought?"

"By the cruel hand of Gwennola, thy sister!"

Instantly the blue eyes blazed, a red, angry flush swiftly dyeing the pale, sunken cheeks.

"Gwennola! my sister Gwennola a witch! Nay, Diane, thou ravest. Unsay such words, maiden! By my faith, they shall not be breathed again in my presence,—the honour of the house of Mereac may not lightly be bandied by careless lips."

She had expected his anger, and faced it coolly enough.

"I cannot unsay the truth, Yvon de Mereac, even when thy house's honour is at stake. Nay! blame not me, but rather her who so cruelly hath dragged it in the mire."

"But it is a lie," he cried passionately, "a foul and cruel lie. Who dared speak such words to thee, Diane? I will have him hanged to the nearest tree for thus smirching the fair name of a noble maiden."

Diane laid a soft, caressing hand on his clenched palm; the eyes she turned to his sparkling and indignant ones were full of tears.

"Alas! alas! my Yvon!" she whispered. "Should I have dared thus to speak of thy sister had I not for myself discovered the truth of the accusation?"

He lay back on his couch, panting and almost breathless with emotion; but his eyes dilated still with fear and horror as he listened to her smooth, softly spoken words.

"But for the love I bear thee, Yvon, no word should have crossed my lips; but because even now it may not be too late to save thee, love hath unsealed my lips, and I hereby do solemnly declare to thee that thy sister Gwennola, and she alone, is answerable for this thy deadly sickness."

"Nay, I cannot believe it," he cried with a quick sob. "What! Gwennola try to slay me? my father's little Gwennola a witch? It is beyond reason, I tell thee, Diane."

"So said I at first," said Diane softly; "yet nevertheless it is truth."

"Gwennola!" he echoed dreamily, as on the instant all the old childish days seemed to surge forward in his memory—"little Gwennola!"

He was seeing her, a tiny, lovely maiden of five innocent summers, being held up in his own strong young arms to kiss the forehead of his horse; and remembering how she turned from loving the black steed to fling a pair of soft, baby arms round his neck and kiss him again and again. Then other pictures stole back to him in the darkening room: pictures of the same child grown into a slim little maiden, beautiful as the flowers which bent their fair heads to the summer breezes; with great blue eyes which were always watching for father and brother, whom she must ever run to greet, if but for the excuse of slipping away from the embroidery frame and her mother's rebukeful eye. But at the last the pictures faded, shrivelling up before a poisoned breath—and Diana's voice rang in his ears, "Gwennola is a witch!"

"No," he cried fiercely, as if to drown the accusing voice; "it is no truth, but a lie—a lie fashioned in the blackest hell!"

But Diane was not to be moved by his harsh words. She was playing for a stake, and knew she must win, though in her heart she was the more angry to find that the love she had hoped to have already destroyed had so strong a root.

"It is for thine own sake I spoke, my Yvon," she pleaded, with a break in her soft voice. "Alas! alas! I have but angered thee, and all to no purpose, seeing thou wilt neither believe nor strive to save thyself from her spells."

"Nay, sweet one, thou must forgive my angry words," said her lover, melting to tenderness as his ear caught the sob in the gentle tones. "Well I know that it is but thy zeal for my welfare which hath led thee astray in believing such false words. But bethink thee, my Diane, what proof can these evil tale-bearers bring? what knowledge have they?"

"Ah, me!" moaned Diana, "I must anger thee again, Yvon; and yet, so cruelly has she deceived and wronged thee, that I will have no pity—no, for so foul a wrong deserves none, and her sin be on her own head!"

"Speak," muttered Yvon hoarsely, as once more the fear crept into his eyes; "speak, Diane."

"When my maid, Jeanne Dubois, told me the tale," said Diane softly, "I bade her be silent; for, for evil tongues there was sharp punishment, and slanderers, to my thinking, should have small mercy. But the wench persisted, and so perforce I listened, merely at first to point to her the danger of such lying falsehoods. Yet the story smacked so vividly of sincerity that I listened at length with more attention, whilst she told me that the Demoiselle de Mereac kept strange company, and that ofttimes passing her chamber door at nightfall she had had reason to cross herself for very fear of the weird chantings and voices she heard within. Yet knowing it was naught of her business, the girl said nothing till, chancing one day to be conversing with Pierre the fool, the knave whispered somewhat in her ear of his own suspicions, and told Jeanne that he could also prove to her how that the young châtelaine not only gathered evil company under the very roof of the château, but also went into the heart of the forest at the midnight hour to celebrate terrible orgies with her foul friends, and converse with her dread familiar, who appeareth to her in the garb of a brown friar, who, for his evil deeds on earth, hath been condemned to haunt the shades of a ruined chapel and assist still further those whose sins are as black as those of his own lost soul."

Again Diane looked steadily into Yvon's eyes, and with a thrill of triumph marked the look of dread which had stolen into them.

"I myself," she said sadly, "have already proved the truth of Jeanne's words; it remains with thee, Yvon, to also convince thyself of a guilt which, alas! shineth as clearly as noonday. In very truth, I beg thee thus to prove the words I have dared to speak, for little doubt is there in my mind that in this lost maiden's evil practices lies the secret of thy fatal illness. And because I love thee, Yvon, with all my heart and soul I pray thee strive to save thyself from these cruel spells, and even, if need be, tear from its parent-tree this smitten branch and cast it into the fire."

"Gwennola!—Gwennola!" moaned Yvon; "my father's darling,—his little Gwennola! Is it possible that thou hast so fallen—art become so lost? Diane," he cried, turning almost fiercely upon her, "I accept thy word. Prove to me my sister's guilt, and I will myself light the faggots which shall purify the honour of the house of Mereac. Yet I warn thee that if this tale be false, the very love I bear thee shall shrivel and burn away till nothing be left but the ashes of hatred."

"I will prove it," said Diane, returning his look unflinchingly. "This very night, with thine own eyes shalt thou behold thy sister clasped to the arms of one of hell's foulest shades, and with him plotting for thy destruction."

CHAPTER XVIII

It is difficult to realize how tremendous a hold the superstition of witchcraft had upon the minds of our ancestors from the earliest ages. And in the fifteenth century the fear of wizards and witches and belief in their supernatural powers was almost unlimited. Indeed, the repute of madness was not more fatal to dogs than that of witchcraft to human beings.[#] So destructive was it, that there is scarcely a hamlet of ancient date west of the Carpathians wherein crowds of witches have not been massacred during the middle ages. For a considerable period Cologne burnt four hundred of these wretches, Paris three hundred, and a multitude of second-rate towns two hundred a-piece every year. To be stigmatised as a witch was to be condemned, sooner or later, to the stake; and so well was this understood, that the malicious had only to fix that evil name on their victims in order to secure their execution. A list remains of some hundred and fifty witches slain in three years by that insignificant place, Wurzburg; and among the sufferers we find half-a-dozen vagrants, children, and others; a scold, a learned judge, a skilful linguist, several popular preachers, and "Goebel Babelin, the prettiest girl in Wurzburg."

[#] See Witches and their Craft.

It was a fundamental axiom of the witch-codes, as explained by Bodin, that no witch might be acquitted unless her innocence shone "as clear as the noontide sun"; and every care was taken to render that impossible. But by far the most powerful means of effecting their conviction—surpassing false witness and torture by an infinite length—was the infamous scrutiny to which the miserable creatures were subjected. The search for devil mark and amulet, as prescribed by the Church, was regarded as worse than death itself, and of the thousands who perished, a vast proportion died self-accused, preferring the deadly search of the flame to that of the monkish inquisitors.

Considering how fearfully and inevitably witches were punished, it seems astonishing that any, much less such myriads, should have professed them of the craft. But, on the other hand, it must be remembered that the acquisition of power to inflict storm and devastation, disease and death, was an irresistible temptation to the savage nature that then predominated in the lower classes. For everybody sought the fraternity. Those who suffered, or apprehended suffering, bought their services equally with those who desired to have suffering inflicted. The latter, however, were by far the more numerous, and the witches had a very singular way of gratifying them. One of the strangest was to fashion an image of the hated individual during the celebration of certain infernal rites. The simulacrum was usually of virgin wax; but when it was meant to make the work of vengeance thoroughly sure, the clay taken from the depth of a well-used grave was generally preferred. The image being moulded according to rule, and baptized by a properly qualified priest, whatever injury was inflicted on the model was believed to have a similar effect on the original. Did they tie up a member of the effigy, paralysis attacked the corresponding limb of the person represented. Intense pain and fearful mutilation were thus assumed to be produced; nor was even death itself beyond the wizard's power. To secure this fatal result there were several approved recipes. Some pierced the heart of the statuette with a new needle; others melted it slowly before a fire; a third set interred it at dead of night in consecrated ground with horrible burlesque of the burial service; and a fourth gathered the hair into the stomach of the model, and concealed it in the chamber—if possible under the pillow—of the intended victim. Such images were prepared by Robert of Artois for the destruction of his enemies. In this way Enguerrand de Marigny was said to have slain Philip the Fair. Thus, too, Eleanor Cobhan, wife of Duke Humphrey, was said to have attempted the life of Henry VI.

Many and varied were the powers and mischievous contrivances of the witches and wizards for every possible purpose. A decoction made of a toad baptized by the name of John, and fed on consecrated wafers, was thrown under a farmer's table by a witch at Soissons, and all who sat round the board died immediately. Every witch possessed her agent, or familiar imp, who on her inauguration into the sisterhood sucked her blood, thus leaving the fatal "devil-mark."

In Brittany, not more than fifty years before the opening of our tale, the far-famed and execrable Gilles de Retz had been led to the stake, there to pay the penalty of his horrible career as wizard, murderer, and devil-worshipper. The crimes of this fiend of iniquity are too many and too terrible to bear repetition. His chief delight, however, was to lure children to his castle by the agency of an old hag named la Meffraie, who went about the country enticing any children she met, with false promises, to her master's abode; and from that moment they were heard of no more. When, after fourteen years, his horrible practices were disclosed and search was made, there was found in the tower of Chantoce a tunnel of calcined bones—of children's bones in such number, that it was supposed there must have been full forty of them.[#] A like quantity was found in the castle of La Suze and in other places; in short, wherever he had been. The number of children destroyed by this exterminating brute was computed to be a hundred and forty, the motive of the destruction of these unfortunate innocents being more horrible than the manner of death. He offered them up to the devil, invoking the demons Barren, Orient, Beelzebub, Satan, and Belial to grant him in return gold, knowledge, and power. He had with him a young priest of Pistoia in Italy, who promised to show him these demons; and an Englishman, who helped to conjure them.[#] It was a difficult matter. One of the means essayed was to chant the service for All Saints' Day, in honour of evil spirits. And yet this blood-stained villain, who revelled in listening to the piteous death-cries of little children and gloated over their suffering, who from worship of demons had himself become more devil than man, commended his evil assistant and magician, who was condemned with him, to the grace of God—Whose living image he had murdered—in the following terms, "Adieu, François, my friend; may God grant you patience and knowledge, and rest assured, provided you have patience and hope in God, we shall meet in the joys of Paradise." The horror inspired by this blasphemous wretch still lingered in the hearts of the Bretons, and small wonder was it that wizardry or witchcraft found little mercy at the hands of an ignorant and fanatic people; although often wizards or witches were allowed to practise their craft unmolested for many years, the fear of suffering from their vengeance, even in death, keeping their enemies at bay, whilst they drove a profitable business with those patrons who desired their aid.

[#] Depositions of Etienne Corillant.

[#] Michelet's History of France.

It will be the more easily understood from these foregoing remarks how skilfully Diane de Coray had woven the web of her plot around her unfortunate victim, who remained in total ignorance of her danger, the retainers of the château having been before instructed by the wily Jeanne to breathe no word of their suspicions into the ears of those likely to warn her. Therefore it was with no presentiment of coming ill that Gwennola de Mereac stole forth to her lover's trysting-place once more, full of happy thoughts and a heart the lighter by very contrast with its weary heaviness of so many weeks past. Little did she or her attendants guess what sharp eyes had been watching their movements, or what stealthy feet had already crept after them through the forest shade.

It was the maid Jeanne Dubois who had been the first to discover the identity of the wandering minstrel whose advent had been hailed with so much joy by the young Sieur de Mereac. Hiding in the shadow of the heavy tapestries, she had heard what had passed between Marie Alloadec and her would-be lover, and had hastily carried the news to her mistress. The clue thus given had been carefully followed up, but it was Pierre the fool whose cunning had discovered the fatal rendezvous and pierced the disguise of the cowled figure. So the threads of the web were gathered more surely around the weavers' fingers, and now the time drew near to prove their strength.

A cold wind whistled through the bare trees overhead, but so close grew the undergrowth of the thickets around the ruined chapel as to shelter any watchers not only from the keen blast but from curious or inquiring eyes. But Gwennola's eyes and thoughts were far from suspicion of treachery or evil. She was thinking, as she hurried on her way, of Father Ambrose's kind and tender counsel. He had promised, the good old man, to use his influence to the utmost with Yvon to persuade him either to allow his sister to wed the man she loved, or at least to leave her unmolested by unwelcome suggestions of betrothal till it could more clearly be seen how matters fell out between the two contending countries. If Yvon were still obdurate—well, it might be that Father Ambrose would be willing to risk the anger of his lord for the sake of the little maid he loved so tenderly; but she must be patient—very patient—whilst he prayed that his way might be made clear before his eyes.

So gentle, so loving had the old man been, with such tears of fatherly fondness had he besought her, that Gwennola had listened to his pleadings, and had promised to wait with patience for his further counsel, instead of lending an all too willing ear to her lover's importunity in urging the hasty flight which had appeared in so favourable a light to her eyes as he whispered eloquent reasons to the heart which readily responded to his entreaties. Yet her step grew slower as she neared her trysting-place, as if she found her promise weighing almost too heavily upon her as she pictured the disappointment in the dark eyes which would look down their eager inquiry into hers.

Marie and Jean Marcille lingered behind their mistress as they had done yesternight. They had their own concerns, these two, which perhaps—and who may blame?—dulled their ears and clouded the watchfulness of their eyes. Very certain it is that neither of them saw amidst a clump of trees not far from where they stood, four cloaked figures bending low, as if furtively watching those who already stood in the waning moonlight close by the ivied ruins.

"It is enough," whispered Yvon de Mereac in a low, stifled voice as he raised himself and stood facing the woman at his side. "It is enough."

Yes! he had been convinced where he felt conviction to be impossible, by the evidence of his own eyes; for, stooping there, he had seen, shuddering in horror, the shadowy outline of a tall, monkish figure, and even as he crossed himself in fear, he had seen another figure, slender and hooded, steal from amongst the trees to be clasped in the close embrace of the Brown Friar himself; and, as the feeble moonlight straggled downwards from behind a passing cloud, the hood had slipped back, revealing the red-gold curls and pale face of Gwennola.

Diane de Coray was a skilful conspirator. To linger there might speedily reveal to the agonized brother that his sister's lover was verily in the flesh and no ghostly agent from the unseen world; and so, with murmurs of sympathy, she hastened back with him towards the château, followed by her brother and Pierre the fool. But to her whispered words Yvon de Mereac answered not at all; the blow had been so sudden, so overpowering, that his weak spirit reeled under it. To a Breton honour stands even before love itself, the Duchess Anne voicing the sentiments of her people in her chivalrous motto, "Death is preferable to dishonour." And now dishonour in its blackest form was to fall on the fairest flower of his house! No wonder that the poor, weak brother groaned in helpless bewilderment at such a fate. Paralysed with the horror of what he had seen, his failing brain refused at first to realize what his outer senses told him, and he allowed himself to be led back to the château by his apparently sympathizing friends; nor, till he sank down once more on his couch and drank from the goblet of wine which the tender Diane raised to his lips, did his mind become sufficiently clear to understand the full meaning of that midnight adventure.

"Gwennola a witch!" he whispered, with a hoarse sob, at length. "The little Gwennola a witch! Holy Mother of God! what shall I do? Alas! what shall I do? The little Gwennola!—the little Gwennola!"

"Nay," said Diane, speaking in a low, clear voice, as she bent over him where he lay moaning out his sister's name again and again, "she deserves no pity, Yvon. She is lost,—ay, lost,—bethink thee of her sins,—of the awful sin against thee, my Yvon. For my sake, since I live but for thee, she must pay the penalty of her crime, so that thou mayest once more be restored to health."

Her beautiful face was close to his; he could feel her warm breath stir his hair, which lay damp with sweat on his forehead; her hazel eyes seemed to burn her very will into his numbed brain and to force him to it as if with magnetic power. Weak and helpless, he was as utterly in her hands as if he had been indeed but a yearling babe; and as his eyes followed hers he slowly repeated her words as if she drew them from him.

"She is a witch, and as a witch she must die—for thy sake, Diane,—for thy sake."

CHAPTER XIX

"Thou, Marcille? In the name of the blessed saints, what dost thou here?—and thus!"

The grey dawn of a November day was creeping slowly upwards in the east, but the air was damp and chill with frost and dew, and the men who stood there looked into each other's faces through a vaporous mist. The face of Jean Marcille was blanched with fear, and his dark eyes looked into his master's with an expression of terror and dismay.

"How now, varlet!" cried d'Estrailles anxiously, "hath aught of ill befallen the demoiselle? Why hast thou come thus with such fear in thy looks?"

"Alas, my master!" gasped the man. "Alas! how can I tell you? ill indeed has befallen the noble lady, such ill as men dread to speak of and Marie saith——"

"Peace, fool," cried d'Estrailles angrily, "what care I for the words of Marie or any other; tell me only, and instantly, what ill hath chanced to mademoiselle, or I will go without wasting more words on thee to the château."

"It was thus," muttered Marcille, as he stood, still panting for breath, and with head thrust forward, as if he were awaiting a blow. "We journeyed in safety through the forest, but as we neared the château, who should come running towards us, with wide eyes and mouth agape, but the honest fool, Job Alloadec, brother to the pretty Marie. 'Nay, mistress,' he cried, barring our progress, 'go no step forwards, for naught but evil awaits thee,' and, so saying, he fell a-sobbing like any foolish maid, so that his sister was fain to upbraid him roundly, and bid him tell his news in brief. But that was more than the good Jobik could essay, and it was some time ere we could gather from his tale what had chanced, and even then 'twas but a tale's shadow. The Sieur de Mereac, it appeared, had been ill at ease all day, but towards nightfall he had seemed calmer and bade all a good night's rest as he retired. But scarcely had the midnight hour struck than the great bell pealed forth a summons for all to assemble, and behold, there, in the hall, stood Monsieur de Coray, dressed and cloaked, with his sister, Pierre the fool, and Jeanne Dubois beside him. His face, the good Job added, was bent in a terrible frown, and as he spake to those around it grew still sterner. But for his words, monsieur, Job saith they were ten thousand times more terrible than his face, for he bade the retainers hear of how their master, whose sickness they had all watched with so much dread, had been seized with a fit, and that Father Ambrose, who was with him, despaired of his very life; then with smooth words and well-simulated horror and indignation, he told of how this sickness was the work of witchcraft, and of how such witchcraft, to the incredible dismay of his sister and himself, had been proved beyond all doubt to have been practised by Gwennola de Mereac, their mistress and châtelaine. And at his words there was a confusion of voices, for some cried this, and some that, and some called for death to the witch who had slain their master, and some that it was false and that the demoiselle was an angel of light and not of darkness. But the answer of Monsieur de Coray—or rather I will say, Monsieur le Diable—was that all should be proved, and bade two of the maidens go with Jeanne Dubois to their mistress's room and fetch thither the lady and her waiting-woman, Marie Alloadec. On hearing which, Job came in haste to tell the news and to warn us of the danger ere we set foot in the château."

"And mademoiselle?" muttered d'Estrailles hoarsely.

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.

"Alas!" he sighed, as he turned back towards the forest, "it is of no avail; and not only mademoiselle, but also the little Marie will perish; and for me there will be nothing left but revenge."

CHAPTER XX

The wizard Lefroi lived alone in his little hut in the forest of Arteze. It was very lonely, that hut, and within it had an appearance altogether execrable. But that was the purpose of his trade; for, what! you would not go to inquire into mysteries from the grave, or seek means of conveying your enemies to the latter, in a parlour clean and bright and orderly, with the pure sunshine of heaven pouring in through the windows, and perchance flowers of purity and innocence blooming within? No! the abode of sorcery and evil must necessarily be dim and gloomy, with the usual accessories of the trade surrounding one. The hut of old Lefroi was not lacking in this way. The light of a taper burnt low and dim indeed that wild November night, as the wizard bent, absorbed, over his nocturnal incantations. He was wise, this old man, with the wisdom of many ages, learnt, some said, from his master the devil, and others that he had been taught by some of those wandering Bohemians and sorcerers who were so often to be met with at that time in France. These sons of Egypt had been kindly treated in the little forest hut, and for reward they had imparted to the owner, it was affirmed, not only knowledge of the stars, but the secrets of many wonderful and deadly drugs which were found often so useful by old Lefroi's customers, and did not always partake of the nature of love-philtres. Perhaps he was even now decocting some of his noxious draughts as he bent over his crucible, for his wizened old face was drawn together into a twisted mockery of a smile, which gave it still more the appearance of crinkled parchment. His costume was effective, being a long, loose wrapper embellished with numerous quaint cabalistic signs and hieroglyphics. On his head he wore the usual skull-cap; whilst by his side perched the familiar black cat, whose purrings played a suitable accompaniment to the bubbling of the pot into which a huge black raven peered with curious eyes from her master's shoulder. Altogether the picture was a familiar one, such as might have been seen in any abode of those jugglers and quacks of the age who practised the occult science and grew rich on the superstitions of the ignorant.

A tap at the wooden door roused the old man from his absorbing occupation, and with a muttered curse he hobbled across to withdraw the bolt and peer out into the darkness.

The visitor, however, waited for no invitation to enter, but pushed in almost rudely, as if fearing that the owner of the hut might wish to refuse admittance. It was a woman, who lost no time in flinging back her hood and facing her companion.

"I am Diane de Coray," she said briefly, "and have been sent in haste by my brother, whom you know, old man, to ask of you the antidote for the poison you gave to him some time since."

Lefroi peered curiously into the pale, beautiful face which looked down so anxiously into his. Then he nodded.

"It is very well," he observed shrewdly, "it is very well; but how am I to know, fair mistress, that you are indeed she whose name you give, for in truth you resemble monsieur, your noble brother, not at all?"

"Fool!" she cried impatiently, "I swear to you I am Diane de Coray—is that sufficient? Give me the antidote quickly, else it will be too late."

Still he eyed her furtively, hesitating to do her will.

"Indeed, I know not of what you speak, mistress," he whined at length. "Poison? I know of no poison. A love-philtre, mistress—a love-philtre or the prediction of the horoscope now——"

"Have done!" she cried angrily, and he noted the gleam of despair in her eyes. "Have done, old foolish one; I have no time to lose, and well thou knowest of what I speak: the poison that was to be administered drop by drop, which was so slowly yet so surely to do its work. What! should I know all this were I not indeed the sister of the man to whom you gave it?"

"But wherefore," he questioned, half convinced and yet still doubtful, "wherefore doth the noble lord require an antidote? Was the draught too slow, or too quick? did it not fulfil its purpose as I predicted?"

"Ay! but too surely," cried the girl, with a shudder. "But there is yet time, old man; quick, give me the antidote, and thou shalt have gold—yes, gold."

She drew forth a bag as she spoke, and in the dim light the wizard's keen eyes sparkled as he caught the gleam of the glittering coins. Yet still he held back another instant.

"Gold cannot purchase the secrets of life," he muttered with a grin.

"Can it not?" she pleaded, and in a moment was kneeling on the grimy floor pouring forth a stream of golden coins on to the seat near her.

The temptation was strong, yet its very strength made him hesitate again.

"But wherefore dost thou need the antidote?" he persisted. "And how know I that it is thy brother who sent thee? If there be a trick in this, he will have his revenge upon me, who am but a poor, innocent old man who——"

"Innocent!" she cried, rising to her feet; then changing her scornful tones, she turned a pleading face towards her companion.

"I swear to thee that there is no trick, I swear by all the saints in heaven, or"—she added bitterly as she noted the suspicion in his eye—"by all the devils of hell, if that be an oath more in keeping with this abode."

He laughed softly, turning a tender eye on the gold, then on the face above it, finally on the closed door.

As if divining a menace in the glance, the girl placed her hand within her dress, and the ominous glitter of steel warned the man that this was no occasion for foul play, did he meditate such.

"Nay," he said, as if suddenly yielding to the temptation which lay glittering before him, "I will trust thee, maiden; thou shalt have the phial. But the price is high."

He repeated the last words softly, glancing again from her face to the pile of gold.

"Gold!" she cried, flinging the word from her in scorn; "yes, you shall have gold—see, more gold than this,—much more; I have it here,—only hasten, hasten, else it will be too late."

He watched her with greedy eyes as she poured forth more money upon the already goodly pile. No leather money this, the impoverished coin of an impoverished land—but good gold,—French gold, warm-hued and glittering.

"And so he still liveth," quoth the wizard slowly, as he bent once more over his crucible. "I had heard—nay, what matter what I heard? The wind singeth strange songs in yon sere branches, and the night owls bring many a false tale. And so he lives?—and you, fair lady, are glad that death hath not yet taken him from your warm embrace? Ah! it is good to love in youth. See, once also I was young too, and I remember; that is why I prepare here my love-charms for the young and joyous, although for me the branches of the forest bear no green leaves and my arms are empty."

But Diane de Coray made no reply to the mocking words, only standing there, pale and fear-stricken, yet with a defiance in her dark eyes which seemed to challenge death itself to mortal combat.

"Love and hate," maundered the old man, half to himself, as he stirred the drugs he held in a tiny crystal bowl; "love and hate, love and hate, they are strong masters, mistress, strong masters, and lead by strange paths. It is I who know—aha! who so well? There have been secrets whispered in these ears—have they not, my Pedro? Yes, such secrets as might well blanch those fair cheeks yonder; but she shall not hear—no, no, for secrets have their price. Yes, a goodly price!"

The raven croaked dismally, as if in reply to its master's words, and rubbed its beak against the skull-cap in weird caress; whilst the cat, as though jealous, rose, purring, to push her sleek body against his legs. But Diane's eyes were fixed only on the dark drops of liquid which, with steady hand, were being slowly poured into the phial.

"It is ready," said Lefroi, as he handed it to her. "Tell thy noble brother that I send it with my most humble salutations. Also, if later thou requirest a love-potion for thine own use, sweet maiden, thou wilt not forget Henri Lefroi, the magician."

"Forget," muttered the girl hysterically. "Forget!" She said no more, but seizing the phial eagerly, drew her cloak around her, quitting the hut with no further word of thanks or farewell.

CHAPTER XXI

"He lives?" whispered a soft voice, which trembled nevertheless with fear.

Father Ambrose raised a grave, anxious face, looking with some surprise into the pale one bent close beside him. But Diane de Coray's eyes were looking not at him for answer, but at the drawn, white face which lay back amongst the cushions of the great bed. There were ominous blue lines round the closed mouth and under the sunken eyes, whilst one burning spot of colour on each cheek but intensified their pallor. It was the face of a man who hovers on the brink of death, and already the curls which lay thick on the white forehead were damp with the death sweat, whilst the thin hands which strayed aimlessly over the coverlet plucked at it from time to time, as if some spasm contracted them.

"He lives," replied the Benedictine mournfully; "but already, daughter, is his soul winged for flight. Leave him in peace, so that, if consciousness return ere the last, his thoughts may be fixed rather on the confession of his sins and the eternal love to which he goes forth than to the perishing flame of human passion."

But Diane shrank back no whit at the reproof, or the priest's cold manner.

"Nay," she cried piteously, "he shall not die, father; see, I,—I have prayed to the holy saints, and it shall be that they will save him."

"Hush, my daughter," said Father Ambrose, in a sterner tone. "Rebel not at the Divine Will, nor bring in opposition to it thine own unavailing and perishing love. Yvon de Mereac is dying, and no power of thine shall prevail to drag him back from the grave to which he hastens."

"Will it not?" she cried softly, and the light of challenge and defiance which had shone in her eyes in the wizard's hut brightened them again, as they met the rebukeful glance of the priest. Then, changing her tone to one of gentle pleading, "Father," she cried, "forgive one who is mad belike for very grief; and yet I pray thee not to say that Yvon shall die by the will of Heaven; for, see, he shall live in answer to my prayers. I——" her voice faltered—"I,—I have here a draught given me by a skilled and learned leech—a very elixir of life, father;—give it to him now,—now, ere it be too late, and truly thou shalt prove the truth of my words."

The old man took the tiny phial, gazing suspiciously the while from it to the pale, agonized face near his own. "Daughter," he said solemnly, "what meaneth this? Whence came this phial?"

"Nay, ask me not," she cried passionately, "but give it to him, now,—now! See, his eyes unclose, he knows me! Yvon! Yvon!"

The blue eyes of the sick man shone faintly with the light of recognition; then, even as she sank on her knees beside the bed, closed heavily again.

"Delay not, delay not, father!" cried the girl imploringly, "or it will be too late. See, he gasps for breath! he,—nay, he shall have it," and snatching the phial from the Benedictine's fingers, she raised Yvon's head and poured a few drops of the contents down his throat. Then, with a sigh, she let the sick man sink back amongst the supporting cushions, and turned with flushed face to meet the priest's stern look.

"Daughter," he said slowly, "what hast thou done?"

The accusing note rang out sharply in the quiet chamber, and involuntarily Diane glanced towards the bed; but the sufferer stirred not—even the restless fingers were still, his breathing came already more easily.

"He will live!" cried Diane, clasping her hands; "he will live, father!"

But Father Ambrose replied not; instead, he was looking with curious, thoughtful eyes into the half-emptied phial which the girl had yielded into his outstretched hand. But whatever the thoughts that stirred in the old man's brain, they were at present too intangible to resolve into words; the shadow of suspicion was too vague, his mind in too chaotic a whirl, for him to realize what this strange happening portended. He, the friend of the little Gwennola, who had loved her from a child with an affection almost paternal, had long watched with concern and suspicion the machinations of this woman against his darling. But with regard to her dealings with Yvon he was more perplexed; from the first he had doubted her love for the young Sieur de Mereac, and readily guessed that she acted a part under the influence of her brother. As for that brother, it is to be confessed that there was little of the spirit of charity in the gentle old man's breast towards this man whose presence had proved ever so baneful to those under whose roof he lived, and who had won his love. It was the same natural repulsion of a human creature to some gliding, treacherous snake, which he watched in fear and suspicion, knowing that where the reptile coils most lovingly around its object it is but in preparation to strike a fatal blow. And now the blow had fallen, but so unexpectedly that it seemed impossible that it should have been struck by the serpent in question. That Gwennola was innocent Father Ambrose would have staked his soul; but who was the guilty, if guilty one there were? Was not this illness, perhaps, rather the finger of Heaven? Puzzled and bewildered by the very contrariety of his thoughts, this fresh development completely mystified the good man. If this woman were guilty of the apparently wanton act of poisoning her lover, wherefore this distress, this simulated agony of love and devotion? As for the draught, what was it? A fresh potion from the sorcerer? A love-philtre? or what? Did it bring death or healing with the quaffing? His experienced eye saw, to its infinite surprise, that already a change had stolen over his patient. The drawn, pinched look had gone; the blue lines, around lips, nose, and eyes, were fading into a more healthful white; the breathing was more regular and less laboured. And, whilst still wondering at the apparent miracle, Father Ambrose turned to speak to his strange visitor, behold! her place was empty, and he heard the soft swish of the tapestry curtain as it fell again into its place.

There was a smile on the lips of Diane de Coray as, a few hours later, she stood gazing out of her window in the chamber which had been set aside for her use. She was meditating deeply, it would seem, on things pleasant and joyful, for she did not hear the door softly open, nor was she aware that she was no longer alone till a hand grasped her shoulder.

"Guillaume!" she cried, facing him with the rich colour surging swiftly to her cheeks; but it had faded again, leaving them the paler by contrast, before he spoke.

"It is I, Diane."

"So I may well see for myself," she laughed, but the laugh flickered a little tremulously as her eyes fell before his.

"He is not dead," he said in a low, menacing tone; "what means it, Diane?"

"Means it?" she echoed vaguely. "What should it mean? Perchance the drug was less potent than Lefroi told thee, or Yvon too strong to succumb beneath its power."

"Thou knowest it is neither," he hissed. "Traitress and fool that thou art, but now Father Ambrose told me, with shrewd looks of suspicion, that the noble Sieur lay at the point of death, but that, since he had partaken of a draught given him by the lady, my sister, he had rallied in a manner truly miraculous."

She laughed merrily and stood there defying him, seeing that concealment of her act was useless.

"And the old man speaks truth," she cried gaily; "I have saved him—saved him! Ah! thanks be to the holy saints that I have done so!—saved him, Guillaume, my brother! And wherefore? askest thou. Why, because I love him—love him with all my heart and soul; because riches, greatness—all—would be nothing to me if he lay cold and silent in the grave. Dost thou not understand? Cannot thy cold heart learn what such love is?—what fires it kindles in the breast, what passion it arouses? Nay! I care little for thy anger—I love him, I tell thee."

"Fool!" he snarled, "and thrice times fool for thy pains! Dost think that I shall be balked by thy puling fancy, now, on the eve of all my plans' fulfilment? Love! ay, perchance I also know the flame that burns within, and which shall consume all else which stands as barrier to its fulfilment. But to compare my love with thine——!" He broke off with a scornful laugh, changing his tone to one of cold sarcasm.

"And so thou lovest him, this weak fool whom thou plottedst to destroy? Nay, blanch not, but picture to thyself how great will be his love to thee when he knoweth the truth! Picture to yourself his rage, his despair, his agony, when he learns that his sister perished in innocence, and the woman who dragged her to the stake, the woman whose arms clung around his neck, whose warm kisses were passed to his lips, whose siren tongue whispered of faith and devotion, was also the one to pour into the betrothal cup the deadly drops that should send the proud bridegroom to keep festival with Death!"

She covered her face with her hands, shuddering.

"Would he love thee?" mocked Guillaume de Coray; "would his arms again seek to clasp so foul a bride to his heart? Would he woo thy kisses to his lips when the death-cries of his sister rang in his ears?"

"But it is not yet too late," cried Diane passionately. "Alas! alas! my sin hath been great,—the sin which thou didst conceive, cruel demon that thou art; but I will yet save her—I will tell all,—all; and it may be that he will forgive me, even though he cannot love me again."

"Not so," replied de Coray softly, as with a sudden spring he caught her in his arms; "not so, fair lady. Nay, struggle not with me, else will it be the worse for thee." And, clasping her with one arm, he placed his hand before her mouth, bearing, or rather dragging, her towards the bed as he did so. She was powerless in his grasp, and after a few vain attempts to free herself lay passive as he gagged and bound her.

"So," he said softly, as he stood over her, meeting the helpless glare of her eyes with a mocking smile, "thy wings are clipped for the present, my bird. So thou thoughtest to cross the path of thy dear and well-beloved brother, didst thou, sweetest maiden? Alas! I fear me 'twas rash—too rash. Adieu, little one, adieu! All will, I am assured, regret to hear of the sudden and dangerous sickness of mademoiselle; it will be altogether clear to them that she has been bewitched—alas! poor maid! In the meantime I must bid thee rest, Diane; thou art weary—so weary. 'Tis too long and too perilous a walk for one so tender and so innocent, to Henri Lefroi's hut,—fie on thee for so forward and unmaidenly an undertaking! What wouldst have done hadst thou met the Brown Friar himself? Nevertheless, I will not distract thee with reproaches, but will leave thee to thy orisons, or perchance to still sweeter meditations,—of thy lover, it may be, or of thy brother. In the meantime, have no fear that the dear Yvon shall miss thy tender care; I will myself usurp thy place for very love's sake. Ah! I will tend him right well, my Diane; he also shall have rest, such peace and rest! Slumber is good for the sick, say the leeches; therefore he shall sleep—so long, so well, I fear me it will need warmer kisses than thine, my sister, to rouse him again. But I go at once, for it seemeth that thou carest little for my presence. Take comfort, for I swear none shall disturb thee, not even the worthy Jeanne, and anon I will myself bring thee food and wine; for if in truth thou art bewitched, the evil spirit may not leave thee till the hot flames have devoured her who had so ill a will upon thee."

With a sinking and agonized heart the unhappy girl saw the mocker turn away, heard the bolts shoot back into their places, and knew that she was as close a prisoner as any who languished in dungeon cell.

"Yvon!—Yvon!—Yvon!" It was the dumb cry of pain and terror which surged within her so helplessly, so passionately. Bound and gagged as she lay, she could neither move nor cry aloud; and, in the midst of all her agony, came the fatal intuition that even now, once again, death would be awaiting her lover. Terrible hours those; the limits of human endurance stretched to their utmost on the rack, not only of love's fears but the crudest torture of remorse. Vividly there came before the eyes of Diane de Coray the picture of her life,—a picture so sad, so melancholy, so pathetic, that the tears of self-pity and sympathy splashed down her pale cheeks.

An orphan from earliest youth, she had been left under the guardianship of a brother little fitted to govern so tender a maid. Himself the tool of an infamous scoundrel, his friends were little likely to be fitting companions to a young girl of gentle birth; and so Diane had grown up amidst wild and reckless surroundings, courted and flattered for her beauty and sparkling wit by men with whom she should never have been associated. For friends of her own sex she had neither taste nor inclination; and, of the few she possessed, one had so ill an influence over her as had successfully placed her in her brother's power. Ignorant girl that she was, she had yet shrunk back appalled from the practice of the black art of which she was invited to be a devotee; but, even in escaping from the peril, the smirch of contamination had sufficiently soiled the whiteness of her honour to lead her to believe that her brother, if he chose, might denounce her as a witch.

And so terrible had been the thought, that she had been willing to accede to any command of his which would insure his silence. Brought up to regard lightly all sorts of treachery, the plan conceived by de Coray for his own enrichment and revenge struck her with no pangs of horror, and she had started on her journey comparatively light of heart. But all had fallen out so strangely beyond her expectations. The gentle, tender Yvon de Mereac, with his weak, wavering will, but chivalrous heart, had by degrees inflamed her with a passion hitherto unknown. From contempt at first had sprung pity, and, from pity, love itself; not the calm, sweet love of the smoothly-flowing stream, but the mad, tumultuous rush of the mountain torrent, which sweeps aside all obstructions, and dashing blindly over rocks and boulders flings itself with exhausted passion into the deep, still pool below. The mutual dislike between Gwennola and herself had risen, on her own part, from inborn jealousy. She hated instantly this proud, pure girl who had never looked on temptations such as had beset her path, or been lured into such danger as had nearly ended in her own destruction; and as she met the glance of the clear, blue eyes it seemed that Gwennola must read, perforce, her guilty secret. Yet she had hardened herself against shame or the first mysterious whisperings of her own heart. Goaded by Gwennola's cold contempt, she had for long continued to do her brother's will, and it was only the rush of the last few days' terrible events that had opened her eyes to the intensity of her passion, and inspired her with the resolution to save her lover at all risks—ay! even at the price of her own life; even,—and this was hardest of all,—even at the risk of losing for ever the love which had grown so precious a thing. And now,—now when she had seen hope burst radiant and glorious upon the darkness of night—hope, love, and life itself seemed as suddenly quenched; and all that she could do was to moan forth short, agonized prayers for succour, in her despair, to Him Who alone could still protect the doomed house of Mereac.

CHAPTER XXII

The chamber in which Diane de Coray lay had grown light at last,—light, at least, as the grey dawn of a November day could make it as it crept through the narrow slits which served as windows. Yet there were shadows everywhere; she could see them as she moved her weary eyes to look through the opening where her brother's hand had rudely torn aside the bed hangings. Half-fainting with suffocation and the strain on her over-burdened heart, she felt no throb of surprise or fear as she saw the feeble light swiftly blotted out by a dark-robed figure. Yet, as the figure moved, coming quickly to her side with a low exclamation of horror, her senses began to return to her, and her eyes looked up in joyful recognition to meet the stern but puzzled glance of Father Ambrose.

"Daughter," said the old man gravely, "what meaneth this?"

He had severed her bonds and removed the gag, helping the poor girl, whose limbs at first were cramped and useless, to raise herself into a sitting posture.

For reply Diane stared vaguely into the troubled eyes bent upon her; her brain was cramped too with the long agony of those terrible hours, but at last comprehension slowly returned as the stinging blood began once more to circulate in her numbed members.

"How came you hither, father?" she questioned faintly, staring from her unexpected visitor to the closely barred door.

"Suffice that I am here," was the enigmatical reply. "Yet time presses, daughter, and I must have an answer to my question. Alas! it may even now be too late!"

"Too late?" she echoed, a fresh fear striking its chill to her heart. "Nay, tell me, father—he lives?—he is better?—he will recover?"

"I spake not of Yvon de Mereac," said the priest in a stifled tone, "but of the pure and innocent maid, his sister, who hath been condemned falsely by wicked men, to suffer death at noon; and yet," he added slowly, fixing a piercing glance on Diane's pale face,—"I can see already that there lieth much behind this. Speak, maiden, without delay—confess all thou knowest of this plot, and save thy soul from the blood of the innocent."

"To die!" whispered Diane slowly; "to die!"

On the instant the whole picture of her guilt flared before her eyes, and the words of her brother rang in her ears: "Picture to yourself his rage, his despair, his agony, when he learns that his sister perished in innocence, and the woman who dragged her to the stake, the woman whose warm kisses were pressed to his lips, whose siren tongue whispered of faith and devotion, was also the one to pour into the betrothal cup the deadly drops that should send the proud bridegroom to keep festival with Death."

"To die!" she cried again, flinging out her hands as if in supplication to the priest, who stood there stern, grave, and immovable. "To die!—and for my sin! Merciful Virgin, Mother of Help! save her!—save her!—for she is innocent!"

She had sunk on to the ground at the old man's feet, at the last words, and, clinging to his robe, sobbed out her terrible confession. In the remorse and shame of her agony she hid nothing; and as he listened, Father Ambrose's stern face relaxed into a softer expression of pity.

"Daughter," he said gently, as he raised the weeping girl from the floor, "Daughter, be of good comfort; to one also who had greatly sinned were words of pardon spoken for love's sake, and it may be that repentance hath not come too late. But," he added, his face hardening, "we may not delay; come, child—see, I will trust thee to play thy part in the salvation, not only of the innocent, but of the man whom thou lovest. Come speedily, for it may be that that man of blood and treachery,—upon whose soul shall rest the curse of God and whose damnation shall be quick,—may come hither to bring thee food. But we shall yet escape the snare and pluck the innocent lamb in time from the cruel death prepared for her."

As he spoke he was supporting the weeping Diane across the room, pressing back an unseen door, cunningly secreted from view in the shape of a sliding panel, through which he passed, still guiding her carefully as they descended a winding, spiral stair which led downwards to another part of the château.

"Child," he said again softly, as they paused, close to the tapestry curtain which separated them from Yvon's room—"child, the way of repentance is no easy one. Confession must be made, not only to God, the Judge of all, but to him whom thou hast so injured, and against whom thou plannedst this ill. I leave to thee this task, so terrible yet so necessary, weak and sick though he be, for the sake of one whose life I go to save, if the will of the Lord and our Lady permit it, as I well wot shall be, seeing that they ever guard the innocent from the snares of the evil-doers."

"But it will kill him," moaned Diane; "it will kill him, father! Oh! say that I may wait until he grows stronger,—then I will confess all—yes, all, even to the uttermost!"

But the priest shook his head.

"Confession must be made without delay," he said gravely. "Thou thyself mayest well see the necessity, daughter; for, weak and sick though he be, Yvon de Mereac must know the truth of his sister's innocence, and also the guilt and evil intentions of the man who hath thus plotted against his life and who hath but used thee, poor maid, as his tool. But delay not, for I may not linger with the sweet voice of Gwennola calling me to hasten to her deliverance."

With a sob, Diane yielded to the old man's will, and with trembling fingers raised the curtain and entered her lover's room.

He was lying there, still, amongst his cushions; but even in those few, short hours the change in the emaciated face was marvellous. It was no longer the face of a dying man, drawn, blue-hued, and pinched with suffering. Haggard and gaunt still, yet the eyes which met Diane's were bright with recognition.

"Diane! Diane!" he whispered; "fairest love, with what an aching heart I have awaited thy coming! She is condemned, Diane—the little Gwennola is condemned to death; and yet so fair a dream I had of her but yesternight, for methought she was a child again, lily-crowned and laughing, and that she ran to me, crying my name in joy, and, clinging to my neck, pressed her flowers upon me, saying she had gathered them for love's sake; and her eyes looked into mine with so sweet a tenderness that I awoke sobbing, calling to remembrance that she was a witch who had striven for my death."

"No witch!" cried Diane, as she knelt, weeping, at his side; "no witch, Yvon, but pure and innocent as the child of thy dreams. Alas! alas! that, for the sake of thy love for her, thy love for me must die; and yet I am unworthy of it, unworthy of aught but thy hatred, thy loathing, and thy scorn!"

"My hatred?" he whispered tenderly, whilst his feeble hands strayed fondly towards the tresses of her bowed head. "My hatred, little Diane? That could never be, wert thou—wert thou—ah! all that thou art not, my sweetest one!"

"Alas! alas! thou knowest not!" sobbed the girl. "Ah! the bitterness of telling thee, Yvon! Why may I not die the sooner, so that I shall not look into thine eyes and see the scorn and loathing which thou must needs feel towards a thing so foul?"

"Hush!" he whispered faintly, "thou shalt not say such words, Diane, my adored."

The very tenderness of his speech, the quiver in his voice, made the task more terrible; yet it had to be essayed, and with bowed head and sobbing breath she faltered it forth.

When it was finished there was silence in the room. Outside the wind moaned and shrieked; reproachful voices, they sounded, calling to those within that that very day innocence was suffering for the guilty. The raindrops that splattered against the grey walls without seemed to be fingers knocking for admittance, ghostly fingers which mocked and gibed whilst the wind voices wept and lamented the louder. And as she listened, Diane de Coray crouched the lower in a very agony of self-abasement and remorse, not daring to look up and find the eyes she had learnt to love so passionately grow hard and cruel as love died within them.

"Diane!"

The voice roused her, and in spite of her forebodings she slowly raised her head. The face on the pillows was deathly pale, and the poor lips quivered piteously in their pain and horror; but the eyes—ah! those eyes! love was not dead there, but so mortally wounded that his agony was the more terrible to witness.

"Yvon! Yvon!" she moaned. "Ah! why may I not die? Why may I not die? I may not ask thee to forgive me, but oh! for the sake of our sweet Lady of Pity, curse me not!"

"Curse thee?" he muttered faintly, "nay, myself the rather, seeing I love thee still, and as truly as ever; and yet the little Gwennola——"

A smothered sob choked him, and Diane knew that though love stood there calling to her with outstretched arms of forgiveness, there lay between them the irrevocable shadow of a sister's blood.

"Oh, merciful heavens!" she cried, clasping her hands, wringing them together in a paroxysm of grief and entreaty, "grant that they may be in time!"

"In time?" faintly whispered the sick man; "in time?"

"Ay," she sobbed, "ay, Yvon, there is yet a hope, for Father Ambrose and Alain Fanchonic ride at full speed to Martigue to proclaim her innocence."

"And—and thou hast told Father Ambrose all?" he murmured, and the thin hand on the coverlet strayed once more nearer to the bent figure at his side.

"All—all!" she cried passionately; "for thy sake, Yvon, for thy sake—and for love's!"

* * * * *

"For love's sake!" Yes, that was the goad which added wings to the good horse's feet as Alain Fanchonic, with Father Ambrose, seated on a pillion behind him clasping the stalwart man-at-arm's waist, rode forth into the tempest which shrieked raging through the forest. A wild ride, with the wind beating in their faces, and dead leaves whirling in a very hurricane around them; but neither of the two had thought for wind or weather, for ever before their eyes stood the slender figure of a young girl bound to a burning stake with arms outstretched in pleading, whilst her voice cried to them to hasten to her aid. It is true that Alain Fanchonic, grandson of the old dame upon whom Gwennola so often bestowed her bounty, had crossed himself in devout horror when he heard the story of the Brown Friar and the waxen image; but so severely had his grandmother upbraided him for his credulity in believing such slander against one of Heaven's own angels, that he had lived in a state of doubt and horror during the few days which had elapsed since Gwennola's arrest and condemnation. So that when Father Ambrose had come to him, telling him to saddle Barbe, the fleetest mare in the stables, and ride with him to Martigue to save his mistress and proclaim her innocence, he had lost little time in complying, muttering curses and prayers alike, whilst the tears ran down his brown cheeks as he sprang into the saddle, and, with the good priest clinging on for dear life behind, dashed out, across the drawbridge and away through the forest so madly that surely Providence only could have upheld the grey mare's feet as she sped along the narrow, dangerous path. But not once did she stumble as she galloped swiftly along, and Father Ambrose felt his heart beat with joy and gladness as they gradually neared their goal. Yet not without interruption were they thus to journey, for, as they rode, they were startled suddenly by another horseman who leapt unexpectedly on to the path before them. It was Guillaume de Coray; and even as their glances met, the old priest felt a thrill of wonderment as he saw the traitor's face. It was not indeed that of a man who hastens from the scene of his triumph, and the consummation of his hopes and plots, but rather that of baffled hatred and anger. His fierce gaze met the Benedictine's for an instant only, as he reined back his horse, which trembled as it stood there, as if its master had spared it little in his ride. Then, even before either had time to speak, a blast of wind, sweeping through the forest, brought one of the mighty trees close by to the ground with a terrific crash. The noise so near and so unexpected startled de Coray's horse; rearing on its hind legs, it pawed the ground in terror, then, with a snort of fear it leapt forward so wildly as to unseat its rider, who, flung heavily against one of the trees, lay senseless and bleeding on the ground.

In a moment Father Ambrose was beside him; yet, even before he stooped to examine the injured man's hurts, he paused to address the man-at-arms.

"Ride on with speed, Alain Fanchonic," he cried authoritatively; "spare not thy steed, but ride for thy life, or rather for hers whom thou lovest; save thy mistress, ere it be too late."

Without hesitation, the man plunged his spurs into the good horse's sides, quickly disappearing amongst the trees; and Father Ambrose was left alone beside his unconsious enemy, struck down in the hour of his vengeance by what, to the simple faith of the priest, was nothing less than the finger of the Eternal Judge.

CHAPTER XXIII

It was a great day in the little town of Martigue, for they were out of the world, here on the borders of the forest of Arteze, and life was inclined to grow monotonous. True, there were the festivals and such-like mild excitements; but they could not bear comparison with the burning of a witch in the marketplace. And she was no ordinary witch, see you, but a beautiful and high-born demoiselle, whose evil practices no one had even dreamt of till they had been brought to light in so wonderful a manner. And she had murdered her own brother! Was it to be conceived? But it was terrible!—nevertheless, very interesting. Some said they did not believe it, and, that the new Sieur de Mereac was a foul fiend himself, and Pierre the fool his attendant imp; but these were only the foolish ones, for had it not been quickly proved, and beyond all doubt, that this beautiful young witch had ofttimes attended Satanic meetings yonder in the forest, and had been seen dancing with the Brown Friar himself, whilst she and her dread partner chanted incantations so deadly that it was a wonder that all in the Château de Mereac had not fallen under their spell instead of only the unfortunate young Sieur?

It had been easy work, that condemnation of so terrible a malefactor; there had been no need of search or torture to prove the guilt both of mistress and maid. Justice moves quickly when there is a powerful arm behind to arrange the machinery, and Guillaume de Coray was already looked upon as Sieur de Mereac, seeing that Yvon was reported to have died in agonies, shrieking for vengeance against his guilty sister. And vengeance he should have; the good folk of Martigue and Mereac were determined on that, promising themselves a day's holiday and enjoyment into the bargain.

That the day itself should be so tempestuous was but another proof of the witches' guilt and malevolence; clearly it had been raised by demon power to arrest the course of justice. But justice should not be arrested. Pile high the faggots!—yes! higher,—higher! Parbleu! what a blaze there would be!—how they would shriek and curse!—how they would writhe and groan! The prospect, appealing to the savagery of ignorant natures, thrilled all with pleasurable excitement and delight. Some wondered if the fiend himself would appear to carry his devotees away; others looked forward to hearing hideous confessions wrung from writhing lips by the torture of the flames. Altogether there were few to pity two young and beautiful girls who were going forth to die a cruel death, so fiercely ran the passions and superstitions of the peasantry of the age. Yet there were those in the little town whose hearts beat in the agony of horror and suspense, and whose eyes were turned, not on the grim spectacle preparing in the market-place, but upon the wild heath which stretched away westwards, half hidden by the blinding rain and wind.

Close to the gates stood Job Alloadec and a small knot of men of Mereac who were loyal to their unfortunate young mistress. Even if the help for which they looked came not, Gwennola de Mereac and Marie his sister should not die alone that day in the market-place,—so Job had sworn, with hands held fast in the hands of those who promised to stand side by side with him. But out yonder, through the mist and rain, a man rode hastily along the road to Rennes. The peasants tramping towards Martigue wondered amongst themselves as they watched him gallop by. It was urgent business, they said one to another, which sent a man away from Martigue that day! and therewith they fell afresh to speculations on what would occur when the witches of Mereac met their doom. But on galloped the horseman, with spurs in his horse's flanks and his mouth tight set as if he rode on a matter of life and death. Yes! and life and death it was to be for some that day in the little town behind him.

The hour of noon was approaching, already a bell tolled forth from the church close by, and in the market-place the people thronged so closely that they trod one on another in their eagerness to behold. By the gate Job Alloadec and his men waited, with an eye towards the market-place as the minutes crept by. In their prison cell two girls knelt in prayer. Marie was weeping, her head resting on her mistress's shoulder; but Gwennola was calm, a shadowy smile even seemed to flicker around her mouth as she raised her face towards the faint light which struggled in through the narrow slit above them.

The tolling bell, the roar of the crowd, came faintly to them, and sent fresh shudderings through Marie's frame.

"Courage, child," whispered Gwennola; "remember we are innocent, and the Holy Mother will not forsake us even in this our extremity. For myself I have no fears; if death indeed be our lot, grace shall be sent to strengthen us for the trial, and I will pray to die as Gwennola de Mereac should die, defying her accusers to the last. But I have hope so strong within my breast that it seemeth I can take little thought for death. Dry then those tears, my Marie; look into my eyes and fear not;—I tell thee it is life, not death, before us."

But though her foster-sister struggled bravely with her emotions, sobs of terror still shook her as at length their prison door was flung open and their guards appeared. A yell of fury greeted them as, a little later, the two unfortunate girls, tightly bound, were led forth to their doom. Yet, even as the outcry died, a fresh and more compassionate murmur arose from many at sight of the captives.

Innocence indeed seemed written on every lineament of the faces turned towards their enemies, and men and women pressed forward with exclamations in which pity mingled with admiration and indignation against the sentence about to be executed. But the guards around kept back the populace as the victims were fastened to the stakes prepared for them. Yet, even as the executioner stepped forward with lighted torch, a loud shout arose, the thunder of horses' hoofs was heard at the gate, and, turning, all beheld a strong body of soldiery riding at full speed towards the market-place.