The Sword of Gideon

"Why?" the girl asked, looking at her companion. "Why?" Though, as she spoke, there came to her face the rose-blush that had but recently quitted it.

"You should guess why as easily as I. M. de Belleville," the Comtesse continued quietly, "is the representative of your guardian. Do you imagine that, holding this office, he would look with approval on Francbois' desires to-to-ah! you know what he desires."

"If," said Sylvia, speaking now with her usual calm, "neither my guardian nor Monsieur de Belleville had any existence, M. Francbois' desires would be no nearer their attainment. Ah," she exclaimed suddenly, "what is that? Is it the clash of swords? Listen!"

"I heard nothing. The night is tranquil; there is no sound. Sylvia, you are overwrought, overstrung. What do you fear? Such as Francbois cannot slay one such as he, except by treachery, by betrayal."

"If I fear aught it is that he should slay Francbois. I would not have a gallant gentleman stain his sword with the blood of such as that man is. I would not have Monsieur de Belleville bring fresh trouble, fresh risks of danger on himself."

That Sylvia was, indeed, overwrought must have been the case since, undoubtedly, she could have heard as yet no clash of swords proceeding from the spot which the two men had reached some minutes before.

When Bevill Bracton, followed by Francbois, had passed through the gate giving from the garden into the lane, he had continued for some paces until, arriving beneath the foliage of a tree that protruded over the wall of another property, he halted and, turning round, faced the other. Then he said:

"Monsieur Francbois, you remember me. We were at school years ago at the Lycée Saint Philippe. You have not forgotten?"

"I have forgotten nothing. You are an Englishman. Your name is-peste!-I-I know it, yet for the moment it has escaped me. Nevertheless, I shall recall it."

"It would be best that you should not endeavour to recall it," Bevill said, looking down on the man-and there was light enough for Francbois to see that the glance was a stern, determined one. "Also that you do not intrude on my affairs. If you do so, it will be dangerous for you."

"Dangerous for me!" the other exclaimed, with a contemptuous laugh. "For me! On my life, monsieur, it is not I who stand in danger here. Liége is dominated by the French, and I am a Frenchman. You are an Englishman. Your life is not worth a fico if that is once known."

"Short of you and what you may do, it cannot be known. Now listen to me. I am here in the garb of a private man, desiring not to draw my sword either in the disputes between your country and mine, or in personal quarrel. But that sword lies against my side ever ready to leap from its scabbard-as it will if I am thwarted in what I have set myself to do; if I am betrayed or falsely denounced by anyone-by you, since there is no other here who can do so. Ponder therefore on whether it will profit you to thwart, to betray me."

"Ohé!" Francbois exclaimed in a light and airy tone, which was probably but a poor outward sign of what his inward feelings were. "If it comes to drawing swords-ay, and crossing them too-there are others who can do as much. We Frenchmen know something of the swordsman's art. Witness how you English cross the Channel to take lessons in it from us."

"That is true. I myself took those lessons, and I have profited by them."

"Ah I it may be so," Francbois said, though the recollection of this fact, which for the moment he had forgotten, did not add much to his equanimity. "But as for the betrayal! Once betrayed, a man has little chance of avenging himself on his betrayer. The rat in the cage cannot bite his captor."

"He can bite him before he is caged. Now listen to me, Francbois. If I supposed to-night that you came into that house with a view to betraying me, you would never return to it. I know, however, why you followed me to it, why you were resolved to discover if I was within it. I know that you pester Mademoiselle Thorne with your addresses-"

"And I know," Francbois exclaimed, stung beyond endurance at the contemptuous tones of the other, "that you are an English lover of hers; that you have come here to be by her side, to endeavour, if it may be so, to remove her from Liége to your own land."

"It is false. I am no lover of hers. Except when she was a child of ten I have never set eyes on her until I did so here a week ago."

"It is very strange," Francbois sneered. "You found your way, made your entrance, to the Weiss Haus with ease. From the balcony Mademoiselle Thorne extended you a gracious welcome, bade you enter. Is it the habit for English donzelles to extend such cordial greetings to every passer-by? Do-"

But he stopped, seeing that he had said too much, for he had gone too far.

For the moment Bevill Bracton said nothing, yet his action was, indeed, louder than any words could have been. His hand drew forth his sword, lightly he ran the glittering blade across his left cuff; then, pointing with his left hand to the weapon by Francbois' side, he uttered one word-the word "Draw!"

"What if I refuse?" Francbois asked.

"Your fate will be the same, therefore you must defend yourself. You rogue," he went on through his teeth, "you dare to make aspersions on my countrywoman! You dare-you! – such as you! – to raise your eyes to Sylvia Thorne and, to make yourself safe with her, as you suppose you can do, you intend to denounce me to the French here. So be it. Only there shall be no betrayal. Either you remove me from your path now and for ever-now, this very instant-or I put an end to all your hopes and all your intended treacheries."

"You had best beware," Francbois said, and Bevill perceived that there was a laugh in his voice-a laugh that was half jeer, half sneer. Also he observed, and the observation surprised him, that there was no fear in the man. If he was treacherous and crafty-a villain-at least he was a bold one.

"Far best," Francbois continued. "I have crossed the Alps in my time. Monsieur may have heard of the stoccala lunga and the botte secrete and other strange passes taught in Italy-"

"Ay," said Bevill, "as well as the botte des laches! I will essay them. Doubtless it is the latter I have most to fear. Monsieur I am your servant. En garde."

And now, through the calmness of the night, the two women must have heard-sorely they heard-a sound not often familiar to women's ears, yet one that, once heard, especially in such days, could scarcely be misunderstood, even if not fully recognised.

A sound not unlike the hiss of the hooded snake as it glides towards its victims-or, as one of those old Italian fencing-masters has described it, "water hissing on hot iron." Also they must have heard the "tic-tac" that steel makes as it grates against steel-a sound that is not noise. And once, also, they must have heard a voice, the voice of Francbois, ejaculate, "Ah!"

"They are engaged," the Comtesse whispered hurriedly to Sylvia. "They-"

"Engaged!" the girl replied. "He and that man! Oh, Radegonde, hasten! Come! Come, ere it is too late."

"Ay," Madame de Valorme exclaimed, "Francbois is a master of fence. Monsieur de Belleville's life is too good for such as he to take."

Then, together, they sped down the garden path and through the gate into the lane.

But now the scraping of the steel had ceased, while the obscurity of the night beneath the overhanging tree was such that they could scarcely perceive the figures of the two men. Yet that they were there they knew. The darkness of the lane could not disguise their presence.

"Stop!" the Comtesse said, advancing towards the deeper gloom that stood out in that darkness and testified to, at least, the figure of one man. "Stop, I command you. Monsieur de Belleville, hold your hand. Francbois, if you injure him, you are lost!"

While uttering these sentences in a clear voice, though in a somewhat incoherent manner, she, followed by Sylvia, reached the spot where the men were.

That Bevill was uninjured the Comtesse and Sylvia recognised at once. He was standing upright in the middle of the path between the hedges, and in his hand he held his sword, point downwards to the earth; on which Sylvia murmured, "Thank Heaven above!" as she recognised this to be the case.

As for Francbois, he, too, was standing upright, only his sword was not in his hand; and now both ladies heard Bevill say:

"As for your lungas and bottes, Monsieur Francbois, truly they are not wonderful. A somewhat strong wrist and a trick of disengaging has defeated them. Pick up your weapon and sheathe it: we will renew the matter elsewhere."

"Nay," the Comtesse said, "you will not renew it. I," she continued, "have that which should render Emile Francbois harmless. Come," she said now, turning to the other. "Came, follow me some steps farther down the lane. I must speak with you, and at once. Come," she said again, and this time she spoke in a tone that plainly showed she intended to be obeyed-a tone that would have required no great effort of imagination on a listener's part to cause him to suppose that a disobedient dog was being spoken to.

"You are not hurt?" Sylvia asked softly, as she stood alone with Bevill and looked up at him through the density of the night-a density that now, however, the swift rising of the moon was dispersing. "Oh! I pray not."

"In no way," Bracton replied. "He plays well, yet his defence is weak in the extreme-and it may be that the darkness was my friend. But, Sylvia," forgetting his courteous deference for the moment, yet observing, as he recalled himself, that either she had not remarked his utterance of her name, or heeded it not, "but I have left him free-free for harm, for evil."

"I think not. It would appear the Comtesse has some hold over him, knows something that may keep him silent; yet, nevertheless-"

"Yes-nevertheless?"

"We-we must go. Escape! I-we," she went on, speaking tremulously, "are not safe. I am afeard."

"Afeard? You? Yet you have told me the French, even though the worst befall, will not hurt a woman."

"I have changed my thoughts. It is-a-woman's privilege to do so. I would put leagues and leagues betwixt myself-betwixt us-and Liége: betwixt us and all this land ravaged by war and contending armies. I-I-cannot bear to remain here longer. In truth, I fear-I am sick with fear."

Remarking Sylvia's strange agitation, an agitation so strangely new-born, so different from the calm indifference and absence of all apprehension which she had testified when first he reached her, Bevill could not but wonder at the change that had come over her. For now she was but in little more danger-if any-than she had been a week past. There were, it is true, the rumours that the Allies were drawing near, that Kaiserswörth had fallen to them, that Nimeguen had either done so too or was about to do so, that Marlborough was hastening to take chief command of all the forces. Yet what mattered this! She, like every other woman in all the land, in every hemmed-in, beleaguered town and city, was safe from personal violence-safe as a child itself.

"And she knew it," he thought, as he gazed at the outlines of Sylvia's face, now plainly visible in the light cast by the moon through the leafy branches of the great tree. "She knew it, and she knows it still. What is it she fears? What fear has come to her?"

Suddenly he asked:

"Is it Francbois you fear?"

For a moment Sylvia did not answer, turning her head away instead, but saying in a whisper a moment later, "Yes."

"And I have let him live-live, when I might have slain him without effort," while adding the next instant, "How can he harm you? No man can force a woman to listen to his plaint, to accede to it. And I-am I not by your side?"

"Ah, yes," she whispered again, while murmuring next through closed lips some words he did not catch-words that almost appeared to sound as though they were the words "Knight" and "Sentinel."

After which, speaking more clearly, Sylvia went on, "Still I would fain depart. Ah! let us go."

"In spite of my protection! Through fear of Francbois?"

"In fear of Francbois-yes," looking straight into his eyes, while adding inwardly, "Fear of him-for you."

"But Liége, the exit from Liége, is forbidden to all except the French, since all others would avail themselves of the opportunity of divulging the disposition of their forces round the city and in the city also. It is impossible to go."

"Yet you are French-are supposed to be French. You have the means wherewith to be De Belleville, the attaché, or Le Blond, the mousquetaire. You can baffle suspicion with your knowledge of their tongue, with your accent."

"Nay; I could not baffle a true Frenchwoman, the Comtesse, whatever I may do with these Netherlanders. Neither could I deceive a mousquetaire, and Francbois knows I am an Englishman. I will not go. I will not expose you-and Madame de Valorme to the danger of travelling with me the few miles necessary, to the danger of endeavouring to pass out of Liége."

As he uttered these words it seemed to him that there came a low, yet swiftly suppressed moan from the girl's lips, and, looking down wonderingly at her while not understanding-for had she not said that, come what might, all women were safe in Liége-he was about to ask her why his determination moved her so much, when the Comtesse and Francbois returned to where they stood.

"Emile will not divulge your nationality," the former said now to Bevill. "He-well, I have persuaded him. Is it not so!" addressing Francbois.

"Monsieur de Belleville may rely on me. He-he-misunderstood my intentions," Francbois replied, holding out his hand to Bevill.

Owing possibly to the darkness, the young man failed, however, to see that hand, whereon, a moment later, its owner allowed it to drop to his side.

CHAPTER XVII

At this time the excitement in Liége among those who were shut up in it and also among the French who lay around it, as well as in the citadel and Chartreuse, had become intense. For the latter knew by despatches from their field-marshals and generals, and the former from those who, in spite of the besiegers' vigilance, still managed to pass in and out of the city-when they were not caught and promptly hanged at one of the gates-that the Allies were more or less triumphant in the engagements that took place with their foes. Athlone had already defeated detachments of the French in several encounters; Kaiserswörth, if not already fallen into our hands, must undoubtedly soon fall; Nimeguen, the frontier town of the United Provinces, was in the same condition, and Venloo was in a very similar one.

Yet all heard-the French with anxiety, and the whole of the inhabitants of Holland and the Netherlands with joy-of something more. The Earl of Marlborough had undoubtedly arrived and after a considerable discussion-in which such various and remarkably diverse personages as the King of Prussia, the Archduke Charles of Austria, the Elector of Hanover, and the Duke of Zell, including, of all persons in Europe, Prince George of Denmark, supported by his wife, Queen Anne, had all aspired to the commandership-in-chief-he had been appointed to that high post.

Marlborough, as the French very well knew-and the knowledge of which they did not disguise-had never yet lost any skirmish, battle, or siege at which he had commanded. His present foes could not know that, during the whole of his long military campaign in the future he was never to lose one solitary skirmish, battle, or siege, and was to stand out amongst the great commanders of all time as the single instance of a soldier who had never experienced defeat.

The fact of this general's presence near Liége, since now he was marching on Kaiserswörth to assist Athlone, was amply sufficient to induce the French to tighten their hold over all places at present under their domination. For their marshals and generals remembered him as colonel of the English regiment in the service of France, as well as what he had done in the Palatinate under Turenne; their King at this time, growing old and timorous, remembered that once again Marlborough had offered his sword to France, had asked for the command of a French regiment-and had been refused. Now Le Roi Soleil remembered that refusal, and recognised that it had raised up against him and his country the most brilliant and powerful enemy France had ever had to contend with.

Consequently, in Liége as elsewhere, no living soul who was not French could quit the city except by cunning or strategy; it was useless to attempt to do so. Also, pickets patrolled the streets day and night, sentries were posted on the walls with orders to shoot any who could not give the password; boats, filled with armed men, patrolled the river, making inspection of all and every craft upon it; watch fires burned around. On the other hand, none were molested nor their houses visited; trade was carried on as far as possible in the city, though only such trade as was necessary for provisioning the inhabitants and supplying such food as was already inside the walls, since nothing could now enter them.

"You see," said Bevill to Sylvia one morning at this period, which was now the middle of June, as they talked over all these things, "how impossible any attempt to leave Liége would be. We could not get as far as one of the gates without being stopped and subjected to rigorous examination."

"If it were not for us," the girl said, looking at him, "you could doubtless do so.

"What!" he exclaimed, looking at her in turn. "What! You suggest that? That I, who came here to enable you to leave this place, should now consult only my own safety and go away again while leaving you behind? Oh!"

"Ah, forgive me, but-but-I do so fear for you. For us there is no actual danger; I am an inhabitant of the city; the Comtesse de Valorme is a Frenchwoman. But you-oh, it is terrible-terrible!"

While, as Sylvia spoke, there came to her mind another thought to which she quickly gave utterance.

"If it is dangerous," she said, "to attempt to leave Liége, is it more so to you than remaining here? Once outside you would, at least, be free from the treachery of Francbois."

"The treachery of Francbois! Do you still fear that?"

"Yes. No matter what hold the Comtesse may have over him-and that she has one is undoubted-if he wishes to betray you he will do so."

"Yet why wish to do so?"

"Ah!" Sylvia exclaimed, and then was suddenly silent, her eyes lowered.

For how could she tell him that which she knew must be the motive of any treacherous act Francbois might perform; how tell him that which, she thought, he should have divined for himself? She could not tell Bevill that Francbois declared him to be his rival, the obstacle to his hopes with her; that he believed that they had met often in England, that they loved one another.

But still she thought he should have understood. Meanwhile, though this divination came not, as yet, to Bevill's mind, there sprang suddenly to it a light, a revelation.

He saw, he understood, that it was his safety she alone considered-not her own.

He recognised the nobility of her character, the self-sacrifice she was ready to make in being willing to quit a place where, if the discomfort was great, her personal security was almost certain, so that by acting thus the one chance of his safety, the one road to it-if any such road existed-was open to him. And in recognising this he also recognised another thing-a thing that he had not dreamt of, not suspected in himself, but that he could no longer doubt possessed him. He understood that, from the first, he had been drawn towards this girl not more by her beauty and stately grace than by her womanly attributes, her lack of thought for herself, her noble self-respect and her personification of honest, upright, English womanhood. This English womanhood, valiant, self-contained, was fearless through consciousness of lacking every attribute that could attract evil towards her; strong because girt with woman's strongest armour-innocence.

And now he knew that, day by day, he had been gradually, though unperceived by himself, learning to love her; he knew that as she had said those words. "I do so fear for you," and not only had said them, but had testified to their truth by the anxiety for his safety that she showed, he was no longer beginning, learning to love her, but had learned to love her.

"What shall I do?" he asked himself as they sat on this summer day in her host's garden. "How act? Now is no time to tell her what has sprung full grown into my heart. Honour bids me be silent, and I must obey. No word, no plea, must come from me until she stands free and unfettered in her, in our, land. I must draw no interest, no credit, from having placed myself here in a position of danger on her behalf, 'specially since the danger is not to her-but to me. That may procure me her esteem and regard; it must not be used as a means whereby to win her love."

Therefore he did not repeat his question as to why Francbois should wish to betray him, but, when he had concluded the above reflections, contented himself with saying:

"I must not, will not, go hence. Since you aver there is no danger to you here, so shall there be none to me. I promised the Earl that I would enable you to quit Liége; seeing there is no need nor call for you to go, I remain also."

"You misunderstand me," she said. "The danger may be small, but the existence is unbearable. I do most earnestly wish to go, to attempt to reach England; yet I know. I feel-it is borne in on me-that if I attempt to do so, to reach the allied forces or the coast in your company, I shall bring harm to you; and-and-oh!" she said, "I could not endure that. But by yourself alone you may pass safely. Oh, go, go, go!"

"It is impossible. No more can I pass out alone than with you and the Comtesse."

"What is to be done?" Sylvia almost wailed.

"We can stay here. Here, where I am in no danger-"

"Not from Francbois!" she exclaimed, recalling again to her mind that which Bevill had undoubtedly not dreamt of-the fear that Francbois deemed him his rival and would stop at nothing to remove him from his path. "Not here," she went on, "where any stranger who enters the 'Gouden Leeuw' may chance to recognise you."

"It is improbable; yet, even so, I can leave that hostel."

"But where can you go? Here you would be welcome in the garb of one who was of much assistance to Madame de Valorme, as one who is my friend, my would-be protector; yet-there is Francbois to contend with. While, if you choose another inn, the danger would be as great as at the 'Gouden Leeuw.'"

As Sylvia uttered these words she saw by Bevill's face that some fresh idea had sprung to his mind, that he was thinking deeply.

"What is it?" she asked. "What?"

For a moment he did not reply, but sat with his eyes fixed on hers, then suddenly he asked: "You have said that I can escape alone; and I know, I feel as sure as you yourself, that together we cannot escape. But what if-"

"Yes, yes," she whispered, stirred to excitement at his words.

"What if I should go alone, and you and the Comtesse go together, we meeting outside the French lines?"

"Ah, yes. That way! Yes, yes! What more? Tell me. Oh, tell me!"

Still speaking slowly, deliberately, so that she understood that he was thinking deeply as he spoke, that he was weighing carefully each word as it fell from his lips, he said:

"Your house is now deserted. There is no servitor there?"

"None," she answered, "excepting only the gardener, the old man you saw. He dwells in a little cottage some distance behind. What is your plan?"

"This. It may be best that I withdraw from the 'Gouden Leeuw.' I-I can leave it at dusk, as though with the intention of passing out of the city. The people of the house deem me a Frenchman, and therefore hate me. They will not regard my departure as strange; while, if it were well to confide in them, they would not betray me. It was so with the landlord at Antwerp who, in truth, saved me. It might be-would be so here, if needed. The French are their oppressors; they look to the English to save them from the French."

"And afterwards?" Sylvia asked almost breathlessly. "Afterwards?"

"I should not leave the city-then; but if, instead, I might find shelter in your house for some night or so-"