CHAPTER XVI.

SUCCOUR.

Once more the day was drawing to a close. Already across the plain the

sun's rays were slanting horizontally. Soon the sun itself would have

dipped behind the mountains and be gone. Another night was at hand,

and Martin, gazing on the country around from the castle walls on

which he stood, thanked God that it would bring no terrors to the girl

whom he had saved, such as the past one had brought.

Since they had been received into the castle in the morning by the

commandant, a man who had once fought in countless campaigns but who

now passed his latter years as governor of this place, he had seen

nothing of Urbaine. She had been escorted to a room in the west wing

immediately on their admission, where, after having been given

restoratives in the shape of wine and food, and after being attended

to by two or three of the few women in the place--soldiers' wives--she

had begged that she might be allowed to be alone and thus obtain some

rest. In was sorely needed, Martin said, speaking to the old

chatelaine, sorely needed.

"And can be procured," the other replied, twisting up his great

moustachios. "_Bon Dieu!_ we have a room here fit for the reception of

a duchess. Madame de Servas--a pretty thing---_une femme de la vieille

souche_ also--loves a soft nest; yet not one perched in an eyrie

around which such storms blow as those that are now devastating

Languedoc, the pest seize them and those who brew them!"

"Is the lady here?" Martin asked, thinking that, if so, she would be a

comfort to the girl until she could escape back to Montpellier under

his care.

"_Pouf! pouf! pouf!_" the old soldier said, "not she indeed. I tell

you the tempest is too rough for her; she fears too much the vagabonds

up there," whereupon he nodded toward where by now all the mountain

tops of the Cévennes were gleaming in the morning sun. "Thereupon she

is fled to Paris, the paradise of women; to Versailles--Marly. Well,

she is safe there from these men," and again he nodded toward the

mountains. "From other men, ho! ho!--of the court, _figurez

vous_--danger may come, drawn by her bright eyes. However, there is

the nest for mademoiselle. _Tant mieux!_"

But by now, as the evening drew on, those mountains were suffused by

the soft _couleur de rose_ that, in a near and less troubled land, was

known as the Alpine glow. And Martin, himself refreshed after some

hours' sleep during the day, was leaning over the castle wall looking

down into the valley and the plain all flushed with the burning sunset

of the golden autumn, with, far off and running through the latter,

the silver thread that was the river Gardon hurrying on to join the

Rhône. He was thinking now of many things, even as his eyes took in

the beauties of all the fair department that lay around him--the

distant woods whose leaves were scarce yet browned by the touch of

autumn's fingers; the mill house on the Gardon's bank whose wheel was

now still, since its owner had fled, perhaps forever; the gray convent

that lay farther off and had been half destroyed by fire two nights

ago; the crumbled ivy-clad tower a mile away, in which the king's

father, Louis "The Just," had caused a score of Protestants to be

burned alive--was thinking of many things as he regarded the fair

scene. Whether he would ever see his own land once more, ever escape

out of France, ever meet again in future years the pure fair girl

whose life he had saved but a few hours ago--the girl whose faith and

convictions were so bitterly hostile to his own, as every word she

spoke, every thought she allowed utterance to, testified. Also he

was wondering if the search he had undertaken for the lost de

Rochebazon--the search he now deemed a foolish, Quixotic one--could

result in aught but failure here in such a tempest-tossed spot as

this.

"Never," he muttered to himself, "never shall I find him. France's

empty coffers must swallow up all the wealth that is his, the Church

he renounced must profit by my own renunciation. Find him! How? Where?

Hanging to some gibbet if he has lived till these days, or learn that

years ago he perished on the wheel or at the stake; that his ashes

were cast to the winds. I shall never find him." Then he turned,

hearing a step upon the leads behind him, and observed the commandant

approaching the spot where he stood.

Already, when the old soldier had been by his side a few moments

before, he had been made acquainted with all that had happened on the

previous day, and of how it was only by God's mercy that Martin had

arrived at the fortunate moment he did.

"I was," he said, "on my way to Valence, to which some affairs led me,

where I heard the sound of firing and the shouts of men engaged in

fierce conflict. And I should have stood outside the fray, have taken

no part in it, but that I saw the travelling coach and observed a

serving woman screaming on the top of it; saw a face at the coach

window--that of mademoiselle. I could not refrain from attempting her

rescue. She was a helpless, defenceless girl. It was no place for her

among those men fighting like tigers. Also we had met before at her

father's residency."

"_Ponz! ponz!_" said the commandant, "you did well. _Nonc d'un chien_,

you did well for yourself and her. Baville will not forget. She is the

apple of his eye, although no blood relation, yet the child of a loved

friend, confided to him in death. Also his own child is a trouble to

him. The Intendant spends all his heart on this girl. They say he

worships her tenderly, fondly, because of her father. Ask Baville for

aught you desire when you return to Montpellier and you will get it.

He will repay you as fully as if--well!--as if, had you injured her,

he would have cut you into twenty thousand atoms."

"I shall ask him for nothing. One does not save a woman's life for a

reward."

"That I know," the commandant replied, a little ruffled by the rebuke.

"Yet, having saved her life, as well let Baville show his gratitude.

He is all-powerful here in the province; his interest, too, is great

at Versailles." Then, changing the subject, the old man said:

"If we had but enough men you and she should be sent to Montpellier

to-morrow. Yet 'tis impossible. We have but sufficient here to

garrison the place and to rush out and hurry any of those _scélérats_

whom we can catch in small bodies. I can not spare any men to form a

guard. Meanwhile the Intendant probably deems her dead by this time.

God help all who fall into his hands after this!"

"How is it with her to-night?" Martin asked now, thinking that since

the sun was set she must surely by this time have slept off much of

her fatigue.

"She is refreshed and rested, the woman tells me who has been placed

in attendance on her. Yet, too, she is very sad. She thinks much on

her father's and mother's grief if they knew, as they must, what has

befallen her, which they doubtless deem death. Oh, that I could

communicate with Baville! Yet 'tis impossible. I can not spare a man."

"You can spare me," Martin answered gravely and with a seriousness

that told he meant what he said. "Give me a horse better than the poor

thing on which mademoiselle finished her journey here, and I will go;

will undertake to reach Montpellier."

"You?" the commandant exclaimed, his eyes lighting up at the

suggestion. "You? So! 'tis well. Who better than he who saved her to

carry the good news to her father? Yet, yet," he said in his next

breath, his face falling, "'tis impossible. You would never reach the

city. They are everywhere, _on dit_ two thousand strong already. And

they spare none; above all, they will not spare the man who saved the

Intendant's loved one."

"I may avoid them. Even if I do not there may still be a chance of my

escape," Martin added, remembering that he was of the same faith as

these rash unhappy rebels, although not in sympathy with them.

Certainly not in sympathy with their cruelties.

"Escape? Yes, you may, even as by God's grace you escaped so far as to

reach here. But such chances come not more than once together--who

throws the ace twice! Moreover, if they know 'twas she who has slid

out of their claws they will be over all the land, 'neath every bush,

behind every stone, like painted snakes. There is no chance. You must

remain here till some of Julien's or De Broglie's troops come to

assist. Yet if you could have done it, have repeated your last night's

valour, Baville would have worshipped you. Still, still you have done

well. _Bon Dieu!_"--and the old man slapped the young one on the

shoulder--"_vous êtes un homme fort_."

Looking away toward where now the purple shadows of the September

evening were resting over all the plain, glancing over to where the

white dusty road that followed the course of the Gardon stood out

plain and distinct in the clear pure air, Martin saw that which told

him that no further opportunity for a repetition of last night's

valour, as the commandant had termed it, was like to come to him.

Already it seemed as if assistance was at hand.

"See," he said, "see! Even now the succour you pray for is near.

Behold some of the troops of those whom you name--De Broglie's or

Julien's! Look! the last rays sparkle on gorget and fusil-barrel.

Thank God! She will be restored to her father. Perhaps to-night.

To-morrow at latest."

It was as he said. Along that white dusty road which twined beside the

river there came a body of cavalry, plain enough to be seen even by

the age-worn eyes of the elder man. A troop numbering about thirty

soldiers, on whose rich galloon, sword hilts, and bridle chains the

last beams of the fast-sinking sun sparkled, it lighting up, too, the

rich _bleu du roi_ worn by some and the gallant scarlet of the others.

"_Pardie!_" exclaimed the commandant, "the slaughter could not have

been as great as you imagined, my friend. Those men have at least

escaped. Observe, the blue are the dragoons of De Broglie, the red are

those of Hérault. Surely they were in the attack of yesterday," and he

turned his eyes on Martin almost questioningly, as though wondering

whether, for his own self-glorification, he had exaggerated his

service to Urbaine.

"'Tis strange," the other answered, "strange. None escaped, I do

believe, who were escorting mademoiselle's carriage. There must have

been another party of the king's troops who were set upon, and these

have belonged to them."

"May be," the commandant said, willing enough not to believe that this

man (who had at least placed the existence of one of the most precious

women in the province beyond danger) was a braggart. "May be, yet they

have done more than escape, too. See, they bring prisoners. Fanatics.

In chains, observe."

Looking again, Martin did observe that he spoke truly. Ahead of the

cloud of dust which the horses raised on the chalk-white road he saw a

band of men on foot; could count six of them, all shackled together by

the wrists and shambling along, one or another falling now and again

and causing the cavalry thereby to halt until they were once more on

their feet. No doubt Camisard prisoners.

"Ha!" exclaimed the old man, leaning on the buttress by his side, his

knotty hands placed above his eyes to shield them from the sun's last

rays, and perhaps, also, to focus the advancing cavalcade, "they turn

by the mill. Therefore they approach to succour us. Good! To-morrow

mademoiselle will rejoin her father."

Then they bade the sentry on the walls fire a salute from the old

saker which had stood them since Ru de Servas had held the castle for

Henry of Navarre.

It was answered by a blast from a trumpet far down in the valley,

after which the two men standing there, watching the oncoming relief,

traced its progress until at last the band were on the slopes beneath

the castle gateway.

"You are welcome," the commandant called out to one who rode ahead of

all the others, richly apparelled in the _bleu du roi_ coat, and

wearing a well-powdered, deep wig _à la brigadier_ which hid all of

his head except his features beneath the great felt hat that he wore

above the peruke; "welcome in the name of the king for whom I stand

here. Are you sent, monsieur, to increase our garrison or to escort

mademoiselle, his Excellency's daughter, to safety?"

"Mademoiselle, his Excellency's daughter, to safety!" the young

officer exclaimed, repeating the other's words in evident

astonishment--an astonishment equally testified by all at his back.

"His Excellency's daughter! Is she here?"

"She is here. Did you not know it?"

"Not I! or be very sure we would have been here before. Her safety is

indeed precious." Then at once he commenced an explanation of their

appearance at the château.

"Monsieur," he said, "I am the nephew of M. de Broglie, and with these

others have escaped the fate which has fallen on his followers. Also,

by good chance, we have taken these six villainous _attroupés_

prisoners. Yet, since they delay our progress to Alais, we have come

here to ask your permission to imprison them in your château. They

will be safe with you."

"Ha!" laughed the old commandant, "_mort de ma vie_ they will. Safe!

Yes, till they stand with their backs against the wall of the

courtyard and with a platoon of musketeers _en face_. Oh, yes, very

safe! Bring them in, monsieur, the gates shall be open; also to

yourselves. You must not proceed to-night ere you have supped and

slept----"

"It is impossible," the nephew of M. de Broglie answered. "It is

impossible; we must journey on to Alais."

"And I say it is impossible you can do so. What! refuse a bite and a

sup, a bed with a comrade, also the acquaintance of Monsieur

l'Intendant's daughter? Fie! Nay, more, you must turn back at dawn and

escort the lady to Montpellier. Ho! 'twill not be long ere you find

yourself brigadier after that service."

Again the young officer protested, again said it was impossible. They

must proceed even though they missed a sight of _les beaux yeux de

mademoiselle_. Yet, even as he so protested, the commandant saw signs

of his yielding and urged his plea still more.

At last, however, he won upon the other. After still more refusals, M.

de Broglie's nephew, having consulted with a second officer of the

troop, yielded by degrees, saying finally that they would remain until

daybreak; would so far forego their duty as to sup and sleep in the

castle.

And now the great gate of the château opened and all the dragoons of

De Broglie and Hérault came in, the horses being tethered in the

courtyard, while the wretched prisoners were told roughly by the

second in command that they could throw themselves down there. Soon,

he said, they would sleep well enough. Need neither pillow nor

bolster!

"Yet give us bread," one whispered, "bread and to drink, though only

water. Kill us not before our time."

"You shall have both," the commandant replied. "We do not starve those

to death who are reserved for other things."

They all turned away after this, leaving the prisoners amid the

troopers and the horses, the commandant inviting the two officers to

accompany him and Martin to the platform of the castle, there to await

the supper and the pleasure of being presented to his Excellency's

daughter, while, as they went, Martin, who had been regarding M. de

Broglie's nephew from the first moment when the troop had appeared

under the castle, could not resist saying to him:

"Monsieur, I can not but think we have met before. Your face is

familiar to me."

"Possibly, monsieur," the other replied with a courteous bow, though

one that, Martin thought, scarcely savoured of that ease and grace

which a member of the De Broglie family should possess, a great house

whose scions were almost always of a certainty trained to all the

courtlinesses of Versailles and St. Germain. "Possibly, monsieur. I am

much about in various places. Can monsieur, _par hazard_, recall where

we may have met?"

"Nay, nay," Martin said, "nay. And 'tis but a light fancy. Doubtless I

am mistaken."