CHAPTER XXX.

FREE.

The mountains again! And Martin free! Happy, too, because, as the cold

blast swept down from their summits to him as he rode swiftly through

the valley toward the commencement of the ascent, he knew that it came

from where, high up, Urbaine waited for her freedom and for his

return. Knew it beyond all thought and doubt; knew, divined that daily

those clear, pure eyes looked for him to be restored to her, was sure

that nightly, ere she sought her bed, she prayed upon her knees for

him and his safety. Had she not said it, promised it, ere they parted?

Was not that enough? Enough to make him turn in his wrist another inch

upon his horse's rein, press that horse's flanks once more, urge it

onward to where she was?

Yet though he travelled with Baville's pass in his pocket, though he

went toward where the Camisards were, who would receive him with

shouts of exaltation and welcome, he knew that again he rode with his

life in his hands as, but a night or so before, he had thus ridden

from the seacoast to Nîmes. For there were those abroad now who would

be like enough to tear Baville's pass up and fling it in his face if

he were caught, soldiers who served Montrevel and Montrevel alone, men

whose swords would be through his heart or the bullets from their

musketoons embedded in his brain, if he but fell into their hands. For

on this very night the great bravo had broken with the Intendant ere

he had quit Nîmes to march toward the Cévennes and make one more

attack upon the strongholds of the "rebels"; had sworn that ere

Villars arrived, who was now on the way from Paris to supersede

Julien, he would wipe out those rebels so that, when Louis' principal

soldier should appear on the scene, he would find none to crush.

Also he had sent forward on the very road which Martin now followed a

captain named Planque (a swashbuckler like himself) and a lieutenant

named Tournaud, in command of three thousand men, all of whom had

declared with many an oath that they took their orders from their

commander and from no governor or intendant who ever ruled.

At first Martin had not known this, would indeed not have known it at

all, had not his suspicions been aroused by finding that, as he rode

on swiftly toward where the principal ascent to the mountains began,

near Alais, he was following a vast body of men, among whom were

numbers of the hated Pyrenean Miquelets; men who marched singing their

hideous mountain songs and croons, such as in many a fray had

overborne the shrieks of the dead and dying.

"I must be careful," Martin had muttered to himself, as he drew rein

and moved his horse on to the short crisp grass that bordered the

road, "or I shall be among them. Where do they go to?"

Yet, careful as he was, he still determined to follow in their train,

to observe what road they took when farther on in their march, for he

knew, from having been much in the neighbourhood a year before, and

ere he had set out for Switzerland on his first quest for Cyprien de

Rochebazon, that ere long they must take one route of two. If that to

the left, which branched off near Anduse, their destination would be

undoubtedly the mountains; if they kept straight on, then Alais was

their destination. And if the latter, they would not hinder him. He

was soon to know, however, where that destination lay.

High above the chatter of the Miquelets and their repulsive chants--on

one subject alone, that of slaughter, rapine, and plunder

combined--high above also the jangle of the bridles, bridoons, steel

bits, and the hoofs of the dragoons and _chevaux-légers_ ahead, the

orders were borne on the crisp icy air: the orders to wheel to the

left--to the mountains.

Therefore an attack was intended there, or what, as Julien had himself

termed it, when planning that which was now to be carried out, _une

battue_.

That it would be successful Martin doubted. Never yet had the

royalists forced their way far up those passes, never yet had they

been able to possess themselves of one square yard of ground above the

level of the valley. And he recalled the treacherous drawbridges

constructed over ravines and gullies, as well as the other traps,

which he had seen and had pointed out to him as he descended from the

Cévennes to meet Cavalier. He doubted if now this enlarged attack

would be any more successful than former and less well-arranged

attacks had been.

Yet Urbaine was there. That unnerved him, caused him to shudder. For

if at last, if now, at this time, success should come to these troops,

as both Julien and Montrevel had sworn it should come eventually, what

then of her! Those in command might not know, or, knowing, not choose

to believe that she was Baville's cherished idol. And to think of his

beloved one in the power of those fiends, the Miquelets, was enough to

cause his heart to cease beating.

Or, better still, to beat more fiercely with a firm determination of

seeking her than even he had experienced an hour before; the

determination to get to where she was before these heavily accoutred

soldiers could do so, if they ever got there at all; to join her, save

her, protect her. But how to do it! How! How!

How to get ahead of this band; how gain the ascent before them, warn

the Camisards. Above all--ay, that was it--above all, how save the

girl he worshipped and adored! That, or one other thing: die in the

attempt.

He knew a moment later that the turn was made toward the mountains.

From beneath the tree where he had halted he saw, in the rays of the

now risen full moon, the sparkle of the breasts and backs and gorgets

of the dragoons as they wheeled to the left, also the glitter of

aiguillette and steel trappings. Perceived, too, that a deep silence

had fallen on all that moving mass. Even the Miquelets ceased to sing

and chatter. Nothing disturbed the silence of the night but the thud

of countless horses' hoofs, with now and again a neigh and now and

again the rattle of scabbard against charger's flank. They were in, or

near the country of the insidious, unvanquished foe. Doubtless the

order had gone forth for silence.

He must get ahead of them--reach the pass or mountain road before

them. Otherwise, what of Urbaine if they should win?

But, again, how to do it!

To the left of him, and still farther yet to the left of where the

battalions marched after wheeling, there was a stream, a branch of Le

Gardon; in summer a swift-flowing river beneath whose gliding waters

the reeds bent gracefully; now half frozen and seemingly without

current. If he could cross that, there was on the other side a wide

open plain, on which for centuries peasant landlords had been

endeavouring to cultivate grapevines, to redeem from the marshy soil

that was so common in the south some of the thousands of useless acres

which abounded. And across that plain, dotted here and there by

countless poles on which no vine had ever grown in man's memory, and

on which many sheep had browsed upon the short grass salted by the

spray (brought in from the Mediterranean on the wings of the Circius)

until the Cévenoles had descended and raided them, he might make his

way, might cut off by a short _détour_ that advancing force, get

before it to where the ascent began, be the first to reach the

mountains, the home of the outcasts.

Only he might be seen. And then--then--though the heavily accoutred

dragoons would undoubtedly not be able to leap the stream and chase

him, the balls from their musketoons and fusils would perhaps reach

him; one alone out of the number sent hurtling after him might reach

its mark. And that would be enough.

Yet all the same it should be done.

The horse he rode was a strong black, handsome creature, its nostrils

red and fiery, its eyes possessed of that backward glance which tells

the horseman ere he mounts what he is about to bestride, its legs as

thin and agile as a cat's. Well, he would see. Now for the stream,

fifteen feet across if an inch. Then he found the animal knew what was

meant even as his knee pressed beneath the holster, even as his wrist

turned inward to draw tighter the rein and as he sat down firmly in

the saddle. There was a rush upon the short, crisp grass--crisp both

from the salt of the distant sea and from the night frost--a quiver

from the body beneath him, a loosened rein now, a flight as of an

arrow, as smooth, too, and as swift. Then the animal's feet were upon

the other side; the rivulet was skimmed as though by a swallow. Over

and away, the black steed bounding like a ball beneath him.

"Thank God!" he said, "thank God!" And, ere he settled into the

saddle again, patted the firm, iron-sinewed neck beneath his hand.

Off through vine poles, over another and a smaller rivulet unseen by

him for the moment, yet clear as day to the keen eyes of the noble

creature that bore him; off now parallel with the dragoons, across the

plain--parallel with the dragoons so dangerously near! And with over

all, both them and him, a cloudless sky and a full bright moon.

Then, next, a shout from that advancing force, a hoarse clatter that

all know and recognise who have ever heard firelocks wrested quickly

from saddle-rests, white smoke curling on the night air, spits of

flame from twenty different spots near together, puffs of bullets past

his face, puffs such as the droning beetle makes as it flies by us; a

numbing shock against the saddle-flap, yet on, on, on! The horse

uninjured and still going fleet as the deer, or even fleeter still,

because of fear and nervousness. But still on, and followed by a

dropping fire that ceased almost directly. The musketoons were useless

by this time; they were out of range and he was ahead of the others.

Nothing could stop him now, the danger was past. Nothing, unless the

horse reeled in its stride, was wounded. Yet that he knew was not so,

or else that swift, even motion below him would have ceased ere this.

"Heaven be praised! Where is she?"

The night wind blew more piercingly as he felt the earth rising

beneath the steed. Far up he saw more and more plainly the burning

lights that burned near false bridges and declivities, to fall down

which meant death and destruction. The air was nipping even to those

two whose bodies were heated by their last hour's motion together. The

ascent had begun. The horse breathed more heavily now, threw out great

snorting gasps from mouth and nostrils, yet hardly halted, or only so

far as to change from canter to trot and from trot to walk. But still

went on up, until at last one of the red flambeaux on the hilltops was

winking and flickering close by.

He was near Urbaine now. Another hour and she would be in his arms.

At that moment three forms sprang lightly into the mountain road from

behind a piece of fallen rock, the moon showing that each bore in its

hand a firearm--a firearm raised and pointed at the advancing man and

horse.

"Who goes there?" one cried. "Quick, your answer, or this," and each

weapon's butt was brought to the shoulder.

"The Englishman," Martin called out in reply. "The man doomed to death

to-day at Nîmes for consorting with you."

"So! Advance, Englishman. Yet in the name of the Holy One how came you

here?"

"To seek for her who was my fellow-prisoner with you," he replied as

he got off his horse. "Is she well?"

"She is well--"

"Behind. Up there," and he cast his eyes toward the summits. "She

descends with brother Cavalier to-night."

"With Cavalier to-night! Is he back already?"

"Ay, he is back, three hours ago. Now, to-night, he descends. Nîmes is

doomed. You would have been rescued by the morning. It was brother

Cavalier's second plan. He warned the tyrant, Baville, to free you at

pain of the girl's death, but _tout de même_, he meant to have you out

himself. Yet," he repeated, "Nîmes is doomed."

"But why, why, since I am free?"

"To repay the slaughter at the mill. Ho! Doubt not! That goes not

unrewarded. Nîmes first, then Alais, then Montpellier. 'An eye for an

eye, a tooth for a tooth.' It is our holy shibboleth."

"It can never be----"

"Never be! Why not?" asked the man who alone had spoken among the

three. "Why not? What shall prevent the Lord's children from

outrooting their persecutors? Why not? You are on our side. Is it not

so?" and he looked menacingly at Martin.

"You do not know," the latter replied. "Advancing here not two hours

behind me there comes a vast body of royalist soldiers in two

battalions. Among them the Miquelets. And, though they may never scale

your mountain passes, never reach the plateau, yet surely they will

bar your way to Nîmes. Even though your full force descend, they will

outnumber you."

The man, whom Martin remembered well when he was a prisoner in the

caverns and whom he had heard addressed as Montbonneux, pondered a

moment; then he said suddenly, with a slight laugh:

"Perhaps they will reach the plateau. Perhaps we shall not bar their

way. One catches the rat by leaving the trap-door open, not by

shutting it," and as he spoke his companions laughed too, while as

they did so Martin again remembered the _oubliettes_ and snares

prepared for any who might wander up into the gloomy refuges of the

_attroupés_.

Ere he could reply, however, or announce his intention of proceeding

to where Urbaine might be ere setting forth with Cavalier, there rose

a sound close to them. A sound borne on the night wind toward where

they were, a sound that told him and them that down from their

mountain home were coming the Camisards. A chant that, rising above

all else; spoke of revenge decided on, of fierce unsparing

retaliation:

"Quand tu te léveras, oh, notre Roi celeste!

Pour délivrer enfin les élus d'ici-bas,

Le vent de ton tonnerre à nos tyrans funeste

En Balaiera le reste

Au gouffres du trépas.

Venge--Venge----"

"Tis he, Cavalier," the man Montbonneux exclaimed, "'tis he who

comes."