Clash of Arms

For answer Laurent shuddered. "Mon Dieu!" he muttered, "your nerve is iron."

"On the other hand, allow I gain the roof and find all barred-trapdoor or ladder-or discover no entrance that way I must then come back and try elsewhere, another time. But, presuming I can gain the entrance-what then? I have to reach the lady, silence her fear at sight of me-poor soul! doubtless she will think at first I am her doomsman-persuade her to come away with me, force her to pass across the chasm. 'Twill terrify her, yet-it is the only way. We can never escape below-specially if the hound happens by any chance to be still alive! – I must fasten her to the rope, let her swing across, while you from the other side will draw her up. Then the rope can be thrown back to me; why should we fail? Fail, bah we will, we must succeed. Say, have I not thought of all?"

"In truth you have," Laurent exclaimed, and, catching some of Andrew's spirit, he answered, "We will succeed."

* * * * * *

The night came-dark as pitch, with, above, dense clouds rolling so low that they swept the tops of the fir trees on the summit; covered, indeed, that summit so that Gaspard's cabin was enveloped in the dank, reeking mist. And, through that mist, Andrew and Laurent were descending to where was the ledge of the stone-facing to the slope that backed up the mansion of Bois-le-Vaux.

As far as was possible, every arrangement had been made for removing the woman, known to Andrew as Marion Wyatt, to a place of safety directly she was out of the house, it being deemed by him not necessary that, at first, she should be taken farther than Remiremont itself, or, at most, Plombières. For, once beyond Bois-le-Vaux and with him to protect her, Andrew shrewdly suspected that the Vicomte would make no further attempt upon her liberty, since to do so he would once more find himself opposed to his sword, of which-maître d'escrime as he almost was-De Bois-Vallée must now have learnt to have a wholesome respect. And, as for summoning any authority there might be in the neighbourhood to his assistance-that was not to be imagined. Even though he should be able to show some kind of right to retain the lady, none in that place would be likely to lend assistance to one so cordially detested as he was, both because of his family and of the manner in which he had broken with all the traditions of the province in espousing the cause of France instead of-as most others had done-contenting himself with remaining lukewarm, if not inclined to join the Duke.

No! there was no danger once outside the house. It all lay inside!

They reached the hut where the wood was stored by the peasants when cut into billets, ere being sent down to the mansions and towns that lay around the western side of the Vosges, and, furnishing themselves with the thirty metres of good new rope which Laurent had purchased by Andrew's orders-rope two inches in circumference and strong enough to bear the strain of four men of even his bulk-they set forth again on the descent. Also, Andrew took with him a small lantern and a tinder-box, since he knew not what impenetrable darkness might bar his way towards the room of the woman he sought, when inside the house.

But this was not all. He recognized that, once he quitted the comparative safety of the walled slope, his life would not be worth a moment's purchase if he were observed; he was resolved to part with that life as dearly as possible. To his sword, therefore, were now added the pistols in his belt, well charged and primed; likewise he had in his breast a dagger-knife, good either for stabbing or cutting.

"For all," he said to Laurent, "may be needed. The sword in close encounter with a number-they will be clever if they get beyond its point! – the pistols for use at a distance. To wit, when I am swinging over the chasm! For, there, a bullet would reach a man ere, perhaps, one from him can reach me. And for the knife-well, 'twill cut a lock away from an old door, or hack a rope in half with one lusty cut. Is't not so, my friend?"

"It is so," Laurent assented. Then he muttered, "You appal me! I never thought the man lived who knew not fear. Yet now I have found him."

But Andrew only laughed and bade him push on his way by the path that, even in the sodden, rimy darkness, the Lorrainer was well able to find.

At last they were on the brink of the chasm; they stood upon the coping of the wall of rock erected, doubtless, centuries ago by some De Bois-Vallée to prevent the flattened face of the slope from falling away and filling up the gap left between it and the house itself. The gap of twenty feet across which Andrew was now to pass.

Below, in front, nothing was visible; the mist rolling up from the plains obscured all. It was so profound that none who had not been there before could have imagined that, some yards away, though lower down, there stood the roof of a vast mansion; that, between the roof and their feet there was a gulf-a space-through which a step more, if taken by one who did not know every inch of the mountains, would hurl him to annihilation below.

"It is the safest moat-the most devilish!" Andrew whispered, "ever devised or thought of. How many have stumbled over this to death and destruction, I wonder, in the years that are gone and on such a night as this?"

"They are devils all, these De Bois-Vallées; devils all! Perhaps the Loup de Lorraine, the first of their race, foresaw the many stumbles that would happen here in the days that were to come."

"Maybe," said Andrew. "Well! by God's blessing I will not stumble nor fail in my passage. Now for the rope."

They wound it round the chestnut tree half a dozen times, knotting and making it fast at this end, so that by no chance could it slip and become uncoiled; they tugged singly and together at it until they were assured that it was as secure and fast as human hand could make it. Then they measured the length of what remained and judged that it was as nearly as possible what was desired.

"I shall be," said Andrew, "a little lower than the roof when I am at its full length below, therefore 'tis very well. For, when I am about to plunge across, it will require more length to gain that roof. Now, I will make a trial. And, one last word. Remember, I shall come back ere long. I feel it-know it. As man to man, I charge you not to desert me; not to quit this spot until all human hope of my return has vanished from your mind. On you my life, and the life of her I go to rescue, depends."

"There is my hand," Laurent said, finding that of the other in the darkness. "Alive I will not quit the place. Even though you come not back for forty-eight hours I shall be here."

"Enough! If I come not back in that time I shall be dead. Then-do as you will."

He looped the end of the coil about his body under his armpits, and, taking as well one turn of the rope beneath his shoulder, so that it should by no possibility be able to slip up over his head, he also wound it round his left arm. That done, he knew that nothing but the fraying of the strands upon the coping of the wall, or a sudden hack at it from a knife, could plunge him on to the stones below. It would never leave his body now until he removed it, or until, if dead, some other performed that office.

"Let it slip gradually round the trunk of the tree," he said, "till it is all payed out. About a foot from the ground; thereby it will escape the rough stones of the edge. Farewell! Remember!"

And now he knelt down upon the extreme lip of the coping-stone, found that one place in particular was very smooth, and decided that it was over this that the rope must run. Thereby, the friction would be scarcely anything.

"Lower me down," he whispered, as his legs hung dangling in the unfathomable space, and the toes of his boots scraped against the surface of the wall. "Lower me now."

And as he spoke he perceived himself slowly gliding down the face of the dank, wet wall, and felt the ferns and mosses that grew upon it brushing against his jacket.

CHAPTER XXI

IN THE ENEMY'S HOUSE

Once-the man above letting the rope slip a little too quickly around the body of the tree-he felt the speed at which he was descending increased, and, a moment later, that descent stopped by a sudden jerk. And he thought the rope had broken; that, in another second, he would be dashed to pieces on the stones below! No wonder, therefore, if from all the pores of his body the sweat oozed out, that his heart seemed to have stopped beating. Yet, another second, and the rope was running slowly again, and he understood what had happened and thanked God fervently. One of the turns had been made too loosely round the trunk of the tree. That was all! Yet, for the time being, bad enough!

A few more moments and again it stopped with another jerk, though from a different cause. It had come to its end.

And now he had to prepare for the plunge across to the unseen roof that he knew was there; would have, when he arrived on the other side, to feel with feet and hands-since his eyes were useless in this black darkness! – for something, either coping of roof, chimney, or gable to which to clutch, and, thereby, find foothold. "Oh!" he thought, "if I could but see, could but know how to direct my body." Yet, even as he so thought, he remembered that the darkness served him as equally as it rendered his task more difficult. If he could not see, neither could he be seen. No one could fire at him, as he had suggested might happen, or, firing, could hope to hit him.

He had not recognized before, though he did so now, how fair a boon the darkness and the reeking clouds of autumn fog were to him, by hiding from his vision the dreadful depth below. For, though he knew 'twas there, and that, between him and a swift flight down to death and destruction, there was naught to save him but the goodness of the rope's strength and quality-he did not see it! Therefore, he felt it less, could keep his head cool and his nerves calm in a manner that he doubted if he could have done on a bright sunny day, or even moonlight night.

Turning his face towards where the roof was, he prepared to take the plunge, his feet drawn up behind him and pressed against the wall, so as to get the full force of his propulsion, as a swimmer drives himself forward into a stream from the river's bank. Also-again like a swimmer-he threw his long arms in front of him so that he might either grasp aught which his hands should encounter or, with them, defend his face and head from being struck by wall or parapet. Then-for the moment had come! – he pushed with all the force of his feet against the rope and shot himself swiftly across the chasm. A minute later and he knew that he had failed!

His outstretched hands had struck something-he thought it was a horizontal water-pipe beneath the edge of the roof-but the strong fingers missed their grasp, the weight of his body in the rebound tore them away from whatever the object was which they had touched; a moment later and his form was swung back to the spot whence he had come, while the impetus given to the rope by the concussion of the rebound caused him to spin round and round like a teetotum till he was sick and giddy. Yet, with his hands against the damp, slimy wall, he managed to arrest the spinning at last; a moment or so later and he was hanging as before.

His breath was coming laboriously from his breast now, the swift return to the wall having nearly knocked him senseless-also the rope had tightened so about his body that it seemed as though it must cut through him. He lifted his hands above his head, therefore, and, seizing the rope, while he placed his right heel on a little unevenness it had encountered in the wall, eased himself somewhat by relieving the strain.

"Next time I must not fail," he thought. "If I do, I must desist and be drawn up." But as he set his teeth firmly, he muttered through them: "I will not fail. Now for it!"

With even more force than before he repeated what he had previously done, drew his feet a little higher behind him so that, as he thought-for quaint ideas come to our minds, even in the moment of most deadly danger! – he must present the appearance of some huge gargoyle, had there been any eye to see him, and then launched himself again across the chasm.

This time he did not fail.

He had shot himself beyond the edge of the roof, his hands struck against some hard substance which he clutched with all his might-breaking his nails as he did so-his feet scraped something beneath them; then he let them fall with all the weight he was capable of-and a moment, a second later, he was standing firm.

"I have arrived!" He said. "Arrived! Thank God!" Whereon he sat down exactly where his feet were just before, and felt all around him with his hands to discover how much more solid space there was beneath and about him. For, with all his wariness and coolness returned to him, he knew that he might be on the immediate edge of the roof, from which one false move would hurl him to as instant destruction as must have been his lot had the rope broken during his aerial flight.

As far as his hands-and feet-could reach there was a roof under him covered by some metal-which he guessed to be sheets of tin placed there to keep out the rain and damp from the woodwork beneath-covered also by soft masses of innumerable leaves blown across the chasm from the trees on the slope. Leaves that, maybe, had deadened any sound of his falling feet as he alighted; would have almost, he thought, have deadened the sound to any who might be immediately below. So far all was well.

Still, he was not satisfied of his whereabouts, nor of how much solidity there was around him; he drew, therefore, his long sword and, bending over in each direction, felt about with its point, discovering that there was no open space near. He had landed well upon the roof, he knew, consequently; until he should move from this spot there was no danger.

The object against which his hands had struck and his nails been broken and torn was, he found out directly afterwards, a great chimney-it was quite warm, and showed thereby that fires were burning somewhere below; also, as he reclined a moment with his back against it, the warmth was grateful. It served likewise for attaching the rope to, which he now removed from his arm and body, though as he did so he did not forget that, should aught arise to prevent his return with Marion Wyatt ere the day dawned, it must be allowed to fall back to the other side, and be drawn up by Laurent. To be seen from below when the dawn came-as undoubtedly it would be seen ere the day was an hour or so old-would tell too plain a tale.

He had reflected long ere this present moment that, once inside the house, it was more than possible he might have to remain within it until another night had come; even, perhaps, longer. For the prisoner's fears might prevent her from being able to summon up courage to cross that awful gap at a moment's notice; she might be ill-twenty things, he knew, might bar the way to an immediate flight. Wherefore, the tell-tale rope must not be there. Must be returned, and later on, when wanted, cast across again by Laurent. That could be effected easily; a stone attached to it would make its passage sure, as well as cause the end to remain when once it had landed on the roof.

From Laurent there came no noise nor signal-on the other side all was as still as death! That this should be so they had agreed, yet now Andrew could not resist sending a little whistle across the chasm, a whistle that, to the man watching over there, would be understood, while, if heard by others, it would doubtless be thought to be the cry of some bird in the night. That it was heard and understood he had no reason to doubt.

A second or so afterwards a similar sound was returned. Therefore, Andrew knew that Laurent kept his watch well; knew also that nothing untoward had arisen on that side.

He was refreshed now with his slight rest; the time had come for him to continue his task, to commence, as he recognized, the harder portion of it. To penetrate into the house of the man whom he had forced to be his enemy, to endeavour to rescue by the same perilous means which had so far gained him admission to the outer part of that house, a woman. Truly, if his arrival at this spot had been dangerous and terrible, how much more so would the quitting it be for her?

Yet he meant to do it-or die in the attempt.

Upon his hands and knees now, one after the other of the former carefully put out before him to feel for any break in the roof which might plunge him to the depths beneath, as well as to seek for, and haply find, any trapdoor or entrance to what was below, he crept carefully forward, directing his course to where he supposed the centre of the roof was. Yet, at first, he encountered nothing beneath the mass of leaves swept on to the roof by the autumn winds, or nothing else beyond another stack of chimneys. Chimneys that were warm like the others.

"They keep good fires," he thought. "'Tis fortunate! Pray heaven the whole house is warmed, if I can find a way into it. Otherwise I am likely to perish of the cold."

While he so reflected his hand struck a projection, something that rose perpendicularly from the roof for some three feet or so, as he felt by running that hand upon it. What was it?

He knew in an instant. The side-rail of a ladder rising above the roof-a side-rail which anyone, on emerging from below, would grasp as they stepped forth. Here was the entrance!

Yet, flat and level with the tin covering, or leads, there was still the closed trap, it being fastened from within by some bolt or pin, but-as further search proved-with its great hinge outside, so that it could be pushed upwards from the inside.

Shortly, however, he had forced the trap open-the dagger-knife with which he had provided himself having cut away the tin and woodwork from around that hinge, so that he could lift it some few inches, and, drawing it towards him, he drew also the bolt inside from out the staple. The road was free to him now!

Without a moment's hesitation he descended, one hand grasping the side-rail, the other the hilt of his sword; carefully counting the steps as he went. Fifteen in all he numbered, so that he thought the floor below must be close at hand-when, suddenly, the steps ceased. Yet-there was nothing below! No floor that he could feel, though he lowered himself as far as he might, grasping the bottom rung and the rail for support, and plunging his long leg down into the space. Nor even when, bending down as low as possible in another position, he tried to touch something solid with his sword!

Nothing!

He was not cold now; instead, all over him he felt the perspiration ooze out at the idea that here was a guet-apens, into which he had almost stumbled.

"Doubtless an oubliette," he thought, "a death-trap for any coming hastily down. Heavens! those loups de Lorraine forgot no precaution. Have any others ever passed the way that I have come, found an entrance from across the chasm to the roof, only to perish here?" Yet, even as he spoke, he was standing firmly on the lower step and feeling for his tinder box and lanthorn. A few moments and the latter was ignited, and, even with the dim rays it cast around, he was able to see and appreciate his position.

Below that last step there yawned a circular opening some ten or twelve feet in circumference, and large enough, therefore, for any human body to pass through it; the opening of a great shaft that, doubtless, passed all down the centre of the mansion, to end, perhaps, in some stone-floored dungeon or, maybe, some bottomless well fed by the mountain streams. Led to-no matter in what form-certain death below!

But, glancing round the rough, wooden-walled garret, or sous-toit, in which he was, and observing all that was possible by the flickering of the lamp, he saw, too, that, for those who were acquainted with the place, the ascent or descent of the ladder offered no difficulty. To the left of it, outside the rim of the shaft and not a foot away, was a species of wooden mounting block by which one could step on to, or off, it-the danger threatened only those who did not know of the trap, or should come hurriedly down the ladder in the dark as he had done! Also, he perceived almost immediately opposite to where he stood, a small door let in to the wall or side of the garret, or rather a doorway or arch.

"My way lies there," he said to himself, and stepping on to the block he proceeded to follow it.

The lamp in one hand, it being shielded by his other palm, he passed beneath that arch and so encountered another flight of steps, or, in this case, stairs, having balustrades on either side, and thus descended to what was, in actual fact, the topmost floor, since that which he had just quitted was no more than the support of, and space beneath, the roof.

He was now in the house proper; now was the time when danger was close at hand, when one false step, a stumble, the slightest creak of a board beneath his foot, one glimmer from his lanthorn, would bring destruction on his head.

For, up to this floor the great staircase rose unbroken, and up the well of the house which that staircase made there came the warmth from the hall below, the odour of the burning logs, the noise made by snoring men. And Andrew, the lamp out now, peered over the topmost rail of the stair's balustrade and gazed down.

As before, the watchers slept, Beaujos in his great chair, the tankard on the table by his side; upon that table also his sword. Only, now, the weapon was flanked by two others-by two great pistols. He saw, too, that in the belts of each of the serving-men were pistols added to their wooden-sheathed knives. All were doubly armed!

"Thank God!" he muttered; "the dog at least is not there. It must have met its end: perhaps 'tis from that end and my previous visit, added to the death of its companion, that they take this double caution. Yet, had they taken five hundred times as much, I must go on. I have embarked; I must see the voyage through."

He knew-had known all along-none could have failed to know! – the risk he was running, the door of Death at which he stood. One slip now, a cough alone, and he would be face to face with those doubly-armed men. Yet the knowledge of his danger did but one thing-it made him all the more determined, while resolving at the same time to exert his utmost caution.

Removing his eyes from the men below, he let them roam swiftly round the floor on which he was, though, up here, all was in so much darkness that he could distinguish nothing. Yet he knew that there was at least one room upon it used and inhabited; a room which faced, as he calculated, to the front, and looked out over the great courtyard.

A room from under the door of which, as he peered through the darkness, there stole now a gleam of light.

CHAPTER XXII

MARION WYATT

As calmly as he had ever gone into battle, or-as he had told Laurent-had fought his way through the Duke of Holstein-Pleon's men at Entzheim, he prepared to find out who was the occupant of the room from under the door of which that ray of light emerged.

He began by doing what he had before thought of in the garret above, and would have done but for the fear of rusty nails or other things which might wound his feet. He took off his boots. Then, carrying them in his hands, creeping as softly as a mouse in spite of his great size, and holding the scabbard of his sword tightly, so that no clank of it should arouse the sleepers below, he made his way towards where the light streamed forth from under the door. Yet, as he went, he cast ever an eye over the balustrade towards those sleepers, and observed that none stirred.

Soon he was close by that light; it shone upon his stocking feet-the moment had come for him to discover, if possible, what was beyond that door. Whether the inhabitant was the woman he sought-or-? Was it De Bois-Vallée himself?

That supposition had already arisen in his mind. It might be-probably it was! – he. What then? What next to do? He thought he knew-nay, he did know! His determination was already taken. His soul revolted against the necessity for creeping as he had done into another man's house, although that man was his enemy and a scoundrel: if it was De Bois-Vallée, another five moments should see him on the inside of that door, or the owner of the house outside it, and their swords crossed. And then-and then! Well then the servitors below might rush up to their master's assistance, plunge their daggers and knives into his body-only, first, he would make sure of the man who had broken Philip's life and sent him to his grave. He would make sure of him! Ere the men could mount those stairs the last owner of this gruesome fortress should be dead. But was it he behind the door? He must know that! Possibly his task was not yet near its accomplishment.