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THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

. w

'■M

1
I

"BEAUFOY RODE UNDER THE I'ORTCULLIS OF THE GREAT

rilK BEAUFOY
1^ ( ) M A N C i<: S

HAMILTON DRUMMOND

liluttrateJ by
A. VAN AN ROOY

TORONTO

(Limited)

Af D CCCC //

rs=^i,\r"""

1%*-****^"

CONTENTS

how beaufoy went a-wooing

beaufoy's ward - - - .

beaufoy's vengeance - . >

HOW OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR CAME TO BEAUFOY

HOW THE KING CAME TO BEAUFOY -

THE JUSTICE OF BEAUFOY -

HOW BEAUFOY CURED THE MADNESS OF MESNIL

beaufoy's token - - - .

high and low justice - - -

A queen's FAVOUR - . - _

MAN AND HONK ....

HOW MARTIN HUGHES FOUND MANOA-LAND -

FAGR

7
36
64

93
118

152

ns
203

222

260
326

a.'954

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"Beaufoy rode under the portcullis of the ''"

GREAT GATE " z.> ^ .. .

rrontispiece

•' The Abbess stood, a group op her nuns about

HER "

" He half drew his rein as he spoke " . .93
"A woman, the spotless white of whose robe

shone dazzling in the sun . ,,2

"'If he so much as touch me, I shall kill

him

» »>

• '71

"Drawing his sword, he snapped it across his

KNEE " .

201

"As THE Seigneur waxed hot. so did the Church-
man WAX COLD"

"The ARROW, drawn to the head, was loosed" 250

THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING

Raimond de Beaufoy, hereditary Suzerain of
the fief of that name, had at three-and-twenty
little cause to quarrel with the world. As for
the world, or that portion of it which lay in
touch with the borders of Beaufoy, when it was
in quarrelling mood it found, time and again
that the young Seigneur had a hard hand, a
strong arm. and a long reach-three things
which make m Mly for tranquillity. It there-
fore came abou. .hat the Sei-neurie enjoyed a
larger peace than its weaker neighbours.

Peace was much. Peace was internal growth
and consolidation, but to peace were added
wealth-as wealth went in that year of little
grace and great famine, 1438 health, strength,
and power. For hard on a score of miles in
one direction, and well-nigh as many at right

THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

angles, so as roughly to form a square, Raimond
de Beaufoy was lord of life and death. A
dozen villages called hirn master. His corn-
fields filled the valleys and his vineyards covered
the southern slopes. To crown all, his Chdteau
of Beaufoy, with its great girdle of gray walls,
was victualled and garrisoned as became the
house of a man who ruled by love or terror as
the mood took him.

Left an orphan when a twelve months' babe
the child's inheritance had been nursed by ins
uncle, Bertrand de Freyne, as if it were his
own, as, indeed, he designed it to be ; but
Death having said a brusque ' No ' to Bertrand's
project, the young heir gathered the fruits of
the elder's labours, while the whole suzerainty
chanted its Te Deum. Bertrand de Freyne
had been a hard man.

It is the man who already has his hands full
of this world's blessings that looks abroad to
add one to their number, and so Raimond de
Beaufoy gave himself much thought as to
whence he would bring a wife home to the
Seigneurie. Birth she must have ; generations
to match his own. Youth and health she must
have ; for the descent of the line was as much
a sacred trust as the transmission of the fat
acres undiminished. Of what use to leave his

HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 9

heir his four hundred of square miles, if he
had not wit and strength to rule them ? Acres
of her own were desirable, not essential, for
Beaufoy was a healthy-minded man, and set no
great value on wealth that was not his own ;
not essential — no, but a weight in the scale.
Temper, good looks, the domestic virtues,
these he set no store upon. For the first, if it
was bad he would cure it ; for the second, he
lived much abroad ; for the third, if she knew
little of the care of a great house, there were
those who did to be had for the hiring. So for
many weeks he weighed and measured the
damsels of Angoumois, and in the end he
pitched upon Denise de Vaucourt.

A week past he had come to this conclusion,
and now, as he rode across the summer fields
with Marmontel, his squire, at his elbow— for
seven generations there had not lacked a
Marmontel to serve a Beaufoy— he was con-
firmed in the wisdom of his decision.

When three-and twenty plumes himself upon
his wisdom, you may be sure that not the lever
of Archimedes —could it be mentally applied—
would stir him a hair's-breadth. But in this
instance Wisdom was justified of its child.

' A day's ride there,' said he to Marmontel ;
' it will be that at least with a pack-horse hang-

lo THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

ing behind. Four days at Vaucourt, or three
may be — no need to waste a man's time over
such work — and a day home. The week
should see us back at Beaufoy.*

'Three days,' answered Marmontel cautiously,
' is but scant time to win a maid's fancy.'

' Chut!' and Beaufoy broadened his shoulders,
' we met once before, seven years ago, I think,
and if the girl be won the fancy will follow
after — or bide away as it lists. The thing fits
well, Marmontel. Away to the south there,
Vaucourt marches with Beaufoy for a full three
miles, and that there is neither father nor
brother to poke fingers into Beaufoy's business
counts for much.'

' I have seen three towns taken by surprise,'
said Marmontel, ' but never one woman. The
jades love a siege, and if they be honest they
get it but once in their lives.'

' Nor is there surprise here,' answered
Beaufoy. ' Why, man. Roger has been at
Vaucourt these eighteen hours, and if Madame
the Countess guesses not the meaning of my
message, then Denise comes of a dull stock.
Am I the man to fling away five days on
nothing more than a woman's chatter ?'

' She may guess, and Mademoiselle may
guess — but. Seigneur,' persisted Marmontel, out

I
-I

HOW BEAUFOY WENT A- WOOING 1 1

of his fifteen years' longer experience of life.
' there are forms.'

'Chut! Beaufoy will balance the forms'
and the Seigneur laughed. ' This is no match
of Bet of the charcoal furnace with Peter the
herdsman. If Madame be pleased and if I
be pleased, the thing's done. Hold thou thy
peace with thy forms.'

' There is little to choose between Bet or
Demse seemg they have, by your leave
women s hearts in them.' answered Marmontel

roH h ,"p' 'r' '""^ "'^"^ '^^ '« ^^'^^' then
God help Beaufoy, man and acres'"

' Did I not tell thee, man. to hold thy peace >
I can see to myself and my acres, too !' And
grumbhng to himself. Marmontel. like a good
servant, did as he was bid. ^

The road to Vaucourt was across the Suze-

Z7'/r^^ '^" ^'■°"^ ^'■'■^'^ °f f^^-^t that
framed us fatness on every side, and into a
broken country where thicket and pasture-
land fought hard for the pre-eminence-a poorer
count than Beaufoy. and one that showed

cttL?"HI l' 'T "^" "^^^ -- ^ herd s
cottage blackened and unroofed, there a

haggard in gray heaps of sodden ashes, or a

m.11 with the wheel splintered and great stone

blocks thrust beneath its floats in fheer wan!

u THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

tonness. That the masterless men who found
harbour in the wood preyed as they listed on
Vaucourt was plain to be seen. Beaufoy, by
reason of its many hangings, they left un-
harmed.

' By the Lord, Marmontel !' cried the
Seigneur wrathfully, as they reined up abreast
of a still smoking desolation, ' these rogues
have sore need of a heavy hand, and a heavy
hand they shall feel. There will be changed
times at Vaucourt when Beaufoy grips the
reins ! Shall we hunt the rascals to-morrow,
just to give them a foretaste of what's to
come ?'

' Best hunt the damsel, Seigneur/ answered
Marmontel. * Rogues are plenty and ripe for
the hanging any day ; a damsel is but one, and
must be caught when the will moves her.'

' Wrong !' said Beaufoy, shaking up his
horse, ' wrong ! 'Tis the other way round ;
but let us get forward in daylight, . lest the
rope find the wrong men. What a Te diavolum
laudamus they would raise if they laid hands
on Raimond de Beaufoy !'

It was on the edge of dusk when the
Seigneur rode up the slope and into the glade
where stood the Castle of Vaucourt, a pile less
ancient and less massive than Beaufoy, but

I
f

HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 13

lichened and mossy with age. It fronted south
with a semicircle of open space, some six
hundred yards radius, on three sides, while
behmd, a long bowshot ofif and sheltering it
from the north, stretched a dense thicket of
pines, oaks, and underbrush. A lli^rht of seven
short steps, unguarded by any balustrade, led
up to the heavy Norman doorway, with its
rou 'ded columns set half within the wall.

ere they were awaited by a man apparently
of ^eaufoy s own age. wh. the Seigneur

checked his gallop before the do. ame down

'° Z\ ' u'"i, '"^' ^''■^^^hing out his hand,
caught the bridle.

; Give you good-evening, Master Seneschal '
cried Beaufoy, flinging down his reins. ' By
bt. Francis, thou art young for a major domo
Surely a grayer wit would better rr.ttch a service
hat hath no head but a woman.*

• That I am Madame de Vaucourt's humble
servant is true.' answered the other, 'and in
these tmies youth is a pear that soon mellows '
He slipped the bridle over his right arm. and
turned towards the door. ' Hcre.^wo of Z
see to the beasts ; and you. Seigneur, have com !
hKe^the welcome guest you are, in the nick of

' Marmontel '-and Beaufoy paused as he dis-

14 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

mounted, his weight swung upon one stirrup —
' see thou to the beasts' housing. No offence,
Master Seneschal. Beaufoy might go seigneur-
less, all for a horse's colic. Now, man, what of
thy mistress ?*

' That she is in trouble, holds council, and is
in need of thy gray wisdom.'

' Hark, thou !' — and Beaufoy tappe *. •- other
on the shoulder, • Keep thees and tl.jus for
thy fellows, lest thou tastest leather. What is
thy name ?'

' Mark de Vaucourt ; at your service, Seig-
neur de Beaufoy,* answered the other, laughing.

' What ? Madame's nephew ? Was this a
jest, Messire de Vaucourt V

' No jest, Seigneur de Beaufoy ; and if your
gray wit failed to discern between a lackey and
a gentleman '

' Right ' — and Beaufoy, pausing in his walk,
looked him full in the face — ' right : my wit
failed to discern. What then ?*

' Spare your impertinence. Seigneur de
Beaufoy ; I understand you well enough. To
be frank, we have already a cause of quarrel
within the walls, but the lady's name is best
kept out of the business. Is that plain ?'

' Sits the bird on that tree } Now I see the
point of the jest ; but no man makes Beaufoy

HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 15

twice a laughing-stock-no. by St. Francis, not
twice I Let us settle the matter, Meisire de
Vaucourt.

' Make no doubt w • shall senle it. Seigneur
de Beaufoy, but not lo-day nor to-morrow. As
I told you, the Countess is in trouble, and has
need of us both. First, shoulder to shoulder
for Vaucourt's sake, then face to face for our
own.'

They had reached the centre of the great
square hall, having paused at intervals in their
wranghng. and now Beaufoy. from his two
inches of greater height, looked frowningly on
the other. It was a new thing to him to be
belittled, or even to be claimed as an equal,
and his pride was in arms.

I ??J '^ ^^'^ ^°"*® new jest.? For, by the

Lord, Messire, I give you fair warning :

' No jest, but sober earnest. Here it is in a
nutshell, and if there is a jest, the laugh is on
the sorrowful side of the mouth. Cdsar Vijroene
has debts ; C^sar Vigogne has also a son. and
he proposes, with luch insistence and a thin
veneer of courtesy, that his son shall pay his
debts by taking to himself the lands of Vau-
court with Mademoiselle Denise. since he
cannot, m reason, seek the one without the
other.

THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

I
1

* Cdsar Vigogne ?' said the Seigneur. ' I
know the rascal. A suave bully, he will bless
you with all unctuousness, and cut your throat
as 'Amen' to the benediction. Cesar Vigogne !
Beaufoy's men will settle his insistence once
and for all.'

' Beaufoy's men will have small chance,'
answered Vaucourt. 'C6sar Vigogne is four
hours behind his messenger, and brings his
priest with him.'

' And how long since '

' Three hours, maybe, or a little more.'

' Then we are caught like rats in a trap ?
To think there are two score of men rusting at
Beaufoy, and we pent up to starve in a hole !
Send me Marmontel. Though he risk hanging
in his own reins, he must ride for Beaufoy
within the hour. In a day, or a day and a
half, we shall snap our fingers at C^sar
Vigogne.'

' In a day, or a day and a half,' answered
Mark de Vaucourt, * neither you nor I will have
fingers to snap. It's odds that your squire will
do us better service here than charging pell-
mell through the black of the woods.'

• Is Vaucourt so weak as that? Then, by
St. Francis, we're shent! Let us to the
Countess, Messire, and here's my hand on it ;

HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 17

we are brother and brother until we have found
God's mercy in this world or the next.'

'Brother and brother, Seigneur,' answered
the other, taking frankly the outstretched hand
so frankly offered; 'and, from my soul, I
believe we have sore need that the mercy be
not stinted.'

From the back of the great hall three
passage-ways opened— one to right, one to left,
and a third facing the entrance. Down one of
these— that to the left— Vaucourt led the way,
with the Seigneur at his heels, and clanging
his long, huge - rowelled spurs as he walked.
Pausing at a door, across which there fell a
heavy curtain, Mark turned and laid his hand
on the other's arm.

'Be brief in counsel, that we maybe ready in
action,' he si id ; 'and. indeed, there is but one
course open— 10 hold Vaucourt to the last.'
Then he flung open the door. ' The Seigneur
Raimond de Beaufoy,' he announced, and drew
the door hard behind him.

The room was small, but so ill-lit by its
narrow, pointed windows, closely barred, that
the three by the table seemed little better than
shadows. Of the three, two were women, and
seated, while the third, a man, stood behind
their chairs. From his deference of attitude

1 8 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

Beaufoy judged him to be present by sufferance
rather than by right, and the event proved him
to have been the body-squire of the old Count,
now many years dead.

As Vaucourt spoke, the two rose, and the
elder answerc' :

' The Seigneur comes in a happy hour for
us, but an evil for himself. If there were time,
Messire de Beaufoy, I would say, ride hence
until a day when peace and Vaucourt are better
friends.'

' No, Madame ' — and Beaufoy went forward
to meet the Countess, * Rather the best of
hours for me, since, by the grace of God, I will
prove that my love for Vaucourt is no courtesy
love.'

' Truly a sturdy growth for so young a plant
Mushrooms have no long life,' said Mademoi-
selle Denise under her breath, but with a strain
of mocking in her voice.

' Sturdy and speedy is Beaufoy all over,'
answered the Seigneur, ' and, with the help of
St. Francis, you yourself will say so within six-
and-thirty hours. Madame, let us leave com-
pliments aside and come to profitable talk ;
Messire de Vaucourt has told me of the insult
thrust upon you by C^sar Vigogne. To answer
that is no woman's work, and, with your leave,

HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 19

we two will take upon our shoulders the form
and method of reply.'

' We have no right, Seigneur de Beaufoy '

began the Countess, but the Seigneur, guessing
what she would say, stopped her with a gesture.
'You have a double right, Madame: one.
the common right of every woman to be de-
fended against the violence of a scoundrel ; the

.ler ' And he bowed to Mademoiselle

'^enise. ' But for the present we will let the
other stand ; that is the agreement, is it not,
Messire de Vaucourt i*'

' Let Cesar Vigogne set foot inside the castle,
and there is an end to rights and to defences
also. All the talk in the world will not change
that. For the Lord's sake, let us get to work.'
'My thought, too, Messire. With your
leave. Madame, our old friend in the corner—
who, I doubt not, knows every nook and hole
in the casrie— and we two will make a round
of inspection. Be at ease. Mademoiselle ; if
there is a bridal at Vaucourt this night, I pro-
mise you, faith of a gentleman, the priest will
have light enough to read his book by and
witnesses in plenty, though they be dumb ones.'
With which strange comfort Beaufoy led the
way back to the corridor.
The circuit of the house disclosed more than

2 — 2

20 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

i I

one point of weakness ; but chiefly Mark de
Vaucourt was troubled by a passage-way, which,
opening from the back of the great hall, passed
through the cellars, tunnelled the earth for a
furlong northwards, and had its outlet in the
underbrush of the sheltering belt of timber.
TL the outlet was so well concealed that a
hunter with a leash of hounds might have
passed it by was but a half-comfort, since, if it
were once discovered, nothing but an inch-thick
oak door, midway along the tunnel, blocked the
approach.

* Let Vigogne put a petard under it,' said he,
'and it flies to splinters in a snap.'

' If Vigogne has petards to spare, he'll win
Vaucourt by a shorter road than this,' answered
Beaufoy. ' No, no ; he will try the great door,
as a gentleman should, and let the worst come,
it will TO hard with us if we cannot hold the
hall for thirty minutes while the wcmen find
safety, and ^>y this road. Let it bide as it is,
say I ; but, Master Squire, have spades and
mattocks down here, and hands to work them.
Why, I will tell you presently. Now, De
Vaucourt, let us back to Madame.'

The women they found waiting them at the
head of the corridor,

' Thus and thus is the plan,' said Beaufoy,

HOW BEAUFOy WENT A-WOOING 21

giving Mark no time to speak. Lead he would,
or all that he was but a stranger and a guest
We are ten men, all told. Enough to hold
Vaucourt for a week if there was no such
thmg as saltpetre in the world and but one
flaw m the defence. But, what with a rotten
wmdow here and a tottering door there, not
Talbot hrmself could hold the place, . weak-
handed as we are. Two are wanted by the
wmdows, where the bars are thinner ^han
makes for comfort ; one by the east door-
fnend Hugues here will do ; four with me at
the secret outlet.'

Bellfo" ■*''* ^°°'^ '^'^ °^ ''°"''"'"' ^"^''"^ "^e
'By Saint Francis, Mademoiselle Denise
for myse f I care no whit ; but I make the best'
of the chances, and bad they are at the best
Cesar V.gogne. I hear, has thirty men at his

' Then you think, Seigneur ^•

that ifr •''• ^^^^^''^-'^ be blunt is kindest-
leet of Vaucourt land, his priest may have

At which Mademoiselle Denise turned to
De Vaucourt and caught him by both hands.

22 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

•Mark, Mark, and it is my fault thou art
here !'

Whereupon Beaufoy laughed a hard laugh.
' And I,' he said. ' What of me ?'
' Mark came for love's sake, Messire,' an-
swered she across her shoulder ; • but you, you
know best why yourself

Through the silence that followed Beaufoy 's
ear caught the patter of hoofs on the turf, then
came a jingle of bridle-chains, the stumble of
feet on the steps, and three resounding blows
struck with a stout riding-whip on the panels
of the door, and with such a vigour that the
hollow of the great hall echoed. Again Beaufoy
played the master. Brushing all pretences
aside, he went straight to the point.

•So you have come, C^sar Vigogne, and,
having come, had best ride home again, lest
you raise such a hive about your ears as has
never yet buzzed in all Angoumois.'

' God's mercy ! here's a knot on the cord !'
they heard him exclaim. Then, louder : ' Open,
fellow ! I have knocked once, who am not wont
to knock twice in courtesy.'

•The courtesy of Cdsar Vigogne !'— and
Beaufoy laughed. ' The courtesies of the seven
hangings of Marvaulx ! the courtesies of the
wreck and burning of Neuchamp! By St.

HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 23

Francis of Beaufoy. a closed door is more
wholesome at this time of night! Are you
answered with your courtesies ?'

'Beaufoy! Beaufoy!' cried Vigogne, stamp-
ing^his foot. • What the plague does Beaufoy

' Ay,' answered the other. ' Beaufoy '
Beaufoy! Buzz! buzz! do you hear the
hornets, Cesar Vigogne ?'

There was a silence, and when Vigogne
spoke again it was in a changed tone.

• Listen, Seigneur ! With you i have no
quarrel, nor, indeed, with anyone in Vaucourt •
but I have come for a certain thing, and, by
the saints, that thing I will do ! Six years ago
De Vaucourt pledged his daughter to my son
Jacques, and '

' It is a lie!' answered Beaufoy. 'Quit lies
and come to the truth.'

' It is true,' replied Cesar Vigogne ; 'so true
that none can contradict it. Yet. leave that
aside. My point is this: Marry Denise to
Jacques I will !'

• Mademoiselle de Vaucourt is pledged to a

gentleman now in the castle.' said Beaufoy

coolly. Dropping his voice, he turned to the

others as they stared at him, and went on :

By the Lord, it's true! For what else are

24 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

> 5

Vaucourt and I here ? Whether it be to me or
Messire Mark, Mademoiselle Denise is as good
as pledged, and whichever wins, God help the
man who comes between us!' Then louder:
'Are you answered, Messire?'

'Leave pledges to me,' replied Vigogne
bluntly. 'Marry Denise to JacqiK^s I will!
That is Vaucourt's affair, and not Beaufoy's.
Ride home in peace. Seigneur; with you I
have no quarrel.'

* Hist !' said Beaufoy, going to the door and
bending so that his lips touched the crack by
the post. ' Hist ! speak lower. Is there a
trap in this ?'

' No trap, but clear sense for me and for
you. Am I a fool to bring the Seigncurie
about my cars for nought, or you a fool to
risk— tush ! there is no risk ; the thing's a
certainty— to risk, I say, your life .or another's

gam

For a moment Beaufoy stood rubbing his
chin, as was his fashion when in deep thought,
then he s; id :

' If a iuan could save his honour ' and

stopped.

'There is no haste,' cried the other softly.
•Take till midnight, and ride off in quiet.
There is always the secret passage.'

HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 25

• What ? Speak lower still, man. You
know that way ?'

• Ay, I know it ; a twist of the crow and the
door is open, and tell me this — what chance
has Vaucourt? But I will smooth your way
and salve your honour. Listen, Beaufoy ; I
pledge you this : no soul in Vaucourt shall cry
"Shame!" upon you ever after. Ha! you
understand. What the grave hides is well
hidden.'

' But I have three men ; I must save them !'

• And welcome ; the, fewer for me. Till
midnight, then ; and, Beaufoy, tell Madame, my
mother that is to be, that you have bought me
off. There will be the worse watch.'

'Till midnight,' answered Beaufoy softly,
and straightening himself, he stood listen mg
to the iron heels of Cesar Vigogne clanking
down the steps. Then he turned to the group
at the .farther end of the hall, and turned to
meet a tempest. ' By St. Francis !' he cried
in no polite mood, • are you all gone mad that
you bay at me like so many dogs ? Here does
Cdsar Vigogne of his folly give us three hours'
grace, and because I take them you call me
coward and traitor! Let the event speak,
Madame; and as for you, Hugues, thrust that
blade home again till nearer cock-crowing. De

26 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

Vaucourt, surely you understand ? Ay, well,
now listen : Madame and Mademoiselle, do as
you will about your beds, but let the lights go
out as if Vigogne and his rogues were fighting
the English — as I would to the Lord they
were, instead of beleaguering honest French
folk — then, in the dark, and softly, barricade
the doors and windows open to attack ; let this
be your work, De Vaucourt. Hugues, do you
send three men after me to the secret passage ;
my business lies there.'

' Seigneur de Beaufoy, be generous and give
us your pardon,' began Madame. * It was our
ignorance.'

' The fault was mine,' interrupted Beaufoy ;
' how should you fathom a man's duplicity .-"

' But, Seigneur,' cried Mademoiselle, * is
there nought that we could do ? Believe me,
we could not rest.'

* Why, yes ; make me some twelve feet of a
linen pipe of half the thickness of a little finger,
only, for the Lord's sake, let the windows be
dark. Now, my friend, my three fellows and
their tools.*

Snatching a lamp from the table, he turned
into the passage-way leading to the secret
outlet, and strode down it with such a heavy
tread that they could hear his heels ringing and

HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 27

echoing in the long hollow of the vault. Then
the trampling ceased, and in its place there
came the screeching complaint of the oak-
door creaking unwillingly back on its rusty
hinges.

'A masterful man,' said Madame.

•A masterful man,' echoed Mark de Vau-
court ; * for that I owe him no grudge.' Then
he added, looking at Denise : ' I would we had
nineteen more like him, and were well rid of
the score in twelve hours.'

Whereupon Mademoiselle laughed.

' It is not enough,* said she, ' for a man to be
masterful ; and if Cesar Vigogne permits, the
riddance will come smoothly enough ' — and the
fire on her cheeks found an answer in his
eyes.

Meanwhile, De Beaufoy had his three men
hard at work.

* A crow- point under this flag — gently,
gently! No need to chip the edge. Now,
two mattocks at this end and that, and heave !
Saints ! men ; have you brawn in your backs,
or the basting of fatted calves? Heave, I say,
heave! So — that is better! Now this one —
good, good ! Now another, and yet one more !
Four ? That will do for the surface.'

They were working ten feet beyond the

28 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

W I

oak-door, and, under Beaufoy's orders, had
"tripped the passage of its heavy flagging in
. direction inwards towards the castle, rearing
the heavy slabs in lines along the wall.

* Now, mattocks and shovels ; two of you
work, and one rest. Faith ! how the soil grips !
What's that — a stone ? Good ! Have it within
the door ; its use will come presently. Stay ! run
you and crave from Madame a blanket or sheet,
or some such thing. Meanwhile, dig on, you
two, and with a will ; our time is shorter than
agrees with comfort. Ay, that will do. Shovel
out the dirt upon that, and busily — busily. Do
you pick out the stones and pile then apart.
Thank the Lord there is no lack of them!
Now work, and for your lives I*

When the pit was some four or five feet
down, Beaufoy stopped the sinking, and bade
them drive the shaft not alone downwards, but
outwards, until he judged it suited his purpose.
Then he told them curtly they might rest, and
he himself went to seek Hugues the Squire.

' Give me,' said he, ' a stout box, a pot of
pitch, a brush, and cannon powder. I will set
such a fougasse for these rogues as will teach
them much of the art of war if they but come
that way, and live to tell of it, which I doubt.
The piping, Madame. By St. Francis !' — and

HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 29

he held it up in a coil — 'a snake, a veritable
snake, and one that shall hir.s and bite, or my
name is not Raiinond de Beaufoy !'

With his own hands he smeared the box
inside with pitch, and filling it to the edj;e with
the gray explosive, he placed it carefully in
position. Then, having given his serpent a full
feeding, he fixed the end of the fuse in the
powder and built it into its place with loose
stones, which he very carefully set in order
until the bulk and weight satisfied him.

• Now earth, and stamp it down well — so.
Drag the cloth and what remains over, inside
the door, and set the flags in place. Good ! a
fair craftsmanlike piece of work. Presently
they will sink, but, faith of Beaufoy, they will
lie even long enough to fool Cesar Vigogne.'

Scraping aside the clay from the extreme
edge of the flagging, he carefully buried the
linen fuse, bringing the end up inside the oak
door. This he closed and bolted, and then
returned to the hall of the castle. The lamp
he left behind him, but so placed that the door
lay in shadow.

The hall he found a groping darkness, with
just enough .' life whispering down the dim
corridors to set the nerves tingling, but that
nerves and Beaufoy had little acquaintance.

30 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

k i

Against the door lay a great heap of tables,
armoires, and such-like furnishings.

Presently he found Mark de Vaucourt.

'Give me two stools and a dice-box,' said
Beaufoy. ' Needs must that I keep awake by
hook or crook. I f Cesar V igogne comes scratch-
ing on the panels presently, or calling softly, as
belike he may, let him scratch and call, but for
the Lord's sake give no sign of life. The dice ?
Ay, now the stools. So — that promises well.
As you go your rounds, Messire, do not forget
Beaufoy down in the cellars.'

Tucking the stools one under each arm, he
disappeared into the black vault of the passage,
but with so light a tread that not Cdsar Vigogne
himself, had he had his ear to the keyhole, would
have heard a stir of life.

An hour later and what the Seigneur had
forecast came to pass. There was a stealthy
shuffle of feet on the stone steps, a stumble in
the darkness, and a muttered curse, and then a
silence, and after the silence a thin tattoo of
finger-nails on the door, followed by a muffled
voice — • Beaufoy !' thrice repeated, each time
with a rising note — ' Beaufoy ! Beaufoy ! Beau-
foy !' Then again the stealthy shuffle of feet,
a-H the watchers in the upper windows saw
tin- waiting troop draw off to the south until

HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 31

■2

it was lost in the night. Then Mark de
Vaucourt went to seek the Seigneui.

Beaufoy he found seated on one of the stools,
with his back to the door, his legs thrust out
before him, the second stool between his knees,
and busy throwing dice upon its top, alternately
left hand against right. At the sound of Vau-
court's footsteps he set down the box and
looked up.
' Well ?'

' Vigogne has ridden off to the south.'
' Then he will come back by way of the
north. I know the feeble cunning of his kind.'
Dropping his chin upon his hand, he rubbed
it softly ; then, reaching out, he took up the dice-
box again, and let fall the dice into it slowly.

' Cold steel,' he said, out of the thought that
was in both their minds, ' will go cruelly hard
against the grain after this night's brotherhood ;
and, to tell the truth, there is no woman in the
world good enough for men to split friendship
because of her.'

• Then give her up,' answered Vaucourt,

* and let us be brother and brother to the end.

Plainly she has no wish for Beaufoy.'

But the Seigneur shook his head.

' Plague take it !' said he. ' There is such a

thing as a man's dignity. As for wishes, what

32 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

are they in a woman ? Nought !' and he
snapped his fingers. • Listen,' he went on, ' I
will play you for her. Dice-boxes instead of a
puddle of blood ; and, besides, the time hangs
plaguey heavy.'

' Are you • mad ?' cried Vaucourt. • Why,
man, I have loved Denise since I knew what
love was.'

• Faith !' — and Beaufoy laughed. ' I might say

the same, and never know the throb of a pulse.'

' Then give her up !' cried the other again.

' For, Beaufoy, Denise ' And he stopped.

' Ay,' answered Beaufoy, ' and had I known
that thirty-six hours ago, I had not been sittino-
here now waiting to play a sharper game with
Cesar Vigogne than dice on a stool-top ; but,
being here, I must carry the thinof throunfh. I
catch you. meaning. You love her, and she
you ; and to dice for her would be sacrilege for
you as for me to dice for Beaufoy. Ay, I see
that ; but to me who neither love nor am loved
it is the fairest of games. By St. Francis ! I
have it! I will play left hand against right
for her, and on the honour of Beaufoy, if I
lose, I make my bow at sunrise, Cdsar Vigogne
permitting.'

' And if you win ?'

• If I win ' — and with his open palm he smote

HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 33

the stool in front of him — ' then win her I ;hall,
though all Vaucourt came between. Let me
see : the left — ay, that is you ; it is nearer the
heart. A pretty conceit, faith ! I give you
first throw, Messire. My word ! but I hope
Cesar Vigogne will be gallant enough to hold
his hand until the game is played.' Taking the
dice-box in his left finger-tips, he raised it above
his head, shaking it, and reversed it on the
stool. ' Ace, tray. Faith, a poor throw !
Now, tht ; right hand for Beaufoy. Cinq,

quatre.

lead you, Messire — I lead you !

Throw, Vaucourt, throw ; 'tis the best of three.
Tray, a> xtre. Eleven to nine, and a throw in
hand. Deuce, quatre. It is well, Messire, that
you are here to bear witness that it is an honest
game. Your last throw, Vaucourt, and a noble
one. Double six ; 'tis a lead, indeed. Now,
St. Francis, for Heaufoy.'

With the box poised in the air, he paused,
listening. ' Nothing ? I thought it had been
Cesar Vigogne.' Down came the box with a
ratde. ' Tray, six ; Beaufoy wins by a point.
Welcome to my poor house that shall be,
Messire de Vaucourt!'

' Do you think,' said Vaucourt fiercely, grasp-
ing the Seigneur by the shoulder and shaking
him — ' do you think I hold myself bound by

34 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

that ? No— by

such a mummer's chance as
God, no!'

' Keep your hands for C^sar Vigogne, Mes-
sire,' answered Beaufoy. • For me the thing is
settled. If you wish to fight it out in another

fashion, why Ha, saints! what is that?

The assault is on in front ; though if Vigogne
thinks to batter in the doors, he must swing a
heavier sledge than that. Come, man, come !'

Leaping to his feet, Beaufoy sped up the
passage, grasping at his sword-hilt as he ran.
Five paces behind him was Mark de Vaucourt ;
but midway he stopped and waited, listening,
then turned back. From behind came the
sharp scream of dry timber, ripped and splin-
tered, and as he watched he saw, in the dull
flicker of the lamp, the door heave.

• A feint ! a feint !' he cried. * Rouse them
in the castle, and then this way. Seigneur ; the
attack lies here I'— and rushed headlong down
the tunnel.

At the cry Beaufoy paused, and, stooping,
he saw Vaucourt seize the lamp and hold it to
the fuse, and there was a spurt of flame.

' Run ! for the Lord's sake, run !' he shouted.

But Vaucourt, still holding the lamp, bent
forward motionless. There was an instant's
silence, a rumble, the bulging of the oak door,

HOW BEAUFOY WENT A-WOOING 35

a rush of gray smoke, and utter darkness, and
through the darkness a roar and crash that sent
Beaufoy staggering to the wall.

• Mother of God !' cried a voice behind him ;
* what has befallen ?'

Looking behind him he saw Denise, a rush-
light flickering in her hand.

'You, Messire de Beaufoy? — you? Then,
where is Mark ? Coward !' she cried—' coward
to leave your post !— coward !' And as she ran
past him into the darkness she smote him with
her open hand upon the face.

Still stooping, Beaufoy saw her set the light
upon the floor and draw a something from the
wreck of fallen earth, saw her sink upon her
knees and lay Mark de Vaucourt's head upon
her lap. Then he set his teeth hard and sought
Marmontel,

' C6sar Vigogne is paid in full,' said he, ' but
I have enough of wife-hunting for this time.
Let Mademoiselle Denise cleave to her fraction
of a man, for, by St. Francis, he can be little
mc«re !'

Nevertheless, in the long day's ride to
Beaufoy, the Squire had wit enough to keep a
silent tongue, lest the debt due by the woman
should be levied off the man.

3—2

BEAUFOY'S WARD

It is no great thing that an honest-hearted
gentleman should forgive an injury. That he
should not only pardon scorn and contempt,
but be ready to set his life at stake for his
contemner, is much more marvellous ; since a
sword-thrust for the body counts less than a
pin-prick to the spirit. Yet this, for all his
pride, did Raimond de Beaufoy.

That the scorn was a woman's scorn turns it
still more to his credit ; for a man can measure
himself with a man, and give and take blows
which presently heal and are forgotten, whereas
a woman's contempt is as a whip-stroke on the
face that leaves a weal, the stinging heat of
which keeps it well in memory.

The day Beaufoy rode from Vaucourt his
heart had been hot and wrathful. When
Denise de Vaucourt nursed her maimed cousin
Mark back to life, and married him for all his
battering, Beaufoy still treasured his anger ;

BEAUFOY'S WARD

:,f

but with the sh'ppincr awav rvf th^ l

and his busy „fe LVanTIr^ tCl^^l

deadened. After all u^ r, /'^"^^^"^ss

^. -rvicer all, he was Ra mond Hh

vaucourt. If a foolish woman chose tr. fl;«
»ha. she called love into Vauc:u ts sU: f^"f

she had the best of the bargain, i, showed sh^
'„ "°' Wrecate the possibilities, and so was

Trt 0™""", '" '''^"'"'- '■--•"" "f 'h
-w Jd o lav h ■" "' '■■?'"'^ "-y '"^ «— -nty

of Beaufof ^T:: wf ""i ''^""f """ P°-'

hi,nself nnf .1 , ""'' ""''-■^'' he found

•uHiseii not alone well r rl nf tU^

Indeed, so well was the affront of his reiec
«on forg,ven that he was now. four yea sX

energy Beaufoy possessed to succour his old

the?url fat 'f i'" "^'"^ "' ^--"« "as

a^r^htVal t%rdrlt°>br °Bl.t^'=
With an indiscreet zeal f^ u '"^"

nf Kio "'^'-'^^et zeal to ape the stern iustice

O"' the bngands, free-rider.,, and the like frol

_^3f-

38 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

the woods and fastnesses that bordered on
Vaucourt. Beaufoy's hinds and herdsmen lived
in peace, why not Vaucourt's ? So, with com-
mendable enthusiasm, he set himself to a cam-
paign of sudden death.

For a time all went well. The wolves he
hunted dwelt singly or in pairs, rogue not trust-
ing rogue, and the greater boughs of the oaks
of Vaucourt took to themselves cheering, but
perishable, adornments that swung and turned
and danced to the piping of the wind. Then
the inevitable happened. The isolated atoms of
humanity drew together, as in mercury globule
draws to globule — not from love, not from trust,
but from need — and Vaucourt was face to face
with a coalition that knew not God nor re-
garded man.

Much of this Beaufoy knew, but he was not
the man to poke his fingers into his neighbour's
business. The Seigneurie was turbulent enough
in all conscience, without its master adding to
his cares by the righting of another man's
follies. A direct cry for help was another
matter. If lord did not stand by lord, why,
there was an end to sieurs and seigneurs ; be-
sides, had not Mark de Vaucourt saved him
from saddling Beaufoy with a fool as mistress,
and so made him his debtor ?

BEAUFOY'S WARD 39

He was sitting by a small table under the
great Beaufoy oak that grows to the south of
the chateau and shades the Justice-room, when
Vaucourt's messenger, his beast staggering and
crisp with sweat that had foamed and dried
three times in the wild ride, flung himself from
the saddle and stammered out his news.

'Softly,' said Beaufoy, setting down the
lance-head he was polishing ; 'a word at a time
tells much. Whose man art thou ? Messire
de Vaucourt's .? So, so. And what plague has
taken Vau court ?'

•A plague of men, if they be not devils
Seigneur. The castle is beset.'

* So !• repeated Beaufoy. • Who leads them ?
There is a truce with England.'
^ ' Satan himself, I think,' answered the man
They are forest reivers, Seigneur, and swarm
like mad bees.'

' What ! the rogues have dared > Listen
friend, and keep a cool wit. Who sent thee .?' '

• Mark de Vaucourt. Seigneur.'

• And to me ?'

' To you. Seigneur, and to ride redspurred
though I killed my beast. " Take another ''
said he, "by force or goodwill, but take it and
ride on. This is life or death." '

'And the message > Briefly, now."

■

40 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

• For the Lord's sake, to save Vaiicourt a
second time, as you saved ;t once, for it is
in a still more evil case.'

•Ay?'— and Beaufoy sat back on his stool
gnawing his under lip. 'Much I gained by
the saving. As for thee, I give thee this much
credit, friend : thou canst talk straight as well
as ride straight.'

For a full minute he sat rubbing his chin and
thinking silently, then said : ' I have no mind
for a second fool's ride.'

' Seigneur '—and in his earnestness the man
pressed forward and laid his left hand on
Eeaufoy's knee— 'my master is no coward,
and yet his message was, "It is life or
death.'"

• What ? God's mercy ! wouldst thou teach
me my duty, fellow .?'— and, leaping to his feet,
the Seigneur thrust him staggering aside.
' Marmontel ! Marmontel ! St. Francis ! where
is Marmontel.? Let the tocsin be sounded,
and the word passed " boot and saddle " for all
save ten men. Go thou, friend, eat, drink, and
rest thy bones ; though, if I know aught of a
hard ride, the two last will come easiest, but
especially the drinking. Marmontel, I give
you half an hour, and let the men eat standing.
Leave Flemish Peter in charge, and bid him

^ 1

BEAUFOYS WARD

trust no living soul till I return. This may be
a two days' business.'

A prompt man was Raimond de Beaufoy. ill
to cross, hard to drive, a staunch friend and a
stern foe.

It was but little more than noon by the dial
on the south tower when Beaufoy. with fdur-
and-twenty trained men trailing behind him in
two long lines, set out across the autumn
stubbles. The distance was, perhaps, some
twenty leagues, but to arrive with blown horses
and men over-weary for action would have been
to play the game straight into the rogues' hands-
There was, therefore, no great pressure of s[K'vi],
and twice he called a fifteen minutes' halt for
rest and baiting.

So long as the path lay across the domains
of Beaufoy there was but little need for caution;
but once beyond the bounds of the Suzerainty
and within the shadow of the great wood lying
to the south, the Seigneur bade every man ride
silent ; yet, for all they heard or saw of life-
save wild life — they might have sung and
chattered at will. The men of the woods were
at Vaucourt.

Into the Vaucourt pastures they rode at a
trot, and were soon taught what fate awaited
the Castle inmates if their relief was late.

41 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

Even the poorest hut was roofless, the meanest
cottage a charred ruin, and not once nor twice
the peasant owner hung from his own lintel.
He had been fool enough to say • No' with over-
much vigour. Of women or children they saw
nothing, save once, nor had they time to search.
That once sufficed. Men can see men mis-
handled and keep their phlegm, but when it
comes to babes and creatures but little less
helpless, it is another matter.

' Let me but catch the villains ! — Lord God,
let me but catch them !' cried Beaufoy between
his teeth, and rammed his spurs home. ' Do
what Thou wilt to me hereafter, Lord God, but
give mt, I pray Thee, a free hand this day.
Come, men, we must ride hard, though the
beasts die for it.'

For half an hour they galloped, no man
speaking, so that the only sound was the
rhythmic beat of the horse-hoofs on the firm
turf. Then Beaufoy, who rode first, flung up
his right hand as a signal, and, tightening his
reins with a jerk, dropped into a walk. They
had made a circuit, and the gray front of Vau-
court showed through a sprinkle of trees.

At a sign Marmontel ranged up alongside
the Seigneur.

' Slip off, and go ahead for news. The few

BEAUFOY'S WARD

minutes will breathe the beasts, and we must
not lose the advantage of surprise. Fling me
your bridle, and make haste.'

Without a word Marmontel swung stiffly to
the ground, gave Beaufoy his reins, and ran
briskly forward, keeping to ths shelter of the
timber. Inside of ten minutes he was back,
panting.

' It is all too quiet,' he said. ' The great
door is splintered and oft its hinges, and — and
— Seigneur, I like not the look of things.'

* To saddle ! Forward, men !' said Beaufoy
curtly ; and silently, but in disorder, they rode
on.

All purpose of surprise was gone, and the
one thought in each man's mind was to press
forward, and use his eyes first and his hands
after.

Whil«- still sixty yards from the flight of
stone steps, the Seigneur halted and leaped
down.

' Let five keep the horses. Marmontel, see
thou to that. The rest follow me,' he said, and
set off running full speed across the turf, his
keen eyes reading signs and reckoning chances
as he ran.

Marmontel was right : the door had been
battered down and then flung out upon the

It .;

44 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

grass, that it might not impede entrance. There
had been a stubborn defence. The wreck of
the doors and the twisted window-bars testified
to that. That there was no dead counted for
nothing, since the rogues in their escape would
carry their fallen with them ; and that they had
so escaped was clear, for there was neither
voice nor stir, nor so much of life as a face at
the windows. But worse than gaping entrances,
worse even than the heavy silence, and telling
plainly of defeat and plunder, were the black
trails, that in no fewer than three places crept
up the gray of the walls. Vaucourt had been
fired, and it was thanks to the haste of the
victors rather than their goodwill that it had
escaped destruction.

At the foot of the steps Beaufoy stopped.
He would run no reckless risks, for all his
certainty that the Castle was empty ; but once
his men had closed in and were at his back he
ran lightly up, and, with his sword's point
well advanced, leaped across the threshold.

'God's mercy!' he cried, checking himself,
and those behind him heard the rasp of his
blade driven home into its sheath.

Truly the sword had been so busy that there
was no work left undone. In the great square
hall the chief stand had been made, and on

BEAUFOY'S WARD

every side were evidences of the fierceness of
the strugjrle as piteous as plain. The arras
was hacked, the hangings trailing in ribbons,
the stone flags smeared and pooled and clotted
with blood. In the swirl and eddy of combat
the antique armour and furnishings of the wall
had been overturned, and lay rolled in corners
in a disordered wreck. The very panellings of
the walls were splintered, and in more than
one place the dull oak had taken on a deeper
stain.

But the centre of the floor was the focus to
which all turned, and as De Beaufoy's men
crowded forward, the laggards thrusting aside
the first comers as they pushed to the front,
jest and laugh and clamour died in a gasp. It
would be foolishness to expect a delicacy of
sentiment from men whose trade it was to kill,
maim, or burn all and sundry to their patron's
order, and for a fee of ten crowns a month,
private hate or public weal being equally out
of consideration ; but when it comes to poor
humanity, even butchers have their repugnances.
The strife, as has been said, had here been
sharpest, and in the centre of the floor the
victors had heaped their spoils. There they
lay, flung in every contortion of twisted trunk
and limb, nine marrings of God's likeness.

46 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

That they had fallen far apart was clear from
the ghastly tracks smeared across the floor, but
in the end they found companionship. Nerve-
less hands grasped broken blades, and dead
eyes looked out on life in dazed reproach, the
pangs of staggering beyond the margin of the
world still plain to be read.

To those who found them death was common,
and so a thing of small account ; but the callous
crowding of man on man, the sheer indignity
to the helpless clay, shook them with wrath,
and the silence was broken by a clamour of
malediction and cries for vengeance. But
these Beaufoy hushed with a shake of his

hand.

' Is Vaucourt there ?' he said. ' If not, we

must search.'

One by one they ranged the slain men in
line by the wall, but there was no Mark de
Vaucourt, and as they laid the last in his place
they turned in silence to the Seigneur, and
through the silence there came a cry — a shrill,
high-pitched petulant wail — the querulous com-
plaint of helplessness in pain.

• Let the dead bide with God,' cried Beaufoy.
' By St. Francis, there is life at last !'

Turning down the corridor to the left, he ran
full speed up the narrow circular stone stairway

BEAUFOY'S WARD

i
I

rising at its end, following the thin complaining
cry. Everywhere were signs of struggle, and
for all his haste he noted them; round blots
upon the worn steps, the print of an outstretched
hand upon the hall, as where a man had
staggered in his wild race with death, and once
a broken sword-blade. Someone — or more —
uad fled, hard pursued from below, having work
to finish above.

Still following the wailing, Beaufoy ran down
a narrow, ill-lit passage-way, and halted at a
wrecked doorway — halted to think. The
caution of the soldier had come back. But his
men had followed close behind him, and now
Marmontel pushed to the front.

' By your leave. Seigneur, this is my place !'
said he, and would have entered.

•Thy place when thou art Seigneur. Am
not I first?" answered Beaufoy, and flung
him reeling backward. ' God's mercy, Denise!'
On the bed lay a woman mercifully dead;
across her and scarcely human, he was so hewn
and stabbed, Mark de Vaucourt ; and in a
corner beyond the pillow sat an eight months
old girl-child dry-sobbing, her litde fists rubbed
hard into the hollows of her eyes. That much
Marmontel saw and the two or three others
that crowded at his heels, but they saw no

48 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

more ; nor to the day of his death would the
Seiorneur ever speak, by so much as a hint, of
what he saw in that upper room at Vaucourt.
Ro'ind on his men swung Beaufoy.

' Hence, all of you !' he cried. • Let one so
much as cross the door, and rhe nine below will
become ten. This is a woman's business or a
priest's, maybe.'

Then he went down upon his knees, and
what he prayed and what he swore is known
only to God and his own soul ; but those who
watched him through the chinks of the broken
door, and saw the play of his face, thought
there was but little of priestliness in him, except
it were in commination.

When he came out into the passage again, he
held the still sobbing child clumsily to his
breast with his left arm— so clumsily, and with
such a plainly unaccustomed air, that those
gathered about the stairhead would have
laughed for all the tragedy, but that the hard
sternness in his eyes cowed them.

' Let ten bide here on guard and the rest
follow,' he said to Marmontel, as he tramped
down the curve of the stairs at the head of his
troop, and out into the evening sunshine.
Setting the child on the front of his saddle, and
holding her firmly there with his left hand, he

BEAUFOY'S WARD

mounted, and turning to the north-west, rode
into the wood in silence.

'But, Seigneur!' ventured Marmontel, ranging
alongside, 'vengeance lies south.'

The Seigneur turned on him with a snarl.

' Beaufoy's ward comes first,' he said. 'We
ride for the convent of the Poor Clares. Ven-
geance can wait, and, by the Lord, it will but
ripen in the waiting. Be at ease, Marmontel ;
these cowards shall find that my arm and my
memory are alike long.'

Thenceforward for two hours they rode in
silence, and the dusk was thick about them
when Marmontel knocked at the porters' lodge
of the Convent of Our Lady of Good Hope,
and bade the fellow tell the Mother Abbess
I « the Seigneur de Beaufoy was without on
an errand of peace.

'And let her hasten,' added Beaufoy as he
dismounted. 'For all our peace, I and mine
are somewhat impatient.'

Presently the sliding panel set in the door
rattled in its grooves, and from behind the bars
of the opened grating a white face looked out.
To have the courage of religion is well enough,
but the reputation of Raimond de Beaufoy was
none of the best, and rumour had it that he held
few things sacred.

• i

50 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

' Madame '—and the Seigneur held the child
so that the light from within fell upon her
sleeping face — * be this my surety ;' and in a few
words he told her of the sack of Vaucourt, and
how that little Denise — ' I make no doubt,
Madame, but that her name is Denise, and if it
be not now, by St. Francis, it shall be hence-
forth for her mother's sake ' — heiress of
Vaucourt, was now ward of Beaufoy in virtue
of his Suzerainty. * Keep her for me, Madame.
Who am I to nurture such a tender lamb, since —
and if it be a sin may the Lord forgive me ! —
there is but little of the sheep in me. So long
as she bides here, Beaufoy will pay a hundred
crowns yearly for her up-keep, and more if need
be. Be it my part to see that Vaucourt yields
it ; and, Madame, for pity's sake and for the
loving tender woman's nature in you, send to
Vaucourt to-morrow. Men can dig holes for
men, but Madame de Vaucourt lies there, and
there may be others, for we did not search.'

Thus it came that the care of the lands of the
child Denise fell to Raimond de Beaufoy, while
her nurture in body and spirit was watched over
by Our Lady of Good Hope.

In all respects the child throve. That
Beaufoy presently forgot her was to her gain,
since she was the more fully left to the gentle

BEAUFOY'S WARD 5,

and wholesome teachings of those who kept
truth and faith ah'ght in a dead and corrupt age.
But if the Seigneur gave little heed to the child
Denise, he nursed and fed Vaucourt with such
goodwill that there were those who said it was
no better than a fief of Beaufoy, and lied in the
saying. Beaufoy was no spoiler of the weak,
and least of all would he rob the charge that
death and blood had committed to his ward.
So, for eighteen years the months swung round ;
Beaufoy, except for the payment of the tale of
crowns, giving, as has been said, small heed to
Denise de Vaucourt, when, with little warning,
his memory was spurred into wakefulness. It
came in this fashion.

Of all Beaufoy "s friends, and he had many
none had served him so well or so loyally as
Henri de Beaucaire, a Picard gentleman of
longer pedigree than purse, and who was, indeed
as poor in lands as he was rich in courage,
honesty, and a sunny temper. For eight years
the bond of frank faith, good-fellowship, and
many dangers risked in common, had bound
them fast, and one day as they sat under
Beaufoy 's oak Beaucaire asked a recompense.

' It is seven years since you married. Seigneur '
he said, 'and to see that noble little lad grow-
ing up at your knees fills me with envy. If

4—2

I :

52 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

Monseigneur de Grandfrai grants leave, give me
Denise for a wife, that I, too, may see my
children before I am greyheaded and their
youth is a burden to my age. I warrant
Vaucourt and Beaufoy will be but closer knit.
Beaufoy set the lad down upon the grass.
• Run to Marmontel, my Sieur, and learn thy
sword-play. What talk is this of Grandfrai ?
My Lord Bishop has his rights spiritual, and I
my rights temporal. I pray the Lord the two
do not clash, for Grandfrai's sake.' ^
' But Denise, Seigneur, Denise ?'
' Oh, denise, Denise ! I would as soon see
thee at Vaucourt as any man ; but what of
Grandfrai? How come his fingers into the
affairs of Vaucourt? Am not I Suzerain ? Is
Denise not Beaufoy 's ward ?'

• Theodore of Grandfrai takes leave to doubt
it,' answered Beaucaire. ' That much I heard

to-day.' ,

« Whose ward, then ? The Kings?
'Nearer home, Seigneur: Grandfrai's himself
He says the widow and the orphan are the

peculiar care of the Church, and therefore ■'

•And therefore I must toil and plan and

scheme for eighteen years to fatten Ha! by

St. Francis ! this must be seen to, lest he marry
Denise to the Lord knows whom offhand, and

■a-
IS

BEAUFOY'S WARD 53

so the wealth of Vaucourt, of my making, will
be a thorn in Beaufoy's side for ever^after.
That Theodore of Grandfrai should play me
such a trick ! I took him for a simple matins-
and-vespers priest. Speak out, Beaucaire ; this
touches you as closely as it does me. Is there
more behind .?'

' Only that young Martin de Chapny '

*De Chapny, De Chapny.? God give me
patience ! I would have the man hung to his
own lintel within the month. De Chapny, for-
sooth ! Beaufoy owes him no goodwill, nor he
Beaufoy. VVe must .strike, my friend ; we must
strike ! At last I have found a use for Father
Grdgoire. The good man must have grown
rusty in marrying, and to-day he shall polish his
memory. Let every man who can be spared
make ready ; and. since the riding will be hard,
the friar must stick to his saddle, though we tie
his legs beneath the beast's beliy. Dethapny '
God's mercy ! Beaufoy has not yet fallen so
low as to be tricked by any monk of them all.
be he Bishop or begging brother.'

Though from Chateau Beaufoy to the convent
of the Poor Clares, where Denise lay in charge
of the gray nuns, was a three hours' ride, it was
all too short to cool the Seigneur's wrath.
Nay, the heat, the haste and the dust were so

54 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

many spurs and goads to prick it into fresh
fierceness, so that the evil temper in him grew
with the miles. Nor did the sight that greeted
his eyes outside the heavy gates of the convent
quiet his humour.

' By St. Francis ! my Lord Bishop is fore-
handed with us. Yonder is a squire with
De Chapny's arms upon i»is shield. Thank the
Lord there is a layman in the case, since to
trounce a Churchman is as shameful as striking
a woman, and one is like to gain as much or as
little by the one as the other. Knock, Mar-
montel, knock, and be not over-nice about it.
Friend,' he went on, as a scared face looked
through the grating, 'for thy body's health
imperil thy soul a little, and open the door.
Raimond de Beaufoy has come to claim his

ward.'

Whereat, instead of the door opening the
panel slid back in its grooves, and from across
the wall came the ring of feet pattering
up the hard roadway to the convent, which
stood some hundred yards from the girdle of

walls.

♦ Let six face round, lest my Lord Bishop's
persuaders to the peace of God take us un-
awares ; and do you, Marmontel, and two others
pick me out of the wood a stout and heavy

BEAUFOYS WARD ^5

sapling, lest in the maintf^nance of right and
justice and the peace of the Suzerainty it be
needful to batter in yonder door. Nay, stay a
moment ; our friend of the white cheeks is back
again, and not alone.'

This time the panel was untouched ; but after
a mighty rasping of locks and shootincr back of
bolts, the postern to the left of the great djor
was flung wide, and into the open space stepped
Theodore of Grandfrai. A right bishop-like
picture he made, standing there in the frame-
work of the doorpost and lintel, Christian
prelate from his thin fringe of white hair to
his sandalled feet. Unlike many of his day
he carried no insignia of the Church militant
about him, saving those of spiritual warfare. A
crucifix and a rosary swung from his girdle, the
former of silver, the latter of some simple beads.
His dress was no more than the gray frock of
his Order ; and for all that he was the full
figure of a man, the mild benevolence of his
face warranted Beaufoy's description of him as
a priest of matins and vespers. He might also
have added of charity and consolation, but that
the Seigneur had never needed such ministra-
tions.

Yet. for all his mildness, Theodore of Grand-
trai was no man to forego a jot of the rights of

5« THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

the Church, or abate a tittle of the privileges of
relijrjon.

' Is this seemly, Seigneur de Beaufoy, to
come clamouring at these gates of peace in such
a fashion ?'

' Is it seemly, my Lord Bishop,' answered
the Seigneur, no whit abashed, 'to filch my
ward. Den ise de Vaucourt, from me on some
monkish pretence ? So goes the story ; if I am
wrong I crave your pardon, but, by St. Francis!
I claim my ward also.'

•The Lord forbid that I should so debase
my office as filch a ward of thine, or of any
man's. There lies your error. Denise de
Vaucourt is ward to Grandfrai, and not all the
wrath or browbeating of every lord in France
can loose the bond.'

' Your ward, Bishop — yours ? God s
mercy *

' Nay, not mine, but Grandfrai's.'

' Have done with a juggle of words. Thy
ward, for thou art Grandfrai ? What, then, of
me .'* Do I count for nought, who have sweated
and laboured and planned for Vaucourt these
eighteen years .?'

'At whose instance, Seigneur de Beaufoy?
Your own and no one else's. It is time ' — and
the Bishop squared his shoulders and looked

BEAUFOY'S WARD

Beaufoy fulli„ ,he face-'i, is ,in,eyou learned
.ha, ^«, lay your hand upon a thing is „o. ,o

fis. upon a palm, ^do I wan, Vaucour,? By

Mu,r, de lieaucaire, whom I have brough, ,o
wed ,„y ward, Denise de Vaucour,, and wtd h r

•t G d ' '^' "i"^''^ «""• ' «■" Seigneur'
o,her " ,' ^""' ' ^"' '^''''"'P'' ''"^""eJ the

n • /• ,?"" ""y "gl" ""'"Op yours
Demse de Vaucour, is orphaned, and ,o "he
"Than ,he Church of Chris, is mo,her para
moun. To Messire de Beauca.re I ,ake7o
excep,K.n. An es,imable gentleman in "h
truth but Denise de Vaucour, is already pro

so httle do I fear you or your pre,ended rights

that^of "■ * K ' '■^^"'^'^ "^^ y"- pres..nce'and
hat of any three you will ; but let a f.fth seek

de Beaufoy, ,ha, you will set ablaze such a fire
m Angoumo,s as will need ,he ,ears of a«

Dide, itsaJl one to me.'
Turning, he left the door opm behind hfm

and walked slowly up the path L.neieftgr;

* '

THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

building, of which glimpses could be caught
between the laden orchard-trees that closed it
round. For an instant Beaufoy sat his saddle,
weighing the chances, then he flung himself to
the ground.

' He is right, it were a fool's deed to split
Angoumois on such a question ; yet, by the
faith of Beaufoy, De Chapny shall not mp'-ry
Denise de Vaucourt. Come, Beaucaire, fo; w
thou, Marmontel ; he said take three, and I
will take but two. Hark you' — and he turned
sharply to his men — ' let there be no brawlings.
Who touches Grandfrai or Chapny, except
upon my word, touches me. The Lord forbid
that any unconsidered zeal should set Angou-
mois a-burning.*

Leisurely, and like one who knew that what-
soever was in progress must needs wait his
pleasure, the Seigneur followed Theodore o
Grandfrai, pausing every half dozen or dozen
paces to point out this or that to Beaucaire, as
if to set an accent on his slowness.

' Trust the Church to be well served. Saw
you ever such a burden of fruit or such a
smooth pleasantness of turf? By St. Francis,
if I were not Beaufoy I would be a monk !
Not Charles in his beloved gardens is more
daintily surrounded. Mark the wealth of

BEAUFOY'S WARD

Madonna lilies, and out of season, too; the very
air is spiced by them. Poor Clares they call
themselves ! See the carvings of the doorway,
and there on yonder gables ; my faith, what
better could they have an they were Rich
Clares! What, my friend, the Bishop waits
us? Ay, ay! lead thou, and we will follow.
It were the crime of a heretic to make a Bishop
wait!' ^

Behind the great door with its many bolts
and studs of metal was yet another barrier, a
kind of latticed screen of hammered ironwork,
and beyond it lay the cool gray of the broad
and silent hall. Crossing this they were
ushered into a chamber whose magnificent pro-
portions of width, height, and leng.th might
well have been the glory of a palace, even had
its mouldings and frescoes been less splendid.
Here again there was silence, but a silence
tremulous with the life of a great throng
strained into attention.

For half its space the room was packed, but
packed so that its lower end and three-fourths
of its centre were empty. Up between the
crowded lines of gray-robed women walked the
Seigneur, Beaucaire at his side, and Marmontel
two paces in the rear. His eyes were smiling,
but his mouth was hard-set, and to one who

i f

60 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

knew him it was plain he was in no placable

mood.

But it was neither to right nor left that he
looked, but in front, where, at the further end
of the room, the Abbess stood, a group of her
nuns about her, Denise by her side, and Theo-
dore of Grandfrai, with a dozen of his monks —
De Chapny in their midst— ranged at her left.
Six paces from her he stopped.

• My thanks, Madame, for all the love and
care you have shown my ward, and I pledge you
my faith that Raimond de Beaufoy has as long
a memory for an obligation as for an injury.
Could a man who has to hold his own with the
world say more ? But now the time has come
to relieve you of your charge, and that you
may have no fear for her safety, I have a score
of men without who know no other law than
that I give them. To be frank, Madame, I
have promised Denise in marriage to my friend
Messire Henri de Beaucaire, and where Beau-
foy gives his friendship, no woman need shrink
from giving her trust.'

* But ' — and the Abbess drew Denise towards
her, a slender slip of a girl, dressed in the
plainest white, and her hair drawn back from
her pale face in a simple knot--* Denise is but
a child.'

-1

'THE ABBISS STOOD, A GROl'l* OF HER NUNS ABOUT HER.

BEAUFOY'S WARD

' My Lord Bishop differs, Madame,' answered
Beaufoy ^^^ravely. 'And she who is woman
enough for Martin de Chapny is woman enough
for Henri de Beaucaire.'

' I am here,' cried De Chapny, ' by grace of

Monseigneur de Grandfrai, and '

' La, la, la !' broke in the Seigneur. ' May
Monseigneur de Grandfrai teach you better
manners ; though, if he fails in that duty, never
fear, there are others to take his place ! This
is no affair of yours, Messire, saving as cat's-
paw to Grandfrai's monkey.'

• But it is of mine, Raimond de Beaufoy ' —
and Bishop Theodore confronted the Seigneur.
' Denise de Vaucourt is ward to Grandfrai by
right and privilege of the Church. What?
Because you mouth and bully, shall I play
traitor to my trust ? No, not for fifty Beaufoy s,
with fifty score church plunderers at their back !

Listen '

'No, rather listen thou!' cried Beaufoy.
'Must I lose my toil because it suits your
crooked politics to filch my labour on a trumped
pretence ? Denise is Beaufoy 's by right of
lives set in the balance and eighteen years of
struggle. And here, before you all, and in the

face of God, I swear '

' Swear not at all, Raimond de Beaufoy, lest,

I I
I

THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

in reply, instead of calling God to witness, I call
Him to curse.'

'Curse on,' cried Beaufoy, gripping round
for his sword, ' but have Denise I shall ! De
Beaucaire, Marmontel, come ; they are but a
pack of monks !'

• Men as well as monks !' cried back the
Bishop, and at a sign the brethren gathered
round the Abbess, confronting Beaufoy with
uplifted crucifixes.

'Tush!' said the Seigneur, ramming home
his half-drawn blade. ' Said I not that a man
could no more strike a monk than a woman ?
For peace' sake, I will humour the girl.
Hearken, Denise. I was your mother's friend,
and in the day of her need all that man could
do to save her I did. You, at least, I saved.
Vaucourt I have tended, nursed, nourished,
and, so far as lay within me, I have played the
father. Remember this, and tell me, is it your
wish to marry Martin de Chapny ?'

And out of the great silence that followed,
Denise, never lifting her head from the Mother's
breast, answered in a whisper, ' No.'

'Good!' cried De Beaufoy. 'If you owed
me a debt, Denise, you have paid in full. Are
you answered, Monseigneur ?'

' Hearken, Denise,' said Theodore of Grand-

BEAUFOYS WARD

I 3

frai in his turn. ' For eighteen years the Church
has guarded, sheltered, taught, and loved you.
In your sorrows you have been comforted ; in
your troubles you have been soothed ; in your
doubts you have been guided. The love of
God has been brought near to you. Mother-
less, you have lacked no mother ; fatherless,
you have lacked no father. Remember this,
and tell me, Denise — is it your will to marry
Henri de Beaucaire ?'

And again, holding the Mother the closer,
Denise answered, ' No.'

For a moment there was a silence, and it was
the girl who broke it.

' Keep me, Mother, and hold me fast. If I
am but worthy, let me be as you are, the bride
of the Lord Christ and of none else.'

Again there was a silence, such a silence as
when men feel that the Eternal is very near,
and this time it was Beaufoy who broke it.

' So be it,' he said solemnly. ' Let us leave
bickering, we two. Thou and I must stand
aside. Bishop, for here is a greater than us
both.'

Ill

BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE

When the men of Angoumois spoke of the
vengeance of Beaufoy, which they did for three
generations, they had in their thought a certain
late August day in 1467, the year that saw
that gamecock among princes, Charles the Bold,
buckle on his spurs. And if, in that vengeance,
the Seigneur forgot mercy in judgment there is
this in his excuse : that he dealt with those who
showed no mercy. Further, if the chief end of
judgment is to deter evil-doers, then had there
never been before so shrewd a stroke of justice,
since for hard on a score of years thereafter
the Suzerainty had peace from reivers, forest
thieves, and masterless men. Yet, for all this,
the vengeance was unbecoming a Christian man,
though it was characteristic of Raimond de
Beaufoy that because he struck for another he
struck hard, for it was not Beaufoy that he
avenged, but Theodore, Bishop of Grandfrai.
This was how it came about.

BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE

As, hard upon seven years before, they two
had ridden out from the Convent 0/ Our Lady
of Good Hope, as has been already told, the
Seigneur was half content and half wrathful.
He had lost his point, but so had my Lord
Bishop, and they were therefore quits. Now.
to hold himself no better than his neighbour
was a new thing to Beaufoy, and set him think-
ing ; so that at last, out of the fulness of his
heart, he spoke.

' I owe >ou no grudge for this day's worsting,'
said he. ' At best 'tis a stalemate, and none can
cry " Check " to the other. The wisdom of it
to me is this : that you have need of me for this
world. Bishop, and I of you for the next. Let
us join hands, and so both be the stronger.
Who touches Grandfrai touches Beaufoy, and
Beaufoy will see to it ; and thou on thy part
hast thy prayers, thy masses— eh .? Is it a
bargain ?'

Theodore of Grandfrai turned in his saddle
and looked down the long line of Beaufoy 's
men.

'I understand well enough,' said he, still
looking hard behind, ' but I think the heavy
end of the stick lies with me.'

' By St. Francis, not so !' cried the Seigneur.
' Heard you ever that Beaufoy had wronged

.■Mi

66 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

woman or weakling, sold justice for a bribe
broke the plight of his oath, set self before
sacrifice, lived sleek on another's sweat, swined
himself with wine, or worked another's downfall
by false craft ? No saint am I, Monseig-eur,
to my shame and sorrow, but no sinner beyond
Christ's mercy. Besides, a five-year old boy
makes for virtue in his father. Is it a bargain ?'

'Raimond de Beaufoyis Raimond de Beaufoy '
answered the Bishop. • But what of two score
of the earth's dross ?'

'Leave them to me to keep clean by the
fear of man if not of God. Is it a bargain I
say ?' *• '

And Theodore answered :
' A bargain. Seigneur ; and for life i**
Whereat Beaufoy rubbed his chin.
•Why, no, Monseigneur ; that were as bad
as if a man took to himself a second wife, and
one IS enough for me. A life's a long arm's-
length. Say seven years.'

•And then.' said the Bishop slyly, 'the year
ot release !'

• The year of release,' echoed Beaufoy gravely
not understanding a jot of the reference. 'A
good phrase, and mayhap an apt one.'

• And will the pact include the Convent of
Our Lady ?'

BEAUFOYS VENGEANCE 67

•The Convent of Our Lady holds Denise de
Vaucourt,' answered Beaufoy sternly, ' and say
what you will, she is Beaufoy s ward. Woe to
him, j^rentle or simple, who touches Our Lady
of Good Hope while Denise de Vaucourt
lives !'

' Between us two, then, Seigneur ?'
'Between us two, Bishop. There is my
hand upon it, and if I fail to hold to my pledge,
may the Lord show me no mercy in my time
of need.'

And so the compact was made. That, as
has been said, was seven years past, and now,
vyith no more than the last few sands of the
time to run. Raimond de Beaufoy had roused
the Seigneurie that he might keep faith. Thrice
before he had done this, but thrice only in two-
and-thirty years. Once after the Vaucourt
massacre, to beat the woods for men as a hunter
might for wolves and foxes ; once when he led
fifty tramed m-n and four times that of villains
to aid, at his own cost, in the crushing of Talbot
at Castillon ; and once, as shall be told, when
the King came to Beaufoy. •

For the repressing of sudden turbulence, the
enforcmgs of his powers of justice or right as
Seigneur, Beaufoys paid men were commonly
sufficient. But this was no common case, and

5—2

68 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

SO he had roused the Seigneurie, and marched
on Grandfrai with five-score men at his back.

' This,' said Beaufoy to Marmontel, his squire,
who rode by his side, 'comes of living over-
little for this world and over-much for the next.
A man while he has his feet on earth should
keep some of his wits there too. Here is
Theodore of Grandfrai, as gracious and kindly
a man as ever said " No !" out of a stern con-
science, and yet he must need set his vassals by
the ears, as if they were not flesh and blood
because they were chattels of the Church.
Pray God they have not got his palace tore
down about him before we succour him.'

' But by your leave, Seigneur,' said Marmontel
—it was Marmontel the younger, and own son
of his father in devotion to Beaufoy — * if Flemish
Peter told truth, these are the very scum of
the woods. Broken men from east and west,
camp-followers from the wars round Paris, free-
lances, rogues, thieves, and worse. How

then '

' The nearer the devil the greater need of the
Church' — and the* Seigneur laughed. 'Would
you have my Lord Bishop fret and harry gray-
frocked monks? But he missed his mission.
Stocks, pillories, and brandings stand in poor
stead of the love of God, and yet I do not blame

BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE 69

Theodore of Grandfrai, but rather that thin-
faced Spaniard that sits in his ear. May the
i rr* 'ove Beaufoy better than to leave its
S \:nv r to play the fool to its undoing in his
^\'\ '11 See what comes of it. There was
V r.!id; ai. a father in Angoumois these twenty
) eais. If he spoke- a blunt word now and then,
r. ^as all in kindness ; and what man had the
' ^ i^ • right than he who fed the hungry, soothed
thM sorrowing, assoilzied the dying, and loved
all, the small and the great, with an equal love
and never to his own gain ? That he clung to
his rights like a dog to a bone was naught to his
disparagement : a man should be a man, and
no boneless jellyfish. Then comes this Sala-
manca Prior, and in a twinkle white's black.
A year ago these rogues, scum as they are,
would have throttled the viler rogue who cursed
Grandfrai; now they have passed beyond
curses and c ne to works.'

'And we, said Marmontel sourly, 'must
dance till our bones ache to the music set
blaring by this same lean bigot.'

' No, by St. Francis, no !' cried the Seigneur ;
'but rather you must uphold Beaufoy 's pledged
word, and that you shall do, were it passed to
the devil himself

Grandfrai, for all its bishopric, was no more

70 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

I. ,

than a straggling village on the highroad from
Ruffec to Nortron, and lay beyond the boundary
of Beaufoy's Suzerainty ; and, saving for his
compact, the quarrel was no more his than that
of Blaise la Valette, Gaspard St. Claud, or the
Count de Confolens. But of these the first was
in his dotage, the second at Paris with Louis,
and no mortal ever knew the third care for
aught save the filling of his stomach with meat
and drink. On Beaufoy, then, fell the burden
of law and order, and as they rode into Grand-
frai it was plain there was no light weight to be
borne.

Not a house but was mishandled — the doors
driven in, the thatch a-smouldering, the patches
of vineyard and melons broken down or trampled
into ruin, and the paths strewn with the wrecked
litter of the poor furnishings. Nor had their
owners escaped. Sorrowful lamentations were
matched with still more sorrowful silences, and
the bitterest fruit of war had been plucked and
scattered in the lavish waste of an abundant
harvest.

Half Grandfrai lay dead in its spoiled gardens.
Here a huddle of woman's clothes ; there a
sodden lump choking the trickling flow of the
kennel ; further on a graybeard peasant prone
across his threshold, half within and half with-

BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE 71

out, and who had died on his knees as he fell ;
groups of twos and threes that in desperation
had turned bare-handed on their murderers;
but everywhere, to right and left, desolation
and death. But neither fire nor slaughter
checked the Seigneur, until, midway up the
straggle of the village, he halted to question a
woman sitting in the road with a babe on her
lap. She was the first living thing he had seen
in Grandfrai.

'What of Monseigneur the Bishop.?' he cried,
leaning across his horse's neck.

She looked up at him dully, then back to the
babe, shaking her head. Gathering her burden
into her left arm, she fumbled at the bosom of
her dress, opening it, and setting to her breast
the mouth of the child. As she did so, a trickle
of blood came from the lips that should have
sucked ; and again she looked up, silent but
whimpering, and her mouth all a-tremble.

'Damnation!' said the Seigneur softly be-
tween his teeth ; and sitting back in his saddle
he drove his spurs hard home. ' Ride on.
men!' he said, and galloped forward, nor
paused again until they turned into the square
where stood the palace, with its ugly, squat,
low-roofed church across the angle.

From end tc end the place was empty, but

♦ s.

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72 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

there were those scattered on the shallow flight
of steps leading up to the church-doors to show
that life had been. In ones and twos they lay
as they had fallen, but chieHy to the sides, as if
they had beeii caught and cut down in a frantic
rush for shekcr — women, for the most part,
drawn by the service, for the day was the day
of St, John Baptist.

At the sound of the hoof-beats in the square
there came a stir from the church. White,
scared faces looked out of the black vault of
the open door, across which there hung the
tattered remnants of a heavy curtain, and of a
sudden there was a thin babble of lamentation.
The terror-bound tonu^ues were unloosed, and
wrath and sorrow found voice ; no form of
words, no coherency, only a shrill, murmuring
clamour as of Rachel weeping for her children
and beyond all comfort.

Leaping down, his face white under its
bronze, Beaufoy mounted the steps, Marmontel
and a dozen others hard behind. In the sharp
fury of battle he had sent more than one man
to his death, and thought naught of it either
then or afterward ; but this callous slaughter,
as of sheep, this dry-voiced wailing, half fear,
half loss, moved him as never had stricken
field.

BEAUFOrS VENGEANCE

At the door of the church he paused in a
rare uncertainty.

' Where is Monseigneur ? Have they dared
mishandle him like— like '—and he looked with
a gesture down the steps—' like these others ?'

It was a woman who answered, an old witch-
wife, shrunk and wizened with age.

' Come and see,' said she, and gripped him
by the arm.

She had seen too much that day to have
terror of the living, though he were Seigneur,
Suzerain, or King. When one has rubbed
elbows with death for a full hour, there is litde
left in life to fear. A day before it might have
cost her her right hand to have so much as
touched the Seigneur ; now, calamity had dr, iwn
together class and class, and she gripped him
as if he were but tlcsh and blood like herself.

' Come and see.'

She led him in, the now silent troop of
peasants shufHing at their heels. The church
was in utter darkness, except for one twinkling
lamp hung high up against the roof— so high
that it had escaped the destruction measured
out to every altar and in every side-chapel ; but
so thick was the gloom— for the church was
built against blind walls to north and south-—
and so thin and remote the light, that all the

74 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

further end, where was the great altar, and
behind the pillars, was black as night.

Ten steps from the door, and Beaufoy — the
woman still clinging to him — paused, that his
eyes might grow accustomed to the gloom, and
in behind him gathered the small remnant of
the people of Grandfrai, dumb, or whispering
shrilly under their breath, and staring hard at
the Seigneur. The strength of the church —
their trust for so many years — was broken ;
but here was a new and rougher power, and
dimly, half unconsciously, their trust went out
to him.

Slowly the darkness gave up its secrets.
First, the loom of the wide pillars, with rough,
unusual, sprawling patches at their feet, with
here and there a blotch of gray that, as their
eyes found power, lightened into a dead face ;
then the uncertain stretch of walls, broken by
niches or small votive chapels ; and lastly,
slowly— very slowly — the far-off chancel-stalls
and the dim brown depths of the choir.

After that the tale of ruin told itself without
words : altar-pieces shredded from their frames,
splintered crucifixes upholding maimed Christs,
statues laid in shivers. The very railings of
the altar had been torn from their place and
used to batter down the shrines. Not a marble

BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE

-M

stood upon its base ; not a candlestick but was
crushed and twisted ; not a vestment but was
rent to rags and rolled in the blood of that
day's martyrdom.

' See !' — and the woman turned her wrinkled
face up to Beaufoy, shaking his arm as she
spoke — ' see, they were worse than devils !
Not Satan himself would dare touch holy
things.'

' But Monseigneur,' cried Beaufoy, speaking
in his impatience and dread as men were not
wont to speak in such a place — ' where is Mon-
seigneur ?'

' Come and see,' said the woman a second
time.

With the assured step of one who knows
every tile in the worn pavement, she urjj^ed the
Seigneur forward ; then, of a sudden, when a
dozen feet from the shattered railing that had
shut apart the chancel, she dropped his arm
and ran forward alone. At the altar steps she
paused, and falling on her knees called to him
in a hoarse whisper :

' See, Seigneur, see ! Were they not worse
than devils?'

There, on the third step, was Theodore of
Graadfrai, done to death in the very ministry
of the service. That he had turned to meet

76 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

these breakers of sanctuary was clear, for his
wounds were all in front, as those of a warrior
should be, and to the last Theodore of Grand-
frai had been a true soldier of the Cross. That
he had died denouncing sin and defending his
flock was probable, for behind him was a
shambles, and his wounds were many and
deep. But whatever of wrath there had been
was gone, and he lay as if asleep. His eyes
were closed, his arms drawn decently to his
side, and on his breast lay a rude crucifix carved
from some common wood.

'God give us all as sweet a rest,' said
Beaufoy, turning to those about him. ' Which
way went these slayers of priests ?'

As he spoke there was a hum and a buzz
across the church. They loved their Bishop,
these poor souls, and the Seigneur's pity was
dear to them ; but for the moment they loved
vengeance better. At once a dozen voices
broke out, and in the dim light there were wild
and passionate gestures.

' Westward, Seij^meur, westward ; and there
are none so many of them, no more than two

score..'

'Two score! And they sacked Grand-

frai ?'

•Two score devils,' answered the woman,

BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE

'and they took us by surprise. My son Jean
they piked as '

•Ay, I can guess the tale. Let it rest,
mother.'

Down on his knees he went, and lifting up
the crucifix, he kissed it before them all and
held it aloft.

' I was too late, Lord God — too late to save
him ! And though he might say, " Lord, lay
not this sin to their charge," so say not I.'

Then he kissed the cross a second time, and
laid it back whence he had taken it.

' Let Beaufoy's men follow me,' he said,
rising. ' The rest bide here and right this
disorder as best they can.'

At the door he turntd, an 1 thrusting aside
the tattered curtain, looked back into the gloom.

• Listen !' he said, ' and I pray God the dead
can hear it also. Until justice be done, 1 swear
by the honour of Beaufoy that I will not cross
the door of my house — no, not though the
vengeance be seven years in the coming ' — and,
at the words, from behind him there came a
shout that grew and swelled into a roar.

Beaufoy's men were as hot in the blood as
Beaufoy's lord.

• if it were into hell's mouth,' said Mar-
montel as they rode at a sharp trot out into the

7«

THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

pastures, 'they would follow you unwinking,
their gall is so stirred. Seigneur, you never
heard the like of the poor folks' tales : they
were a shame to Christendom, and the Lord
have mercy on the Spanish Prior !'

• By St. Francis,' cried Beaufoy, ' I had for-
gotten the Prior ! What of him ?'

' They have him fast ; and if we do not catch
them up by nightfall '

' We must, we shall !' — and Beaufoy smote
his thigh with his clenched fist. ' Their spoil
of beasts hinders them, and, besides, they are
drunk with slaughter, and so have no fear. Be
content, Marmontel ; we shall catch them.'

' And then. Seigneur ?'

Raimond de Beaufoy 's face grew ugly in its
grim hardness. ' Wait,' he said, ' wait,' and
said no more ; but the words were fuller of
meaning than a curse.

Yet at this time the Seigneur had no plan.
How or where he should lay hands on them, or
how deal with the wretches he knew not, and
what happened afterwards happened in a sense
of chance.

' There are some two or three on horseback.
Seigneur,' went on Marmontel ; ' part of the
loot of Grandfrai.'

' On horseback, eh .''' And Beaufoy laughed

BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE

t?i

dourly. 'Set a beggar on horseback, and
where does he ride? On my word, they are
like to learn shortly whether or no the proverb
holds. Faster, men, faster !*

To track two-score reivers with a mixed
multitude of cattle, sheep, and goats was no
hard matter. The broken undergrowth and
trampled grass left no room for question.
Apparently they had been in no haste, for at
intervals the belt of trodden herbage broadened
out that the beasts might rest and crop the
grass, green enough under the trees, in spite of
the parched dryness of the long summer.
What need had they for haste.? Grandfrai
was palsied, and they guessed nought of the
urgent message sent to Beaufoy.

The Seigneur's troop had held their course
for little more than an hour, when Marmontel
who rode by his master, half checked his horse
and pointed ahead. Between the distant tree-
trunks, here more scattered than common, was
a brown and dun dappling that twinkled in and
out, now showing clear, now lost again.

'We have them. Seigneur, we have them!
Ten minutes' gallop, and we're in touch.'

But Beaufoy threw up a warning hand, and
reined back. They had ridden far. and their
beasts were fagged ; now that they held their

THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

prey, as it were in a leash, there was no need
for haste. So for half an hour the hunters and
the unconscious quarry kept an even pace. So
near were they that at times laughter or a
snatch (f song came down the wind, but never
once did those before look back. Then there
befell a kind of chance. A horse of the troop
of those ahead whinnied, and one of Beaufoy's
answered, and on the moment the Seigneur
struck home his spurs.

'The hunt's afoot!" he cried. 'Forward,
men, and leave mercy to God Almighty !'

With a shout they broke into a gallop, sweep-
ing like shadows between the tree-trunks, and
with an answering shout, half terror, half rage,
the men in front woke into life. There was an
instant's confusion ; then, like men used to the
worst emergencies and trained to prompt action,
they dashed on, abandoning their booty without
a thought to fight for it. Rogues in grain, they
could thieve or murder, but had little stomach

for battle.

To Beaufoy's joy they held together. Had
they scattered, his vengeance would have been
as slow to win as to eat a pomegranate seed by
seed ; and as he saw them driving ahead in a
bunch, he blessed St. Francis in his heart. In
the centre of the flying group was a bound man

BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE

— the Salamancan Prior, no doubt, and he
hindered them.

' See !' said the Seigneur to Marmontel, a
grim laugh on his face, ' vengeance is ever
sweeter than spoils, and the rascals will risk
hanging for their small hope of revenge. Th^re
they go to the left like a drove of scared sheep.
Was the straight course not good enough for
them ? By the saints ! I have it. They are in
full cry for the Cave of the Wolves, and may
slip our fingers yet. There is an outlet on the
south. Round with you, Marmontei, and five
with you ! The exit there is narrow, no more
than the squeeze of a horse. Block it up, and
we have them in a trap. Ride, man, ride!
there are rocks in plenty. Oh, St. Francis, my
patron, I thank thee from my soul — I thank
thee from my soul ! Ask what thou wilt of me,
and by the Lord whose man I am, I will give
it thee — ay, to the whole of Beaufoy !*

In his deep, wolfish gladness the Seigneur's
heart was in his cry, but there is no record that
he was ever the poorer for his oath, mayhap
because St. Francis was sworn to poverty.

Away to the left sped Marmontei with half
a dozen at his beast's heels, each urging his
horse to the utmost speed. The distance was
not great, but the ground was on an upward

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THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

I ■

' I

*<M

slope, and if they were to stop the second hole
of the burrow, they had need to make haste.
Stop it they did, rolling down into the narrow
gap heavy boulders and cruel pointed rocks, so
that neither horse nor man could force a way
through, and so that end of the cave comes no
more into the tale.

But while Marmontel rode fast, Beaufoy
checked his men. Now that he saw their goal,
he had no mind to balk them. He would
have them pent as in the hollow of his hand,
whereas to have blundered into their midst
would have been to lose some of them in the
scattering. Therefore he checked the pursuit,
and let them break out of the wood and into
the cave's mouth unmolested. As he sat
waiting and rubbing his chin, his eye caught
the dull glare of the charcoal furnaces spread
through the great stretch of beech-trees, and a
thought struck him.

' I shall try it! By St. Francis, I shall try it!'
he cried. * The pity is for the beasts ; as for
the men, 'tis their due and no more. Listen !'
and he beckoned to Flemish Peter to come
near. ' Back, thou, to Grandfrai, and search
out a dozen or a score of horses ; never fear but
there are some hidden away. Clap on their
backs as many of Beaufoy's men as they can

bi 1 'i

BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE 83

carry tvvo or three apiece, if need be-the louts
can hold one another in place-and let them
bring every man a shovel and a mattock.
Hunt through the p:;lace of my Lord Bishop
and pick me out a dozen or more of sheets or
blankets as broad and as long as thou canst
hnd, and be not too nice in choosing, since
those we saw in the church are done with such
things. Brmg these, thou, and bid them send
wine and meat after us. Then ride here every

bTsts^dr^p • ^"' ^^"^ "° ''"'^' ^^-^^ y-
Then, the quarry having gone to earth, he
roused up his horse and pushed on.

The cave opened from a narrow cleft in the
flat face of naked rock, the mouth bcino- set
sonie tnirty yards back at the head of a roofless
path, with a double turn approaching in shape
to a rude S, so that those without were hidden
from those within. Facing this wall of rock
was a sun-dried, semicircular plateau, stretching
back a half furlong to the outlying timber tha^
fringed the forest ; a plateau that had been a
luxuriant greenness while the spring rains en-
dured, but which was now a barren wilderness
ot sere and crisped herbage.

Across this rode Beaufoy, boldly pushing
between the Imes of rock, and only drew rein

6—2

ii^BMMNa

I
I

I-

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!
1

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84 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

when in full sight of the cave's mouth. As he
had reckoned, it was empty, those within having
made all haste to escape by the upper end, only
to find Marmontel forehanded with them.

' Off and unsaddle !' cried Beaufoy. ' Here
we camp for to-night, at least. When they
come racketing back, as they will presently, let
them find a fire to welcome them. A dozen of
us in sight will do, and some of you tether the
beasts back in the woods for coolness.'

The story of how the trapped wretches,
hearing the rattle of the rocks rolled into the
cramped narrowness of the upper outlet, rounded
in their tracks and made pell-mell for the
entrance, only to find a camp-fire crackling in
their path ; and how they turned back to the
inner blackness cursing their folly, may go
untold. So, too, the story of the weary and
yet unwearied vigilance of Beaufoy 's men, who
all night long watched by the roaring blaze,
sleepless and singing — for never once from mid-
night onward did they cease the chant the
Seigneur had bid them strike up, to mufile that
ring of mattock and shovel being plied in the
open outside the rocks.

It was at midnight that Beaufoy's men came
stra^^gling in from Grandfrai in twos and threes,
and found their labour waiting them.

■a
i
1

BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE 85

' See !'— and the Seigneur pointed out in the
moonhght two lines of little sticks ten feet
apart, and drawn from rock to rock in a curve
so as to enclose the entrance of the cave'
Draw me a trench between these lines. First
skin the surface some two inches deep, and lay
aside the dry sods ; then let the sides sink as
t by a plummet. Spread out these cloths to
the outer edge of the curve, and fill the stuff
into ihem. One-third dig. one-third empty the
cloths into the wood yonder, and one-third rest
Change shifts every hour. The ground is
sandy and easy to work, but with enough of
clay to bind the sand. Remember whaf you
saw this day in Grandfrai. and work. Or if
you will not work for the honour of Beaufoy
and the glory of God, work for the five crowns
wherewKh every man of you may drink himself
drunk for seven days hereafter. Or, if not for
that, then by St. Francis, work for your skin's

lags had better have died this day at Grandfrai I
Do you hear, dogs ? Work, I say. work !' "
So on through the changing shadows of the
night, on into the dawn and breadth of the
young day there was no pause in the stroke of
mattock or svving of shovels, and by the time
the sun was above the beech-trees Beaufoy had

THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

i : I!'

' ■ I..

i • if

•<

; I I

I \ !

his will in a huge black trench, ten feet across
and as many deep, that yawned in a great bow
from cliff to cliff, its sides as smooth and straight
as if set by stone and cord. Only at either end
was there a path a foot wide, and battened up
to keep it from falling in.

' Good,' said the Seigneur. ' Go and rest,
my children ; you have done well. Now,
Marmontel, seek me out of the woods straight
saplings and lay them across, two yards apart
and as many inches below the surface, while I
talk to our friends of the charcoal furnaces.'

A long furlong off, where the beech forest
thickened, were the huts of the charcoal-burners
and their furnaces ; the first, rude temporary
booths, bough-thatched, to give some shelter
from rain — need of warmth there was none.
The second, conical sod-coated heaps built about
piled faggots, with here and there vents that
glowed ruddily by night, even when the sluggish
smoke was thickest. Between the huts were
great stacks of new-mad o charcoal, ready for
the first buyer's winter store of fuel. The men
themselves were sturdy and strong built, more
than one having the muscles of a Hercules
under the grime of a Vulcan.

At first they had crowded forwarc to see the
unwonted sight of a score of fools digging a

BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE 87

hole to apparently no purpose ; but presently,
with the apathy of men who have no room in
hfe for a thought beyond meat and the toil that
earns it, they returned to their work

' Sell me your labour for three days, said

T7u ?^ '^^'' ^ ^^•"'^' ^^ «h-» see the
end of the play. If not. we shall make an end.

First spread me the bottom of that trench with
dry brush. Let it bulk as big as you will-it
will make the better heat, and in the burning
It will go down to small compass. Then over
that spread me a foot deep of sticks, from the
thK:kness of a finger to the girth of a man's arm.
That done we can wait. Let enough keep
m the bend beyond the trench to check any
thought o a rush. For twenty-four hours the
rogues will sulk, then we shall see.'

So that day and the next night Beaufov's
men, except for guarding the cave's mouth, lay
at ease, eating and drinking that which had
been brought from Grandfrai. Only the men
of the forest laboured, doing as they were
ordered, and laymg the wood ready for burning
with the cunning that comes of a life's toiL
The next day they, too, lay at ease, or frolicked
li.<e schoolboys in the cool shade, and but one
tning happened.

The shadows had but just turned to the east

88 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

>f >

■>

when a fellow bearing a white rag upon a stick
showed face at the cave's mouth, and asked for
a parley.

' Parley from wiiere you are ; you and I have
no secrets,' said Beaufoy. ' But if you want
terms, I tell you flat I have no terms to offer.
If you ask "Why ?" let Grandfrai Church answer
you. Now, then, parley.'

' We have a hostage,' he began.
' Ay,' broke in Beaufoy, ' my Lord Prior, and
I will trade three of you for him. But let the
three be taken by lot. No chicane whereby
the major scoundrel saves his neck, and the
minor scoundrel goes hang. Three taken by
lot, or none, and none for choice.'

' But the hostage is ours,' said the fellow,
'and so it is ours to cry out the terms.'

' Chut !' answered Beaufoy, ' 'tis you who are
ours, every man jack of you, and it is mine to
cry the terms.'

' But see, Monseigneur' — and in his eagerness
the fellow would have come on but that Beaufoy
waved him back — ' we are desperate men, and

we can so maltreat '

'Chut!' Beaufoy broke in a second time, 'am
I a man to be frighted by another man's pains ?
Three, by lot, or none, and get you back to
your brother rogues and tell them so.'

BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE 89

Later on the Seigneur was sorely blamed
that he had not saved the Spaniard at any price,
but he held himself acquitted.

'What ? Let loose these devils on Angou-
mois for the sake of a man who had no more of
the true love of God in him, for all his priorship,
than the very wretches who held him so hard ?
No, by St. Francis, a thousand times no! If
he were a good Christian, he died a martyr ; if
he were not, why should I balk justice for his
sake i*'

That night and the next day they were still
cat and mouse, neither stirring. Then, when
it was gone noon, Beaufoy bid the woodmen
set the brush afire, and when it was well ablaze
and flaring up to the very lip of the trench, he
called for charcoal.

• Bring,' said he, ' as many stacks as will
spread a layer above the faggots two feet deep.
Set the cost down to Beaufoy, and have no
fear for the credit. Presently that will sink to
a foot and a half of red ash that will hold its
glow and grilling heat for a week if need be.
But, if I guess aright, there will be no such
need.'

By nightfall what the Seigneur had said had
come to pass. The trench-bottom was a sullen
furious red that winked, and darkened, and

n t

:*...

90 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

glowed with every breath that blew across it.
It Mas as if they had spread so much living
lava drawn fresh from the heart of a volcano,
and the wrath of the heat was as fiery as it was
breathless.

' Now,' said F^eaufoy, ' a sprinkling of light
brush to make a covering and keep in the
wickedness of the fire and yet mask its heat.
That will give it a skin of gray ash, but so light
that it will fly at a puff, fake, then, these
cloths and stretch them over the charred sap-
lings, fixing them with pegs tightly to the pit's
mouth. That done, bring the sods and spread
them where they grew. No need to be over-
nice, a scattering of leaves will make all good,
and but add fuel to fire.'

• But, Seigneur,' said Marmontel, ' they have
horse.'

• Not so, man !'— and Beaufoy lau^^hed. ' Do
you think they have starved these three days ?
My word for it. they have no horse. My word
for it, too, they will make their venture to-night
when I withdraw the guard. For, look you,
the longer they wait the weaker they grow;
and there is not a man of them yonder but
would barter all the booty of Grandfrai for a
draught of water. Ay, it will be to-night ; and
yet again my word for it they will make their

BEAUFOY'S VENGEANCE 9,

dash all together, lest if they go in twos and
threes they be ail cut down, whereas in the
bursting out of a score some half may break
through and escape. Thou hast stout arms.
Marmontel. but thy wit is fat.'

That night Beiufoy withdrew his men by
the narrow paths left along the face of the rock,
and, hidden in the woud, set himself to watch
nor had his men need of orders to bid them
stand sentinel. Not a soul of them all slept

1 he sky was clear, except f.^r a rare drift of
cloud, and if the moon set early, there were
stars enough to show the bend and tremor of
the grass as the rising wind swept round the
face of the cliff, and enough, too. to show a
solitary blur that suddenly grew black against
the gray of the stone. The men of the cave
were awake, and in an instant the lethargy that
comes of long watching was flung off

'See! said I not right i>'-and Beaufov
gripped Marmontel hard by the shoulde;
' One, two, three, four— there must be a doz..,^
or more of them ! And yon gray shadow is
the Spanish Prior. May the Lord have mercv
upon him ! Look ! They are thicker now-a
score maybe, and, faith of Beaufoy, the rest are
not far behind! They know there is a trap •
that IS a thing of course ; but where is it ? and

9J THE BEAUFOy ROMANCES

• »■

5
I

what ? Ay, ay, that's the rub. Besides, they
have no choice ; it's rush or starve. See, now
they are in line ! Their plans are as plain as
noon — to make a burst on all sides at once.
Let them do it, and, by St. Francis, we have
them, every man ! Pray the saints some
blundering fool creep not too far out and mar
the plan ! No, no, they are off, Marmontel—
they are off! Three strides, and— ah ! My
God ! my God !'

For an instant there was a rustle of grass as
the many feet trampled its dryness, then the
black line wavered, tottered, and went down in
a red glare that shot across the night like a
sudden angry dawn, a glare that shook and
flickered and darkened in the tossing of many
shadows, till swallowed up in a live flame as
the dry grass of the sods caught fire and
flared up with a roar overborne by a cry so
fierce and so terrible that those who heard it
stopped their ears, and, still staring, fell upon
their knees.

* May the Lord have mercy upon me if I
wrongly took His vengeance into my own
hands,' said Beaufoy afterwards ; ' but let no
man judge me who has not seen the sorrows
of a Grandfrai.'

HOW OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR
CAME TO DEAUFOY

When English Talbot landed at Bordeaux in
51, France was stirred even to far-off Paris-
and when the pocket-ridden patriotism of
Guienne shouted a welcome to the buyers of
Its wmes, France woke from the folly of placid
contentment, and. for the fiftieth time in the
century made ready for war. With the feeble
skirmishes and feints of battle in the south this
history has nothing to do. nor with the part
played in them by Raimond de Beaufoy He
bore his share of danger and privation as was
his wont, and if the winter was frittered away
m httle better than gasconades, it was none of
his fault. The story is rather of his home-
coming in the summer of '52, and of the foe he
found encamped within the four corners of the
Suzeramty. If any man doubts that he and
his did their duty against the Englishmen, let

!.■ ■

I 1

Mil
ill

1 1s

94 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

him find his answer in this : whereas they rode
out a full score, they came home but fifteen,
and scarcely one of them a whole man.

As they rode north they travelled by way of
Vaucourt — a kind of temporary appanage to
Beaufoy because of Denise de Vaucourt's
minority — and Marmontel would have had his
Seigneur halt and rest.

' It is but five hours to nightfall,' he urged,
'and with the moon in its last quarter, the
woods will be as black as a burnt-out charcoal-
furnace. Let us bide, Seigneur, and push on
to-morrow.'

But Beaufoy would have none of the sug
gestion. Since he had lost a wife at Vaucourt
he had hated the gray old pile, with its sinister
reminders of fire and sack still smirching its
face — hated it, be it understood, less for the
loss of the wife than for the wound to his
vanity. Wives were to be had for the asking ;
but to fling his handkerchief and see the girl
catch another man's in place of his had galled
him, and thenceforward, so far as women went,
he had played the cynic, pretending there was
neither virtue nor faith in their whole genera-
tion.

' Ride on,' he answered the squire curtly
' Five hours will take us three parts through

1»»

linn

t>;

OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR 95

the woods, and, at the worst, we can shelter at
Lervins. Vaucourt has over-many ghosts to
please my taste. Why, man '-and, turning in
his saddle the better to scan the castle, he half
drew his rein as he spcke— 'those upper rooms
are alive with owls, bats, and the Lord knows
what vermin,

'Better the vermin of Vaucou.t than the
vermin of Lervins," said xMarmontel bluntly;
' and as for ghosts, I reckon the living are more
to be feared than the dead. Lervins had no
good repute a twelvemonth back. What will
it be after a year's rioting, and the Seigneur
absent i*'

' What ! are you coward .?'

' Faith, Seigneur, I never knew a man hurt
by an honest love for a whole skin, and it's late
m the day for us two to call coward to each
other. Have your way; nevertheless, who-
ever sleeps at Lervins to-night, I will not.'

Thenceforward they rode up and down the
s opes in silence, halting only once as the sun
slipped behind the trees and the weary sultri-
ness of the day slowly lifted ; then, supper
ended, the beasts washed down and licrhtly
watered from a brook hard by, they again "rode
on, strength and vitality coming tin-ling back
with the growing freshness of the night.

96 THE BEAITFOY ROMANCES

In the thick shadows of the trees dusk fell
swiftly, and the sun was no more than a hand's
breadth below the rim of the world when the
grayness shrivelled into gloom and the full dark
was upon them. Could the squire have had
his way, they would have camped there and
then ; but Beaufoy was obstinate, and pushed
on. A foot's pace was their best speed, and
no man trusted to his own skill in guidance.
Had he done so, it had been to his cost, for he
would have found timber within the first furlonsr.
As it was, the gray loom of the bare trunks
stole by them no further than an arm's length
off.

Whether even their beasts* instinct was at
fault, or the way longer than they had supposed,
the shadows of morning had come and gone
before the softening of the gloom ahead fore-
told a clearing, within which lay the handful of
huts called Lervins. With the light Mar-
montel's scruples had vanished, and now he
pushed on gaily. Lervins meant food, drink,
and a stretching of cramped limbs, and a nest
of cut-throats had no terrors for him under the
honest sun.

Once inside the clearing, he slackened speed.
Men have no liking for being caught napping,
and a warning sometimes wias a welcome.

%•

OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR 97

'Hulloa!' he shouted, his powerful voice
echoing in the hollows of the wood, ' Lervins
hulloa ! hulloa ! My faith ! but they sleep like
the dead !' he went on to Flemish Peter, who
rode on his flank. ' There must have been
better liouor flowing last night than goes to a
goat -skin bottle. Come, both together—
hulloa ! hulloa !'

They might have spared their breath:
Lervins was both deaf and dumb. Then, as
they watched, wondering and a little afraid—
for this was the charcoal season, when Lervins
was wont to hum with rough life— a thing hap-
pened that made Marmontel jerk his beast back
upon its haunches, and start up in his stirrup,
gasping. Out from a doorway a long, lean
gray head was thrust, and a starved wohf stole
out into the sunlight, blinking, and at its heels
there trotted a half-grown cub. For an instant
it stood snarling, then the two si 2d like
shadows behind the house and were .v. .t.

' Saints ! did you see that ?' cried the squire,
flmging his arm out stiff before him. ' Wolves
couched at Lervins ! I had sooner have seen
the glint of English lance-heads than the white
of their teeth. The place is a tomb.'

Driving his spurs home, he went forward at
a gallop, hard pressed by Flemish Peter, with

98 THK BEAUFOY ROMANCES

the Seigneur and the
leisurely. Of the prov
had

rest following more
lers of Lervins they

fli

seen notliing, and Marmontel's actions
had been to them those of a madman

But for all his excitement and haste, he had
a method with him. Once within twenty paces
of the huts, he checked his beast and swuncr
himself to the ground, stiffly enough, for years
and leagues get the better of a man sorely ;
then, hookmg his reins across his arm, he went
forward to the nearest doorway cautiously and
with circumspection, since there might be a
four-legged tenant within which his shout had
lelt unaroused.

At the threshold Marmontel paused, peering,
hen he drew back, shading his eyes with his
Hand. The sun was already ablaze in the
glade, and the glare dazzled him. A charcoal-
burners hut was but a squalid sight at the best
-gnmy. as became its owner's trade, and
miserably poor because of the pittance that
trade earned. That was of course. Therefore
It was neither the squalor nor the poverty thai
Marmontel s gaze sought for as the shadows
took shape, but rather something which pre-
sently he found. Tenants there were, but let
the world call as it might, they would pay no
heed. Then, havmg found them, he slipped

OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR 99

the reins down to one hand, and beckoned with

the other to Flemish Pt.tf r.

' Look !' he said in a hoarse whisper < Is it

murder ?' And Beaufoy rode up with his men
o find the two staring silently and with intent

races mto the black vault of the open doorway.

Window there was none, and as the hut faced

to the north no sunlight fell within.

What they saw was this : In the centre a
ruH cable with a wooden settle at either side
of It : beyond these, and along the further wall
a heavy layer of bracken and beaten straw was
spread ; on this three men were stretched, dead
and dead in an agony, for their limbs were
crook d and twisted as if in the worst extremity
of mortal pain. In one corner stood a huge
cooking-pot. **

' What fools comedy is ,his ?' cried Beaufo,-
from behmd. • If there is auglu inside, have it
out that we may see it.'

' We have seen it often enough, Seigneur '
answered Marmontel with grim^umour, but
never turning his head as he spoke. 'Often
enough, but never quite like this. It is death •
murder, I think.' '

PerSad'?' '^f^^^^ ^P^-J^-g. Flemish
l^eter had dropped his reins-small chance of
his beast breaking away after eighteen hours of

1—2

loo THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

.1*.* 1

a march— and entered the hut. After the first
suddenness of the shock another man's murder
had no terrors for him.

• Stand aside from the door,' he said, as he
went down on one knee in the bracken and
bent over the nearest of the three ; ' the light

is dim enough * He stopped short, as if

the words were choked in his throat, and those
without saw him bend lower, staring hard, then
leap to his feet and run madly for the open air.
' The plague ! the plague I' he cried, catching
at his beast's bridle. ' The Lord have mercy
on us all ! The plague is in Beaufoy I'

S • inging himself into his saddle, he sat a
moment breathless, and swaying like a drunken
man, then with a cry of 'The plague! the
plague!' he galloped hard for the woods, any-
where away from Lervins.

'After the fool and have him back I' called
Beaufoy ; ' but thou, Marmontel, stay where
thou art till we hear more of this thing, though
God grant the fellow lied.'

Flemish Peter's breakaway availed him
little. In his terror he swerved to this side
and that, holding no true course, and so inside
of a furlong he was headed. A glance at his
face gave, at least, evidence of his good faith,
for no simulated terror could have aged him

OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR loi

ten years in fewer minutes. The bronze was
wiped from his cheeks as breath is wiped from
steel, and the hand that gripped the reins shook
as with a palsy.

'The place is accursed I' he began, not wait-
ing for Bcaufoy to question him. < Let us
begone while there is time. Seigneur, if indeed
there ,s still t.me. Time! Saints forgive me
but m done with time. Three days to die in !

AAu'fj^'"'^' '^'^^ ^^y^ '^ ^ ^^^ 'ike me f
And he fell to chattering.

' Come, man, keep your wits in hand.' cried
Beaufoy sternly. ' What wild tal!: is this of the
plague, and how could the plague come to
Lervms ?

• Of whys and hows I know nought. Seigneur '
answered .he other doggedly, ■ bu, the llrgu.
It IS W ho sees It once knows it twice '

' Is this certain, fellow .''

• Certain .>• And in his contempt for the
Seigneurs doubt his .oice settled down to
firmness again. 'Certain.' Look at his neck

aL7, .Y*-^' "- has that under his aw
Ad F h Peter held up a huge clenched
hst. I know th. marks, and a loathsome sight
they are. For the Lord's sake, let us begone!'

Beaufo^'^'rus::::/'™ "-^^ ^°'' "^''^
"/ • i.-et us ride home, men.

102 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

And so it came that the Seigneur found the
enemy within his gates harder to fight than the
foe without.

It was a dismal home-coming. Marmontel
would have had him ride by the villages if for
nothing else but to get news ; but Beaufoy was
obstinate.

* We shall get news soon enough,' he said
bitterly. 'Whoever heard that evil tidings
lagged on the road ? There were we no more
than fairly in the Seigneurie and the thing flies
in our face. Ride home, man, and be in no
haste to sup sorrow.'

So they skirted the towns, and shunned even
the far-apart shepherds' booths. Nay, they
avoided the very peasants labouring in the
fields, as if the Seigneur were a child that hid
his head and said that there was no evil because
he saw none. But to one and all there was
a sullen tranquillity in the air, the hot, calm
certainty of storm that comes before the
thunder.

Once within sight of the castle walls, Mar-
montel plucked up spirit.

• Shall I ride on, Seigneur, and bring them

word that '

' Ride thou behind,' answered Beaufoy curdy.
' I will have no man schooling ihcm to say this

OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR ,03

or that. Let them tell the truth, and neither
-ore nor less, though i, be as bitter as worm-

So, as became his riyht, Beaufoy rode under
the purtculhs of the great gate at the head o
h.s troop, and there was none to say nay or ,0
g.ve welcome. To all appearance the Chdteau
was as bereft of life as I.ervins, a thin /.rat
roused the Seigneurs w .nd set his Vood

• By St. Francis !' he swore between his teeth
plague or no plague, I will teach the knaves to

r.,lZ" " ""^ "P"'"' » »"'^« =ide-door was
pushed open, and a woman's face looked oT

wTthin ,r '""'"' ""' <«-PPeared, and from
within there arose a sudden clatter of life In,"
he open courtyard they scrambled m- ids
lackeys and men-at-arms, and stood ina^mun
under the shadow of the e-,« ,„,. v ? P
silent a„,l . '"^"^ shamefaced,

silent and expectant. Nor were thfir =,„„• ■
tions disappointed Of ,. "^'"^"^ ^nticipa-

they knew'Xmetht. of o Id but'f I'h " \'"«f
they had plumbed its dec hi a 1 '' °7'"

-..ernta^trrtSe-t^^^-— ^

104 THF. BEAUFOY ROMANCES

1';

' Now, begone to your work, every one of
you,' he said sharply, when his tongue had
laslied them into life and spirit. ' For this
time I let the fault pass, but not twice. As
for you ' — and lowering his voice, he turned to
the fifteen grouped cjtjsely behind him — 'not
a word of Lervins. If they have tales to tell,
listen and make light of them, but sift the
truth. And do you, Marmontel, come to me
in the justice-room after the night-watch is
set. To leave the great gate gaping, the care-
less rogues ! By St. Francis ! if Talbot had
marched this way, Beaufoy had been his for
the asking.'

It was with a sour mood as companion that
the Seigneur waited in the dusk the coming of
Marmontel. Vexation was piled upon vexation.
The pestilence was evil enough ; but what for
the moment touched him nearer, because it
Louched his pride, was the flatness of his home-
coming. Here had he been away these months
on the King's business, and at their end to find
nothing better than the cold welcome of a
beggarly outcast ! Was the spirit of Beaufoy
wrecked because a dozen .:hurls were dead of
the plague? And as he asked himself the
question, Marmontel came wiih the answer :

'It is a pitiful business, Seigneur, a most

OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR

105

pitiful business. The poor folks are clean
demented. You have seen the panic of a rout ?
Men flinging away arms, clothing, what-not, in
their unreason, and fleeing they know not w.iere,
so long as it is but flight ? That is Beaufoy.
From the towns they crowd to the fields, and
from the fields to the towns, and so contagion
spreads. From east to west there is but one
thought, one theme, one terror —the plague !
the plague! the plague! They breed the
sickness in themselves with their fears, and
then die of despair. Turn their minds to
other things, Seigneur, or Beaufoy is lost.'

'Ay, ay, I see, poor souls— I see. What
shall it be now, Marmontel > A hunt ?'

'By your leave. Seigneur,' answered the
Squire, with a laugh that, clearer than a curse,
told of his bitterness of soul. 'That you
understand the leading of men, I grant ; but,
by your leave, I say you know little of the
temper of men who wrestle three hopeless days
with death, and then go down to thr grave
howling. To the grave ? No, to bare :arth -
and rot. A hunt ? As well say hang a score
to chter the rest ! My faith I I think the score
would thank you, for it would bring the end
the sooner ! No. no. Seigneur ; they want a
man among them to hearten them.'

io6 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

What of the

' A man ?' said Beaufoy.
monks ? Where are they ?'

' The monks are there, and are men, truly :
since they fear like men and die like sheep with
the murrain, and yet hold by their posts. Oh,
ay, the monks are men ; but it is not men they
need, but a man. Go yourself, Seigneur.'
' What ! I .? And the plague raging ?'
' Ay, Seigneur, you, and because the plague
is raging. Who could hearten them like
Raimond de Beaufoy ? If that same rout was
afoot, and you turned bare -fisted on the pursuit,
is there a Beaufoy s man that would not follow
you back even to the pit's-mouth ? Not one !'
'That,' said Beaufoy, ' would be but a man's

duty and a man s risk, but this Let it

rest for the moment. What of Mesnil, Mont-
brion, Charnex ?'

' The best hope is that rumour lies,' answered
Marmontel bluntly. ' In their terror of solitude,
the people have flocked to the towns. Who
can blame them, poor souls.? To fight the
battle of death alone, and lose it alone, is fear-
some enough, without having the plaj^ruc; added.
The towns, therefore, are packed. The monks
do their best ; but what avails a monk against
panic ? They say he but does his cloth's duty,
and no more. It is a man they need.'

OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR 107

'And how,' asked Beaufoy hesitating y-_
'how does it take them ? I mean, how long >
t^ome, man, you understand !'

Just what Marmontel answered need not be
set down here. He told the truth, hiding
nothing of the loathsomeness, of the sly cunnincr
and lying in wait, of the sharp agony and
swift suddenness of the collapse-all these he
told, and m full clearness of detail. If the
Seigneur faced the enemy, he should face him
open-eyed.

; But.' he added, ' worse than all that is the
miserable inertness and the terror of anticipa-
jon. It IS there they need a man to show
them better things, and that to die like men-
Jf so It must be-is belter than some sort of
^v;ng. Not one of themselve, nor a monk ;
but a man. Seigneur, a man.'

•Ay, I know,' answered Beaufoy. speaking
Ike a man uncertain, and not looking the other

m the ace. ' Let it rest till to-morrow. Then
we shall see.'

But when the morrow came, he let it rest

or that day, too. and contented himself with

sending food and drink and cordials: the plague

was the plague. Had it been a foe he^o!,M

TaltT^'r '^ '^^^' against- r:„gH,h
lalbot himself and his whole backing -he

i V

[■

:►• :.i

1 08 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

could have cried ' Coward !' upon himself to
have held back an hour ; but a foe that, all
unseen, slew by night or noonday, and filched
the courage from a man as well as his life,
that needed a thouofht.

On the second day Marmontel came him
again, and from the fire in his eyes it was plain
that the squire was much stirred.

' A miracle, Seigneur, a miracle !' he cried.
' Our Lady of Succour has appeared at Mesnil.
Michel Bische has run up with the news,
panting.'

'Miracle? Our Lady of Succour? What
fresh madness is this, Marmontel ?'

' No madness, Seigneur, but God's truth,'
urged the squire. ' Michel saw her go from
house to house with his own eyes. 'Tis a
miracle, I say, and the saving of Beaufoy.'

' Send the fool to me,' said Beaufoy sternly,
'and hold thou thy tongue meanwhile. Who
am I, or what is Mesnil, that a miracle should
come our way ?'

But Michel Bische clung fast to his tale.

• It was an hour past, Seigneur, and except
for a moan or a cry, all Mesnil was dumb in
the heat. God keep us from such heat ; it was
like the blast of a baker's oven, and not so
much as a dog was astir in it but myself. I

OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR 109

was in the middle of the path, Sei,c;neur. as far
as might be from the houses— there is less
danger that way— when I heard the creak of
a door behind, and looked back across my
shoulder, so, and she was there; I swear it,
she was there !'

• Who, fool ?'

' Our Lady, Seie^neur, Our Lady of Succour,
and all in white, w-th the hood about her head,
her robe across th shoulder, and the blue band
of the Madonna, as she stands in the church at
Granfrai.'

' What next ?'

•I went down on my knees in the dust.
Seigneur, and when I looked a;,rain she had
crossed the road to Gil Troyes, where four lie
dying and two dead. Tis the filthiest spot in
Mesnil. Then I ran here as fast as feet could
carry me.'

• Did I not tell you. Seigneur ?' cried Mar-
montel. ' Is it not truth ?'

And for answer Beaufoy said curtly :

•Go thou and get ready the horses. We
will ride to Mesnil and see for ourselves.'

Neither then nor any time afterwards could
Raimond de Beaufoy have said what was
clearly m his mind. To him Rcaufov was the
pivot ol the world, and therefore, if .rch a

h (

no THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

manifestation were to be given, there was no
place more appropriate. But he was h'ttle
tinged with what may be called the religiosity
of the age, the wide- throated capacity for
swallowing theological camels without a strain,
and so looked askance at marvels. On the
whole, he had that commor t of minds of any
age— the lazy inertness that neither accepts nor
rejects.

Only once he spoke, and even then it had
nothing to do with Michel's tale. It was as
they rode down the slope of the hill that over-
tops Mesnil.

' Who are these camped yonder beyond the
river ?'

And Marmontel, shading his eyes, shook his
head.

' Strangers, Seigneur, but I know not who.
There are five horses tethered there in the
shade. Shall I push on and ask ?'

'No, they can wait. This othe- presses
more nearly.'

Mesnil they found as Michel Bische had de-
scribed, silent and breathless. The dust was
fetlock-dcep, and at every beat of the hoof it
rose in a fine cloud, hot, dry, and pungent, but
to Beaufoy the muffled tread had a subtle sound
of death. That death lay to right and hJt he

OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR ,„

knew; and as they halted midway alone the
one straggling street, he cursed his foUy for

tale. Nay death lay even nearer than behind

outThr-M^' 7"-^' ^'"'^ ^^''-'-d heat bu nt
out the vitality of the air Th-^^ . ,

Beaufoy.s folk^ wh^ thly'r/S -^
roadway, and more than one of ,h7^ V

nerceness of the sun could break. Life th^r^
was none- exrem ^Koi- "^'^^

brothers of St F """'' '^° gray-frocked

see th?^!- T'" P""'^"^' ^'^""g hard to

see the Seigneur de Beaufoy in such a nlJ^

-^^ta-rai:-"-
^-£A-h^ -^ - ■-

fifsche d'd not h.r ' °^ """ P*"-- M-h-^l

Fif.y paces fur, he'"' r ''"P""» ^^vidence.
y paces further on he stopped.

'here, Seiprieur.'
It was a plain, dingy house of weather-stained

J.,

in >

I r

I i

iia THE EEAUFOY ROMANCES

wood, as was all Mesnil. the huge projecting
eaves of the sharp-pitched roof giving it an
overwci.jhted clumsy, appearance. Five steps
led up to the porch, from which there hung the
withered shoots of some creeping plant.

' Then, my friend, do thou hold these, and,
Marmontel. do you come with me.'

Handing the reins to Bische, Beaufoy turned
into the scorched garden that fronted Gil
Troyes' house, and for re^^sons best known to
himself he made such haste that the squire had
much ado to follow hard behind him. With
his foot on the second of Gil Troyes' five steps,
the door opened, and, for all his haste, he
stopped, staring at the vision set in the black
cavity.

' Saints !' tis the ]\Tadonna herself!' he heard
Marmontel gasp ; and looking back, he saw the
squire on his knees on the path, bonnetless. and
his eyes starting like a crab's. As for Michel
Bische, he had flung the reins to the winds and
was face-flat in the dust, mumbling he knew
not what incoherent prayers.

The door had opened inwards, and framed
in the empty space was a woman, the spotless
white of whose robe shone dazzling in the sun.
From throat to instep there was but one line of
colour to break the glistening purity, a belt of

WOMAN, THE SPoTI.E

SS WHFTR OF WHOSE ROBE SHOXf

UAZZrJNG IN iHE r,UN.

i|:.

:^::|

'I'l •*

iJ*»'>

OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR 113

palest blue binding the waist. Round the head
was wound a white shawl, its end falling in a
curve upon the shoulder.

For a full minute Beaufoy stood staring as
hard as the squire, then he cried :

' What ? Mademoiselle de Salice here, and
Mesnil no better than a pest-house ? It is pure
madness 1'

To Bonne de Salice the meeting had been as
unexpected as to the Seigneur, and as she looked
down from her vantage-height upon tht three
men, her pale face flushed red in its setting of
white draperies.

'Oh, believe me— believe me. Seigneur de
Beaufoy, I had no knowledge that you were
home from the South. I would never have
dared '

' What !' cried Beaufoy, laughing as he had
not laughed these three days ; 'am I a worse
terror than th plague.? You are frank. Made-
moiselle Bonne.' Then he remembered the
sorrows of Beaufoy. and the jesting smile passed
to a stern gravity. 'This is no place for
women!' he said, mounting the steps as he
spoke, ' least of all for a frail woman delicately
nurtured. How could I look my old comrade
and friend, your father, in the face if-if— if
aught happened ?'

11 1'

114 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

'Then what is woman's work, Seigneur de

Beaufoy, if not to nurse the sick, comfort the

sorrowful, and make smooth the rough places,

whether they be of life or of death ? There in

the South you and my father took your lives in

your hands a dozen times, I make no doubt.

That was fighting France's battles, and men

would have called you " coward " had you hung

back. Is a woman's life so much more precious

than a man's that she must not fight France's

battles in her turn ? I had cried shame upon

myself had I hung back when Beaufoy was

stricken, for is not Beaufoy part of France's

life's blood? Only, only ' And again she

went red as a rose, and fell a-stammering. • I
had no thought that you were in the Suzerainty,
or I might have let you fight your own battles
at home, like a brave man, as you would have
fought them abroad.'

And whether it was the fire of the sun or
the flush of shame, Beaufoy 's face went redder
than her own when he remembered how he had
held back from the danger which she had
faced without a second thought.
' But to face this place alone ?'
' No, no,' she cried eagerly, ' not alone. My
people are camped beyond the river there, and
my women with them. They— I do not judge

OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR n^

them, Selgneur-they were afmid. a,.d he who
fears is best away from the plague.'
' And you have no fear ?'
•Why should I ? God is as near at M..,„il
- He ,s at Sah-ce. There is loathing tl^^^^e
cannot help ; bu. in the pity for the poor Wk" '
a,?ony and terror it is forgotten. Give them
courage and you give then, life >

herRair%'!fT"''''' "'^"^y •■ «"d '" h-
heart Ra mond de Beaufoy swore that if their

Se,g„e„r s presence could hearten-up the po.Z

tn^ would be. come what might of it

Thenceforward they forgot they were man
and woman if, indeed, Bonne de Sa ice Tad
ever remembered it, except in her first titled
ma,denlmess. Nigh, by night she re. ed tf
her tent under the trees beyond the rive li e

In ".^"h'el; d '^ "^ ''°r' ^^^' - "'^ Ch^^ea^

with her. and for her sat he" °T, T""
have slept in the bare duTt of uZT.tf

to^nher Mai '',"^u ^^' ''^'^ "^<=>- «"'-k«d

and a few T^'- ^ ""'"''^ "^ G^andfrai,

exl^lA , ' "'''° "'^^^ fi'-eJ by their

example helpmg them. Wooden pestLuses

8-2

ii6 THE BEAUIOY ROMANCES

were hastily nin up, roufrh and comfortless
enough, but '1 places of isolation. Whole-
some, well-cooked food was given, and such
drugs as, out of their ignorance, the monks
prescribed. But, chlefest of all, Bonne de
Salice moved among the stricken folk with a
gentle, calm assurance, as if there was neither
death nor danger in all Beaufoy.

Nor were the ministrations confined to
Mesnil. Montbrion, Charnex, and every village
and hamlet had their turn, till at last the plague
was stayed, and the day came when even Bonne
de Salice the- ght it no sin to say, 'We may
rest to-morrow.'

But with the morrow a change came to her
and to Raimond de Beaufoy. The fellowship
born of the days of heat and struggle was gone.
Their minds had been so full of thought, their
hearts so full of care, the crying needs of others
had so possessed them, that there had been no
room for self. But all that had passed, and
into the void was born — especially on the
woman's part — a sudden and acute conscious-
ness. Surely this thing had been unwomanly,
and the doing of it had shamed her in his eyes ;
surely, too — and the very thought made her
quake — she had shown him in these days that
which was a reproach to confess even to herself!

OUR LADY OF SUCCOUR ,,7

he found the tent struck, the pack-horses laden
and Bonne de Saiice a full lea'gue on h r roa d

fnTh; j.^'^t^^^'"^"' ^he Seigneur sat gnaw
"^g h.s l.p ; then with his spurs he sava Jd hTs

ba tie. and made straight for Saiice.

Michel Bische told more truth th.r. u

I-adyofBeaufoy,;ayTh''rst3rGtr

HOW THE KING CAME TO
BEAUFOY

When the Count of Dunois, standing by the
grave of Charles the Seventh in 1461, said, out
of the bitterness of his frosted ambition. * There
is a new master in France ; now let every man
see to himself!' Wisdom was justified of her
child. Never was there such a tearing down
from high places ; never such a shredding and
a tattering of hard-earned honours. They flew
this way and that, as feathers are sent flying
from a pigeon when a hawk has pounced.

Jouvenelle, the Chancellor, lost his place ;
Sancerre might be no longer Grand Admiral ;
De Lhoeac was stripped of his Marshal's
baton ; Du Chastel found his Mastership of
the Horse iven to another ; the Governorship
of Guieni f was wrenched from the grip of the
Due de bour n. As for chamberlains and
counsellors of State, a man was happy if he

''HE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY 119

kept his head and his lands ; his office was the
sure spoil of another. Louis the Eleventh
had a long memory, and. as King, knew
how to revenge the insults that had em-
bittered the Dauphin. Besides, where men
are to be bought, someone must pay the
price. , ^ ^

The marvel was that in such a crashing of
reputations Raimond de Beaufoy hdd his pbce
Ao man had been more loyal to the late Kin^r'
and to be loyal to Charles was to be traitor
to Louis. Yet Beaufoy prospered, and it
must have been that the cruel, treacherous,
coW heart of the new King harboured some
grateful memory of what had befallen five
years before. That Angoumois stared to
see Beaufoy confirmed in his Suzerainty was
no wc^nder; but Angoumois knew nothing of
the Kings secrets, and the Seigneur was no
man to blab. * vvctb no

The story dated from 1456, the year that
Louis, exiled these ten years tn Hn u

-ught to build up for himsdf f , .^"7^'"y'
fh« c .u 1 f '^^ nimstit a kingdom in

This JieaM r ""' '°° "''' '" ^'^ ""hoj"
brn^d the A T •™P"^'' "'■"'■ ">-' on-

" '^ 7f°TT' '"■"""'"-■ Jurisdictions-
thmgs dear to hearts that have abjured the

f> ^

I I

1
I
I

i2o THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

petty pomps of the world ; while a university
set up at Vienne argued to the learned the
broad mind of the would-be King.

Rumour had it — and with more truth than
customary — that, not content with his province,
the Dauphin was spreading his lures north
and west, and at last Charles became alarmed.
Abandoning his beloved gardens, he marched
south with the avowed intention of crushing
the rebel once and for all, son though he was.
Between the death of Louis and the dibmember-
ment of the kingdom there was no room for
choice. Charles had a second son, but no
second crown. Down through the Orleanais
he swept into Berry, and thence to Poitou,
avoiding La Marche as tainted with the
Dauphin's heresy. From Poitou to Angoumois
is but a step, and presently Beaufoy was drawn
into the ferment.

It was a mid-August day that the King's
letter, written by Dunois, the Grand Chamber-
lain, reached the Seigneur, and small thanks he
gave the messenger who brought it.

* How the pest am I to quarter three hundred
men in Beaufoy i*' he cried, slapping his clenched
hand with the folded paper. 'As reasonably
might Egypt cry " Come !" to the locusts that
sweep it bare. I am the King's servant, and

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY 121

my poor house is his since he so wills ; but
three hundred of a troop is a heavy tax on a
man's goodwill. What is that, my friend ? an
honour? God keep us from all such honours,
for a man would buy them dearly at a crown a
bushel. Honour, forsooth !— such honour as
they crave King Martin of Yvetut, the honour
of eatmg me out of house and home, the honour
of starving for half a year that others may go
full-fed a day ! Has thy -n'sdom aught else to
say, my friend .?'

•As I left the camp, Seigneur, Monsieur de
Lhabannes stopped me, and bade me give vou
this." ^

Fumbling in the pouch at his girdle, he nulled
out a paper sealed both back and front -a scrap
no more, unaddressed, but endorsed, ' Secret'
and in haste.'

• Anthony of Chabannes ! Of a good Anaou-
mois stock is Chabannes, and a sure friend for
all that he is Bretagne born,' said Beaufoy
breakmg open the seals. ' I would trust Cha^

bannes with Now, God give me patience,

bu this ,s too much ! Some of you there see
to this fellows comfort, and do you, Marmontel,
hearken : " The King fears Louis ; walk softi;
for Beaufoy's sake." By St. Francis, thev
know m Paris how to make men traitors^

122 THE liEAUFOY ROMANCES

Link an arm in theirs, and smilingly pick their
pocket as you walk. There you have it.
" Come, dear friend, and sup," said the fox to
the goose. If it were but Charles and Louis
and not France herself that would suffer, then,

faith of Beaufoy, I might But, no, no ; it

is France, it is France, and so I must keep the
peace and walk softly. Now I understand the
three hundred men. They are not so much to
honour Charles as to dishonour Beaufoy. Walk
softly? Why, so I will; but a plague on all
crooked policies !' — and he flung out of the
room in a rage.

Thenceforward for three days there was not
a soul in Beaufoy, save the year-old boy in his
cradle, but lived a bustling life. That lackeys,
scullions, and cooks should have their hands
full was of course, since the roasting, boiling,
and baking was prodigious, though the lists of
fish, tlesh, fowl, and conceits of pastry so care-
fully recorded by the chronicler of the day may
be left out of the story. For all his wrath, the
Seigneur had no mind to shame the hospitality
of Beaufoy. But the Seigneur found work for
those whose trade was arms, and for those
three days a dozen of his most trusted men
were here and there through the Seigneurie on
iheir masters business, while their fellows who

'■''m

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY 123

remained at the castle slaved over the arms of
all, and of mcjre liian all.

Five-and-r..riy there were who drew Beau-
foy s pay, and yet in those three days no less
than ten-score stands of arms were cleaned
tested, and made ready.

' The odds are still three to two,' said Beau-
toy as he saw his men ride out on that third
day vvith swords, pikes, lances, and what-not
that did not belong to them-' three to two •
but the surprise counts for something, so we'
will call It an even match.'

Then, having prepared within and without,
he set hmiself to rest. But for all his labour
rest was still far from him. As he sat on a
bench in the great justice-room at the fall of
dusk that third day. Marmontel. his squire
came to him m something of a pucker

'There are three without,' he said, ' who say

with :^ S'- "" '5 ^'^^ "^^^' ^^-^ ^P-ch
and hey would none of my lies; I have
toldjhc.m truth -m a measure -and they

'You have not told of the coming of the
Kmg, blockhead .?' cried Beaufoy

but^^; ^uT""' T '■ ^ "'"' ^^"^^ ^" - "measure,
out not all the truth.'

124 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

' Then bid them begone with their will he,
nill he ; let them go as they came. This is no
time for strangers.'

'They came from the south,' said Marmontel,
' and if we shut the door in their faces, there is
nowhere for them to go but to some peasant's
hut. That, by your leave. Seigneur, would not
sort with Beaufoy's plans.*

'Hum!' said Beaufoy, rubbing his chin.
' Beaufoy's business will be none the better of
clacking tongues. So far, thou art right. The
Lord knows who they may be. Since we have
no choice, Marmontel, let us do them and our-
selves a kindness. To please another to your
own Piofit is true policy. Bid them welcome.
Show them all courtesy, and say that since
they desire to see Raimond de Beaufoy, he
will do himself the honour of supping with
them. Madame, my wife, they must excuse.
She has that before her which might well try a
stronger woman, for 'tis no light thing to play
hostess to a King who comes to cut your hus-
band's throat. Bid them enter, Marmontel,
and with the more smoothness that you have
been rough in the past. In these times we
must keep a frank hand for the mammon of
unrighteousness. '

Later, as Beaufoy was changing his rougher

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY 125

dress for a garb more nice in its courtesy,
Marmontel again came to him.

' If you had searched for a week, Seigneur,'
said he, ' you could have hit on nothing more
to their taste than that you sup alone with
them. If a man cannot read men after three
score years of life, he never will, and my word
for It, these three have something to say beyond
the common. You are no drinker, Seigneur,
but at supper water is a cool counsellor.' ''

Raimond de Beaufoy was too wise a man to
set his dignity against honest frankness in a
man who loved him.

• So ?• he said gravely, putting his hand on
the others shoulder. ' Beyond the common ?
\\ hy b^'ond the common ?'

• Because, Seigneur, when I made excuses
lor my lady, one of them, a meagre chit of a
man and the youngest of the three, said softly.

Ihe samts be praised!" and mumbled to
himself as a man might in church. No. Selg-
neur, no ' he went on hastily, as Beaufoy 's face
darkened, 'not said with offence, but forced out
01 him as It were by some relief of fear. Tli
wager it was his heart spoke and not his tongue.
As for the other two. they looked at one another
and nodded as men do who say, " All goes

126 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

' So ?' said Beaufoy again. ' You are right,
old friend, and I will keep both them and
wine at arm's-length, lest either be traitor ;
though, by St. Francis, I think there is no mere
man fool enough to strike Beaufoy in his own
hall !'

It was in a small, plainly-furnished ante-
room off a chamber on the ground- floor that
Beaufoy waited to receive his self-invited guests.
On either side of the door were great lamps in
sconces, while i. third stood on the small table
filling the centre of the room. A settle, three
or four stools, and a few antique weapons hung
against the wall completed the furnishings.

The Seigneur had not long to wait. There
was a brief bustle at the door, and then there
entered a burly, broad-shouldered man, bearded
and moustached, and ruddy-cheeked for all his
middle age. At his heels was a soldier-like
figure, erect and wiry, the keen, alert face
smooth -shaven. Between the shoulders of
the two the third peered into the room, and at
the sight of the small, cunning eyes, and the
long, arched nose above the cruel mouth,
Beaufoy shaded his face with his hand.

' First De Melun ; next Saint Belin ; lastly —
him ! What coil is here ?' he said under his
breath. Then, striding forward : ' Messieurs,

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY ,27

you are very welcome to Beaufoy.' he cried •
•and .fat first there seemed a scant hospitality'
let supper blot out its memory. We must be

de^Berufo^''"^''^'' '""''^"'■'- ^ ^"^ ^aimond
' To be less frank than you <rrieves me
Seigneur, answered the first, ' but the times
are tickhsh. By your leave. I am Messire
Moi^eme; this. Messire Soi - meme. and

•This.' broke in Beaufoy, with a bow. <I
make no doubt ,s Messire Lui-meme ! Be it
so. gentlemen ; your supper will. I trust be
none the worse, nor your sleep less peaceful

BeTufoW"^ ^^^'^' '''''' ^"^ ^^^ bind
Beaufoy. My squ.re tells me you had some-

'tlTnV%T ^- ^^^ P-e- let that
rest talk and a full stomach are good company

lotable, gentlemen, to table'" ^'

Drawing aside a curtain that hid a doorway
m the side of the room. Beaufoy motioned to
h's guests to enter before him

128 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

1.
ii

A
li

t
i

' you, Messire Lui-mfime, face to face ; not in
opposition, you understand, but that we may
the better know one another ;' and the Seigneur
laughed as a man laughs who is unaccustomed
to make even a feeble jest.

Through the meal their talk was of this or
that ; the coming vintage, the promise of the
wheat crop, wine, women, horses, the new-
fangled war weapons, the dozen subjects that
are in men's mouths as they sup. But of
parties and policies Beaufoy would have
nothing. If Messire Moi-m^me began upon
taxation, Beaufoy had a story that led the talk
elsewhere. If Messire Soi-meme brought
in the discontent of the people, Beaufoy de-
claimed on the troubles of a Seigneurie. If
cruel-faced Messire Lui-meme spoke of King
or Dauphin, Beaufoy talked of France.

' And who,' said he, ' is more a son of France
than Prince Louis himself?' and straightway
told a tale that lauded both the father and
the son.

But at last the meal ended, and as the door
closed behind the lackeys the Seigneur turned
to his guest on the left.

' You have business, messire,' said he ; ' but
before business just one word of gossip.
Beaufoy is honoured beyond common. To-

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY 129

day it is-you; to-morrow_the King of
t ranee and three hundred of a troop '

'The King- here? St. Denis! have you
sold us, Seigneur de Beaufoy ?' cried the
bearded man, striking his hand noisily on the
table. 'Is this a trap.?'

' By St. Francis !' and Beaufoy stared him
down across the angle of the table. ' if we were
not host and guest you would answer for that
discourtesy. No trap, and least of all of my
settmg.' "y

nJh?"'' \"\"''"'; ^"^ ^'' "^'ghbour on the
nght caught him by a sinewy hand, 'you might
nave told us °

'Told you.? And what cares Messire Soi-
m^rne whether the King of France sleeps at
Pans. Beaufoy, or Grenoble ? I tell you now. lest
when I say to-morrow. '< Gentlemen, the King
sleeps at Beaufoy, and where a King come!
even pronouns must give place-or declare
themselves you will not think me churlish.'

When the Seigneur had first spoken, he who
supped frontmg him had half started to his feet'
his face gone gray with terror, but by an effor
he regained his self-control

sp^a'ki^^trytwt^^^^^^ "'^^^ '• -'^ ^^'

wi^Hth^K^^^^.:^^--^-

''»i

1 t.

; I
I

130 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

night, Seigneur, and to-morrow you will be
rid of us.'

' And your business ?'

They looked at one another a moment, then

one bc^ran: 'Oh, ay, the business ' but

he who had spoken last interrupted him, speak-
ing sharply and to the point.

' The King sleeps here to-morrow night ?'

•To-morrow night.'

' I low many has he with him ?'

' Three hundred men and all armed.'

• Will he sleep alone ?'

' That is as he chooses, messire.'

• I mean, is there access to his room ?'

MIe will sleep safe,' said Beaufoy. 'as safe
as you yourself.'

' How fur off lies the army ?'

•Twelve leagues, perhaps; perhaps fifteen.'

• Its strength ?'

•The strength of Normandy, He de France,
Poitou, Maine, Touraine, Angoumois — tht:
strength of France.'

Loosening his doublet, Messire Lui-meme
drew a small reliquary from his bosom, kissed it.
and passed it across the table to the Seigneur.

' It is the true cross.' he said simply ; ' swear
on it that what you say is true."

Lifting it to his lips, Beaufoy said : ' My word

THE KING COMES TO BEAUKOY ,;,,

is my word. but. since you will have it so. hcfor.-
Cod It IS true ;' and handed it back.

For a moment the other sat silent, thinkini/
deeply, then he said :

'When a man throws ames ace to sixes he
must needs pay forfeit. If you wen« at Grenoble
what would you counsel the Daupliin at such a
time as this?'

'If I were so far honoured as to be the
Dauphm's counsellor.' said Beaufoy. speakin-^
deliberately. ' I would remember that the Duke
of Burgundy is father-in-law to my sister '

'Ha! I understand. Heels, not heads and
hands! We have done our business, .rentl.-
men and he rose from the table. ' Sdgneur
de Beaufoy. our compliments to Madame, your
wife. It grieves us that we must needs i;ave
betimes m the morninK- and so cannot pav our
respects in person.'

With no more talk than Beaufoy's farewells
for the n.ght. they were gone, a lackey lightin<.
them to their chambers above. "''

But they were not so soon to turn their backs
on Chateau Beaufoy. Next mornin- as the
•Seigneur waited them in the little ante-room.
Messire Moi-meme, as he had chosen to cal
himself, put in his appearance alone and with a
face two feet long and as white as new plaster

132 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

' Of all the accursed mischances to happen
here, and to-day of all days! My friend, he
that sat facing you— a man to stand well with,
I can tell you. Seigneur de Beaufoy— is down
with an ague.'

'An ague?' cried Beaufoy, straightening
himself and looking the other full in the
eyes. 'An ague? Faith of a gentleman,

Messire ?'

'Faith of a gentleman!' said the other
pettishly. ' What the plague would a man want
to feign an ague for ?'

' Because the King '

'Ay, because the King! What do we want
with the King? 'Tis an ague plain enough,
and to ride on to-day is death.'

' Oh, an ague ?' said Beaufoy coolly. ' Mon-
seign-iur caught it at Saint Jacques in '44, I take
it ? By my faith, the Switzers gave us all more
than we wanted I'

' Monseigneur ? Saint Jacques? Are you
mad, Seigneur de Beaufoy ?'

'Am I a fool, Monsieur de Melun,' retorted
Beaufoy, ' to go through a campaign with the
Dauphin and not know him ?

' Then you knew us from the first ?'
'From the first. Monsieur de Melun Moi-
m^me, or Moi-m6me de Melun, as it pleases

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY i^^

you. Faith of Beaufoy! but it was a child's
masquerade.

'Then,' cried De Melun. snatching at his
sword, but letting the sneer pass, ^a plain
answer, are you for Charles or Louis >'

'What! a plain answer under compulsion of

•t up. If I called but once, you would have [en
men on your back before you could stir a yard
and we would be free of factions in Frin e
What better would you be of my murder"
Would that cure Monseigneur of his ague .^

that as?' " " '^'"■^' ' ^"^ ^°^ ^-"- -d
that as ,t seems to me, is between the two '

<-.ve me your pardon. Seigneur,' and in his

boding. The .;:^e^T.':' .rdri:n

know the suspicions of this cra^y Kinf There
.3 not a ,oo„ i„ B f„^, ^^^ y^ ^, = There

; 7 "'"''■ " "as a mad freak, this ride- a

ool s freak perhaps, and yet, had wegained y;u

•he vassals at Vaucourt, Grandfrai, and I know

not where, all would have followed like sheep

the bullr '"= '''-'■ '"' '" '^ '»"- --
• 1 will take as many oaths as the King wills,

■v!

,34 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

and will lie in none of them,' answered the
Seigneur. 'Only Monseigneur must bate his
dignity and keep close.'

' His dignity !' cried De Melun, and in his
earnestness he spoke a larger truth than he
meant. ' When it is to his profit, Monseigneur
has no dignity.'
' Come, then.'

Out into the great hall strode Beaufoy, up
the twisting narrow stairway, and down the
broad corridor of the floor above. Opening a
door on the right, he bade De Melun follow him.
and the two found themselves in a large, wide
room that ran along the front of the Chateau,
and which was furnished in a kind of barbaric

splendour.

The slow accumulations of many raids and
petty wars were stored within, and five genera-
tions of Beaufoys had brought them together.
The hangings were the spoil of Flanders, the
satin-covered settles and stools were of carved
Lombard work, Spain had had a hand in the
weaving of the curtains, and the great sombre,
solitary bed that lay like a catafalque along the
side-wall, had been the glory of an ancient
Savoy stronghold. The petty adornments of
inlaid tables, cabinets, and sconce mouldings
came from as many principalities as they were

•^

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY 135

numerous. But the gildings were tarnished, and
for all Its incongruity of wealth, the room had a
mournful air of desuetude.

' For the King,' said Beaufoy with a gesture
as he walked across to the wall behind the head
of the great bed. ' The Dauphin can surely
find no f^iult if he be lodged next.'

Fumbling in the carvings, he touched a spring
that set the panel moving, and disclosed a
narrow, gray space hid in the thickness of the
wall.

' The Dauphin lie there T cried De Melun
' Man ! he would as soon sleep in a vault.'

'By St. Francis!' said the Seigneur grimly
'you have hit the choice of hosts. Tis death
or Beaufoy !'

De Melun went forward a step or two It
was no more than a five -foot passage-way
runnmg the whole breadth of the room, and
with no roof but that of the Chateau, the only
I'ght being from a narrow window set thirty
feet up in the wall. The dust in it lay thick
and the very air smelt of motes.

' The Dauphin lie here !' cried De Melun a

second time as he peered about him in the dusk

A pretty lurking-place for a son of France ''

i hen he whipped round on Beaufoy and cau^rht

him roughly by the shoulders. • A trap by

136 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

St. Denis, a trap! You would give us all
three '

But the Seigneur pushed him staggering
back against the farther wall.

' God grant me patience !' he cried, stamping
his foot. ' Pest take you and your traps ! What
greater need of a trap is there than that you
have thrust your fool's head into already ? If I
wished to be the first man in the kingdom, I
could cry my terms to-night and run no risk of
a haggle, and without all this pother. Beware
of overmuch suspicion, Messire de Melun ; it
breeds treason, and treason breeds an ill end.
Trust me or leave me ; you have your choice.'

It may be that when, twelve years after to
the very month, De Melun died the death of a
traitor on the scaffold in Andely, the Seigneur's
warning came back to him.

' We have no choice,' he answered sullenly.
' Leave you we cannot, and therefore we trust
you,'

' Did I bid you come here ?' cried Beaufoy in
a rage as he turned back to the corridor, * and
is it my gain that you stay ? Since you are
here, Madame de Beaufoy will have the place
made as habitable as may be, but for myself I
must go meet the King.'

' But your people, Seigneur .-*'

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY 137

• My people are my people,' answered Beau-
foy curtly ; ' have no fears of my people.'

Four hours later, with no more than Mar-
montel and two others as guard, he was waiting
the coming of Charles at the northern outskirts
of the forest of Beaufoy. Nor had he long to
wait. First, in the far distance, seen between
the patches of trees, there was the growing dun
of a dust-cloud, then the glint of steel or silver
as the sun caught a burnished point of armour
or some polished chain or plate of the beasts'
housings, and at last the dark loom of the troop
through the rolling veil. Charles was as good
as his word, and had plainly brought his full
three hundred.

'Best ride -n and meet them. Seigneur,'
advised Marmo.itel.

But Beaufoy would not budge.

' Not I,' said he. * I will show him every
courtesy, but no faith till I'm out of the wood.'
And reining aside, he let the head of the troop
pass him without a word.

But as Charles rode up with Tanneguy du
Chastel, his Master of the Horse, on the one
hand, and Dunois, the Grand Chamberlain, on
the other, Beaufoy flung his reins to Marmontel,
and dismounting, knelt in the three-inch-deep
dust of the road.

138 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

' Welcome to Beaufoy, sire !' he cried, un-
covering.

' What ! vv hat ! what !' said Charles, leaning
forward and peering at the Seigneur across
Dunois. ' Whom have we here ? Whom have
we here ? Keep you between us, Messire le
Comtc'

' It is Messire de Beaufoy, sire,' said Dunois
— • a brave and loyal gendeman, as I believe.'

' Ay, ay, that may be, that may be, but we
hear strange tales of Messire de Beaufoy. You
hold your head over-high, Messire, and at times
courage and pride are ill bed-fellows to loyalty.
What! what! There are whispers abroad.'

' Let those who whisper speak out plainly,
sire,' said Beaufoy boldly, 'and by St. Francis,
I shall know how so to answer them that they
shall not whisper a second time.'

'To speak bluntly,' said Dunois, 'the King
means that rumour has it you have taken Louis
to your heart.'

* Ay, ay,' broke in Charles, ' Do you know
the fable of him who warmed the serpent .-* God
show him mercy who warms Louis, for he'll
have need of it.'

' Let deeds answer words, sire,' replied Beau-
foy. ' Angoumois holds me for no fool, and
V;t I am here with but three men, as you see.'

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY 139

• What ? No more than that ?' cried Charles.
' Well, for this ni.i;ht we will trust you at arm's
length, Messire de Beaufuy, Mount and ride
on with us.'

Thereafter there was but little talk. At rare
intervals Charles roused himself to ask of this
or that, but his mind wandered and interest
died with the question. As for Dunois and
Du Chastel, they, like good courtiers, took their
cue from their master and nursed their thoughts
in silence. Once, and once only, Du Chastel
spoke.

•Where the plague does the wind come
from?" said he. 'Listen! There is not a
rustle above us, and yet the growth on either
side is all astir with the blast.'

' It is plain you are no woodsman, Grand
Master,' said Beauf(jy carelessly, ' or you would
understand better how in these hollows the
breeze is sucked in by the coolness. Once
clear of the wood, there will be none of it.'

'Then bid them ride faster,' and Charles
straightened himself in his saddle. ' The
place is lifeless, and I hate it. Is there always
this quiet, Messire de Beaufoy ?'

' We are a quiet people, sire,' said Beaufoy,
and said no more.

' What ! what ! what ! A quiet people ?'

I40 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

echoed the King. 'God keep me from such
quiet, I would sooner jostle shoulders with
my loving son Louis than face it.'

Nor did the open country please the King
better.

• Send word forward, Du Chastel, that we
ride through yonder village, I am sick of
solitude. What is its name, Messire de
Beaufoy ?'

'Charnex, sire.'

• And how many inhabitants ?'
'Some two hundred, sire,'

' Good, good ! then at last we shall see life.'
But as they rode slowly between the double
lines of straggling houses his face darkened.
There was not a peasant in the trim gardens,
not a woman spinning in the porches ; the doors
were shut and life there was none, or no more
than a child's frightened white face at a window.
A silence deeper than the silence of the woods
brooded over it.

' God's mercy !' he cried wrathfully, ' has
a plague smitten Beaufoy that the place is

void r

'It is harvest, sire, and the women are
abroad in the fields.'

• The fields ! the fields ! What I what !
what! Are your women slaves, Messire, that

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOy 141

they should labour in the fields while the men
bide at ease ? Where are the men ?'

'The men are— elsewhere, sire,* answered
Beaufoy. ' They might have thought that
with such a company the King came in wrath,
and they love their Seigneur, poor souls ! so 1
bade them keep '

' Say no more, Seigneur do Beaufoy,' cried
Charles, giving him his title for the first time.
• I see plainly men lied about you. Ride on,
gentlemen, ride on !'

' And this,' said the King, some four hours
later, when, having supped, he was being con-
ducted to the chamber set apart for his use—
'and this is Chateau Beaufoy.? With your
leave, Seigneur, we will go on a tour of in-
spection. What! what! what! am I not a
soldier.? and plaguily near a hostile country,
too! It is a soldier's duty to go his rounds
—eh, Dunois, eh? Here, for my train.?
Good ! good ! those walls would stand some-
what of a siege. For all our need, we have no
better in Paris. And this chamber ? and this ?
Ay, ay, see to it, Dunois, that we have men in
all these. And this ?'

' This, sire,' and Beaufoy paused with his hand
on the door, ' this is set apart for Madame my
wife, and adjoins that which you yourself honour.'

i \

142 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

' What ! what ! what !' said Charles cunningly.
' Adjoins, eh ? With your leave, Seigneur, with
your leave. Madame is below, I think, and it
is a soldier's duty— duty, you understand, duty,
no more. A noble room truly, and yonder is
the little Seigneur's cradle. A wise mother
who keeps her babe by her side. I would to
the Lord there were more like her in France !
Dunois, see to it that three of our men sleep
in the passage-way before Madame's door, lest
she be disturbed. Yet there is no need for
alarm, Seigneur ; it is but a courtesy, no more,
no more.*

' I humbly thank you. sire ; but, by St.
Francis ! Beaufoy can see to Beaufoy's
own.'

' Good ! good ! good ! Nevertheless, Dunois,
you hear ? — three in the passage. And this .•*
Why, we are royally lodged. Yet, in August
even so large a room strikes cold when used
alone. Let five sleep here, Dunois— five, and
set the usual sentries at the door. As to the
floor above, let Chabannes see to it ; he knows,
eh, eh ? — he knows, eh .'' Now then, my valets,
I am ready,' and having safeguarded himself at
every point, Charles the Well- Served went to
his rest.

It might have been an hour later that

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY 143

Raimond de Beaufoy, from Madame's side of
the wall, set the panel moving, and found Louis
the Dauphin reared upon his elbow in his
narrow bed ; a rushlight flickering by his side
set the shadows dancing so that it might have
been either a scowl or a smile that met the
Seigneur as he went down upon his knee.

'Has the King come? — and is De Melun
right ?' whispered Louis in a hiss. • Is he
there, Seigneur de Beaufoy ?' and he flung his
right arm backward with a quick gesture.

'The King has come and is there, Mon-
seigneur,' answered De Beaufoy, speaking
under his breath.

' There ? there .?' and Louis shook his
clenched hand in the air, ' not four feet away,
said De Melun. Not four feet away.? Tell
me' — leaning forward, he caught Beaufoy half
round the neck, drawing him so close that his
lips touched his ear— 'there is a spring from
this side ? I thought so, and the Kin;4 is not
four feet away ! Would you be Grand Admiral,
Seigneur de Beaufoy ? Would you be INInrshal
of France.'* Would you be Governor of the
He de France, or change your petty Seigneurie
for afl Guienne ? There is a spring. De Beaufoy,
there is a spring, and the King is not four feet
away! Would you be first subject in the

■I

144 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

kingdom, Seigneur de Beaufoy ? His hot
fingers closed on the Seigneur's neck. * Not
four feet aw;iy,' he whispered, 'not four feet,
and every man aslcop !'

Then he drew back, and, with his hand upon
Beaufoy's shoulder, lay eyeing him.

But not for long, five seconds maybe, for
Louis, with all his superstitions and leaden
saints, was no fool. He could read a man's 'no '
as well as another, and the silent rebuke in the
Seigneur's eyes lashed his self-love like a whip.
The evil look in his eyes struggled with a sour
smile on the mouth, and his hand fell down
upon the coverlid.

' When my hour comes,' he said, ' may God
grant me also men that can keep faith. Tut,
tut ! hold thy peace, man ; I want deeds, not
words,' and he turned his face to the darkness.

Suddenly he rounded upon his shoulder
again, and groping in his breast, drew out
the reliquary.

' If not for me. Seigneur de Beaufoy, at least
not against me. Swear that, come what will,
you hold me safe !'

Taking it into his hand, the Seigneur turned
it over, thinking deeply. He knew the Dauphin
to his heart's core : his cold unforgiving cruelty,
his tenacious memory for a wrong or slight,

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY 145

real or fancied, and the evil look and the
sour smile were to him as the shadow of
death.

' Is an oath on such a thing more binding
than a man's honest word, Monseigneur ?'

'Words come and words go, and nought
comes of them !' said Louis, his face paling in
the shadows, ' but whoso swears falsely on this
dies within the year. Does the oath bind.?
Ay, by God's life it does bind! Swear,
Seigneur de Beaufoy, swear.'

•Swear you first, Monseigneur,' said Beaufoy,
drawing a deep breath as a man might who
played a heavy stake ' Swear that, come what
will, as King or Dauphin, you will uphold,
strengthen and confirm Raimond de Beaufoy
and his heirs in the Suzerainty, and bind your
issue so to do.'

'You have my word to that,' said Louis
earnestly. * In all frankness I pledge you that.
After to-night I could do no less.'

' Words come and words go and leave nought
behind,' answered Beaufoy doggedly. ' Swear,
Monseigneur, and quickly, I pray you, lest in
asking I raise ly voice.'

And with a scowl Louis swore.
Taking the reliquary in his turn, Beaufoy
touched it with "

lips.

146 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

' Before God, Monseigneur, I will hold you
safe. '

Rising to his feet, he bowed as if to Charles
himself, and had his hand upon the panel to
close it, when Louis stopped him with a gesture.

' You still advise Burgundy ?'

' Burgundy and patience, Monseigneur. With
two such allies, your time will come.'

' Then farewell, Seigneur de Beaufoy, and by
the Saints ! I think my oath was a wise stroke
both for me and for you. I can say so, now
that my blood is cooler.'

Then he again turned his face to the dark, and
Beaufoy could hear him moaning to himself:
' Not four feet away, not four feet, and all men
asleep!' And the man he would have murdered
in his bed was his father !

With so much fuel ready for a spark to set it
in a roar that would have scorched France,
there was little rest for Beaufoy that night.
Not a flap of a shutter in the wind, not a
scamper of a rat in the wainscot, not a stumble
of the sentinel in the corridor, not a cry of a
nightbird but was the very voire of death.
Even the quiet sigh and rustle of the child in
his cradle was the fumbling of parricide fingers,
blindly groping for the hidden spring. The
hundred voices of the silence called him con-

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY 147

tinually, and his ears were for ever on the
strain for a cry. But the night passed undis-
turbed, and the gray of the dawn slipped into
its blackness.

It was a mighty consolation to his host that,
having to ride to Grandfrai, where he was to
be guest to Bishop Theodore, Charles had no
mind to dally. He was early awake, early
afoot, and an hour after Beaufoy had given
Marmontel his orders for the day, sending him
and four others out at top-speed— that is to say,
by ten o'clock— the King was ready for the
saddle.

' What ! what ! what !' he cried, ' you ride with
us, Seigneur de Beaufoy, to see us safe back to
France again ? Here we have been in a new
country and at peace. By St. Denis ! you must
teach us kingcraft, since your will is law, and
with no more than ten of an army to back it,

while I But then. Seigneur, your son is

in his cradle.'

The weak suspicious face grew pathetic, and
not even the first beginnings o( the Valois mad-
ness could destroy the dignity of its sorrow.
Presently he roused himself

•I must forget the son— at least, so says
Dunois— and remember nothing but the rebel ;
and yet, De Beaufoy, yet Eh, eh ! here is

10 — 2

148 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

•

Dunois, and to be a king in these times a man
must remember to forget.'

' All is ready, sire, and we may move forward,'
said Dunois, riding up. ' What, De Beaufoy,
do you ride alone ?'

' Why, yes,' answered the Seigneur care-
lessly, ' I have, as you saw, but few fellows,
and I sent them out on errands an hour ago.'

' What is that ? what is that ?' cried the
King, leaning forward, and his face wrinkling
in its uneasiness. * On errands ? But you
ride with us ?'

' Yes, sire, and wherever you bid me ride.'

' Why, why, here, between Dunois and Du
Chastel, and let Sancerre come on my other
side. So long as we have you with us, De
Beaufoy, the errands will be peace.'

' What, Sire !' cried the Seigneur, * do you
still doubt me ?'

* Doubt ! who talks of doubt ?' said Charles
cunningly. ' What are we but soldiers ? — and
good soldiers, you know, De Beaufoy — good
soldiers must be cautious. Dunois, where is
that parchment ? Ay, give it to our good
cousin, the Count de Charnex. What ! what !
what! is that mistrust, Seigneur.-* Only, the
Lord send you more folk in the village ; 'twas
like a tomb.'

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY 149

* Sire,' began Beaufoy.

' There, there, let it pass. Monsieur de
Charnex — let it pass. I thought you a rogue,
a harbourer of rebels and the like, and found
you an honourable gentleman. Would to the
Lord there were more in France ; they might
all be Count or Baron to the profit of the
kingdom! What! the forest again, and as
silent as yesterday! Are you a huntsman,
De Charnex ?'

' Why, yes, sire, like every country gentleman.
But how can I '

' I know. I know. Listen, Monsieur le Comte '
— and he echoed the Dauphin; 'when I want
gratitude, I will ask for works, not words ; I
will say, " Bring me that rebel, Louis," and you
will do it. Eh, eh ! am I right } But I thought
you a huntsman from the whistle on your
breast.'

' You have a quick eye, sire '—and Beaufoy
lifted the silver call that dangled by a chain
from his neck. ' We woodsmen have need of
such a thing, since to lose one's self in such a
tangle of timber is no hard matter. The sound
of this would be heard half a mile.

Blow it, and let me judge,' cried Charles,
his face aglow with interest, like a child's.

Lifting it to his lips, the Seigneur filled his

ISO THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

lungs with a deep breath for a mighty blast,
then dropped the whistle to its full stretch of
the chain.

' I am no coward, sire,' he said gravely, 'and
yet, I dare not.'

' What ! what ! what ! dare not ? Why dare
not.?"

' Because, sire, when a man calls for nought
in these woods '

' Nought comes,' broke in Dunois.

' By St. Francis, not so !' said Beaufoy ; * but
what may come no man can foretell. Yet, if
the King wills '

' No, no, no !' cried Charles ; ' let the whim
go. Hark", Sancerre, to the wind, how it sighs
and rustles in the grass ! The Saints be praised
there is Christian sunlight in front ! Ride on,
gentlemen. The Lord be thanked for the
sweetness of free air ! Farewell, De Charnex ;
God send whoever comes after me in France
such faithful, honest gentlemen as yourself.
To-night and every night may I have as frank
and trustful a host.'

At a wave of the King's hand the troop
moved on, leaving Beaufoy sitting bareheaded
in the sunlight. For full three minutes he
waited motionless ; then, with a jerk of the
reins, he turned his beast and rode slowly back

THE KING COMES TO BEAUFOY 151

into the forest. At the first great dimness
overhead he halted and looked back across his
shoulder to where the King's troop was fast
being lost in the distance ; then he raised the
whistle to his mouth ; he blew it shrilly.

'Would nought come!' he said grimly,
' Dunois would have thought he had raised the
devil's legions.'

From right and left, out of every bush and
brake and overgrown bunch of grass, with
lance or sword or pike or what-not ready in
their hands, the men of Beaufoy, two hundred
strong, drew in behind him.

• Come, my children,' he cried ; ' the Seigneur
is safe for this time. A man plays none the
worse for having the dice loaded ; but, in His
mercy, may God send us no more kings and
princes.

THE JUSTICE OF BEAUFOY

It was in the time of old Raimond that the
House of Beaufoy rose to the highest point of
its power. As in most affairs of life, a combina-
tion of things good and evil tended to bring this
about.

The good was that for two generations
before him there was peace within the borders
of the Suzerainty, or what in those turbulent
times counted as peace, so that Beaufoy 's men
and the villages that called him lord throve ex-
ceedingly. Herds and flocks increased, corn-
lands grew out of the brushwood of the valley
wilderness, and vineyards pushed their way up
the slopes.

The evil was that Raimond de Beaufoy was
orphaned at twelve months old ; and yet out of
this evil there sprang another good. Bertrand
de Freyne, the little lad's gjardian, was strong-
brained, strong-armed, stout-hearted, and

THE JUSTICE OF BEAUFOY 153

ambitious. From the Chateau he lorded it
like any king ; but h'ke a king also, he let no
man touch his trust, so that under him Beaufoy's
lands crept north and south, and east and west,
and crept fast.

Then, after seventeen years, came another
stroke of fortune to young Raimond. Bertrand
de Freyne caught the small-pox and died in four
days thus leaving the way clear for the young
.Seigneur to step unopposed into his inheritance.
His right was, indeed, indisputable ; but had
Bertrand lived, the heir might have found
himself thrust from his place, and the strong
hand have held what the strong arm won.
Death settled all that.

During these seventeen years young De
Beaufoy received but little training save that of
arms. Busied here and there on the affairs of
the trust, which he had come to look upon as
his own, Bertrand de Freyne had no leisure to
waste upon his nephew's upbringing ; he there-
fore left him to monk, varlet, and squire. These,
in their turn, had no mind to cross the lad. It
is an ill thing for an underling when a lord of
life and death hath a long memory ; so the old
wisdom that the heir, so long as he is a child,
differeth nothing from a servant, was never
learned by Raimond de Beaufoy.

154 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

If that were true while his guardian lived,
how much the more was it true when the
heir had come to his own! And it is to
the Seigneur's credit that at fifty he was
still an honourable gentleman, as the honour
of the times went, though passionate withal,
and holding Raimond de Beaufoy, Sieur of
Mesnil and Count of Charnex, to stand next
to the King in all France. Wherein, in the
personal appraisement, he was like five hundred
more of that hot-tempered and arrogant age.

Seated on a high chair, raised two steps up
from the flagged lloor of the justice-room, the
Seigneur was upholding the dignity of the law
and of Beaufoy, if, indeed, there was any
distinction in his mind between the one and the
other. Behind, and at each side, were half a
dozen men-at-arms, bare-headed, leather -
jerkined, and carrying pikes in their hands.
In front, stretched lengthwise across the hall,
was an oak table, black with age, behind which
stood the culprit, guarded. A slack-shouldered
shambling lellow, with a flabby face, eyes over-
close together, and heavy, thick lips showing
out of a bristle of beard. Midway was a group
of rustics, the witnesses in the case; for the
Seigneur held to. at least, the forms of justice.
Clerk there was none. What need was there

THE JUSTICE OF BEAUFOY 155

of record, since Beaufoy himself was the sole
court of appeal ?

' What art thou, fellow ?*

' A poor goatherd. Seigneur, the Lord knows
how poor.'

•How poor! By my faith, rather a king
among goatherds, since nothing less than
Beaufoy's deer will content thy stomach ' If
goatherds eat Beaufoy's venison, what will their
betters eat? Beaufoy himself ! This must be
stopped.'

•Mercy, Seigneur, mercy!' cried the man
his thick lips all a-tremble. ' It was no more

than a wild thing, and '

' Hearken, fellow.' and for the first time
Beaufoy showed anger. ' Knowst thou that all
that walks on legs on Beaufoy's lands, that
swims with fins in Beaufoy's waters, or flies
with wings in Beaufoy's air. be it tame or wild
man beast, fish, or fowl, is mine ? Wild things!
fool ? It had been a smaller matter hadst thou
slain one of thy common kind. Ye are thick
enough. God wot, for none to grieve at the
thinning. Wild things ? Away with thy chatter
of wild things ! Did that doctrine spread, we
would have thee calling thyself thine own next I
"V ^t Francis, thou shalt hang to prove that,
ast, to be no truth,' and he struck his

156 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

: i

\li^

open palm wrathfuUy on the flat arm of the
chair.

* What is thy name ?'

' Peter, Seigneur, Peter the goatherd ; no
more.'

' A true prophecy.' And Beaufoy laughed
* When I hang thee, thou wilt be Peter the
goatherd no more. Hast thou wife or child ?'

' No, Seigneur, no, but give me time '

' Then there will be fewer to weep,' said
Beaufoy slowly. ' I would set my fief against
a sheep's carcase that thou hast shed other
blood than a deer's in thy day. The Lord
God has written greed, murder, and wanton-
ness across thy face for all to see, and
Beaufoy will be well rid of thee. The sen-
tence is '

But what the sentence was Peter the goatherd
was spared the hearing for that time.

Of a sudden, from without, there arose a
bluster of tongues, a rumble of suppressed
hoarse tones, and rising through it a shrill
outcry that cut its way across the courtyard
clear to the great hall, and closed Beaufoy 's
lips.

* Justice, Seigneur, justice ! Justice and
vengeance! See how they have mishandled
Beaufoy 's man.*

THE JUSTICE OF BEAUFOY 157

Then from the threshold came the shuffle of
feet, the stress and sound of struggle, and a
storm of voices.

' Hold back, fool, and bide thy time.'
' Nay, but this is my time. Would ye hold
back if ye were so mishandled .?'

' But the Seigneur is within, and '

* Ay, he is within, and so am I here. Hold
back ye, rather !'

Again there was the scufiling of feet and the
panting of hard-drawn breath. But Beuufoy
leaped from his chair and cried across the hall,
in a voice that roared the tumult down to
silence :

' Stand aside, fellows ! And do thou come
in, Beaufoy's man. For justice thou criest, and
by the Lord, justice thou shall have I Come
in, I say !'

As Beaufoy ended, the door, which had been
ajar, was flung open, and a man rushed in, half
staggering, and groping v.,th his hands as one
dazed. For a moment h- paused on the threshold
staring wildly ; then, seeing the Seigneur at the
further end of the hall, he ran across and flung
himself at his feet.

' God's grace, fellow ! who hath used thee so .>'
cried Beaufoy, drawing back. ' If it com.es not
of thine own folly, then by St. Francis, my

IS8 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

.81 ■

patron, he should suffer for his vile work, were
he my own son !'

Pantinjf and sobbing, the peasant gripped
hard the Seigneur's chair, and looked up into a
gaze that was half pity, half repulsion— looked
up, gasping and stammering incoherent words ;
for now that he had his heart's desire his speech
failed him.

Well did the poor wretch deserve his master's
compassion. Twice he had been struck, and
the blows driven home by a heavy hand and
with a vicious will. The nose was shattered,
an p- e crushed, the mouth and one cheek no
more than a bloody patch. The hair of the
beard was matted in the drip of the wounds.

'Whose work is this, man.^ Kneel not
there mumming and mewling, but tell thy
tale. Three of you have yon goatherd into
safe keeping. His turn can wait, and by my
faith, it will come soon enough. Now, then,
thy tale.'

' I am a man of Salpice, thy village, Seigneur,
and my wheat is green in the clod. Four
reivers, who call Jean de la Tour master,
turned from the road to ride across it, and as
I caught one by the bridle to force him back,
he smote me twice athwart the face with his
staff. Twice, Seigneur, twice — see!' With

THE JUSTICE OF BEAUFOY 159

B..,. bund, M.nd !• and he fell a-whimpering.
^P^vl^ ^r :i How. for it would be an
;-v..I.^t.rg -Uu. If an honest man hung
-■ ^ rog" ; hV, Beyond the catching his
briJb. .,!.u ';.. d U.St thou.?' ^

^*^^-u;.:. Sdg.eur; by St. Francis of
i>.Tu.— . no.oht. and he smote me twice-

dec .

Tni: ... :;e gaped his mouth to show the
sphntered teeth within, then he reared himself
h.gh on h.s knees, and putting out a shaking
hand, gripped Beaufoy by the foot

• How dost thou know he was Jean de la
lour s man ?'

' There were four of them. Seigneur : one
La Tour's squire-him I know well ; two th^i
followed at his heeU fh,.«, t 1 ,''"'" ^"'^^
flnH fh- '''"'^"^^'s-them I also know well ;
and th.s fellow and all four rode off, hot-
spurred. to their mast s hold. Had they
been masterless men. Se.gneur, I hud paid my

Zir'i ^"^ ^^ ^^'^^^d his hand from
Beaufoy s foot to a woodman's knife that hung
at his girdle. ^

• Ay ' said Beaufoy. ' La Tour's arm is over-

ong for thee, but by St. Francis! mine is

longer. Marmontel,' and he turned to his

squire. ' see to his hurts, and within the hour

1 60 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

let twenty of Bcaufoy's men be in the saddle.
Pikes, Marmontel, broadswords, and a bag or
two of powder. Be at ease, man ; if venj^eancr
can heal hurts, thy sufferings are well-nigh
over.'

An hour later a party of a score strong, with
Beaufoy at its head, and Marmontel half a yard
behind his master's elbow, was riding slowly
over the still wintry fields. There was no
question now of young wheat or newly-planted
vineyard. The Seigneur rode straight forward,
turning neither to the right hand nor to the
left.

' Three leaj^ues, is it not, Marmontel ?' said
he. ' Some fifty minutes' ride, since, with the
day in hand, there is no haste. There will
be no trouble with Jean de la Tour, I take it ?'

' A scant three leagues, Seigneur, and as for
La Tour, he will show fight, for he comes of a
stock with more courage than crowns, and pride
than patience ; but the place is outworn and
ramshackle. My word on it, but he'll fight ;
for he is Lectoure born, and you know the
saying :

* " A Duke of Lorraine, with King for sire,
Hath no more pride than a Gascon squire." *

' Then he may eat his pride,' said the other

THE JUSTICE OF BEAUFOY i6i

grimly ; 'for by St. Francis! I'll have no man
rufflmg It within the four corners of Beaufoy,
be he Gascon or Angoumois.'

Marmontel was right as to the condition of
Jean de la Tour's hold. Fire and time had
left their mark upon its stout walls, and of the
rambhng structure little remained habitable
but the centre portion and its flanking turrets
The wmgs were shattered and roofless ruins

Postmg two men at the rear lest his prey
should break back and escape unchallenged.
Beaufoy bade his troop wait his orders, and
rode forward to the great door alone. With
La Tour he had no quarrel, and if the fellow
who had so mishandled his churl were given
up to his justice, he would turn his bridle and
begone^ with, doubtless, a curt warning to
leave Beaufoy s men unharmed in the future
If La Tour were obstinate, then, by the saints >
the master might pay the man's fault ; and

Uule " ""^^ "'^''^'" ''" "'^"' ^^^"^°>^ ""^'^^
Which it was to be was not long left un-
certam, for while he was still thirty paces off,
Jean de la Tour himself appeared at the open
door: a tall, burly man. smooth-shaven after
the fashion of the day, and some five years
younger than the Seigneur.

i62 THE BEAIJFOY ROMANCES

».

« *

' When Raimond de Beaufoy does a thing,
he does it well,' said he in sour jest. ' Here
have I been four years in my poor house with
never so much as a " God save you !" and now
you come to do me honour with a troop at
your heels.'

' By my faith, you are right,' answered the
Seigneur, ' and what Raimond de Beaufoy has
come to do this day he will do well indeed '
Though it lies in my mind you will find little
of honour in it.'

Sitting back in his saddle, he very curtly
told his story, while Jean de la Tour, three
steps down from his open door, listened with
much outward courtesy.

At the end, ' Give me the fellow and let me
go,' said Beaufoy. ' With you I desire a quarrel
as little as I fear it; but have the man I must and
will. When I have done with him you may
have him back, and welcome.'

' It is long,' answered the other slowly,
' very long, since a man said " I must " to
Jean de la Tour, and the novelty sticks and
is hard to swallow. Besides, in this matter
there is a thing I know and a thing I do not
know. The thing I do not know is that any
man of mine has done you wrong, and the
thing I do know is that if the tale be true, your

THE JUSTICE OF BEAUFOY 163

churl got no more than his deserts. When
Beaufoy comes to La Tour in courtesy and
without " I wills " and " I musts " in his mouth.'
he went on, 'he will ever find an open door ;
but when he comes as to-day the door is better
—thus.'

Turning, he walked leisurely up the steps,
and entering, thrust to the door behind him,
and Beaufoy heard the jar of heavy bolts shot
into their sockets.

* Faith !■ said he to himself, as he rode slowly
back to his waiting troop, ' 'tis a pity, a sore
pity, that the man is a fool ; but there is no
room for both him and me in Beaufoy.'

What followed thereafter, though it cost five
lives, has little to do with the story, and so mav
be briefly summarized. First, a short council.
' Blow me in that door, Marmontel ; or, rather
take two with thee and do it.' So three went
forward where but two came back, for one lay
across the steps with a cracked spine. The
stones of La Tour's parapet were heavy and
loose, easy to his hand, and his aim was sure
Then came a rush under cover of the puno-ent
smoke, a rush that blooded both sides, for^'one
of Beaufoy 's men went down with a pike in his
breast, dragging with him the man who had
thrust It home, and the two, rolling into a

II — 2

' !

■I

(t
»l

164 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

corner, ended their battle in quiet. The rush
carried the entrance, and the guttural curse
and heavy breath as they strove in the narrow
pass were followed by a roar that rumbled the
dust from the rafters of the antique roof of the
great square hall, a roar of hoarse cries, rasped
steel, and shuffling, stamping feet. Then, of
a sudden, there came a great calm.

The strife had been unequal. Two of La
Tour's men were on the floor, the one upon his
face, the other heaped across him and curved
backwards, staring with blind eyes at the dim
roof, and the rest — some four— had, on an
order from their master, flung down their
swords, and were cramped in a corner, sullenly
glaring at Beaufoy like so many wild beasts.
Of Jean de la Tour, dead or alive, there was
no sign.

' Have these four into a sure hold,' cried the
Seigneur, 'but do them no harm. That they
fought, and fought well, for the hand that fed
them, stands to their credit. As for their
master— disperse, fellows, and seek him out.
It does not fit with the honour of Beaufoy
that the man who flouts its justice should
escape scot-free.'

Out of the great entrance-hall a long, narrow
room ran to the north turret. There the

THE JUSTICE OF BEAUFOY 165

Seigneur sat himself down and waited the
result of the search with what patience he
might; nor was his mens diligence unre-
warded. In an upper room they found three
women, two in utter fear, and one in no fear
at all -a well-grown, slender slip of a girl with
a pale face and angry gray eyes, and who met
them with a kind of stern contempt, asking :

' V\ hat brigand's work is this, breaking into
my father's house ?' ^

These they brought to Reaufoy. and were
quickly sent about their business.

'I set ye not to seek women, but a man,' he
sa,d curtly. 'As for the girl, let her bide by
the^w.Pdow there, and these two with her '

For an hour he sat by the table, throwing
a word or two to Marmontel from time to
fme; ihen one by one the searchers returned,
shame-faced and em,, :y handed. The cunning
of Jean de la Tour had been too much for
them.

■There was no bre^l-ng aw.y at the rear,'

-"«u marmontel * BesiHKc F i.„ 1

iiui. uesiaes. 1 know the man ■

he would die like a rat in its hole .-he is, the":
fore, somewhere within the walls. With a
smooth stick and a >ard of whipcord, now '-
and he looked across at the group by the
window— ' we might ' ^

hi »

1 66 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

' Hold thy peace !' answered the Seigneur
sternly. ' When did Beaufoy war on women ?
I n all courtesy, demoiselle ' — and he rose
as he spoke — 'I would have a word with
you.'

' Then it will be the first courtesy Beaufoy
has shown La Tour,' replied she tartly ; 'so, in
all courtesy, let it be brief.'

' What would you have ^ — and he shrugged
his shoulders. ' Men cannot war with perfumed
essences or fools' baubles, nor yet with tongues,
like women.' He stood silent a moment, and
drummed his fingers on the table like a man
thinking deeply. ' Thou art Jean de la Tour's
daughter ?'

' I am Agathe, daughter of Jean, Count de
la Tour.'

'Ay, ay ; a Count of Gascony,'

* A Count of Gascony is the better of any
Seigneur in Angoumois.'

'The better, but not the match' — and the
Seigneur laughed sourly. 'To-day proves
that. Truly thou art thy father's daughter.
Hast thou sister ? — brother ?'

' Neither one nor other.'

• What kindred, then ?'

' None here. Seigneur, or Raimond de Beau-
foy might not have been within La Tour's

I-

THE JUSTICE OF BEAUFOy ,67

walls to-day. In Gascony, perhaps; but-
but '

'Ay. ay; I understand. There is a feud
and not one would have crooked a finger to
keep Beaufoy from where he is. No un
common thing that in France, but it clears
the way.'

Again he stood silent, gnawing his under-
J'P. his gaze wandering slowly from the girl to
the table by which he stood. Suddenly he
straightened himself and looked her full in the
face.

'Thy father— what thinkest thou.? Is he
ahve or dead ? Answer with circumspection ;
for If he be ahve. needs must that we find him.
though we burn the place about his ears ; if he
be dead, or .t is in doubt, that is another matter
1 have no mind to make Beaufoy the poorer by

ijr^^r' ''' ''-''' 'y ^ '^-'-^^^

Jl^'^'/^'V^^' '^" ^""^^'°" ^^^ like the
stroke of a whip upon her flesh, for she first
went pale, then red as fire.

'Think.' said Beaufoy softly^' think well.
Whatever you say I abide by.'

IoZT'^^ '^"^^' ^'' ^^^'' stammered, and

ooKed down upon the floor-' I-I-cannot

tell. Smce the fight I have not seen him alive '

1 68 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

n h

If Si

— and, drawin<r a long breath, she flashed a
look up eagerly at Beaufoy.

' Then ' — and the Seigneur dropped his words
very slowly, one by one — ' for all thou knowest,
he is dead ?*

■ For all I know,' answered she. fetching a
sigh that shook her as the wind a bush — ' for
all I know, he is dead.'

' So ' — and he turned to Marmontel — ' that
ends the matter. Let there be no more search.'

Then he beckoned him to come near, and
for a brief space the two stood in earnest talk.

' Thou hast thy orders,' Heaufoy said at
length. ' See to it that no time is lost. I give
thee two hours, no more. Now be gone.
Some of you there seek out bread and meat ;
our hostess and I would dine. Thou art not
hungry ?' he went on as the girl made a gesture
of dissent. ' Well, well, grief is a great slayer
of appetite. Now, I, I thank the Lord, am
famished, and know it.'

While he dined he talked, and when he had
finished eating he talked, a great flask of
Burgundy wine at his left elbow. A medley of
broken tales, legends of Beaufoy, memories of
dead women ; a courteous flow of words, suave
and smooth, but never once might Agathe de la
Tour or her women quit the room. At last

sill

THE JUSTICE OF BEAUFOY 169

there was the thud of hoof- beats on the turf,
and the loom of half a dozen men riding by in
a bunch.

'On my w(jrd. Marmontel has made good
haste," he said, following the figure;; with his
eyes as they swept past, 'or fair company
makes a short hour.'

Presently the door was opened from without
ar-d the squire appeared, followed by a Fran-
ciscan friar in his gray frock, over whose
shoulder peered the cunning eyes and animal
face of Peter the goatherd.

' Shut the door and keep it fast,' said Beaufoy,
pushing the wine-flagon from him and rising to
his feet. Then he stood thinking, drumming
his finger-tips as before, while the group by the
window eyed the group by the door, all mar-
velling what would happen next.

• Friar,' he went on at last, 'our good friend
Jean de la Tour is, as we believe, dead; and the
demoiselle his daughter has none of her race
nearer than Gascony. 'Tis sorrowful- most
sorrowful— to be thus orphaned; and, failing kin,
I, the Suzerain of Beaufoy, must play guardian
and comforter. So far is clear. Clear also it
IS that I must put her in safe keeping, for the
times are troublous, as one may see in the hall
without.'

i'l-

'70 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

' There is the Convent of Our ' began

Friar Mark as the Seigneur fell silent, but he
got no further.

' Ta, ta, ta, ta ! To send such a face as that
to a nunnery were a fool's work. No, no ; let
the girl be wed. Stand forth, Peter the goat-
herd, for on the word of Bcuufoy thou shalt
have her.'

Shambling in his walk. Peter pushed his
lumbering frame to the front. The terror of
the past hours had told upon him, and the un-
wholesome skin of his flabby cheeks hung in
folds; but now he stiffened himself to a
bolder front, and his narrow eyes were keenly
alert with the furtive watchfulness of a wild
beast. The thing was a jest, no doubt, but who
was he to balk the Seigneur's humour.? Be-
sides, when the Seigneur jested, surely a man's
neck was safe.

'A pretty figure of a man!' said Beaufoy
grimly, and eyeing him as if he were a scabbed
cur. 'Wilt thou have her to wife, rascal.'
Speak, man, and do thy courtesy, or by St.
Francis! Marmontel shall prick thee into words
with his dagger. What ? silent ? Well, words
go for little. Friar, do thou thy part, and
quickly. Beaufoy has need of me.'

' But,' said the monk, hesitating in his sore

'IF HE SO MUCH AS TOUCH ME, I SHALL KILL HIM.'"

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THE JUSTICE OF BEAUFOY 171

quandary, 'the damsel, perhaps, is unwill-
ing?'

' But I am willing,' cried Beaufoy ; 'and that
ends it'

So suddenly had the thing been sprung upon
them, that at the first neither Agathe de la Tour
nor the goatherd grasped Beaufoy's meaning,
but as it dawned upon the man's brain that this
freak had a core of earnest, he advanced towards
the girl with outstretched arms and a broad
laugh upon his great mouth

' Thou,' she cried, ' thou ? Keep back, beast.
If this is a jest, Seigneur de Beaufoy, end it.'

'No jest, by St. Francis!' answered Beaufoy.
'And the end is, thou shalt- marry him.'

' If he so much as touch me, I shall kill him,'

' That is thy affair and his, but when I ride
hence I leave six men behind me, lest the dead
arise.'

' But ' — and her voice ran up quavering and
shrill, as she flung out a hand, pointing at the
goatherd—' it cannot, it cennot be. That thing
— that— that '

• Can it not !' said Beaufoy coldly, ' but I say
it can be, and will.'

' If my father were here

' Ay, but he is dead.'

'It is an infamy, an infamy!' she cried.

172 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

'You— who did not war on women! You—
to take so pitiful a vengeance ! Hear me By
Holy Mary, if that wretch so much as fouls me
with a finger-tip, I'll kill him!'

' Again I say that is his affair. What thinkest
thou of thy bride, goatherd ?'

'That I'll tame her, Seigneur, never fear;'
and he made as if to catch her by the arm.
But Beaufoy's mood had changed.
'Stand back, churl, and bide thy time" he
cried sternly, as the girl shrank from' the
stretched-out hands ; ' she is still a demoiselle
de la Tour. As for the taming. I have my
doubts, but for the third time I say that is thy
affair. Do thou thy part, priest.'

It was a strange ceremony. The man. be-
tween terror and uncertainty, knew not which
way to turn, and stood shuffling his feet and
muttering and murmuring to himself as he
plucked at his ragged beard. The girl, drawn
to the furthest angle of the window, was stand-
ing bolt upright and breathing hard through
her shut teeth, but speaking never a word
Near the two stood the friar, his face full of the
trouble of his spirit, and, save for his voice,
there was a very great silence.

But the silence was not for long. From
behmd Beaufoy there came the grind and creak

THE JUSTICE OF BEAUFOY 173

of warped woodwork moving grudgingly in
unaccustomed grooves, A panel in the wall
was painfully pushed aside, and in the space
appeared Jean de la Tour.

' A miracle !' cried the Seigneur, ' a miracle !'
and he broke into a laugh. ' Friar, thy minis-
trations have raised the dead, and if Paul the
Second does not canonize thee, thou hast lost
thy due I Seize him, two of you, and hold him
last. Now, priest, the bride awaits thee.'

'No, no, no!' cried La Tour. 'Your trap
has caught me; let the bait go free. And
listen, Beaufoy, no man of mine laid hand upon
your churl.'

' What ? Faith of a gentleman, La Tour i*'

' Faith of a gentleman, Beaufoy.'

• Then, by St. Francis ! I had been richer by
two men if you had spoken sooner. Fasten
your loose ends, priest, and quickly. At present
the girl is no more than three parts Madame le
Chevrier. Finish, I say!'

' Beaufoy, Beaufoy, it would be an infamy !
Why, man '

' Put a hand upon his mouth, one of you.
For the last time, priest, finish, I say ! I have
sworn to Peter the goatherd, and I hold to my
oath.'

Again there was a silence, and across it the

174 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

halting, broken voice of the monk. Then it too
ceased, and all was still as a tomb.

• Marmontel,' said the Seigneur softly, but so
that all might hear, 'have yon goatherd out
and hang him, as I swore this morning, so that
men may know the justice of Beaufoy.'

VII

HOW BEAUFOY CURED THE MAD-
NESS OF MESNIL

Thrice during the lifetime of Raimond, Seig-
neur de Beaufoy, was the Suzerainty smitten
by a calamity that was not of war.

Once it was famine, once it was plague, and
once it was the terror of superstition ; and,
grievous as were the first and the second, they
were as a summer storm is to a winter's tempest
compared with the third. Hunger and the fear
of death drew men together, and bound the
high and low by bonds of sympathy and help ;
but the unknown terror sowed suspicion be-
tween friend and friend, rent asunder tenderest
relationships, and set vassal and lord in a sharp
antagonism.

In the face of famine Raimond de Beaufoy
had made common cause with Beaufoy's people,
remitting taxes, emptying granaries, and con-
trolling doles in which he himself took no more

176 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

than a man's share until the grinding necessity
passed, and the whole heart of the Suzerainty
warmed to the lord that shared the sorrows and
losses of his people.

The pestilence which swept the Seigneurie
in '52— the year before the fight of Castillon
put an end to the English wars— had reaped
its harvest chiefly in the villages, setting a pre-
cedent which Paris and the towns of the He de
France followed fourteen years later, when, in
two summer months, forty thousand fell to the
swing of the sickle. If here, again, Beaufoy's
people had full cause to bk^ss the love and
labour of their Seigneur. Raimond de Beaufoy
had his own reason to find a kernel of good in
the bushel of evil, since out of the horrors of
plague and the darkness of mourning he won
his wife, as has been already told.

It was in 1484, the year the Estates met at
Tours, that the blight fell uoon Beaufoy. The
spring had been late and broken, a vicious blaze
of sunshine alternating with biting frosts, so
that the vineyards and the corn-land had alike
suffered. In June a cloud-burst set the rivers
aflood, so that the water stood knee- deep in
the hamlets on their banks, and the lower- lying
pastures became a rotting morass. In July a
thunderbolt struck the church of St. Francis of

THE MADNESS OF MESNIL 177

Beaufoy and shattered its belfry, and later in
the same month the caving in of a quarry
crushed three men of Charnex into a grim
parody of humanity. In August the mildew
corrupted the poor remnants of the frosted
vineyards, and an ergot devoured the weak
ears of corn. In September a murrain seized
upon sheep and catde, and byre and field were
swept with the besom of death. Strange sick-
nesses, or what to credulous ignorance seemed
strange, broke out in every village, and from
April to late autumn the months were punc-
tuated by accident and fatality.

No one of these disasters was strange to
Beaufoy. Blight, storm, sickness, and sudden
death were old enemies, but all focussed on one
bitter summer overbore reason, and so it came
that from whispers men in their terror called
aloud ' Witchcraft !' and the Suzerainty was in
a ferment of unrest and suspicion.

From the peasants it spread to the Chateau.
' A pack of fools, Marmontel !' said Beaufoy
wrathfully. 'Did lightning never blaze in
Angoumois before i*'

'Ay, Seigneur; but to kill a priest '—and
the squire shook his head solemnly— ' that
truly was the work of the devil.'

' And since when have you been so fond of

-/^"w*

178 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

a monk ?* scoffed his master. ' Why, man, I
have known you threaten to hang one in his
own girdle ; and you would have done it, too,
had I but nodded. Does a gray frock charm a
man, forsooth, that a thunderbolt shall not
harm him ? A pack of fools, I say again— a
pack of fools !'

' But, Seigneur, look at the com and
wine '

' I would to the Lord we could ! Now, that
is serious. A monk, more or less, we could
spare, but scant bread and spoilt drink hit us
sorely.'

' Did I not say so ?' cried Marmontel, press-
ing forward in his eagerness. ' It is witchcraft,
Seigneur, and until fire has swept Beaufoy there
will be no man safe.'

' Tush !'— and Raimond de Beaufoy beat his
hand on the table by which he sat. ' Was it
witchcraft four years back when the wheat
rotted in the wet ? Was it witchcraft or a May
frost the year before when the vines went black
in a night ? Was it witchcraft or a fool's choice
of a site that drowned Bourjeu in the river's

overflow ? Was it witchcraft But there, a

pack of fools, brainless as hares ! As for fire,
I know what you would be at, Marmontel : you
would have me set stake and pile faggot, and so

THE MADNESS OF MESNIL ,79

burn incense to the devil. But I'll l,ave none
of tliat, and tlie man who take, the law into his
own hands must deal with Raimond de Beaufoy.

You and they have gone craved, Marmontel ;
but I have med.c,ne will cure you all, and tha
you had better tell them. When the pCe

n the"!; r *" "° r' "' ^'^>""g '^<= '-"'
m the quakmg wretches save the way that

Madame, my w.fe, took ; and may God remember

■t to her m H,s mercy, as I have no doubt He

has^and w.ll ; for when they saw a white-faced

TiT she^did""""^'' "'T " """^"'' -" -'-
as ,f she d,d no more than her house duties in

the m.ds. of her maids, they took heart in "he^
But th,s s a new terror, and needs a new cure

To d and b •'" "° ""^" ''"'^ R°d and
cord and brandmg ,ron for the good of their

»uls these, fr,end Marn,on.el, are the drugs

.h::: rstifbVrn^dst:::?.'""'- "-^-'^ "^

But, Seigneur, the witchcraft -'

and wa°?Ir"wha:Th ""^ ""'"""' ™"
.wi,ldo,forallmy^ttJsctV„dZeT:l:°

12—2

,a»P

1 80 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

' Ay,' said Mxrmontel in his beard as he
tramped away from the justice-room, across the
broad hall, and down the corridor to his
quarters ; ' but, by reason of those same nine-
and-sixty years, the Seigneur knows less of
Beaufoy and its temper than I do. 'Tis a pity
the Sieur Franqois is away earwigging the
young King. He would do more for the
Suzerainty here on the spot than he will in
Paris. A plague upt)n Paris ! a plague on the
Seigneur's temper ! a plague upon this devil's
work abroad ! a plague on the Lord knows
what all !'

But though he gnawed his moustache in his
vexation, he spoke no word aloud, for Beaufoy 's
men had a wholesome fear of the wrath and
justice of their master.

Four days later the storm broke.

' I am your man, Seigneur,' said Marmontel,
with a sullen look on his face that was not wont
to be there. ' For seven generations, or,
maybe, eight, I and mine have served you and
vours ; and so, though I think the folk are
right, I tell you there is bad work over at
Mesnil. Mind, I say again, I think the folk
are right ; but if there was a burning at Mesnil
and you not toId> you would say I was no true
servant to Beaufoy."

THE MADNESS OF . .£SNIL ,8,

The Ser^neur was seated under the shadow
of the great oak that grew to the south of the
justicc-roon,. and as he looI<ed out into he

* What !• said he, ' has a cow shppcd its calf
or anoter barrel of ale gone sou'? WaitU i
the cool, iMarmontel.'

cur.lv ''™"'^"' ^^«neur; answered the Squire

whether „ be for hate, greed, or witchcraft.' '
Murder and at IWesnil ?• and Beaufoy
straightened himself in his chair. ■ Come^
he wen. on sternly, 'is .his „o. more of y^ur
fools terror? '

ButX Ir " J?" ~"'""P'- • ' "ow not.
Hut .he follt at Mesnil are wild, and lean
Troyes is wildest of all Can , nJn n
Mm > A son born to him .wo w^kTrgoTe:
^r 'r.°'P^'''^- and now made away

'Wh,it! On a Beaufoy?

•Il'^^flT"'* Marmontel laughed bitterly

aV le^ 'Irf fki:".?r ' • ^'^ ^"^ P°°'
are akin to the rich in the love of

Ill

182 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

,:ts

.Hit;
1

father and child. The Mesnil folk are men
and women as well as we.'
' And what of Troves' lad ?'

• Last night he was there ; this morning the
father left mother and babe asleep, and when
she woke he was gone, .^nd without a trace.
Gone, Seigneur— a two weeks' babe. What is
that but witchcraft ?'

For a moment Reaufo\ was staggered, and,
as the vague terror that was abroad in the land
seized him, his face went as white as his peaked
beard. Then he rallied.

' They have searched ?'

•Oh, ay,' answered Marmontel grimly,
' wherever a two weeks' babe could hide
himself, but the y found nothing. Marie Bische
took care of that.'

• Marie Bische .'*'

• Marie Pische, Seigneur. Listen,' and Mar-
montel ticked his points off on his fingers.
' Four months ago, Theuret, the miller, gave
her short weight and she cursed him. The
mill-dam burst, and left naught behind it but
the great grindstones. In June, Gillem, the
waggoner, drank her wine, and would pay
naught. She cursed him, and three weeks after
he was drowned at the ford. They say he was
in liquor, but what of that? He is dead. Five

1 1

THE MADNESS OF MESNIL ,83

days ago. Friar Hugues rebuked her, and
sharply^ too, that .he never went to confession
Fnar Hugues ,s dead of a thunderbolt. Yester'
day the woman Troyes cried out upon her for a
wach. and to-day the woman Troyes is ch^M
less. Is not all that witchcraft > Small wonder
Mesmliswild! Well. God be praised, shel
work no more wickedness I'
' How .?'

. • Because,' said Marmontel coolly, and look-
ing up at the sun to reckon the hour as he

not h'' 't r '^"^^' 'y ^^'^- They dared
not burn her lest it take too much time.'

And you.; cried Beaufoy furiously, 'have
FrlTs— • " '^'' ^' ^ ''' P"^P-^ •' % St

nau!l!^' s""' "''■ "'"^ Marmontel. 'Swear
naught, Seigneur, swear naught I I toM v^..
the folk were right.' * y"""

' P'-^y God they may still think so when I
am done with them!' answered Beaufoy be
tween his teeth « Ar.^ r .. ^

for forgiveness seel", '"'"■ '' >'°" ^"^'^

The narrow byway which made up the one
dirty street of Mesnil was in a ferment and
even the un.ooked-for and r.nwelcome p In e
of the Se,g„eur, with ten men at his back, did

184 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

no more than quell in part the uproar. From
a dozen jostling groups came the babble of
many tongues, with here and there a woman's
shrill voice screaming high above the conflict
of words. No one gave heed to the other,
and all emulously pushed, chattered, and cried
in the useless endeavour to secure an audience.
At the clatter of hoofs, the tumult slackened
and the groups drew together, as if to gain
strength by numbers. No one spoke aloud,
but the crowd whispered and muttered as it
surged in the jaws of the dusty street, and the
looks that met Beaufoy were both sullen and

defiant.

For his part, he had no thought either to
conciliate or to temporize, and came straight
to the point. Halting three paces from the
crowd, he faced it sternly.

• No lying now, fools ! Where is Marie

Bische ?'

Then indeed there was a silence, and the
eyes that had met his were turned aside. It is
easier to do a fellow to death in heat than tell
of it in cold blood, and for answer they stared
at one another and were dumb. Besides, who-
ever spoke might have to bear the brunt of the
act of all.

• You had tongues enough to wake the dead

THE MADNESS OF MESNIL ,85

five minutes back, and to use them now will be
your wisdom. Where is Marie Bische ?'

Then that happened which nine times out
of ten happens in a mixed crowd— a woman
answered, and, though she spoke from behind
and in concealment, it was a woman's courage,
and not a man's.

' Tongues, sure enough, Raimond de Beaufoj ,
but not tongues that could wake Marie Bische,
the witch. As to where she is, ride on and find
her, for she's plain to be seen.'

•Go thou, Marmontel,' said the Seigneur
curtly.

Then he sat back in his saddle, and the two
groups faced one another, silent, in the sun-
light.

Round between the houses went the squire
in haste. He knew Beaufoy well, and the set
hardness of his face frightened him. Had he
been hot with wrath, there would have been
hope for the men of Mesnil, since, even in his
anger, reason would move the Seigneur. Here
there was no anger, and so the mood was
dangerous. More than that, Marmontel knew
the people as few knew them, and to him they
were so much stubble waiting a spark to set
the blaze roaring. Let Beaufoy strike in his
present mood, and the spark would fall.

;:! t\

1 86 THE BEAUKOY ROMANCES

Under five minutes he was back again, and,
save for the shuffle of feet in the dust and the
rattle of steel bits as the horses tossed their
heads amongst the crowds of flies that worried
them, there had been silence.

• Well ? Briefly now."

• Dead, Seigneur. I told you how it would
be. You can see t! e top of the oak above the
thatch there to the left.'

'Take four of these slayers of women and
bind them. Men, I mean, though I doubt not
the women did their part. Trust a woman to
spite a woman. Four, and neither pick nor
choose. For Beaufoy's sake, I cannot hang
all Mesnil, so four will suffice. Now, hearken !
So sure as there is no witchcraft in this thing,
you four hang. By St. Francis of Beaufoy, I
set my oath to that! Where is the house of
this Jean Troyes ? Babes of even no more
than two weeks' age cannot slip out of the
world and leave no trace behind. Two of you
guard these fellows, and, for your own sakes,
guard them wel . The rest follow.'

To the right there was a broad stretch of
pasture-land, seared into a brown crispness by
the strong August heat. Across this rode
Beaufoy, led by half a dozen of the villagers and
followed by his troop, with the rest of Mesnil

THE MADNESS OF MESNIL 187

stragglin- at their horses' heels. An oak, a
chestnut, or an elm broke the level of the grass,
with here and there a thick«t where a small
underwood of hazels and beech was bound into
a tangle by a thick growth of brambles. In
the shelter of one of these was a thatched
hut.

' See,' said one of the women over her
shoulder, and pointing ahead with a lean arm,
' Jean Troyes lives there.'

For answer, Beaufoy nodded, and, without
halt, the troop moved forward. Once at the
hut-door, there was a pause and a scatterin^r.
Mesnil had done the Seigneur's will, but
Mesnil had no interest in the result ; the thin-
was witchcraft, and so the interest of Mesnil
was under an oak half a league away.

'Now,' said lieaufov, dis.mounting, 'search!
Two of you take the house in hand ; - rest
spread and make a cast in a circle, v jning
the circuit with each round,' and he turned into
the hut.

At the door he met Jean Troyes and his
wife, their faces stolid and expressionless.
Amid the hard necessities of a peasant's life
there was no room for violent joys or sorrows,
or, if they were there, the exprcosion of them
did not come easy. Where the stomach is

|:'

•ji i!.

f I
•' if

If {■<■

1 88 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

importunate, its cries drown the insistences of
the passions.

In reply to the Seigneur the tale was told by
the man briefly enough, boldly even in its curt-
ness — the woman standing by him while he
spoke.

'So,' said Beaufoy when he finished, 'you
left the two asleep, the mother and child.
Within an hour of going out to the sheep you
were back, and the boy was missing. How far
is the nearest water .'''

' A well. Seigneur ?'

'No, a river.'

' A league, Seigneur, a league, no less ; for,
see you, the streams are dried, and '

' Ay, I know. That settles it. Be at ease,
mother ; the little lad is not far off.'

As if to prove him a prophet, at that moment
Marmontel came panting in, a pitiful tiny
bundle of coarse but clean linen cloth in his
hands ; and at the sight of it the woman gasped
and staggered, clinging to Jean Troyes for
support.

' It was in the thicket. Seigneur, laid away
amongst the dry bracken, and '

' Ay, ay, ay !' said Beaufoy, with his hard
eyes on the mother. ' I guessed something of
the sort. Lay it on the settle yonder and get

THE MADNESS OF MESNIL 189

you gone. Shut the door behind you, and see
to it that those gaping fools keep their distance.'
Then, as the door closed more softly than was
the squire's wont, he cried, ' Ho ! Marmontel !
you heard my oath anent those four.? Aye .^
Then do justice.'

' But, Seigneur '—and Marmontel halted, half
within and half without, so that through the
slant in the door the sunlight above his head
stream' . in on the linen bundle — 'there is
danger, and I would advise '

But Beaufoy rounded on him with a snarl :

' Who art thou to advise ? Do thou as thou
art bid, lest the four be made five.'

And, knowing Raimond de Beaufjy as he
did, Marmontel slipped out into the sunlight
very quietly and with a white face.

' Hearken !' said the Seigneur to the two who
were left, but with his eyes on the woman
rather than on the man. ' Of evil intent in this
I acquit you both ; and you, Jean Troyes, I
acquit of all knou ledge, good or bad. Now,
dame, tell your tale, and this time let it be
the truth. So far you have lied, and five have
died, or are dying, for the lie— though, for that
matter, the four will get their desei ts and no
more. Again, I say, the truth I'

For a moment she stood silent, breathing

I I

hi''

: t'

i.i;

»3

t' \

190 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

hard, and her hands clenching and unclenching
in her trouble of spirit. Then she dropped on
her knees, but not to the Seigneur. Gripping
Jean Troyes by the arm, she buried her face in
his rough sleeve and fell a-sobbing.

' I had no thought of evil to another,' she said
between her sobs, * only — only — I feared to lose
your love. You were so bound to the little lad.
I loved him too. For fifteen years I yearned
for a babe, and God knows I lov^ed him ; but
you were dearest, and my heart was sore lest
you would hate me.'

Lifting her head, she looked up at him, dry-
eyed, but her mouth worked as if with a palsy,
and her fingers plucked and fondled his sleeve
in her agony of loss and apprehension. On his
part, from his six feet of height Jean Troyes
looked down at her stolidly. This passion was
a thing beyond his comprehending, and her
words touched his dull wit but slightly. Not
so with Beaufoy. His face darkened, and it
was with hot wrath in his eyes that he turned
upon her.

• What i*' he cried ; ' you killed the babe lest
it come betwixt the father's love and '

' No, no, no !' she screamed. ' Never believe
it, Jean. I overlaid the child, and dared not
tell you the truth. Never the other, never

THE MADNESS OF MESNIL 191

the other. You believe me, Jean, you be-
lieve me?'

' Oh, ay, I believe you,' he answered heavily ;
'but it's the Seigneur's mercy we're not all
hanged for your foolishness."

Whereat she broke out weeping in earnest,
and fell to mumbling his hand, as a dog might.
Half an hour later, when Beaufoy rode once
more into Mesnil, the crowd was still there,
though not, as before, massed in the roadway,
but gathered in four separate groups about as
many doors, because of the mourning within.
Midway between these were his men, silent and
sullen. Their sympathies lay with the towns-
folk, and but for discipline, self-interest and a
wholesome fear, Raimond de Beaufoy would
that hour have had a revolt upon his hands.
Even as it was, a murmur of hate and wrath
greeted him from these four centres as he drew
bridle.

' Is all done as I bade ,''' he said curdy to
Marmontel, heeding the peasants not at all.
' Then let us ride on ; but not to Beaufoy, lest
these fools think we fear them, and fly for
shelter.'

So out of the further end of the village they
rode at a slow trot, and on for a mile or two
towards Grandfrai. Then the Seigneur curved

19a THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

».?

t' i

round to the left, and took his way leisurely
back to the Chdteau. Presently he called
Marmontel.

'Tell me of this Marie Bische, who was she?'

*A widow, Seigneur, and until these things
— that is, until — I mean, she was accounted
harmless enough. She lived yonder ;' and he
pointed ahead to a hamlet that lay by the river's
bank on the left, and a scant half-league from
Mesnil. ' She had one daughter, Jeanne, who
six months ago married Pierre Lange, and all
three dwelt together. Folks say that between
mother and daughter there was but little to
choose, and that for these weeks past Jeanne
has gone as one who dreamed dreams, that she
shuns the neighbours, and sits in corners
mouthing to herself.'

• Saints give me patience !' cried the Seigneur
testily. ' Has Beaufoy gone mad ? If there
were no such witches in France, God help the
generation to come! But look, Marmontel,
yonder to the left ; what fresh folly is this ?'

They had forded the river and ridden up the
slope which further on led to the Chateau.
Now, as Beaufoy turned in his saddle and
pointed to the cluster of houses where had lived
the unhappy Marie Bische, it was clear there
was some excited stir afoot. The river-bank

THE MADNESS OF MESNIL 193

was thronjjed, and through the quick shifttngs
of the crowd they could see a woman being
dragged to the water's edge. Then there was
a pause, an instant's struggle, and a scream as
the poor wretch was flung headlong into the
current.

' By St. Francis, it is Jeanne Lange !' cried
Beaufoy. 'The mother first and now the
daughter. Ride, fellows, ■ '^\ I would not
have her drown for the Se\^ ::urie itself.'

Down the slope they cantered, and, fast as
they rode, the black ball that swung so help
lessly in the current came well-nigh as fast to
meet them, while along the further bank ran the
crowd, keeping pace with its victim and shout-
ing curses as it ran.

' Let her be I' they cried, as they came abreast
of the horsemen. * Let her be ! 'Tis her due
and no more, for she has confessed.'

But Beaufoy never halted. Gripping the
saddle hard with his knees, he gave his beast
the spur and plunged in a dozen yards below
the drowning woman, and, swimming into mid-
stream, waited for her.

'Your hand! For the Lord's sake, your
hand I' he shouted as she came near.

But the white face rolled under as he spoke,
and he had scant time to catch her by the skirts

194 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

'^I:;:

\ :»

h H

as she swept past. After that it was no more
than a stout horse's work to find the bank, and
in five minutes she was gasping for breath
on the dry turf, wet as a draggled hay-wisp,
but none the worse. Then it was plain why
the Seigneur's cry had gone unheeded : her
hands were bound fast by the thumbs behind
her back, so fast that the flesh stood level with
the cord.

A frail slip of a girl she was, for all her wife-
hood, and looked the frailer for the close cling-
ing of her sodden garments. Her hair had
come unbound in the struggle and was wisped
in wet tangles about her face, so that, as she
stood in the sunlight, whimpering, she looked
like some water-pixie dragged out unwillingly
to the solid earth,

• Off with you, Marmontel, and cut the cords !'
said Beaufoy. ' Witch forsooth ! She's but a
half-grown child ! Look at her mouthing her
swollen thumbs, just like a babe !'

•But. Seigneur," answered Marmontel. slipping
his dagger back into its sheath, ' she confessed.
Hear them clamouring yonder.'

The Squire was right. Clamouring they were,
and could words have killed, there would have
been an end to the reign of Raimond de Beau-
foy. But the clamour was not merely curses

THE MADNESS OF MESNIL 195

and threatening, but the sharp insistence that
the woman had indeed confessed.

• Ay, ay, I hear !' said the Seigneur. ' What
of this confession, woman ?*

Then the white face flamed red, and, ceasing
her whimpers, Jeanne Lange pressed forward
' > Beaufoy's knee.

• It is true. Seigneur,' she whispered under
her breatli, and stammering as she spoke. * It
is true I said so, and yet it was a lie. Look at
them, the brute beasts ! I am a woman, and
they would have searched me for the witch-
mark openly and in God's light — me, a woman !
Could I face the shame of it ? Better drown
than that ; so I lied.'

• By St. Francis of Beaufoy, a brave wench,
and a good lie !' he cried. ' Do you hear, fellows .-*
A brave wench, I say, and had I a daughter
she would have done no less in a like case.
Have her up behind you, Marmontel, and set
her in charge of the castle maids v/ith all haste.
To-morrow '— ;ind leaningf back in his saddl ,
he shook his fist towards the howling mob- -
'to-morrow I will settle with these scum. A
brave wench ! God send Beaufoy a hundred
more such witches !'

But as they rode up the slope. Marmontel
thought in his heart that the reckoning between

13—2

f ;

-i

196 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

Mesnil and its lord might come sooner than the
Seigneur counted upon, and after a different
manner than he supposed. When the madness
of terror is added to sore hearts and hot blood,
he would be a rash man who set a limit to the
risks.

And Marmontel was right in his forebodings.
Dusk had no more than half fallen when the
guard that kept watch by the tower that over-
looked the great gate in the outer circuit of
walls sent in hot haste for the Squire, with such
news that he, in turn, sought his master, breath-
less and as near terror as was in his nature.

'All Beaufoy's afoot!' he cried, breaking in
on the Seigneur with scant ceremony. ' Not
Mesnil alone, but Beaufoy from east to west ;
and what can we do with our dozen men-at-arms?
The slope is black with them.'

But it took more than a threat of siege to
move the Seigneur. At nine-and- sixty the fires
have cooled, and it takes a strong blast to set
them glowing. The natural forces, too, are
abated, and after such a day as he had passed,
small wonder if Beaufoy's nerves and muscles
were alike slack.

' Chut !' said he. ' A handful of peasants
with their bellies full of sour wine ! What can
they do, poor fools ?'

THE MADNESS OF MESNIL 197

' A handful of peasants !' echoed Marmontel.
'By my faith, Beaufoy's i...-!i have shown
before this what a handful of peasants were
worth when their blood was hot! Am I a
coward, Seigneur, to be frightened by a handful
of peasants ? But this is serious, for they have
their womenfolk with them, and even a rabbit
will fight when the doe looks on. And here
are we, short-handed, with half our men inlaying
fool in Paris at the heels of the young Sieur.
We must make terms, Seigneur, and promptly,
or Beaufoy burns, that's sure.'

• Terms ?' cried the Seigneur sharply, a world
of scorn in his voice. • Terms ? What terms
babbler ?'

' There is the wench ' began Marmontel,

and as he spoke he had the grace to grow
shamefaced, and the discretion to look aside.
But he got no further than the four words when
the Seigneut stopped him with a gesture, plain
even to his discreetness.

• Look you,' said he, leaning across the table
at which he sat, and speaking very slowly, ' I
would not give up a hair of her head to these
rogues to save Beaufoy root and branch. What,
man ! She is my guest, and, by St. 1' rancis,
a guest is safe at Beaufoy, whether crowned
King or helpless wench ! You mean well,

'11

198 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

Marmontel, so I pardon you ; but a nicer sense
of what fits with Beaufoy's honour would mend
the future. Now, keep your wits clear. How
many are there ?'

' It is hard to guess, Seii^neur. There aie
scores here and scores there, and they flit
about like rabbits in a warren ; but there are
enough.'
' Armed ?'

' Peasant fashion, Seigneur - sickles, scythes,

flails, with here and there a pike. But these go

for naught — they threaten fire.'

' There are women, you say ?'

' Ay, Seigneur, and worse than the men in

their ravings. There are the wives of those

four '

Beaufov nodded.

' I know. My conscience is easy there ; they
got their deserts. Onct- let lawlessness spread
in the Seigneurie, and there would be more than
four widows set wailing. As for the women,
they have my pity, for to them come the
struggle and sorrow. I know enough. Let us
go to the gate.'

Lifting his sword from the table, Beaufoy
buckled it on in silence, and spoke no more
until they were midway across the space that
lay between the Chateau and the outer walls.

THE MADNESS OF MESNIL 199

Then he paused and laid his hand on the other's
shoulder.

• If evil comes of this night's work, and you
live through it, say this to Francois, my son :
" Deal gendy with these poor folk ; they cannot
see as we see, and are mad with terror and loss,
else Beaufoy's walls had never heard what they
hear now. Let him shed ^^ little blood as may
be, and show love and men rather than a hard
rule." I, perhaps, have been rough at times,
and it is borne in upon me that what I forget
God Almighty keeps in mind. You under-
stand.? Tut, tut! why should a man whinge
like a girl ? Hark to the wretches ! They
howl like a pack of wolves with a deer at
bay!'

•What can touch you that does not touch
me, Seigneur ?' cried Marmontel, with a shake
in his voice, ' and what am I and mine here for
but that you and yours may live ?'

' Remember, nevertheless,' answered Beati-
foy, and strode onward to the great gate.

There he halted ; and when he cried in his
stern arrogance. ' Get you back fifty paces, all of
you. while I come without !' the habit of obedi-
ence was so strong that the tide of wrath rolled
backward down the slope, and the mob kept its
ground below like a wild beast straining on its

200 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

. ^1.

in
fl!

chain, but curbed back by the strength of the
links.

Bidding the guard unlock a postern and close
it fast behind him again, Beaufoy went two
yards forward alone, and then paused. So for
the time the two stood silent, t" mob and the
one man facing it, silent except for mutterings
and that subtle, nameless sound that always
comes from numbers. In spite of their widely
differing strength, each knew and respected the
other's powers. It was tlie man who spoke
first.

' My children *

But from the mass below, black and solid in
the quick growth of the night, there came back
a sharp snarl like the outcry of a kennel of
hounds, and above the uproar a voice — a
woman's voice — answered, clear and shrill, one
word, and one only :

• Hangman !'

*Come back, Seigneur!' cried Marmontel
softly ; ' come back and let us parley ; they
mean murder !'

But Beaufoy gave no heed, or, if he heard,
his answer was to go forward another ten
paces down the slope. Then those behind him
saw him iling his open hand up and hold it
there commanding silence ; and when he spoke

O
X

<
z

■Ji

El]

s
a"
o

c«
X

tltl •,

Mil

THE MADNESS OF MESNIL 201

again, there was that in his voice compelling
obedience. It was no longer the father to the
children, but the master to the servants. For
five, seven, ten minutes he went on ; and when
he ceased, those who listened had heard the
tale of false witchcraft, of Marie Bische and of
Jeanne Lange, fully told.

' Now,' cried he when he had made an end
of the telling, ' hearken, you men ; for to you I
speak, and not to these silly women, who under-
stand reason no more than does a sheep. What
is it you want that Beaufoy can give ?'

From right and left, and here and there in
the shadows of the crowd, came the answer :
' Jeanne Lange, the witch !'

' Women's voices, every one,' said Beaufoy,
' and, what is more, you know she is no witch.
But I asked you, " What can Beaufoy give ?"
Beaufoy cannot give Jeanne Lange, for Jeanne
Lange stands for Beaufoy's honour. I and
mine will die first. Answer, Beaufoy's men !'

And a voice shrieked out of the darkness,
* Give yourself, murderer I'

• A woman again,' said the Seigneur. ' Does
she speak for you, Beaufoy's men ? Do you
take Raimond de Beaufoy in quittance for
Jeanne Lange ? Good !'

Drawing his sword, he snapped it across his

f,\

l\H

202 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

knee and flung the halves behind him ; then he
strode down the slope.

From below came the sudden buzz of many
voices, and through the gloom the Seigneur
could see the black mass of the crowd heave
and sway in its agitation. Then it broke in
the centre to let him pass, and closed in behind,
thronging him; but the hands that grasped
him were friends' hands, and the arms flung
about him were friends' arms, and the roar that
filled the night was as of one voice, ' Long live
Beaufoy !'

' My children, my children !' he cried ; ' now
and always the children of my love !'

Thenceforward, if what the chronicler says
be true, there was no more talk of witchcra^
within the four corners of the Suzerainty.
Beaufoy had cast it out the night he offered his
life for that of Jeanne Lange.

BEAUFOY'S TOKEN

Upon all the hill-slopes that fell away from the
stretch of level turf where stood the Chateau of
Beaufoy, upon the fat cornfields and vigorous
green vineyards, upon the dull circuit of woods
that lay in the far, very far, distance, the May
sunshine was gracious and gay. Even the gray
walls, mossy with age towards the north and
west, were smothered in brightness, against
which the huge shadow of Beaufoy Oak fell in a
sprawling black blur.

Beaufoy Oak was older than Beaufoy Castle
by many a year, ai. i yet the great pile dated
back close on four centuries, to the time of
Louis the Young. It stood to the south of the
ChSteau, and between it and the great circuit of
walls which, gripping Beaufoy in mighty arms
of stone, held their nursling safe against many
a desperate assault. They were not always
loved, these great lords who called themselves
Sieurs of Mesnil and Counts of Charnex, and

N, M

204 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

but few generations passed in which they had
not had to fight for bare life itself

Doubtless, being who and what they were,
they carried things with a high hand, their
justice knowing little of mercy and much of
revenge, but to their credit be it said they
were this much better than their neighbours,
in that they curbed their greed, seeking wealth
neither by aggression against the strong
nor by spoliation of the weak. Woe to the
fox who held back from Beaufoy Beaufoy's
rights ! But equal woe to the wolf that harried
Beaufoy's chickens ! The Seigneur had a long
arm, a longer memory, and a deadly patience.
Sooner or later fox or wolf paid through his
skin.

Where the black shadow of Beaufoy's Oak
fell deepest and blackest were the long, narrow
windows of the Justice-room, a dismal, sombre
place, that was a fit stage for the scenes enacted
upon its tlags. Here it was Raimond de Beau-
foy's custom to hold his court day by day, and
here on this May morning in 1490 he listened
to a tale that whipped even his age into a storm
of wrath.

Charnex, from whence the Beaufoys drew
their title of Count, had been harried in the
night, and upon the nearest to his hand —

I 't.

BEAUFOY'S TOKEN

205

and his body-squire- the old Seigneur had let
loose his wrath.

' But, Seigneur,' cried Marmontel, • is it my
fault that Charnex is burnt ?'

' But, fool,' cried back Raimond de Beaufoy
furiously, ' is it my fault ? Must I play watch-
dog while you sleep ?' And he struck the haft
of his dagger angrily on the oak table by which
he sat, and glared up at the Squire.

' By your leave, Seigneur, one minute. Last
night '

• Last night ?" broke in the old Sieur. ' Quit
last night and come to this morning. To my
men of Charnex last night and this morning are
as far apart as life and death. Come to to day,
I say.'

' To-day, Seigneur,* answered Marmontel
sullenly, ' there are five widows in Charnex.'

'Ay, five— five, and who killed my men,
Marmontel, and where wert thou at the
killing ?'

• If you would but listen. Seigneur. It was
like this. Last night '

' The saints grant me patience with thee and
thy last nights! There, go thy own way.'
And Beaufoy sprang to his feet and fell to
pacing the flags his white peaked beard
wagging in his ill-suppressed wrath.

2o6 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

( '

' Tis shorter so, Se' leur, for I and words
have little acquaintance.

' Ay, and thou and deeds less,' scoffed Beau-
foy, 'or there had been fewer widows in
Charnex.'

* Last night,' went on Marmontel, holding
doggedly to his point, ' word came from Mesnil,
seven leagues to the east, tiiat '

• That led thee on a shadow-hunt, while
Charnex, two leagues to the west, was harried I
Well, between the coward and the fool, I choose
the fool. Hadst tho". h'"n poltroon, Marmontel,
Beaufoy's Oak had borne fruit ere nightfall, for
all that thee and thine have served me and mine
for seven generations. Would to the Lord I
had twenty years back, I would so misuse these
widow- makers that all Angoumois would shiver
at Beaufoy's vengeance as it did three-and-
twenty years back. It grinds my very soul to
be so broken and outworn. God! give me
twenty years, twenty years !' and he smote his
palms together in his passion.

' God grant us the young Sieur !' answered
Marmontel 1 luntly. 'That prayer is more to
the purpose.'

Raimond de Beaufoy halted abruptly in his
wrath, and swung round furiously on the Squire.

•What?' he cried. 'You dare? You.?

BEAUFOY'S TOKEN

ao7

Listen to me. There are five lying dead thert;
at Charnex, and I would not crook that finger
to hold back Franqois de Bcaufoy from making
a sixth with them. He sought to come to his
own over-early, did Francois de Beaufoy. and,
by the Lord ! he learned who was Seigneur.
Let him starve where he will ; I am done with
him ! Now, Marmontel, as to Charnex i**

'As to Charnex,' replied Marmontel, ' I say
again, had we the young Sieur back, there
would be no need to talk of Charnex. You
can kill me. Seigneur, but that's the truth, and
for my part I holti it was lies they told you, and
the lad meant no more than to set his youth
between your age and the troiiLles of such a
heavy handful as Beaufoy is at times. Lies
grow like a toadstool. Seigneur, and he who
swallows them may look to be poisoned.

•As to Charnex, what happened was this:
The beasts were housed, the folks abed, and
Charnex as dark as a three-quarters moon would
let it be, when some horsemen clattered in — a
dozen say some, some twenty, others two score.
You know how it is, Seigneur: thf poor souls
were wild with terror, and beyonc. counting.
For my part I think there was a scant half-score.
It was the beasts they were after, and not many
of them — a few sheep and a bullock or two.

iUi

hi:

208 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

Would to the Lord they had let them go! it
had been cheaper. But Charnex holds what
Charnex has, so they made a fight for it, half
dressed as they were, and ill-armed, and in the
scuffle five poor fellows lay down who will never
get up again. Then — how, none could tell me —
a torch was flung in the straw of a byre, and in
an hour half Charnex was burnt.'

' So ? And which way did the rogues go i**
' To the north, Seigneur.'
' And not more than a dozen of them ?'
' A scant half-score, Seigneur. I counted
the horse-tracks.'

' But they may hpve split their party ?'
' You called me a fuol a while back, Seigneur,
but I am not so great a fool as that. There
were ten at the outside.'

• And how many have we in the castle ?'

' Five times that. Seigneur ; for since the

young Sieur left you have doubled '

' Ay, man, I know, I know. Ten followed at
his heels, and the other dozen I flung out. I
will have no traitors in Beaufoy. Saving
thyself, Marmontel, there is not a soul in the
castle who can s; . " I knew Francois de
Beaufoy." Send ir'ngl' '^ Hugh to me, and
then take a dozen fellows and do what thou
canst for the rehousing of Cliuiuex. As to the

BEAUFOY'S TOKEN

209

dead, Charnex must see to their burying ; for
since my Lord Bishop of Grandfrai has taken
umbrage at me for checking the exactions of
his lazy monks, I will ask no service of him or
his.'

* But the thieves, Seigneur ?*

' Leave them to me,' answered Beaufoy
grimly. ' Do thou as thou art bid, and send
me English Hugh. Yet, stay ; whose band
was this ? Since we hung Peter of the Red
Hand and his six worthies I thought Beaufoy
was free of rogues. What says Charnex ?'

' Charnex stammers, Seigneur, and says
naught, or else that it was dark, and it as fair
a night as heart could wish, and in May, too.
The truth is, they are but peasants, and were
panic-stricken. As for myself, I know no more
than that they came from the north and went to
the north. Best let me see to them, Seigneur.'

But Beaufoy shook his head.

' No, no ! Thou who art Beaufoy-born wilt
deal more pitifully with the sorrows of Charnex
than would another, and English Hugh can
strike as hard as thou canst. Send him to me.'

Left alone, Beaufoy's pace slackened, and
his beard went down upon his breast. The
fires of passion had died out, and the ashes left
behind were very bitter. Marmontel had

2IO THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

spoken the truth and the sting of the words lay
in that they were the truth. Beaufoy was in
sore need of its young Sieur. How could me
withered energies of three-score years and ten,
and five years more, cope with the brawlings
within and the aggressions from without ? To
copy Marmontel's phrase, If Beaufoy were to
hold what Beaufoy held, it would only be by
the grip of a vigorous manhood. In very
sober truth Beaufoy had sore need of the young
Sieur.

Then, in face of his self-condemning, Beaufoy,
as men will, pleaded justification. Was Beaufoy
to be thrust aside in the affairs of Beaufoy.?
The boy— to the old man five-and-thirty was
no more than a boy's age -the boy had taken
too much upon him. There w-s no room at
Beaufoy for two masters, and so he was best
gone. Best gone ? Ay ! but what of himself.?
Was it not true that for Beaufoy's sake it were
better that he himself were gone, and so make
room .? A good boy, for all his heat, a good

boy ; and a good day for Beaufoy when

And in the middle of his bitter thought English
Hugh came clanking in at the door.

A tall, clean-limbed, sinewy man was English
Hugh, his eyes bold and hard, and his face
smooth-shaven after the fashion of the times.

[!•

BEAUFOY'S TOKEN

211

A resident these five years in France, he had
left his country for reasons best known to
himself and the laws ; a sturdy friend or a
crafty foe, but all in the way of business. He
held his life as so much capital, and so long as
his gains were great, he cared little how high
he speculated.

As the Englishman halted at the doorway
the old Count stopped in his walk, and coming
to the table, leaned across it, his palrris upon
the corners.

' Thou hast been, I think, one year at
Beaufoy ?'

• One year. Seigneur.'

'Thou art going to have thy first serious
commission ; see that it prove thee worth thy
hire. Thou hast heard of the outrage at
Charnex ?'

• I have heard. Seigneur.'

' Good ! There are some half-score of the
rogues, and they have nine hours' start. But
they have beasts and sheep to drive, and hard
riding can do much. Do thou ride hard— ay,
as if for thy life. Take twenty fellows with
thee, and lose no time in the saddling.'

' And the thieves, Seigneur .-*'

• The thieves, fellow ? There be five dead
at Charnex, and two lives for one is no more

14 — 2

212 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

I; ']'

■i) !

than Beaufoy justice. Do thy duty ; rope or
steel is all one to me. Yet ' — and De Beaufoy
paused in deep thought, drawing down his
shaggy brows across the caverns of his eyes —
' wait, wait ; yes, that will do. Bring me as a
token the right hand of the leader of the rogues.
Now then, begone, and let Beaufoy 's shame be
wiped out ere nightfall.'

Later that day there came a visitor to the
castle who met with a surly welcome, for all the
old Count's solitude. Between Beaufoy and
the Church there had never been much love.
Monseigneur the Bishop and my Lord the Count
had ambitions in common, and the field was too
narrow to allow both their full play without
collision. Each claimed precedence : Beaufoy
as Suzerain under the King, Philip of Grand-
frai as the representative of his Holiness
Innocent VHL It was power temporal pitted
against power spiritual, and, as neither would
give way, they jostled. These strained relations
had been still further stretched by an act of the
old Seigneur's, and Philip of Grandfrai waited
without under the shadow of the oak in no
temperate mood. Enter Beaufoy's door he
would not.

A soldierly man was my Lord Bishop, with
his sword braced high at his thigh — a soldierly

BEAUFOY'S TOKEN

213

man, and with little about him from spurred
heel to plumed hat to show the Churchman,
save, perhaps, a certain chastened sobriety of
attire. Six men-at-arms and two monks formed
his escort, the latter barefooted and riding with
their hoods flung back upon their shoulders.

* Tell thy master, fellow,' he said as he passed
the guard at the outer gate lodge, 'that the
Bishop of Grandfrai desires speech with him,'

Then he turned aside, and riding under the
shadow of the oak, waited.

' Then let him come and speak,' answered
Beaufoy curtly when one brought him the
message.

' Tell Raimond de Beaufoy,' said Philip
sternly, 'that though I am. a man of peace,
there are reasons well known to him why I,
being who and what I am, will not cross his
threshold.'

'A man of peace, and he with six steel
bonnets at his back I That is the sole peace
Beaufoy may expect from one of his cloth.'
And the old Seigneur laughed mirthlessly.
'Well, I will bate my dignity and go to the
fellow, for the sake of being rid of him the
sooner. Bide within, all of you, lest he think
I go guarded. I care not a jot for him and all
his.

214 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

'A courteous host goes to meet his guest,' he
went on as, bareheaded, he approached the
prelate, and speaking with but little courtesy in
his tone. ' Had I been as stiff as you, Mon-
seigneur, there would have been little speech
between us this day.'

* Leave compliments aside,' answered Philip
of Grandfrai, ' or if you have courtesy to spare,
show some to my poor monks.'

' So,' cried the old Seigneur angrily, ' that is
the way the hawk flies? By St. Francis, I
thought as much ! If any showed your monks
discourtesy, Lord Bishop, it was not with my
goodwill. I bade Beaufoy's folk keep Beaufoy's
goods for Beaufoy's using, and that if a pack of
lazy ne'er-do-works sought to lay hands upon
them, to bid them begone — empty.'

'What!' cried the Bishop furiously, and
forgetting the man of peace in the man of
passion, 'you would deny the Church its
rights, cut off its tithes and dues, and bid us
starve ?'

' No, Bishop, that I never said. Tithes
and dues ve will pay, seeing that all owe service
to God and the King, and needs must that we
be born and die ; but robbery under the guise
of tithes and spoliation in the name of dues I
and mine will not endure. And to that word

"AS THE SEIGNEUR WAXED HOT, SO DI!) THE CHURCHMAN
WAX COI.l) "

i> li :

BEAUFOY'S TOKEN

215

Raimond de Beaufoy sets his oath. Is that
plain, Bishop?'

' Seigneur, my monks sought but their rights ;
and by the name of Him I serve, their rights
they shall have. Spoliation and robbery there
was none; but by your vassals, Raimond de
F^eaufoy, there has been violence and well-nigh
murder done, and I stand here in the face of
God to claim justice on the evil-doers. Will
you grant justice to me and my monks. Seigneur.!*
Ay or nay ? For if you fail me I have my own
methods, and by the Saints, they shall not fail !
Is that plain, Seigneur i*'

• Touch but one vassal of Beaufoy in wrath
— and in his passion the old Count shook his
clenched hands in the Bishop's face as he bent
towards him from the saddle — ' touch but the
hair of a Beaufoy 's man, and, by the Lord ! I'll
ding your palace down about your ears, for all
your priestliness. Again I say. Is that plain.
Bishop r

As the Seigneur waxed hot so did the Church-
man wax cold. Sitting back upon his beast, he
met Beaufoy 's fierce looks with steady eyes.

' Fie, fie !' he said, with a calmness of con-
tempt that was a fresh offence. ' Fie, fie ! so
old a man and so ungoverned ! 'Tis a pitiful
thing when age learns no sobriety of passion.

2i6 THF BEAUFOY ROMANCES

Have you no fear, Seigneur de Beaufoy, of the
justice of God, and you so near His bar ?'

' None, Lord Bishop, none.'

' Has His justice not already fallen on
Beaufoy ? Where is the young Sieur ? Why
is he a wanderer and a wastrel ? Was it hate
or justice drove him from his birthplace ?
Justice? Then he was at fault? I tell you,
Raimond de Beaufoy, that God's justice has
already in part fallen, and the sins of the father
are punished by the sins of the son. Have you
still no fear of the jiistice of God ?*

' None, Lord Bishop, none. Let it fall on
whom and when and where and how it may.
Fear ? Nay, Bishop, I invoke it.'

' Then let it fall,' said the other solemnly,
and for a full minute he sat with his left hand
raised above him, and looking sternly down
into Beaufoy's wrathful face. Then, with a
twist of his hand, he turned his horse towards
the gateway. ' Come,' he said curtly, and rode
off, leaving no word of farewell behind him.

With slow steps the old Seigneur returned
to the Justice-room, and sat himself down.
This strife of tongues had not gone off as
triumphantly as he, in his pride, had looked
for ; and at the memory his dour, hard face
was set in stern anger.

II ,

BEAUFOY'S TOKEN

217

A chance shot of Philip of Grandfrai's had
gone home. Was it hate or justice that had
driven out young Frangois from the home of
his fathers ? Hate ? Not of the boy ; no, no,
for all his harshness Beaufoy loved the lad.
Hate of his independence it might be, of that
manhood in him which, pushing to the front,
asserted itself in a fashion that angered the
autocracy of three score and ten. He who for
fifty years has been a king unto himself and all
his world, is impatient of abdication, even when
the need of it is roared into his ears by a<>-e
and infirmity. Was it, then, after all, a kind
of hate, a twist of a contemptible passion, that
made the boy an outcast.'* If that were so,
truly he had paid for his sin, and paid for it
twice over that very day.

First, there was that affair of Charnex, a
pitiful story, with its widows and orphans, its
burnt and plundered homesteads — Franqois
might have saved all these. Then this feud
with Philip of Grandfrai. A clear head and a
calm tongue, with a timely politic concession —
more words than acts — would have smoothed
away Monseigneur's grumbling. Doubtless
these fellows at Mesnil had been over-rough.
To strip a friar of his cassock and flog him
through the village with a cart-rope was too

n \

218 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

loud a ' No' to a demand for dues It was the
cursr of a peasant that he had no discretion in
his zeal. Well, both these were past praying
for, and as for the first, English Hugh would
wipe out the shame from the name of Beaufoy,
and with a bloody cloth. That once done, he
might have the boy home again, and thus fling
• God's justice ' back into the teeth of Mon-
seigneur. A pest on him and his taunts !

Night had fallen, and Beaufoy, having long
supped, was bacK again in the dim Justice-room.
More than any spot in the great house of his
ancestors, this gaunt and gloomy room had a
fascination for him ; for more than any spot it
was the place where the men of his line had
played their many parts.

A lamp stood on the oak table, another was
fixed in a sconce by the open door, and as the
flames flickered in the many currents, the
gloomy recesses and remote corners were alive
with the legends of his race. Hitherto he had
taken a stern pride in these grim tales of blood
and violence, but to-night he was in a new
mood, and the sound of hoarse voices without,
blending with the ring of iron on the pavement,
was a relief. English Hugh was back from his
mission.

' Well,' he cried, leaning forward as the man-

BEAUFOY'S TOKEN

ai9

at-arms appeared in the doorway and halted
under the sconce, ' is it done ?'

• It is done, Seigneur, and well done.*
' And the rogue, their leader ?'

For answer Hugh tapped the broad leathern
pouch that hung at his side.

' So, it is well ? To thy tale, then, man, and
be brief.'

' First, Seigneur, the losses. We rode out a
score and come home eighteen.'

' These are a man's chances, and we all set
ou.' lives on the cost,' answered Beaufoy.
* Who have paid forfeit ?*

' Roger Marne, Seigneur, and Jean le
Gaucher.'

• Good men both. God rest them ! Well ?'

' Next, the gains. Charnex has its beasts
back, and, by St. Georg. ! I never had glummer
thanks. When I bid the women-folk sleep in
peace, for their dead were avenged, they scowled
and turned away into the dark. I'll be sworn
some wept, and one said '

' What matters, man, what churls say ?
Their wits are still numb ; go on with thy
tale.'

• We took them unawares. Seigneur, and
seeing they were but reivers, I thought it no
shame to hold our vantage of surprise. So at

220 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

ill

III

'II

! 'ill

1!
i 1

ti-

the first rush a half went down ; but him who
I have here, or at least his token ' — and again
Hugh tapped his pouch— ' he was a true son
of a wolf, and fought— Saints, how he fought !
More than one of us carries his sign-manual,
and it was he who put Roger on his back ; but
the numbers did it, Seigneur, and we made an
end of him at last. Two we hung, but the
other eight had no breath left to choke. Then
we rode back.'

• Then the chief rascal was no coward ?'
' No coward, and a fine swordsman. Seigneur.
I would we had a dozen like him at Beaufoy.'

' Ha ! Beaufoy is well enough. Show me
the carrion.'

Fumbling in his pouch, Hugh drew out the
dismal fragment of humanity, and held it
dangling in the light of the lamp as a man
might hold some bird of a rare plumage. It
had been severed two inches above the wrist ;
its palm was sinewy and well formed, the
fingers long and slender.

A faint gleam of yellow light caught the
Count's eye as Hugh turned the hand this way
and that.

• A ring !' he cried, laughing. ' So the rogue
was by way of being a gentleman.'

'Faith, yes, Seigneur!' and Hugh's laugn

ifll

BEAUFOY'S TOKEN

221

was louder than his master's ; ' a ring, no less,
crested and mottoed. The words are Greek
to me, who am no scholar, but the crest is two
daggers crossed.'

' What !' and Beaufoy's voice slew the
laughter in the other's mouth, so hoarse and
loud was the cry. * The ring, man ! Quick !
The ring ! God's life, fellow, quick, I say !'

As he spoke Beaufoy stumbled to his feet,
flinging the lamp crashing on the floor in his
haste.

' Let it be, fool ! The ring !'

For an instant he held it up so that the light
from the sconce by the door fell full upon it,
showing the motto of the Sieurs of his house —

JTennej ©onnefog Beaufog.

Clasping the hand to his breast with his left
arm, he turned upon the Englishman.

' Go, man, in God's name, lest I hang thee !'
And the last Hugh saw of the Seigneur was
a figure bowed upon its knees at the darkened
table, with its forehead resting on the token of
Beaufoy's justice.

ll;

. M'

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE

Measure eighteen miles as the road zigzags to
the south-east, making from end to end fourteen
miles of a crow-flight ; then bend to the right
for half as far again, following the banks of the
river, which there runs with but litde curve;
turn once more to the right nineteen miles by
the outskirts of the forest, then run a line north-
east, roughly parallel with the river-bank, until
you touch the starting-point, and you will
enclose the domain over which Seigneur Ren^
Fran9ois le Vaillant de Beaufoy, commonly
called Fran9ois de Beaufoy, claimed and exer-
cised the rights of life and death, high justice
and low justice ; he himself being pleader,
judge, and jury, and against whose decisions
there was no right of appeal.

Not Charles on his throne was more supreme
than the Seigneur de Beaufoy within these
bounds. Nay, the Seigneur's supremacy, if the
more limited in extent, was the more absolute

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 223

in prompt assertion, and therefore the more
reverenced, since the vengeance of the lesser
lord struck quicker and sharper than the more
tardy justice of the King.

Linked with this absolutism was a personal
independence unknown at Court, and burdened
only with the necessary alert watchfulness in-
separable from the presence of such neighbours
as those surrounding the Chateau Beaufoy. If
the King in Paris was at odds in his day, now
with Emperor, now with the Pope, so, to draw
the parallel closer, was the Seigneur de Beaufoy
in frequent handigrips, not alone with his
fellow-lords, but also with the free-lances and
organized bands of robbers which preyed upon
the rich and harried the poor with all the in-
discriminate impartiality of opportunity.

Then, as now, the axiom that power has its
obligations as well as its privileges was true in
practice ; and so upon the Seigneur de Beaufoy
there devolved the duty of enforcing protection
within the two hundred and fifty or so square
miles of his Suzerainty.

Probably it was for the rough-and-ready
enforcement of this law and order that Louis le
Jeune had first conferred on the founder of the
line of Beaufoy his judicial rights, but, as is
usually the case, the inch lengthened to an ell,

i i

III :'

-'Si

224 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

and the power was stretched to cover (for pur-
poses far other than protection) all who crossed
or dwelt within the limits of his lands, provided
they could be profitably and safely struck.

To do the reigning Seigneur justice, the
duty of safeguarding the peace of those who
dwelt within his borders was not only recog-
nised, but regularly performed. Woe to the
free-lance who harried De Beaufoy's preserves !
The Seigneur had a strong arm and a long
reach, and the poorest serf of all who called him
lord knew that, let his complaint be but well
founded, no distance was too far for the sword-
point of the Seigneur to strike the wrong-doer.
Woe to the brigand who, trusting to the secret
strengths of the forest belting the river-edge,
sought to devour the weak of the Seigneur's
flock! No depth of the boscage could hold
him long hidden, and not once nor twice, but
many a time, the strange fruit left dangling
from an oak limb had proclaimed the triumph
of summary justice and the enforcement of a
righteous vengeance.

All such marauders might dwell upon his
borders and welcome. Needs must that rogues
dwell somewhere, and in certain cases their aid
was welcome, but their harrying must be the
harrying of the stranger, or, at worst, the noble

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 225

lords the Seigneur's good neighbours. Even
then a judicious care was necessary, since to fall
foul of an ally were almost as dangerous as to
touch the Suzerainty itself; but, to do him justice
again, Francois de Beaufoy was not so much a
man of peace as to be greatly beholden to the
goodwill of his peers.

Defence, attack, and reprisals require force
of arms, and so, in common with every feudal
castle of the time. Chateau Beaufoy bristled
with archers and spearmen, and was as jealously
sentinelled as any frontier fort holding guard
on the turbulent outskirts of a kingdom.

For defence' sake the Castle was perched on
the crest of a hill which sloped away from it in
all directions, the dominating the approaches
for three full bow-snots ; while, as for strength,
he who beat down the outer rampart, or
wrenched the iron gateway from its massive
trrooves, would still have turned back in despair
from the solid resistance of the mighty walls of
the Castle itself.

Upon the slopes of the hill, but sufficiently
far apart to afford no protection to an enemy,
were dotted oaks and chestnuts, their number
growing with the distance, one solitary specimen
being alone permitted within the circuit of the
outer walls.

\:l

226 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

This was a decayed and blasted oak of
immemorial age, whose once magnificent spread
of luxuriant boughs had dwindled to two naked
and lifeless limbs rising from a shell of hollowed
trunk. Many and black and bloody enough
were the legends twined about those ancient
limbs, and when the chronicler sets them out in
order, the history of the maimed oak will be
found to antedate by many generations the
Suzerainty of the line of Beaufoy.

Where the shadow of the leafage had of old
time fallen when the sun was at noon, the
windows of the Seigneur's Justice-hall looked
out : a stern and gloomy room, as befitted the
times and the grim secrets of the four walls.

On the stone settle in that corner where the
sun never struck, Dame Margaret, of four
generations back, was strangled for reasons
best known to her lord and herself. If scandal
had a tongue, it never wagged it, since the
Beaufoy of the day was a stern man and a
powerful. That brown stain on the door-post,
five feet and more from the floor, and a deeper
tint than the age of the oak, had its own tale
to tell, for a threatened division of the Suzer-
ainty ended there— ended suddenly, as is clear
from the broad bruise in the wood where the
battle-ayf: glanced from Henri de Beaufoy's

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 227

crushed headpiece. Lift the flag with the iron
ring set under the level of its surface — lift it
and look down. It will take your eyes three
minutes to turn the blackness gray enough to
give imagination shape ; and when it does you
will let slip the ring and look no more. A
gloomy room, this Justice-hall of the Seigneurs,
and full of men's wrath and passions.

A proud man was Francois de Beaufoy as
he paced the hall that June day, his light sword
making shrill music on the flags as he walked —
proud of the many generations of his race ;
proud of the broad acres of his Suzerainty, held
unshorn through all the chances and changes
of those dangerous years ; proud of the two
young sturdy scions of his line, who, with those
yet to come, would link on the glories of his
house to as many generations in the future as
there had been in the past ; proud of the fulness
of the life and strength pulsing in his veins and
filling his brain with schemes and strokes of
policy which were to broaden out his power ;
and, for the moment, proudest of all of the tale
his man-at-arms was so full of the telling — a
tale common enough, of evil wrought^ against
some of the defenceless of his villeins, but none
so common in those days in the swift and
hearty vengeance which had followed.

15—2

I >

111

228 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

' Montbriou burned ! The audacious hounds,
to strike their game so near the Castle ! Burned,
sacked, and seven of my poor peasants slain !
Would to the saints I had caught the rogues at
the harrying : they would have roasted properly
by the fires of Montbriou, and on their own
swords for spits. Tell me of it again, Mar-
montel ; I caught your story but carelessly at
he first.'

Marmontel, Jackal to the Wolf, Squire to the
Knight, Man-at-Arms to the Captain, soldier
of fortune and faithful rogue, shifted his head-
piece from his right arm to his left for greater
freedom of gesture, and, nothing loth to tell a
good tale to his own credit the second time,
began :

' By St. Anne, Seigneur, but It was rare
work, that first brush with the rascals. The
grass was none too soft, and because we were
riding hotly they heard the hammer '

Francois de Beaufoy paused in his walk.

•See thou, Marmontel, a tale well told
begins at the beginning, and not three parts
to the end, where thine own glory cometh in.
Go back on the slot, man, and begin afresh.'

• A shrewd stroke is more to my mind,
Seigneur, than a long tale, but it runs some-
thing after this fashion :

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 229

' Half a score of us were coming at a walk
round by the wooded spur above Montbriou,
just where the knot of oaks shuts out the village
from the bridle-path, with, it may be, a mile or
more of wood and pasture between. Riding at
ease, we were with never a thought but of jest
or gossip, when Hugues, who, since that dagger-
stroke down by Rochelle hath reason to keep
his eyes afield, reined back his beast two paces
on my left and pointed where, across the top of
the oaks, a cloud lifted betwixt us and the river
in the distance.

* It needed no man who had seen a sacked
town to say " Smoke !" So we wheeled to the
left and went down the slope at a gallop. It
was Montbriou ablaze, Seigneur, or, at least,
a-smoulder, for the roofs were in and the flames
out as we swept round by the oaks.

' Five minutes, and we were there ; five more,
and we were off to the west as fast as horseflesh
could travel, and every man of us with the fires
of Montbriou biting at his heart for the sake of
the seven left dead in their doorways. How
many there were ahead 'twas hard to say.
Some cried one thing and some another, and
at every cry the numbers jumped up by the
half-score. What would you have. Seigneur?
The poor souls were but peasants, and dis-

Liai,

230 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

traught at that, by reason of their loss and the

suddenness of the blow.

• Sifting the tale out as we rode along, we
judged there might be a score or more to face.
It was at that that one of us half drew his rem
and said the odds were heavy agamst men and
beasts sore pressed with hard ridmg. and

^Ha'' broke in the Sieur, dashing his hand
against the table by which he stood, 'so there
was a coward amongst you-a poltroon who
weighed a nick in a whole skin agamst the
honour of Beaufoy. By all the saints—-

' Hard words strike heavier than hard blows,
Seipneur At the worst, he only half drew his
rein! and at the best German Hans did his
work like a man. May God deal by his soul
more gently than he himself dealt by his own
body when the brunt came. He's dead, and
Heaven rest him ! As for the honour of
Beaufoy. time enough to cry out when the
shadow touches it. , , j

'Thence on we galloped the harder, and
inside of forty minutes saw the rogues just
getting to horse again in a broad glade with
thin shelter at our side and a deep thicket
beyond. But that they were encumbered with
the cattle and the spoils of Montbriou, we had

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 231

never come within arm's-length of them ; and
now that they heard the hammer of our hoofs
on the short turf, they showed no manner of
willingness to throw aside their gains.

' Ah, Seigneur !' — and Marmontel stopped to
wet his lips, grown dry in the eagerness of his
tale — * ah. Seigneur ! but for these seven
stretched dead at Montbriou, it had been worth
the cost of the burning and harrying to have
the dash and fury of that first brush. Ten to
twenty are none too many and none too few.
You can see your men, every one, and there is
nought to confuse. In through the trees we
swept, the loose timber splitting us up so that
none in the glade beyond might know how
exactly we would break upon them. Into the
shadow, between the stems like ghosts, and out
into the sunlight and upon them with a roar in
our throats that might have stirred the seven
of Montbriou. Sharp work and short, Seigneur,
with scant time to give an eye as to who struck
this stroke and who that — scant time, in truth,
for anything but the man in front, and the next
who might come after him as he went down.
Ten minutes, perhaps, all told, but it was the
living of a lifetime. By St. Anne ! but Beaufoy
has no need to blush for its men. How manv
broke into cover behind I know not ; not many

. .•>•■*

ilil^ i

-3^

THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

I trow, and few unhurt, but I can take an oath
to seventeen who go northward no more. And
we ? Oh, ay ; there's no omelet without the
breaking of eggs. German Hans has a hole in
his throat, over-big to hold in his soul ; Hugues,
Bassomme, and Grt)ssetete are in no better
case. The Spaniard- his name was ever too
much for my tongue— and Marcel are good for
naught but Father Clement's prayers, and I
doubt not he has smoothed their journey ere
this. It will be a long one, and over by night-
fall, if I know aught of sword-thrusts.

•That makes six. Seigneur; the other four
have more need of the leech than the Church ;
and I, to my shame, am the only sound man
out of nigh three dozen, all told.'

Fran9ois de Beaufoy drew a long breath as
the tale ended.

' I would give five years of my life for those
ten minutes, Marmontel, and I would lay a
wager, my friend, that your sword is not as
scatheless as your body. No need for shame
at a skin held sound by a quick eye, good steel,
and a better address.'

For answer Marmontel drew out his sword,
broken in two within ten inches of the hilt.

' It went at the third man. Seigneur, and him
I finished with my poniard. As for five years,

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 233

hold what you've got, say I. Hans and the
rest, I doubt not, would have made the same
barter three hours ago.'

•Tut, man!' answered De Beaufoy, 'what
wouldst thou have ? They did their duty, and
died in the doing of it. Let us do ours in our
day, and pay the same cost an need be. Let's
look at that hilt of thine. Come now, Mar-
montel, what boon for this day's work ? It was
a man's blow that notched that gap ; had it
caught thee unawares, it had shorn thee to the
breast-bone. What boon for upholding the
honour of Beaufoy ? Nay, never stammer like
that, man, and see that thou rankest not my
honour too low.'

Marmontel laid down his headpiece on the
oaken table, and, leaning both hands on the
edge, bent forward.

• A word's a word, Seigneur ; and — and if
there's aught that's due me, though I did no
more than the rest, why — why '

•Why,' broke in De Beaufoy — 'why —
why, dost thou want my litde Renee to
wife, and she three come the last day of next
month ?'

• Nay, my lord ; but there's a wench in it for
all that, and if the Seigneur will but shut his
eyes and ears, the debt's paid.'

234 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

t ■:.

nil

'A wench — thou ?' cried De Beaufoy. 'What
gnat in the brain is this ?'

' Nay, no gnat, but a wench, though one may
buzz as fast as the other,' answered Marmontel
sourly, since forty takes ill the bantering which
but flatters twenty, ' and a word passed is still
a word, e'en though it be not for gold crowns.'

' Ay ; is the bolt so near the heart as that ?
Well, I have done with jesting ; word or no
word, I'll have no harrying of the lambs of my
flock — no, not even for thee. For how, tell me,
is law to be upheld if I wink at evil to a maid
to please your whim ?'

' Now, by St. Anne,' answered the other,
' who spoke of evil ? Would I sully the blood
of my heart, Seigneur ? Why, I would not so
much as seek to look the wench in the face but
by grace of Father Clement.'

De Beaufoy stamped his foot.

'Then, take her, man — take her. What's
the pother i*'

'Why,' said Marmontel shamefacedly, 'no
pother, but a matter of taste, and that she will
have none of me.'

' Oh, ho ! Sits the bird on that tree ? Why,
what a dust about nothing ! Whose wench is
she ? And, my word for it, but I'll see to the rest.'

Marmontel shook his head.

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 235

• Nay, had that been all it had been soon
settled, but Gustave Breigne will have two
words to say to the bargain.'

' Ha ! Breigne, Breigne — who ? — ay, I have
him now. Where got such a lout a wench to
lime a man like thee ? But that's by the way,
since the liming of a man comes not by logic.
See you, man, I owe this fellow a grudge, and
to pay you a debt and strike him with the same
stroke is shrewd policy. You mean well by
the wench ? Ay, then bid Father Clement
bide within this afternoon ; he will have work
enough on hand with those seven of Montbriou
and our own six. I doubt not the grip that
holds Hugues in keeping will not slacken over-
easily. To get thirteen of Beaufoy out of
purgatory is no light travail. Take six stout
fellows, and you and I and they will ride a-
wooing presently, and, my word for it, Mar-
montel. Father Clement will have an unwonted
labour ere nightfall.

Four leagues to the west of Chateau Beaufoy
the forest grows thick enough tc harbour every
wild beast in the circuit of life from man to
wolf None but a woodman, bred to the fullest
in forest lore, could safely penetrate its recesses,
so vast was its extent and so perplexing its
deadly similarity mile by mile.

236 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

''h

h ''

(•»

i . ^ !

Such a woodman was Gustave Breigne, the
charcoal-burner, whose one-roomed, turf-roofed
hut lay a furlong deep in the forest. More
than twenty years before he had come from
none knew where, and had lived alone a sullen,
solitary life. Then came a three months'
interval, during which there drifted no white
smoke from his furnace-pits, and when at last
the fires were once more alight, Gustave
Breigne was no longer alone, but had to wife a
dark-faced woman from the South. Of her no
man knew aught more than of him, and no man
sought to know, for Gustave Breigne had
earned for himself an evil reputation, over
which his neighbours, remote enough in such a
country, muttered and looked askance.

It was not so much because of the Seigneur's
deer, slaughtered on a moonlight night, nor
for the whisper of trafficking with the bandits
who held the forest as a lurking-place, nor even
for the winter night's gossip of belated travellers
who never saw the morning sun, but of whom
Gustave Breigne knew more than he said :
stories enough, and lies for the most part. But
there were those who told strange tales of
shadows seen at night in the shifting light of
the. furnace-mouth when the smoke was thin
and blue and smelt of evil — shadows that

I it.'

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 237

shivered and danced, wavering in shape from
man to beast and beast to devil, with Gustave
Breigne himself moving among them larger
than human. The deer, they were well enough ;
the bandits might be friends at a pinch, and to
keep on their smooth side was wise ; and as for
the hints of murder, why, Beaufoy himself had
a name that some might cavil at, and there
were times with every honest man when it was
his life or another's ; but witches and devils,
hell's familiars and the like, that touched a
man's soul ; and so, for the sake of the grossest
lie of them all, the Breignes were cut apart.

For three years there came to their cabin
but two changes — the common alternations of
life and death ; a girl child was born to them,
then, two years later, the household of three
became two once more. The mother died.
Had he so willed it, Gustave might at that
time have entered into closer relationship with
those about him, since death and sorrow break
down more barriers than life and gladness.
But it was now his turn to repel advances, and
he would none of their kindliness. Thence-
forward he and the little Marthe were out-
casts.

That had been fifteen years before, and for
those fifteen years, while each went a separate

238 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

way, each had been all in all the one to the
other. Untaught, unguided, Marthe had grown
up in the woods with as free a life as any dryad
of olden times. Fearless and untiring, she left
nothing unexplored in her world of thickets,
and it was while on one of her solitary excur-
sions by the outskirts of the forest that she had
been first seen by Marmontel.

What set the war-hardened veteran ablaze
was a mystery to himself, since, beyond her
supple strength of limb and that grace of
carriage which was the gift of the life she led,
there was but little to attract one so seasoned
by experience. But ablaze he was from the
first hour he saw her watching him through the
trailing boughs of a broken oak. Many a time
thereafter he had business that way, cursing
himself in his heart for a fool the while. Thrice
he spoke to her, and once he sought to touch
her. Each time she had answered him cour-
teously enough, but with short replies. The
further advance had less success, for, as he
leant from his saddle, her suspicions were on
the moment alert, and she fled zigzag to the
trees more swiftly than, in such a place, his
horse could follow. Then — and his ears ever
after tingled when he thought of it — when at a
safe distance, she turned, and with clear voice

iifc a-

HIGH AND LOW lUSTICE 239

and clearer language, cursed him roundly for
a foul beast.

That had been three days before, and Mar-
montel, while his ears burned, loved her none
the less for the outburst, but rather more.

As the fifteen years passed, Gustave had
gloomed and soured, but, until a certain thing
happened, his moroseness was catholic and
of equal application ; thereafter, while losing
none of its catholicity, it had special bitter-
ness against the Chateau Beaufoy and all
therein.

That which put edge upon his hate was
nothing uncommon in those days, and inside of
three months was forgotten by all save father
and daughter, until at last the sight of Marthe
in the woods brought back the three-years-old
tale to Marmontel, who cursed his ill-luck that
in this case of all others the Seigneur should
have seen fit to take such a vengeance.

Gustave Breigne had killed one too many of
the Beaufoy deer ; had been caught in the very-
act of driving home the knife in the coup de
grace, and six hours later had had his left hand
hacked off at the wrist with his own blade and
the severed limb nailed upon his own lintel.
The trial is a short one where all is accusation
and nothing defence, and Fran9ois de Beaufoy

240 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

had taken credit for his mercy in not lopping
the right hand rather than the left

If at the time Gustave Breigne said but little,
it was because he knew that a silent tongue
keeps a sound head, but he hated Chdteau
Beaufoy and all within it none the less bitterly
for his silence. In the three years all this had
been forgotten until Marmontel named the
woodman to the Seigneur, then, as is the
fashion of human nature when the suffering is
another's, the crime came back as clear as noon,
while the expiation was lost out of sight.

Down the hill from the turret-gate of the
Castle the wooers rode at leisure, the Seigneur
first, Marmontel half a length behind to the
left, and the six stout men-at-arms in double file
ten paces in the rear. Clear of the courtyard,
Francois de Beaufoy halted on the broad belt
of turf which swept in a circle round the
Chateau and threw his hand up into the air.

* By all the saints, Marmontel, but what a
world of good there is in life I I vow I would
not change Beaufoy for the Empire itself!'

'Ay,' the other answered bluntly, for his
mind was full of a difficulty to come, ' to the
Suzerain it's well enough, but for the maimed
man yonder '

Then he stopped, and nodded westward.

ti^

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 241

'The hawk to his nest, and such dogs to
their cover,' said De Beaufoy sternly ; ' wouldst
have me darken my sunshine for a rogue's self-
cast shadows, that you link me with that thief?
A man who is a fool at two-score is the worst
fool on God's earth, since he has lived long
enough to be wise, and not so long as to be
dotard. Has the girl bewitched thee that thou
talkest in such a fashion ? Nay, man, look and
judge it for itself. See the slope, and the rise,
and the slope beyond, with the blue where the
forest is hidden. See the sunshine and the
shadow and the chase of cloud, and there, on
that side, the glint of the river. See the dapple
of the trees in the wind, hear the lowing of the
cattle, the murmur of life from beyond yonder
hill-shoulder.'

' Ay,' broke in Marmontel grimly ; ' it's the
women wailing their dead at Montbriou. Well
enough for the Seigneur, I say again, but
what of the mishandled peasants down the
way ?'

De Beaufoy beat his clenched fist against his
thigh.

* Plague take your croaking ! You poison
the heart of June. Life or death is the chance
of us all.'

' Nay,' persisted the other, * I but said that

242 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

it was better for the Seigneur than for the
villein.'

De Beaufoy gathered up his reins and
rode on.

' Have done, I say ; had I not passed my
word to thee, thou mightest go hang for the
wench.'

Ten minutes later he halted. Across the
shoulder of the hill there came from the left,
sharper and clearer, the outcry of lamenta-
tion. Before, and with a trend to the right,
dwelt Gustave Breigne.

'To Montbriou first,' he said, and, with a
jerk of the bridle, turned across the hill.

The village, a handful of huts drawn closely
together, but without any system of arrange-
ment, lay on the southern slope of the hill, set
in small breadths of half-grown wheat. From
the wreck of some of the collapsed houses a
sluggish smoke still rose, whilst others, the least
ruined, were already in process of restoration.

Busy as were the workers, it was not on them
that the interest centred as the troop rode
slowly down the slope, but rather on a group
clustered together at the upper end of the village,
a group of the women and the children girdled
round the seven who that day had died for the
homes of Montbriou.

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 243

They lay, not as they had fallen, but stretched
out in rigid lines of death, shoulder to shoulder
and hand to hand, and at the head knelt Father
Clement, the one silent mourner of all the
living.

As the Seigneur drew near, the insistent
lamentation died into sobs, and the circle of
the women parted so that he rode onward, up
to the very feet of the dead, and there drew
rein.

While he paused, looking silently down on
the face of death, a woman, gaunt with labour
and age, thrust her way to his stirrup-iron, and
brushing aside traditional terror and respect in
the despair of loss, seized his rein.

' Husband and son in the one hour, Seigneur —
husband and son! Hush your whimpering
there, that the Seigneur may hear my men
crying out for vengeance. It's an ill day when
the dead cry and none heed. Ha ! do you
hear ? Sorrow for sorrow ! Life for life !
Blood for blood !' and the other hand was
reached out and shook De Beaufoy by the
arm.

Except in his passions, or when his pride
was touched, De Beaufoy was ever a kindly
man, else not even the dead had been her
surety for such boldness. As it was :

16 — 2

244 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

*Ay, mother,' he said, 'vengeance enough
and sorrow enough, but not by me. Ask Mar-
montel there.'

Her arm dropped, and she shifted her gaze
to the man-at-arms. Marmontel answered her
look grimly enough.

• Blow for blow,' he said, ' and blood for
blood, though it cost six more in the avenging.'

The woman drew in her breath with a shrill
scream, and leaving the Seigneur, she turned
to Marmontel, stroking and fawning upon him
with her hands.

' Tell me,' she said in a hoarse whisper, as if
her voice had sunk deep down in her throat —
' all ? Are all dead ?'

' Sixteen for seven is good count.' answered
Marmontel ; ' and if six I wot of could speak,
they would say the score was more than even.'

♦ Sixteen, sixteen !' and she broke into a halt-
ing laugh, only to check herself suddenly.
' Only sixteen ! Then what of the other five ?
Had no man of ye all a thrust for them ?' Then
again her mood changed. ' Pray God ye slew
them who laid these two there. Blood for
blood ! Life for life !' and her voice ran into
a scream. 'The blessing of the weak, who
cannot strike for themsplves, be upon thee.
The saints give thee thy heart's desire.'

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 245

De Beaufoy laughed. Dead peasants were
over-common for a waste either of time or of
sensitive tenderness.

' Right, mother,' he said. • Thy shaft goes
home. See him redden under the bronze.
Marmontel is out a-wooing to-day, and, on the
faith of a Dt Beaufoy, his heart's desire is his.
Hark you, Father Clement. In the midst of
death we are in life, and the Church will be
sorely needed ere sundown. See that you fail
not at the Castle. For these — God rest them,
and send us all as good an ending ; De Beaufoy
asks no better. As for thee, mother, Beaufoy
forgets nor Montbriou. My dame will see to
that. The day wears : spurs, my men, and
sharply !'

Thencefoward it was brisker wck. and in
spite of Marmontel's gloom and the shadow of
death from the stricken village, their spirits
rose with the heat of the gallop and the whistle
of the wind in their ears.

Gustave Breigne's charcoil-pits were in full
blast that day, rolling out their dense smoke in
huge clouds; and Gustave Breii,ne himself,
having dined, was at rest by the door of his hut.

For all that his shoulders were bowed by
labour, the man's life was as vigorous within
him as when, that score of years before, he had

246 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

brought Marthe's mother home to the shadows
of Beaufoy woods.

Since the day death had also come beneath
the shadows Gustave Breigne had had but two
passions — Marthe and his toil. These, until
of late, had filled his existence ; but now there
was added a third, no less absorbing — his hatred
of Chateau Beaufoy.

The disability of his maiming had been over-
come in a rough fashion by the strapping on to
the stump of the forearm a two-pronged V-
shaped iron, one of the prongs being bent into
a hook. With this he steadied the handle of
his axe, and, by help of a ring fixed near the
end of the haft, he even came in time to assist
the strength of his right arm. The unbent
prong served the purpose of a rude fork.

With such a reminder ever before his eyes
Gustave Breigne was not likely easily to forgive.
Marmontel, then, was amply justified in his
belief that the charcoal-burner would have no
dealings with Chateau Beaufoy, and as the man-
at-arms rode through the thickening glades on
the outskirts of the forest his own forebodings
pressed in upon him heavier than ever.

At length out of the very bitterness of his
heart he plucked up courage and spoke :

• 'Tis a fool's errand, Seigneur, and I the fool

:;o'- 'iiij ind prinked up with
crav'ju I he boon. Now I am

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 247

to hunt a ,lip of a pirl, and of such a bitter

stock. l.\ L v.li . -H. .f it, and no wench in

all A.I- .! ir..', 1..^ ,n , road France itself, is

worrl • fc.ie r i :an blood. I was hot

eno:ch ihls

prilt; \vh' n <

chill, and if ' >..r ij; nunc so great.'

But the ^h:\it ,. t e white smoke drifting
through the st<u\:, had, in some unreason-

ing fashion, stirred the Seigneur's gall.

• Whose blood ? Thine or Gustave Breigne's ?
A pretty talk of honest men, be it one or the
other. Is your Seigneur a fool-puppet to ride
on a barren errand ? By the faith of Beaufoy,
you wed the maid this night, will she. nill she,
or you hang on the Castle oak. Am I to be
flouted by your tremors at a maimed man.?
Or is it the flutter of a homespun petticoat that
makes you quake ? I tell you. ot all the devils
that ever danced at Gustave Bi gne's fires shall
stay my will. Ah, the thing falls out as it should,
for all thy croaking ! See !'

They were now hard upon Breigne's hut ;
the glade, cleared by his woodcraft, alone lying
between, and midway across the open space
was Marthe, seated upon the grass in the sun-
shine.

' You six round between the wench and the

'If

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248 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

hut : a scared doe ever runs to cover. Now,
Marmontel, do thy devoirs, and if the girl cry
out, why, thou hast stopped a woman's mouth
ere this, and knowest the trick of it, I'll wager.'
At the noise of the trampling Gustave
Breigne had risen, and as the horsemen broke
cover he stood by the door of the hut with his
hand to his brow looking out across the glade.
Thenceforward what passed passed in a flash.
There was the dash of the men-at-arms, three
on this side, three on that, and meeting beyond
the girl. Marmontel's rush to the centre of the
glade, an easy fling from the saddle, a none so
easy clamber back with Marthe fighting in his
grasp like a wolf-cub, and Franqois de Beaufoy
advancing slowly into the open.

With a cry that rang across the glade and a
broad furlong beyond, Gustave Breigne, as h^
guessed their purpose, had leaped towards his
daughter, only to meet the six horsemen face
to face and stagger back. The line of naked
steel was beyond attack. An instant he stood
glaring at them, his one hand outstretched and
gripping at the air, then :

• Hell's devils burn Beaufoy !' he howled, and
turning, fled back to the hut.

As he turned the Seigneur, twenty yards out
in the sunshine, broke into a laugh.

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 249

' Eh ! Gustave Breigne,' he said, ' 'tis easier
to kill a deer than save a doe.'

With the laugh stinging him like a whipstroke,
Gustave Breigne darted through the door of
his hut, and from within came the rattle and
crash as of light dry rods flung this way and
that in the hot search of passionate haste.
When he reappeared, it was with a stout bow
and three arrows in his grip.

Short as had been his disappearance, it had
been long enough to change the setting of the
scene in the clearing. The eight horsemen
had drawn together at the farther side, and in
the midst was Marmontel with Marthe, still
fighting desperately, held fast in his arms.

Gustave Breigne seized the arrows in his
teeth, and, straining the bow with knee and
hook, strung it. Three seconds notched an
arrow in the string, two more braced the bow
against the iron fork, and a shaft sang across
the glade — harmless. A second followed, and
as it splintered on Marmontel's headpiece,
Francois de Beaufoy reined in his horse with
an angry jerk, and turned, leaning back in his
saddle.

' This hound is overbold,' he cried, * and needs
a lesson. Back there, four of you, and '

While he spoke Gustave Breijne had notched

:li

250 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

his third shaft, and full in the midst of the
command the arrow, drawn to the head, was
loosed. With a gasp the Seigneur flunfj his
hands into the air, and tuml ling over his
horse's flank, fell in a heap on tiie grass. The
arrow had struck him full in the breast, and
the fall snapped it across three inches from the
ribs.

An instant's silence followed, then Marmontel,
with that instinct which makes an enemy the
first thought of the soldier, cried :

• Seize yonder fellow ! Your lives for his ; he
has stricken the Seigneur !' and flinging Marthe
from him as a thing no longer of account, he
leaped to the ground.

Small thought had Gustave Breigne of
escape. As he stood when the arrow left the
bow, so he stood, dumb and staring, when
ten seconds later the troopers swooped upon
him.

As Marmontel lifted the fallen man, Francois
de Beaufoy opened his eyes.

* Take me home,' he said under his breath —
' home, and quickly, for this is death.'

' A hard hit, truly. Seigneur, for all there is
so little blood. God curse the hand '

' Hal' said De Beaufoy louder and hoarser,
' Gustave Breigne i*'

•'THE ARROW, DRAWN TO TFIR HEAD, WAS LOOSED.'

Ill

ii'n .

'« i-

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HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 251

Marmontel looked across the glade, answer-
ing the thought rather than the words.

' Shall we hang the dog to his lintel ? Ay,
and the wench by him ?'

But the Seigneur shook his head.

' That can wait,' he said. ' Home first, for
I am on fire here,' and he touched his breast.

It was but a slow procession that three hours
later climbed the hill to the Castle gate, and
Francois de Beaufoy was more corpse than
living man when at last they laid him down
in that broad hall shadowed by the blasted
oak. Against the north wall of the hall,
midway between the door and the farther end,
was a stout settle, and there they stretched
the man who that morning had trod the flags
with so proud a step.

Cutting loose the broidered doublet and jerkin,
the leech had need of but scant skill in wounds
to know that the Seigneur of Beaufoy held a
weak grip on his Suzerainty. The splintered
shaft still remained where it had struck, and
none dared touch it, since its plucking out meant
the leaping after of Fran9ois de Beaufoy s
life.

The wounded man, looking up from his stone
settle, read in the bent face the truth he had
himself foretold ; and knowing the value of the

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252 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

grains of time still remaining, frittered away
no strength with useless questions or many
words.

' Catherine ?'

' My lady is with the dead at Montbriou.
She has been sent for in all haste.'

* Good ! The dead here will have a claim
too. Gustave Breigne .•*'

' Under close guard in the watch-tower.'

' Your lives for his !' and a light blazed up in
the eyes an instant, then died out, and the lids
closed over.

Noiselessly Father Clement stole in from the
outer hall, and monk and leech stood by the
dying man side by side, watching silently.

Suddenly, as by an effort of will, the eyes
opened, but the brows were drawn down, and
the face set and stern, for all its ghastly pallor.

' How long i*'

Beyond the passing of a wet cloth softly
across the forehead and lips, the leech made no
answer.

' How long ?' said the hoarse voice again,
hoarser and more insistent. • One hour or two .•*
God's curse, man, speak out! Have I leisure
for such nice mummery of respect .-* One hour
or two .-*' The leech shook his head, but made
no direct answer. ' Not one hour ? Then get

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 253

all men from me for one-fourth my lifetime, that
I may think.'

The two drew back hesitatingly, then said
Father Clement :

' Nay, Seigneur, surely there is much to be
done, and the time i'j short.'

'Ay,' answered De Beaufoy, 'surely there
is much to be done, and the time is short.
The more reason for few words and a quick
obedience. Confession presently, Father ; there
is something, as I think, which must come
first.'

Then he closed his eyes, and at an impera-
tive motion of his hand the two withdrew, the
priest whispering as he went :

* 'Tis some need of reparation that lies heavy
on his soul ; some repentance that is a work as
well as a sorrow. Pray God he make haste,
for the end is not far off.'

' If he but cry out,' answered the other, ' he
is dead.*

As the sound of the shuffling feet died away,
De Beaufoy looked out once more on his hall
of justice, and a great bitterness grew in his heart.
There was the sunshine slanting in through the
narrow windows ; there beyond, the beauty of
the sky cut by the gray line of the outer wall,
the bustle, the stir, the expansion of life were

254 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

i^ I

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I' '1 I
i'

lit-' -a

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all at work, even as when he was in his strength ;
and now the mill of life still ground on, though
he lay with death gripping at his heart. His
glory of power was cankered, his greatness but
a crushed potsherd ; and at the thought of the
contrast between the then and the now he
ground his teeth and groaned a curse under his
breath.

Slowly his eyes passed round the hall, noting
its massive strength. Ay, that was built to last,
while he had but an hour betwixt him and clay,
iind after him came Raoul. At the thought of
the children his face softened, and, as if the
thought had called them, there came on the
instant the pattering of their feet on the flags.

Solemn- eyed and dimly conscious of mis-
fortune, the two, Raoul and Ren^e, stood a
moment hand in hand by the doorway ; then
walked slowly up the hall, slowly, slowly,
staring with uncomprehending curiosity at this
father of theirs in his new mood of unwonted
stillness. The very silence made them afraid,
and they paused, shrinking back, their hands
clasping one another the tighter.

Suddenly Raoul shook himself clear.

* See, Renee,' he cried, ' father's got some-
thing.' And running forward, he put out his
hand to grip the broken arrow in Francois de

is ,

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 255

Beaufoy's naked breast. Left alone with her
fears, Ren^e broke into a dolorous wail, and at
the cry Raoul turned back. ' Come, Renee.' he
said, 'father's sleepy.' and. again hand in hand,
they stole away, and De Beaufoy had seen
the last of his race.

Once again the bitterness of death passed
upon the stricken man. His day was done.
What now would come to Beaufoy in those
turbulent times, and the Seigneur a feeble
child ? Since the days of the Suzerainty men
had led men. Strong hands had held what
strong hands had handed down to them, and cool
brains had plotted for its enlargement. What
was that text Father Clement had preached
from five Sundays past ? ' Woe to thee. O
land, when thy king is a child.' Beaufoy would
be rent in pieces ; robber hordes upon this side,
free-lances upon that, and crafty, unscrupulous
neighbours upon both this and that. The
patient building up of generations stricken
down by a bolt's blow ! Ha ! that he could at
least avenge ! And his eyes rolled round in
their sockets seeking for the shadow of the
maimed oak.

It was ominous of the end that Father
Clement returned alone: the leech had no
further part in the tragedy ; but as the priest

.!■ ^"

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(: ■

256 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

stooped to kneel by the settle-head. Franqois de
Beaufoy stopped him with a gesture.

•Time enough for that,' he said. 'Justice
for life, the Church for death. Send me
Marmontel ; he and I have somewhat to do.'

Father Clement drew back.

•Nay, Seigneur, Heaven's mercy first, and
then earth's justice.'

• Ay, that's well enough ; but maybe the
justice will need the mercy, so this time let the
first come second. Send me MarmonteL'

• Seigneur, I pray you.'
Beaufoy half turned on the settle.

' Priest, would you have me die unconfessed ?
Send me Marmontel.'

• But '

• But no buts. Have I breath for wrang-
ling ? Send me Marmontel ; when he and I
and Gustave Breigne are done the one with

the other, then In God's name hasten,

man, for the life runs low in me.'

Seeing that it was useless to urge him further.
Father Clement went in haste in search of the
man-at-arms, and speedily returned with him,
and then took again his place by the settle.

Tough-fibred though he was, the blow which
struck De Beaufoy had sorely wounded Mar-
montel. Death was common enough, and that

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 257

a man should die for his Seigneur was nothing
out of the course of nature ; but that the
Seigneur should lie there stricken to the death
in his quarrel, and for such a shred of value as
a whimsy wench, hit Marmontel hard.

The ruddy bronze of his cheeks had faded
into an ashy gray, and the nerve that had borne
him unmoved over a dozen stricken fields had
broken down, so that he shook and trembled
and went cold like a girl at her first sight of
blood.

Not even the chill creeping so relentlessly
up from his feet nor the growing torment of
fire in his breast, had brought home to De
Beaufoy the nearness of the end as did the
white face of Marmontel. How near and how
terrible a thing this death must be, if it could
thus shatter so hardened a nature ! Back into
his heart surged the bitterness of loss, and if
Gustave Breigne's life had ever stood a chance
of safety, Marmontel's white face killed that
chance at once and for ever. Very feebly the
Seigneur beckoned with outstretched fingers.
The slightest gesture, no more, for with such a
truth staring at him through Marmontel's eyes,
it behoved him to conserve his strength.

' Nearer,' he whispered, ' nearer, nearer still.
Thine ear to my mouth. This is betwixt us

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258 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

twain, and is nought of the Church's — at least
as yet. Hang me Gustave Breigne to Beaufoy's
oak.' Then seeing, perhaps, a question in the
other s face, he broke out : ' God's life, man,
my word's my word, though it be but a
whisper !'

Marmontel raised his head as if to speak, but
the Seigneur stopped him.

• Hark you ! If the leech be right, I have
thirty minutes in which to hang Gustave
Breigne and make my peace with God. So
hasten thou.'

Without a word Marmontel got him out of
the Justice-hall, and with the silence following
the ring of his spurs on the flags Beaufoy
twisted himself round, the better to see the
outline of the oak against the clear olive of the
failing twilight. His wolfish look stung the
priest into fresh action. Leaving the settle-
foot, he flung himself on his knees beside the
dying man.

' Bethink you, Seigneur, at such a time as
this, and God so near — ay, at the very threshold,
or within the doors. Let mercy crown the
end, mercy as you hope for mercy. Seigneur —
Seigneur.'

Beaufoy put up one hand and grasped the
splintered shaft to h(jld it firmly in its place,

\SiiJiiA

HIGH AND LOW JUSTICE 259

and with the other he leaned heavily on the
kneeling monk, raising himself that he might
see the better.

•Silence, priest I' he said. 'Thy time to
speak Cometh presently, for repentance is not
far off.'

Beyond the narrow windows was the bustle
of men passing and repassing in great haste.

'Oh for another hour!' groaned De Beaufoy
' one hour, one ! Is the light growing dim thai

I cannot see.? Surely that shadow was

Ay, there goes the passing bell. Aid me,
priest, nearer, nearer, that I may see.'

Higher, higher he lifted himself, and at the
fifth stroke of the bell fell forward at the priest's
feet— dead.

17—:

A QUEEN'S FAVOUR

I i

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For all that the Chateau of Pau is the greatest
in the kingdom of Navarre, it is not beloved by
the people. Our King Henry tolerated its laby-
rinths of corridors and traditional stiffness of
Court etiquette for the sake of what lay beyond
the walls, since nowhere could he find more
royal sport than in the woods which so thickly
covered the hills a league south of the Gave,
which, as the world knows, washes the hill-slope
upon whose ridge stands the Chateau. A
wandering bear from the higher spurs, boars
in sufficiency, wolves beyond sufficiency, and
the curse of our peasants, were the quarry beyond
the walls ; and there were not wanting those who
hinted that the rambling corridors lent them-
selves to a pursuit less royal, though as much to
the King's taste, when the rain, dri/ting in from
the west, pent us indoors ; but it is charity to
suppose that these last spoke in malice rathe«-
than in good faith.

A QUEEN'S FAVOUR

261

To us courtiers, bound by form and servants
to ceremony, the cold shadows of Paris usages
which haunted Pau were unutterably irksome.
We sighed for the freedom of Orthez or Navar-
reux, where the King was plain Monsieur
d'Albret and we his fellow gentlemen; and
trebly irksome it was when— as at this time—
the Queen was in Paris, and the Court bereft
of half her ladies.

To one who did not know the crooked
policies of the day, it would have seemed the
very time to fling ceremony aside and bid the
Court go play, but our shrewd King and we of
his council knew better. Failing the policy of
assassination, what was the prime aim of Henry
of France.? To set wife and husband at
variance, and so give himself a bi jtherly right
to put an armed hand on Navarre for the great
comfort of his sister and the aggrandizement of
his kingdom. To this end spies were as thick
in Navarre as priests at a burial, and that the
enemy might not have cause to blaspheme, we
doubled punctilio until such time as the Queen's
return restored us to gaiety. For all their
whimsies and occasional cross-purposes, these
two understood one another marvellously, and
were agreed— as was wise — upon a large tolera-
tion. So long, therefore, as the same walls

Ui i

26a THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

held King and Queen, France could do little
mischief. What I have now to tell of is of a
mischief that failed, even in the Queen's absence,
thanks to a watchfulness as far distant as Paris
is from Pau.

For five-and-forty minutes of a council meet-
ing we had played with admirable seriousness
at doing nothing. For the moment there was
no plot brewing, whether by intolerant Catholics
or fanatical Huguenots. We were at peace
with Spain on the south, and suspiciously
friendly with France on the north. As to
finances, we had no money, and therefore,
with the lightheartedness of empty pockets,
gave no thought to the spending of it !
Still, we played the game of governing a
kingdom with as solemn a carefulness as the
Augurs of old invoked destiny, and with an
equal faith in our own usefulness. There was,
therefore, a general rousing into interest when
the King, from his raised seat at the head of
the table, demanded if the business of the
council were concluded, and being told ' Ay '
by the wondering secretary, went on, taking a
paper from a leather pouch by his side :

'The thousand ways in which my good
brothers of France have shown their love to
me are known to you ; now, and not for the

A QUEENS FAVOUR 263

first time, it is the turn of Madame, my mother.
Remembering our loneliness, she sends my
dear friend the Comte de Clazonay to cheer us.
To-night the Count arrives— not, remember,
gentlemen, as ambassador, but as friend and
comrade. See to it that his welcome fits the
occasion, and do you. Monsieur de Bernauld,
remain at the breaking up of the council that
I may instruct you as to his reception.'

Then he rose abruptly, as if to prevent
inquiry, and in the bustle that followed, Rosny
plucked me by the sleeve.

'What has come to him, with his rounded
periods and dear comrades .> There will be
need for a second brain in this, so I will wait
you in the hall below.'

That was Rosny all over. In his eyes no
man had the wit of a frog save himself

While the council-chamber emptied, Henry
stood in an embrasure overlooking the Gave
his hands clenched behind his back, his beard
sunk upon his breast, and his face wrinkled as
was his habit when in deep thought. As the
door closed he turned, all his suave smoothness
gone, and in its place the hawk's look we came
to know so well in those long days of struggle
when the throne of France was the stake of

the

game.

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264 THE BEAUFOY RON'ANCES

'All that,' he said harshly, 'was for La
Vraille's itching ears. Let him earn his hire
from Catherine with the telling of it. Read
this, old friend, and tell me which has Clazonay
come to strike — Navarre or only Henry i*'

' If he strikes the last. Sire — which God
forbid he dreams of— he strikes the first,' said
I, taking the papers. ' But this is from the
Queen ; perhaps you '

' Read, man, read,' he broke in impatiently,
and turned back again to the window. ''Tis
as you say, from the Queen to the King ;
had it been from Margot to the Lord knows
who, your nice caution had been more justi-
fied.'

Yet, considering many things which the
King knew better than I. it was a warm letter
enough, rnd ran something in this fashion :

' Monsieur, and my very dear Husband,
' Though Navarre is so many leagues
away, it is very near to me in my thoughts,
and that I may be brought closer to thee, our
good mother has lent me thy ancient and very
true friend, Monsieur de Clazonay, to carry to
thee news of how 1 fare. That, because of thy
weighty affairs in Navarre, thou canst not be
persuaded to visit Paris is to her a great grief.

A QUEEN'S FAVOUR 265

and also to our brother Henry. I kiss thee on
both cheeks.

• Thy very faithful and very loving wife,

' Marguerite.

' Mindful of thy love for the chase, and that
thou mayest the better keep us in memory, we
beg thee to wear the gift whereof Monsieur de
Clazonay is bearer.'

A very sweet and lover-like letter, but, as
it seemed to me, somewhat unlike Madame
Marguerite. The former thought I told the
King ; the latter, for the sake of peace, I kept
to myself

'Ay,' answered he, facing me, 'and the bee
with the honey-bag carries a sting in its tail.
Look at the seal, De Bernauld, look at the seal.'

Turning the letter to the light, I found it
sealed in two places, the first splash of red wax
bearing the cipher ' M. V.' ; the second a
serpent reared upon its coils, and with head
poised ready tc; strike.

' The doves of Venus are more to Margot's
liking,' went on Henry, 'and yon venomous
thing is a fair warning. I were a greater fool
than Madame the Queen- Mother has yet found
me if I neglected it Note the postscript,
De Bernauld. There is much need of a gift,

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266 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

is there not, to freshen my memory of Catherine
de Medici? By the Lord who made me what
I am, it is hard to hear with patience the
witch's cajoleries! The voice is Margot's
voice, but the hand is Catherine's, and the
man she flatters had best walk circumspectly !
Note, too, the messenger, I know this fellow
De Clazonay of old. When Beam wedded
France and Coligny was in favour, he thought
our star in the ascendant, and turned Huguenot,
but the mild persuasions of Bartholomew were
too many for him, and he recanted. Ay, I
know what you would say, Monsieur de
Bernauld, that I, too, have turned and re-
canted ; but our cases are not equal. The
liberties of a nation count for more than a
place at Court. He is my very good friend,
this De Clazonay, and for cause, since in the
old days, and over that same recantation, I
stood him in good stead. Guise was no more
prone to mercy then than now, and but for
poor Henry of Navarre, De Clazonay had
been one of the forgotten thousands, recanta-
tion or no recantation. Now, like the cur he
is, he comes to bite the hand that saved him.'

All this seemed to me an overlarge deduction
from a splash of wax, but the King would hear
of no reply.

A QUEEN'S FAVOUR

267

• I know the man." he said stubbornly, 'and
I know his mistress. The only point of doubt

is whether he comes to foment a quarrel or '

and he stopped short, tapping himself on the
breast significantly. ' For the one, see that no
pretext be given him, and if he lies of the
Queen with hints and smiles, turn a deaf ear
and play the dullard. For the second, that is
your affair, since a King of Navarre must hold
himself a frank gentleman even to traitors.
Meet him for me, De Bernauld, and feed him
with his own honey. Speak of our anxious
affection for our mother in Paris, our jrr^ituc^
for her tender thought ; thou knowest the tr
of lies, for all that thou art a man of camps
rather than courts.' Here he linked his arm n
mine and drew me towards the door, as m
his habit when, having said his say, he desr

to throttle p1! reply.

'Speak of our love for the Queen, the

austereness of our life, our unconsoled grief at

her absence ! What, man, thou hast my mean

ing.? I myself will see to it that La Belle

Fadette does not cross his path.'

Then, his eyes twinkling and with an upward

twist ol his moustache, he flung open the door

and was gone, leaving me staring.

Truly here was a thorny burr to handle, and

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268 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

one like to prick my fingers. If the King were
right, a false move might give our greedy
neighbour a pretext for armed intervention,
and then farewell to Navarre's liberties. As I
gnawed my beard I inwardly cursed my fortune
that Henry had not rather given his confidences
to the more supple-minded De Rosny, to whom
diplomatic lies and crooked policies were but
playthings.

Yet, for all that, I kept my counsel when De
Rosny stopped me in the hall below, intent to
pick my brains ; and from the rebuff I then
gave him I date that enmity which he never
forgot, even when I remained plain Blaise de
Bernauld and he had blossomed into Mon-
seigneur the Due de Sully and the first Minister
of a King of France !

With half a dozen fellows at my back I went
as far as the Cheval Rouge on the Auch Road,
a league and a half maybe, and there, in com-
pany with a bottle of red wine of Burgundy,
waited my gentleman's coming. Nor was my
patience gready tried, for his was the fourth
dust-cloud, and if at first he looked a litde
askance at finding a plain soldier flanked by
six pikemen where he thought to find a Court
gallant, his mood soon changed. All the same,
the start he gave when I greeted him in

A QUEEN'S FAVOUR

269

Henry's name, and when he saw the glint of
the sun on the steel points, told of an uneasy
conscience, and a discomfort grew within me.
What if the King's guess had hit the nail ?

• In the King's name, Monsieur,' I began,
my nand upon his saddle— 'twas then he started
-—'a friend's welcome to a friend. He is all
impatience to hear more particularly of those
in Paris whom he holds so dear.'

' So,' said he, eyeing me closely, ' the King
has Madame Marguerite's letter ?'

' We call her Queen of Navarre here, if we
seek to keep the King's favour,' I answered
bluntly, for the fellow's impertinent assumption
nettled me.

' Then there are a dozen who call her Margot
in Paris,' replied ne, with a laugh. ' Some
because it is the fashion, and some because—
shall I say it i* — because she is '

' A daughter of France,' I broke in. • We
understand all that. Monsieur, and that the
Queen is happy in the love of Paris is the
King's recompense for her absence.'

' Nay,' said he, sneering, ' not of all Paris.
Only some eight or ten of the Court'

But I had stopped his venomous tongue for
that time, and from thenceforward as we rode
to Pau we were on less slippery ground.

270 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

■•*».

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What I had said to De Clazonay was true
enough : we understood to the full his hints
and gibes ; and, since the King was no uxorious
fool, there seemed to me no good reason for
hiding from him what had passed at the inn.

For answer he nodded thoughtfully and
tapped m* on the shoulder.

• Confess : which was right, De Bernauld,
thou or I ? But to win his game he must play
more boldly than to chatter idle hints and
Court gossip. Say we shall receive him in the
Salle d'Armes before supper. He shall sit at
my right, and bid Carrier see that by no evil
chance the Count's hand strays above my wine-
cup, though, to be honest, I think he is more
cautious than frankly to endanger his own
head when some subtler plan will serve his
purpose.'

As the dingy grub is to the flaunting butter-
fly, so was the dusty horseman of the Auch
Road to the gay courtier who came smilingly
among us as we waited the coming of the King.
Such a wealth of silks and laces, plumes and
jewels, was, to my mind, out of taste at a Court
so poor as that of Navarre, and the display
made no friends to the wearer among those
honest gentlemen who had stripped themselves
to their barest necessities that the King micrht

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A QUEENS FAVOUR

271

have wherewith to keep safe the h'berties of the
nation. His page was his very miniature, and
as the lad minced and strutted behind his
master down the hall, a toy blade hanging at
his left thigh and a loose packet wrapped in
crimson silk flung across his arm. it was hard
to say which of the two showed the greater
pride.

Yet it is only justice to admit that the fellow
carried himself well, and did his mistress no
discredit. To his braveries of dress, which—
by our younger men, at least— were the more
observed because we lacked them, he added a
bold carriage and a man's fine figure. If his
look was crafty, and his eye overmuch on the
alert, excuse might lie in the antagonisms
abroad upon the air, and which it was impos-
sible but he must have felt even through their
veil of courtesy. Me he had singled out, and
with De Rosny and Rohan we formed a group
apart, when the great doors at the further end
of the salon were flung open and the King
entered, alone and dressed with careful sim-
plicity.

It was clear that the manner of it struck De
Clazonay. He had looked for an aping of the
Louvre, a pinchbeck ceremony, a display of
tmsel masquerading as fine gold, a puppet

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272 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

decked in tawdry grandeur ; and found instead
a simple, frank-hearted gentleman, who reigned
as King by a different and more Divine right
than that of the Valois— the right of a people's
love and goodwill.

With no more than passing greetings to
right and left, the King came straight to-
wards us.

'Welcome, Monsieur de Clazonay, mine
ancient and very true friend !' he cried, repeat-
ing the exact words of the Queen's letter, with
the contents of which he did not doubt the
Count was well acquainted. ' But that none
can be so dear to me as the Queen and our
good mother, I would say that this gracious
loan of one so high in favour would reconcile
me to the loss of Madame Marguerite. 'Tis so
they call her in Paris, is it not? That she
finds so much of love in the Louvre is my
great comfort. Presently, Monsieur, you must
tell me of her conquests.'

De Clazonay had fallen on one knee as the
King came near, and though the smile never
left his face, he felt the irony of the King's
speech through the suave greeting, and his lips
tightened across his teeth. He was a cur,
Henry had said, and there was the cur's snarl.
More than that, the King's jeering banter had

A QUEEN'S FAVOUR

273

angered the cur, and the cur was eagerly alert
to bite.

' The Queen, my mistress, knows my poor
worth more nearly,' he answered, with a great
show of humility, 'and that I may truly win
acceptance to your f-^vour, she has made me
bearer of a token of her abiding affection to
your Majesty.'

With the cur's snarl still on his lips, and the
hard, false smile fixed in his eyes, he made as
if to kiss the King's hand. But, with a mighty
show of heartiness, Henry forestalled him and
bade him rise.

' This,' he said loudly, ' is a meeting of
friend and friend. Let us have none of these
stiff courtesies, Monsieur de Clazonay. Gentle-
men, I present to the favour of you all my
ancient Paris comrade. Let him find through
your assistance that Navarre, though small in
size, is large of heart.*

W^hich was very kingly and gracious, and
passed muster finely with the crowd, but I
noted that, for all his fine words, he never so
much as touched the Count's hand.

' And the Queen's gift, Sire i*'

' Ah, true !' he cried. ' When was the
Queen of France not gracious to Navarre .''
The list of unpaid debts will be a long one

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274 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

when the day of requital comes. I beg you to
believe and to assure her Majesty that what
Navarre lacks is not the heart to pay, but the
means. This latest obligation we are under, is
it here, Monsieur!*'

De Clazonay turned and beckoned to his
side the page, and, as I live by bread, the evil
look in his face deepened, and his smile grew
yet nearer to the cur's snarl.

• 'Tis but a small thing,' he said, taking the
crimson packet from the boy's arm, • though I
call all men to witness that what lies behind the
gift is great beyond words.'

• The love of my good mother ?*

' Ay, Sire, that and all that love wills.'
There was a marble-topped table two yards
away, a thing of many colours, of much gilding
and glitter. On it De Clazonay placed the
packet; then turning, he bowed gravely to
Henry, as if to say the Queen's gift had now
passed to the King's keeping. It was, as I
have said, of crimson silk, some twenty inches
long by fifteen wide, and tied with silken cords
of its own colour. For all his gratitude, the
receiver of the gift was in no haste to take
possession.

•The honour has been yours thus far.
Monsieur le .Comte,' he said; 'let the

A QUEEN'S FAVOUR

275

honour still be yours, and do you unfold the
covering.'

Drawing his dagger— a toy affair, all damas-
cene and jewels— De Clazonay cut the cords,
and, turning aside the flaps of silk, again
bowed. Then he stepped back.

On the table lay a pair of hunting-gloves,
and gloves truly worthy of a King's wearing.
Their colour was that of the silk, a blood
crimson, and from finger-point to wrist the deer-
skin of which they v. re made was as delicately
soft, for all its strength, as the most dainty
Court lady could desire ; while the deep gaunt-
let, running almost to the elbow, was stiff and
glazed and so narrow as to hug the sleeve.
They lay reversed— that is, the one with the
palm, the other with t*" • knuckle uppermost—
and which would moh -in the fancy was an
open question, the palm being a network of
many-coloured silk cords of exceeding fineness
to give a grip to the haft of knife or spear, and
the back sewn thickly with pearls of large size,
gray, smoky, and black.

With his hands behind him and his beard
upon his breast, as he had stood that day in the
Council Chamber, the King stood over the
Paris gloves. ' Margot was shrewder than I
guessed," I heard him murmur, but so low that

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276 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

had I not been at his elbow and had an inkling
of his thought, it would have passed unheeded.
Then he beckoned to De Clazonay, and, look-
ing him keenly in the face, said smilingly :

' Put them on, my friend, that I may better
judge the splendour of the Queen's gift.'

But De Clazonay, who had stepped forward,
drew back again, back to the very limits of the
narrow circle that stood watching the scene,
and, unless I am blind, his face grew gray in
the lamplight.

* Who am I,' he said, ' to wear the Queen's
gift before it has even touched the King's
hand.? If I so presumed, how could I dare
face my mistress's displeasure ?'

' H'm !' and Henry nodded his head twice or
thrice slowly ; ' humility is a plant of a speedy
growth. How could such a slight thing dis-
please so gracious a mistress ? Women are
very forgiving. Monsieur, whereas I, who am a
man, am not to be trifled with when the mood
takes me.' Then he turned to De Clazonay 's
page : ' Wrap these dainties up again, and lay
them in my dressing-chamber. Gentlemen,'
and he raised his voice, ' these are a Queen's
gift ; see that no man touch them save myself,
lest they be mishandled. Now '—and as if to
show that his veiled threat was but an outburst

A QUEEN'S FAVOUR

the

277

lomentary irritation,
Clazonay by the arm — 'to supper, Monsieur,
and recalling old memories, we will renew old
friendships ; then we must plan a hunt further
afield than ordinary, that we may do full honour
to the Queen's gift.'

Than Henry of Navarre no man could at
will be more winning, more frankly gracious,
and the light was back to the Count's eyes and
the flush to his cheeks before his glass had
been emptied twice. He was not the first nor
the last who sharpened his wits against the
King's to his own wounding. The first step
to failure, whether in war or diplomacy, is to
despise your enemy.

Later, when the great hall was awhirl with
talk and laughter, and De Clazonay the centre
of a jesting group, the King sent for me.

• See to it, De Bernauld,' said he, the careless
smile never so much as flickering on his face,
'that Marcel, your man, has speech with me
when all this folly is over. Let him wait me
in my cabinet half an hour before midnight,
and let my toughest, speediest horse be stand
ing ready saddled in the courtyard. The fellow
is faithful, almost as faithful as thyself, and I
must borrow him for eight days. See to it,
too, that he is not questioned, whether to-night

278 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

\ i

or later ; for where and when he rides is the
King's business.*

As to the when he rode, it was that night,
since thenceforth for something better than a
week Marcel was missing; and when he re-
turned to Pau he returned a sorely weary man,
mud-spattered almost out of recognition. As
to where he rode I can but guess, for he told
me as much of his mission as I asked him, and
that was nought.

Thenceforward, too, for eight days the King
was strangely busy. Where they came from in
little Navarre, those pressing claims of State
which filled his mind to the exclusion of all
else, was a mystery which even Rosny could
not fiithom, as great a mystery as the King's
sudden zeal and tireless devotion. Such a
glutton was he that when affairs of State failed
him he called in vexed affairs of Church, and
there was not a grievance in all Beam, Bigorre,
Foix, or Navarre, even though it was a twelve-
month old, that he did not sift.

• 'Tis a King's business,' he told De Clazonay,
who all these days was Henry's shadow, 'to
give his life to his subjects, and not to his own
pleasurino-.' Therefore it follows that in these
eight days he did no hunting.

Then, as suddenly as he had assumed the

A QUEENS FAVOUR 279

burden of State he flung it aside, and I noted
that the change came after a crumpled letter,
sealed both back and front, had been brought
him as he sat at supper.

• We go hunting to-morrow,' he said to the
Frenchman who filled the place by his side,
and in a pause in the babel his words travelled
down the hall ; ' and, by the grace of fortune,
by noon we shall have clipped the claws of the
bloodiest wolf that ever ravaged Navarre.'

' For my part. Sire,' answered De Clazonay,
• I hold that craft leads to more clipped claws
than does fortune.'

•Be content' — and the King laughed—
' there shall be craft enough. We of Navarre
are simple folk, but no fools. The rendezvous
is for ten, Monsieur, and in my private cabinet.'
That night, too. Marcel returned to report
himself at once more on service, and went
asleep on his feet as he spoke.

Acting upon the King's orders, I betook
myself to his cabinet at the appointed hour. It
was a small and somewhat narrow room situated
at the end of a south corridor. To the right
were two windows which overlooked the river ;
opposite these the wall was only broken by a
deep fireplace, where, to my great astonishment
—it being a warm May day— there burned a

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280 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

fire of many faggots. At the further end of
the rooin a curtain swept from ceiling to floor.

De Rosny was already in waiting, and as we
talked De Clazonay entered, the King at his
heels, and followed by a groom of the chamber
carrying the famous packet of crimson silk.

' Leave it there and go,* said Henry curtly,
pointing to the table. • Monsieur de Rosny,'
he went on, standing with his back to the
hearth, 'your place is by the window; yours.
Monsieur de Bernauld, by the door; yours.
Monsieur de Clazonay, there,' and he motioned
with his hand to the end of the table in front of
the drawn curtains. A strange prelude this to
a day's sport ! But we silently took our places
as directed, and then stood in the hush of ex-
pectancy, for, saving the King, no man knew
what was in the air.

• Honour for honour,' he said, bending over
the table and slowly unfolding the silken
wrappings. ' How can I better show apprecia-
tion of a friend's services and my love to the
Queen, my mother, than by a gift to you,
Monsieur de Clazonay ?'

' I am deeply sensible of your goodness.

Sire, and most humbly thank ' began De

Clazonay.

But the King stopped him with a gesture

A QUEEN'S FAVOUR

a8i

and a curt ' Watt,' and then fell again to un-
wrapping the silk ; and when the coverings
were removed, De Clazonay's gratitude was as
dead in his heart as on his lips. There was no
longer one pair of gloves, but two — and two so
strangely similar that none but a wizard could
have chosen between them. Alike in colour,
in shape, ' jxture, there was not as much as
the varied . . stre of a pearl to say which had
been the Queen's gift

• Choose, Monsieur.*

• I, Sire, I ? stammered De Clazonay. 'Such
things are for a King's wearing, and not for
simple *

' Ay,' said Henry bitterly, * I understand
you : for a King's wearing !'

Though it was plain the fellow was a illain
plotting with his eyes open, and no blin ' tool,
yet I could not but pity him. His face had
gone ashen gray, great sweat-drops were on his
forehead and standing thickly through the roots
of his hair, and, strive as he would, his jaw
shook as if smitten by a palsy.

'Choose,' said the King again, 'choose and
make an end ; the Court goes hunting and
waits.'

De Clazonay drew a shuddering breath.

• I will not choose,' he said between the teeth,

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282 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

clenched to keep them from chattering. • I will
not choose, and you dare not murder me ' And
folding his arms, he stepped back from the

table.

• Monsieur de Rosny,' and the King's voice
was very cold and hard, ' draw back the curtai .
that Monsieur de Clazonay may choose the
better.'

Back came the drapery with a ringing clatter
that shook even my nerves, so tense was the
strain, and behind it were hve soldiers of the
guard standing shoulder to shoulder, their steel
bare in their hands.

' Choose !' cried the King a third time. « For
by the Lord who made me, you wear these
gloves to-day or die where you stand. To kill
a poisoner is no murder.'

That the King was stonily in earnest was
plain to be seen, and grasping at a straw for
life, De Clazonay turned to the table and bent
over the gloves, scanning every stitch, every
gem, every line and curve. To him it was a
veritable lottery of life or death, and at last he
pitched upon two and drew them towards him
with shaking fingers.

' These, Sire.'

The King turned to me.

' Monsieur de Bernauid, yon will ride to-day

A QUEEN'S FAVOUR

a83

by the side of Monsieur de Clfizonay. Sec to
it that he does not so much is shift a hand
until our return.'

' And if I return, Sire ?' cried De Clazonay
eagerly, plucicing at the gloves with nervous
fingers.

• If you return in peace,' said Henry solemnly,
• then God has spoken. Come, Monsieur, glove
yourself; the Court waits.'

Turning, he raised the tongs from the hearth,
and lifting the remaining pair of gloves, thrust
them deep into the bosom of the red embers.

• To horse, gentlemen !' he cried ; • and, De
Bernauld, let there be neither mistake nor pity.
This is a State matter; see, therefore, that
your sword sics light in its sheath. You under-
stand. Monsieur de Clazonay.-*'

Of that day I will say little, only I pray God
I may never see again the sorrows of a tortured
soul. As for the gloves, had the King's
orders, and where they wen they stayed until
we had clattered up the windi ig causeway that
leads from the Gave de Pau to the gate of the
Chateau. Once within the courtyard, my charge
was done with, and it was nought to me thlt
De Clazonay shook off the crimson leather
from his hands as a man shakes oft" a hornet.
They were as white and smooth from wrist to

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284 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

finger-tip as when, in all his hunting bravery,
he that morning entered the King's cabinet

' Pray God all's well,' said he, with a deep
breath that was almost a groan ; but even as
he spoke he stumbled in his walk, pawing the
air as a man does in terror of the dark. That
night he died.

' The fool !' said the King when one told
him. ' Did he think that Ren6 had no second
pair of gloves, or that Navarre was too poor to
pay the price ?'

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MAN AND MONK

When Marco da Murate was laid to rest at
Furvarola, and by grace of a lance-thrust in the
throat gave his body that peace it had never
known in his turbulent life, there were those
who said that Marco the younger would have
as bloody an ending, and fewer days to do
violence in. His nine years of life had been,
from the time he could consciously use his fist,
years of strife and passionate self-assertion.

As for Cosimo, he was a pear off another
tree, for all that he was twin with Marco. A
weakling lath of a lad beside his sturdy brother,
he^ had, said his father's ruffling spearmen!
neither wit nor courage enough for aught else
than a monk : but then to a spearsnian there is
but one form of courage.

The bearing of the boys struck the note of
their character the day Marco the elder was
borne home to Casamaldi. The fiery eldci son
first burst into a bitter lamentation that was as

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286 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

much wrath as sorrow; then, with a too apt
adoption of the custom of the age, drew the
child's dagger hanging by hir side, and on its
cross -handle swore to avenge on Nicolo
Perenghi the blow which had struck down his
father. Cosimo, the younger, grew but a shade
paler, biting his lips and clenching his hands
until the knuckles showed white ; and for the
thirty-six hours in which the coffin lay on the
trestle in the great hall he knelt by its head.

' Soldier and monk,' said the old squire who
had brought home his master's corpse—* soldier
and monk, and, by Our Lady, Da M urate had
need of both, though there is more blood to
spill than a boy's hand can shed, and more
prayers to say for that wild soul than a boy's
brain can dream of.'

Had there been any doubt as to their several
vocations, the day after Furvarola settled it;
and it was with a steadfast but varying expecta-
tion that each looked forward to the playing of
his chosen part in the world. In a measure,
too, each received the education best fitted to
his purpose of life. Marco, hot-blooded and
impatient of control, contemptuous of peace
and the ways of peace, grew up steeped to the
lips in the seething torrent of strife which in
his days raged from every mountain to every

U=iUik

MAN AND MONK

287

plain in Italy. There were a score of captains,
past-masters in the practice and theory of war,
to school him into knowledge and teach him
the art not alone of command but of obedience.
The lad of nine, with nothing but his hereditary
instmct, had at sixteen become the experienced
participant in half a dozen skirmishes. The
dagger Oh which he had sworn his child's oath
had grown with his growth, and from little
better than a toy symbol of his rank had become
a weapon of serious account, and one that had
let blood more than once. From his left side
It had slipped to his right, and in its place hung
a short, narrow-bladed sword, which rested
over-lightly in its scabbard.

If Marco uas a soldier in all saving strength
and stature, Cosimo was already a monk in
everything but the vows and the outer garb.
As for the jeer at his wit. that was but the
cheap gibe of that or any other age at a thing it
does not understand ; while, later on, he was to
show that, for all his abhorrence of warfare and
its ways, he was own son to Marco da M urate.
It was still two years later before the brothers
met, and more than ever these two years
stamped upon them their differing character-
istics, crystallizing their ambitions and their
purposes.

I'l:

i^ Ai

■)M.

288 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

The division of the little property left by the
dead Marco brought them together. Hitherto
Casamaldi had remained under the control of
Cosimo's monks, but now Marco the elder was
claiming his own, and the time had come for
taking an account.

From the monastery, hidden away in a far-
off upper ravine, came Cosimo and the Car-
thusian prior, whose special charge he was ;
while Marco swaggered up the winding road
from Bologna, attended by half a dozen youths
and squires, each as roistering as himself.

Of the two, Cosimo arrived first, and as he
crossed the threshold of the room where he had
kept vigil, the years fell from him. He was
no longer Cosimo the man, but the chiid facing
his first great sorrow. It was as if his father
lay where he had lain nine years before, stricken
to death. As the child had done, so, under
the compulsion of memory, likewise did the
man, bowing himself by the empty settle and
praying dumbly as the boy had prayed.

He was still on his knees by the setde-head,
when there came a clattering of horse-hoofs
from the courtyard, the sound of voices raised
in careless banter, and the lively note of
laughter.

' By my faith, Marco, hadst thou told us

U-ii\

MAN AND MONK

289

what a mouldered place thou hast of it up here,
thou hadst swallowed the dust these two hours
past by thyself. Why, man, the place smells
of a cellar, all saving the wine. Ha ! there's
a good thought behind that. Those monkish
friends of thine have many a time a shrewd
taste for good liquor. Is there never a soul to
bring a Christian the wherewithal to quench
his thirst.? The great hall lies this way, doth
it ? Well, shout thou for Pietro, Paolo, whom

thou wilt, while we Softly, now. A hall,

sayest thou .? A church, say I, and one must
needs doff his bonnet.*

Undisturbed by the approaching voices.
Cosimo was still on his knees, with the prior
by his side, when Marco and his party entered,
halting in a knot by the doorway. Above the
shoulders of those who had preceded him the
elder brother peered into the apartment.

* Ay, ay,' he said, ' there is the M urate blood.
We do nothing by halves, we Murates. A
monk is a monk from cowl to sandal, and a
soldier a soldier from heart to gauntlet. I'll
wager he would pray you out of purgatory as
fast r^ 1 could send you there.'

For a moment a silence fell upon the party.
It was as the other had said, as if they had of
a sudden stepped from the heat and noise of

^' •::

W !

290

THF BEAUFOY ROMANCES

;r- I

1 I

II'

li:

i' ' ■■

the world into the quiet peace of a sanctuary,
and the calm had shamed them into dumbness.
Then Marco spoke again, softly, but with a
note of bitterness in his voice.

' By St. Dominic, but the monk is more
faithful than the soldier. Cosimo hath done
his part, but I have failed. My nine years'
vow hath had no deed to follow it.'

Shouldering his way through the group at
the doorway, he was by his brother's side when
Cosimo rose from his knees, and the two faced
one another for the first time in nine years.
Here again the monk came to the surface.

' It was for our father, Marco, and for thee ;
both then and now.'

' So,' said Marco, with his hand on the
other's shoulder, ' for me. And why ?'

' Because thou art Marco and our father over
again in love and the need of prayer.'

The hand slipped from the shoulder round
the neck, and the elder brother, drawing the
younger to him, turned facing the doorway.

' Right, Cosimo ; there is, and hath been,
need that thou shouldst pray, though there be
few have the courage to say so. Hear now a
vow to join the other : Who toucheth Cosimo,
even by a finger-point, toucheth Marco, and,
by St. Dominic ! he had best look to himself.

MAN AND MONK

291

Father, fs there none to give these gentle-
men meat and drink while we settle our affairs ?
They have ridden far, and are both hungry and
thirsty. As for Casamaldi and its revenues, if
I know Cosimo as well as I do Marco, the
matter will not be long in the doing.'

Presently the three were left alone, and
as the Carthusian produced from a satchel a
voluminous bundle of papers, he said :

' In this matter, Messire, I speck for Cosimo,
being to him in a fashion as a father or guardian.
Now, if it please you to attend -'

But Marco stopped him.

* Father, let us end this affair shortly. I am
no clerk, but Cosimo, I doubt not, writes like
an archbishop. Let him take a paper and set
down in what words he will : to Marco half, and
to Cosimo half. Then '

It was now the turn of the monk to in-
terrupt.

'Not so, m^ son; in Cosimo's name I
refuse.'

• And rightly, father, rightly,' cried out Marco
in haste. ' I had forgotten. To brother and
brother share and share is well enouo-h, but

there are the nine years* care and thought
To Cosimo, then, three-fourths, to me one
fourth.'

19-

hH-

292 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

But again the monk shook his head.

' A second time I say not so, my son ; but to
Marco all. Cosimo is one of us, and hath need
of nothing. Only, if thou thinkest that thou
owest aught, then, in the time to come, bear
net too hardly upon us monks. We are but
men, and where men are there is failure.*

Marco laughed aloud.

•The test is a good one,' he answered, 'but
somewhat dangerous. What if I said "Ay,"
and clinched the bargain ?' Then, seeing from
his brother's looks that all was sober earnest,
he cried : ' Wouldst have me branded cozener
and rogue, robber of my on flesh and blood?
Wouldst have me send out a M urate of Casa-
maldi to live on charity and beg liis bread,
even from Heaven ? Wouldst have me '

This time it was Cosimo who stopped the
outburst.

' Brother, there is but one Murate, and he is
Marco ; the other will be God's priest. As for
carping tongues, there are those at hand who
will silence them, trust us for that'

And thus, in spite of protestation, the matter
ended.

It was when the brothers parted in the court-
yard the next morning that the prior spoke
out

MAN AND MONK

^93

Marco had not been ashamed to weep as he
bade Cosimo farewell, and now the party,
somewhat sobered for their leader's sorrow, sat
mounted, waiting the word to spur and ride
onward. What Fra Martino said is beside the
question, since this story is to show two men
as they lived and foucrht out their lives in an
age when to live rightly and fight out a life was
even a harder matter than it is now. Never-
theless, as Fra Martino had not been made
prior of his community for nothing, it is small
wonder there was presently that in their hearts
which had not been there since the na:ne of
monk had been the easy scoff of the camj).

As for Marco, when one of his fellows
thought to pass a jest upon the scene, he had
answered :

'Hold thy peace! It strikes home to me
that there are times when there may be more
of man in the monk than in the soldier. A
sharp sword, strong arm, and keen eye are
much, but which of us all would face his fellows
and speak honest truth as yon monk spoke ?
Let him be'

After all, it was no great patrimony which
had fallen to the lad. Marco the elder had
nursed his prosperity with no careful hand, and
so, after his death, years passed before the

294 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

neglected vines and ill-tilled soil had recovered
power and fertility, and borne sufficient fruit to
lay aside even the profit of a few crowns. Now
things were better, and Marco the younger
carried away from Casamaldi not only a credit
upon Luca Simeoni, the Jew banker in Bologna,
but also the promise that year by year there
would be more crowns to follow.

Cosimo, who, for all his white face, had shed
no tears at the parting, was silent for the
larger part of the long journey to the Certosa,
his lips moving as if in some conflict of the
spirit, but without sound of speech. And with
that sympathy which was his chief power, Fra
Martino, too, had held his peace. At last, as
the walls bounding the property of the brother-
hood came into view upon the next cross-riuge
of the hill, the lad laid his hand on the shoulder
of the prior, and said :

• The battle is won, father ; Marco will be
mine at the last ;' and the pallor passed from
his cheeks and the dulness from his eyes.

The next news that came from Bologna was
that Marco, impatient of an inactivity which at
he most was shortlived, had gone ♦"O Modena
tand joined the Este of his day in a.i expedition
eastward against Ravenna.

Thenceforward for many a month it was

MAN AND MONK

295

only through Simeoni that tidings of any sort
reached the Certosa, and eve.i these scant
bruitings of the camp had better have been left
without the telling for all the good they did to
Marco's reputation.

Taken and patched together, the fragments
told a story of riot and license which shamed
even the lax notions of the age. The hard-
earned crowns of Casamaldi were flung into a
vortex of evil passions, squandered ui)on shame-
less feasts, and serving no purpose in the world
but to hasten and make more assured Marco's
destruction in soul and body. To all appear-
ances Cosimo's renunciation had been a fatal
error.

When, however, Fra Martino cried out in
that bitterness of spirit with which the toiler
sees the wreck of his labour, even though the
wreck be at ant^her's cost, Cosimo but shook
his head and answered back :

• The right is ever the right, father ; what-
ever evil may seem to come, nothing can over-
turn that ; and as I told thee once, Marco is
mine without a doubt, not now perhaps, nor
next year, nor the next, but surely mine.
Would God lie, and to a soul in trouble i*'

Against such faith what couid the prior do
but keep silence ?— groaning none the less in his

296 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

;h v^

heart, since at times faith comes harder to the
experience of the old.

Three years and more had gone on in this
fashion wheii Simeoni himself api)t'ared at the
Ccrtos?. His news was not long in the telling,
and he minced no words.

'The tether is run out,' he said; 'and he
would fain sell Casamaidi.'

' Let him sell, then !' cried the prior. • Let
him sell! So much Itss labour to us.'

' 1^, that's very well,' answered the Jew;
' but a man must needs be cautious, dealing —
saving your presence — with such cattle as
Messire Marco. I touch no stick of Casamaidi
unless this friar of yours, his brother, joins in
the deed.'

'There is no need,' said the priest, 'since
Cosimo hath no share in Casamaidi. Thar
hath been resigned long ago. Why hurt the
lad, as hurt him it will to give his father's house
to strangers, though the act be but a form .-**

' Resigned is well enough ' — and Simeoni
nodded his head with the grim smile of bitter
experience — ' but when I have paid good crowns
to Messire Marco, what prevents Father
Cosimo — no offence, you understand — what
prevents Father Cosimo saying, " Resigned ?
Show me the papers "?'

MAN AND MONK

597

•What, thou Jew, dost thou dare *

Simeoni solemnly wagged his forefinger in
the prior's face.

• Men are men,' he said ; 'and, with respect,
not even a white frock can alter that,' and was
obdurate till at last the priest cried out :

' If you will have it so, ask him, and I pray
the saints he says " No " roundly, and so balks
this ill-conditioned spendthrift.'

Later, when Simeoni put the matter to
Cosimo, the latter answered him neither yea
iior nay, but simply : ' Where, then, is Marco ?'
nor to any urging would he give any other
answer.

And when it appeared that Marco waited
down yonder in Bologna to know the result
of the Jew's mission, Cosimo brushed all talk
aside, and said :

• If face to face Marco wills it, then we shall
see ; but as yet there is nought to be said,' and
set himself to return with Simeoni.

It was in vain that the prior sought to dis-
suade him.

' Why borrow sorrow, my son, and what else
but grief and shame have ever come of this
hot-blooded brother of thine? Say " Ay," and
have done with it, or, better still, say " Nay,"
and let Marco shift fc.- himself.'

^ii.i

298 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

For the prior was still sore over his wasted
labour.

' Nay, but Marco is Marco still, and for what
else is a brother but to cling to a brother ?
Who knows but the old tales they told grew in
the telling? for that is the world's way.'

' Small growth,' said Simeoni, 'saving down-
wards, for Marco is an ill man to cross, and a
soft truth can save a hard blow.'

'Then,' cried Cosimo sharply, 'hold thou
thy peace, lest he cross thee — if he deem, indeed,
a Jew worth the crossing.'

They were therefore an ill-assorted pair when,
with Simeoni's hired guard, they presently
turned valleywards, the Jew fuming that a
half-made priest should so have spoken to him,
yet fearing to resent it, since the keeping of his
temper meant money ; Cosimo, on his part,
wroth with Simeoni for his blunt contempt, and
still more wroth with himself for being wroth.

In the end the nobler wrath got the upper
hand, and, turning to his companion, he prayed
his -^ rdon if he had said aught that was un-
seen. y ; but, indeed, Marco was his dear
brother, ....d doubdess Master Simeoni would
forgive a hot word repented of as soon as
spoken. A spt-och which, being without pre-
cedent in his exjperience, coming as it did from

MAN AND MONK

299

one so near the intolerance of the priesthood,
so affected the Jew that he actually put aside
his own interest in the matter in hand.

• See you,' he said, ' I know this Casamaldi.
The work of the padres up yonder is bearing
fruit, and rapidly now. In three years the land
will be worth double * ;s price. Therefore, have
nought to do with this sale by Messire Marco.
Ay, ay ; a brother s a brother, but three years
are a short span in which to turn two crowns to
four. Bid him wait. If he asks reasons, one
reason is as good as ten. Say thoa art under
a vow, or what not: I never knew a good
man yet but could frame a politic answer
when a reservation of the truth was to his
purpose.'

For which advice Cosimo thanked him cour-
teously enough, but would give no pledge.

It was three days later when the brothers
met in Simeoni's inner room, 'the spider's den,'
as some called it, where many a shrewd battle
had been fought between the unequal forces of
blustering necessity and obsequious but hard-
held wealth.

• Let him hear nought of my coming,' Cosimo
had said; and now he waited by the Jew's
table with his face turned three-parts from the
door, for no other reason but that he might by

!^»».

if 'SI i* ■'
I ill I

I :

300 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

a shrewd guess learn to know his brother as
the years had made him.

When Marco came it was in all his glory of
fine clothing, silks and laces. Cold steel and
leather jackets were well enough for the camp,
and there none wore them with a better grace ;
but here in Bologna he must ruffle it with the
best, whether the.e were crowns or no crowns.

'Well, Israel-ben-Iscariot!' he cried, flinging
his feathered cap on the table, ' is that uneasy
conscience of thine at rest ? Hath that monk
brother of mine put himself to his natural uses,

for, by St. Dominic, I know of naught

Saints! it is Cosimo himself. A pretty trick,
by my faith ! — a very pretty trick, and well
worthy the concov,iion of a Jew and a friar.'

Cosimo had risen while the other was speak-
ing.

' No friar as yet, Marco, but a brother in
love and service. Where foundest thou the
right to talk like that ?'

And leaning his hands on the other's broad
shoulders, he shook him slightly.

Marco's face softened.

' Why, it's the same Cosimo as of old.'

' Ay,' said Cosimo, 'but not the same Marco.'

Softly Luca Simeoni slipped to fhe door.

' I think, Messires, there is that to be said

MAN AND MONK

301

which is better said alone,' and shut himself
without.

A discreet man, Simeoni, and one who spoke
not all his mind ; for as he clattered down the
passage, making it echo with his tread, so that
they who were left within might understand
there was no listening at the door, he thought :
' If I know aught of men, Casamaldi is mine for
all my blunt s^ -ch, but the surer mine for my
absence, since Marco hath a proud temper and
would scorn benefits before a Jew.'

What pa- .ad was never fully known, but
later it was guessed that if Cosimo had not
fought hard for the house of his father, he had
at the least let Marco see his abhorrence of the
alienation, though in the end the power of
brotherhood had conquered.

When Simeoni re-entered the room it was
Marco who was by the table, his head sunk
upon his arms, while Cosimo bent above him.

• If thou wert with me always, it would not
be as the past has been,' the elder was saying.

' Ay,' said Cosimo sofdy, and his fingers stole
up from the shoulder into the curls about the
neck as he spoke ; ' I know. Satan hath desired
thee, that he might sift thee as wheat, and on
some his desire is a thing of course ; but I have
prayed '

i l^M.

■I . .

302 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

Then he stopped.

It was the Jew who broke the silence.

* What then, Messires, of Casamaldi ?*

* What hast thou to do with Casamaldi ?'
answered Cosimo. 'That is the care of Murate.'

But Simeoni knew there was a use for his
crowns, and in this Wisdom was justified of her
child.

' The care of Murate !' cried Marco, looking
up. 'Ay, so it must be. Cosimo, I will
borrow '

' H'm, a good thought, if a trifle late,' said
Simeoni. ' But who will lend .•* Bargains are
two-handed.

Again Cosimo's hand passed caressingly over
the other's head.

' No more of it, Marco,' he said. ' Better
sell than pledge with no hope of redemption,
and so fret body and soul alike. Where are
thy papers, Simeoni.'* Ready, I'll be bound,
for all thy counsel at Casamaldi. Nay, never
look aside, man ; trade is trade, and honour-
able enough. Better thou shouldst profit than
another.'

As the Jew left the room, Cosimo stooped
and drew Marco to him with the tenderness of
a woman.

* Marco, my brother Marco, the road seems

h;i'',i

MAN AND MONK

3^3

long at times, and faith far off, and yet, and
yet '

Marco looked up uncomprehendingly into
the face bent over his.

' Come thou with me, then,' he said. ' With
thee by me, the road would be easy enouf^h,
and all go well.'

' Nay, but I think it is thou who wilt come
to me,' answered Cosimo, ' but when I know
not. The papers, Master Simeoni ? There,
that is clerkly done. For thee, Marco, a
dagger-hilt mark is more in keeping than a
monkish scrawl. And now, my brother, is it
farewell for another five years ?'

Marco looked up from the parchment, where
he was laboriously tracing a sign manual.

' Not farewell I' He put out his hand to grip
the other's sleeve. ' Thou and I, Cosimo, must
have many a day together.'

' A pretty couple we would make,' answered
Cosimo, shaking his head ; * thy gay silks and
my sober stuffs. Within an hour thou wouldst
be ashamed of my dinginess. Ay, a protest's a
protest, but I am not such a fool of the world
and its ways as thou thinkest. Farewell, my
Marco. But there is one thing on my con-
science. Though no friar yet, I know there is
that which brother should speak to brother

304 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

*}'

iHt

! ,!;.

H!;

r! in.

without fear or shame, and yet my foolish
tongue is tied. Who am I, to cry out on
folly ?'

Marco, who had risen, put his hand on his
brother's mouth for answer,

' Let the past be till thou art a monk, and
then it will be the Church which speaks, and
not Cosimo. And, look you,' he went on,
' when a man hath his blood hot, either by
fatherhood or wine, or — or — what your monk-
ship knoweth little about, it is not he who
plays the fool, but '

* The devil within him,' broke in Cosimo
sorrowfully.

' Ay, why, so it is. Then put the curse on
the devil, and not on him.'

' Never a curse on thee, Marco.*

Marco laughed. His easy repentance was
forgotten.

• Thou art a good fellow,' he said, ' and a
dash of fire would make thee as good a monk
as I am a soldier. Fire never hurt a man yet.
By St. Dominic ! with thee in the Church and
me in the camp, and a stroke of luck to one or
other, we'll make the Murates heard of yet.
Dost remember the oath at Casamaldi ? Nicolo
Perenghi hath a long tether. These four years
past I have followed him hither and thither, but

MAN AND MONK

305

it hath been the hunting of a Will-o'-the-wisp.
Now he is at Modena, now at Ferrara, now
south at Massa. Once I rode into Imola by
the east gate as he rode out by the north. But
the vow's a vow, ay, and the other oath, too,
and both hold. See thou to me for the next
world, Cosimo, and I'll see to thee for this, for
all my wanderings, though I trow thou hast
the heavier end of the bargain to carry.'

' The lad hath sound sense,' quoth Marco to
himself, as he strode along to his inn ten
minutes later. ' His sober gown and monkish
ways would ill assort with our lads yonder. A
quiet corner once a day to keep civil tongues
in their heads by ministration of a long sword
would have been the least of it, and if I got
so much as a scratch. Master Monk would have
howled.'

Six months later there was no longer a
Cosimo da Murate. He was lost under the
white Carthusian robe of Fra Ugo.

To follow the story of Marco da Murate for
the next ten years would be to follow the story
of a soldier of fortune living solely by a none
too scrupulous sword.

The crowns gained by the sale of Casamaldi
were soon swallowed, following with even
greater speed the road taken by the minority

lift ■!

!>»».

306 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

accumulations. These gone, and the appetite
having been but whetted by their use, needs
must that the purse be filled.

In times of warfare— and these were mostly
times of warfare — a man like Da Murate was
worth his price, and upon the hire of his sword
he could ruffle it with the rest. At such times,
too, there were pickings : loot, or a prisoner's
ransom, and so provision might have been
made for the rusting days of peace and in-
activity. But Marco's purse was as large in
the mesh as wide in the mouth, and gold pieces
slipped out as quickly as in, so, when the in-
evitable pinch came, necessity forced him into
the more doubtful bypaths of the profession of
arms, bypaths through which no man passed
but some of the mud clogging the road went
with him. Forays that were little better than
brigandage on a large scale, though under the
authority of noble patronage ; a private ven-
geance, perilously near cold-blooded assassina-
tion ; even the abduction of a none too willing
bride — these and their kind filled up alike the
days of peace and his purse.

Through all the chops and changes of the
years, Nicolo Perenghi was never forgotten.
No doubt the lapse of time dulled the keen
edge of Marco's animosity, and besides, a man

MAN AND MONK

307

must live,' he told himself; and where there
were crowns to fill his pockets, thither for very
life's sake went Marco.

At length, after ten years had passed, their
paths met ; and, of all places fitted to rekindle
Marco's smouldering fires of vengeance, they
met in the hills above Casamaldi,

It must be doubted whether it was pure
brotherhood that drew Marco up the long
windings to the Certosa, seeing that, on his
side, at least, pure brotherhood had slept com-
fortably for so many years, and never once
stirred itself to the wakening.

He had tied up his horse beneath a group of
great chestnuts fronting a small wine-house
betwixt his wasted heritage and the monastery,
and had seated himself in the shade of the
porch, with a flagon of what was most likely
Casamaldi wine at his elbow.

With the sinking of the wine in the flagon
rose the bitterness in his heart. It was the
thought and realization of his own past folly
that influenced him rather than the liquor,
though it was heady enough, and inflamed him,
so that he was ready to clutch at any excuse to
turn his self-recrimination on another.

Under the same group of chestnuts was
tethered another horse, and in Marco's wrathful

20 — 2

iO i

308 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

Ti i

'I'

mood it was no light injury that his beast —
his, a Da M urate of Casamaldi — was so much
the inferior.

Presently the door of the inn was pulled
open, and two men, the host and a stranger,
came out.

'Ay,' said the one, 'it is good wine, and, as
you say, Messire Perenghi, none the worse for
being of Simeoni the Jew's making. Now I
remember '

It was Marco who broke into the landlord's
recollections, thrusting him aside with a strong
hand and an uncourteous strength while he
fronted the stranger.

' Messire Perenghi ?' he said. ' Not Messire
Nicolo Perenghi who fought at Furvarola better
than a score of years ago ?'

There was that in Marco's face which made
the other reach round towards his sword-hilt.

'Ay, suppose so,' he answered, 'what then.?'

' Then, Messire, we had best step aside a
little, for the son of Marco da Murate hath
somewhat to say.'

Perenghi laughed.

• By my faith, it hath kept five-and-twenty
years or thereabouts, and lost nothing for the
want of saying ; let it keep five-and-twenty
more :' and he turned towards the chestnuts.

MAN AND MONK

309

Marco's face reddened at the sneer.

' A fox is slow to trace,' he said ; ' but when
we catch it we kill it.'

Round on his heel swung Perent^hi.

' Have it so !' he cried. ' Let a second Da
M urate go the road of the first, though it ill
becomes you and me to bicker thus likt; callow
boys, who think themselves the braver for big
words. Host, see to the horses, and then for
thy peace' sake keep indoors.'

As if by consent, the two turned uphill,
where eleams of gfreen seen between the tree-
trunks gave promise of a stretch of level ground.
It was a small clearing, bordered at the further
end by a short slope, above which rose a small
— probably a votive — church, newly built since
the days of Marco's childhood, and dedicated to
St. Dominic.

' Ha !' he cried, as he read the inscription
above the door, ' my patron saint, and an omen
for good. The very spot ! Good wine below
there for him who shall have a thirst to quench,
and the keeping of the saints for him who shall
have none.'

' Be it so,' answered Perenghi ; ' but for me,
I say better a sure sword than a score of saints.
And now one word, which, being the man I
am, I have no fear any shall call me a coward for

I '

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310 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

the saying. If I struck Murate down, it was
in the press of the moke, and in fair fight. Is
it for that you would cut my throat, or for the
sake of the boy's hot and hasty oath ?'

Marco flung his cap on the grass.

'Must I smite you on the mouth ?' was all
his answer.

' Be it so,' said Perenghi a second time,
drawing ; then, pointing his sword at the cross
on the facade of the chapel, he added : ' Bear
witness this quarrel is not of my seeking.'

They were an even match. Both had
learned sword-play in the same school of rough
experience, and Marco's rage, heated by the
wine he had drunk, neutralized the advantage
of his twenty years of youth. A good servant,
passion was a bad master, and drove him into
such a wild anger, such a reckless. Berserk
fury of attack, as more than once almost to
place the issue in the hand of his opponent.

In the end, it was fortune and not skill
that gave the younger man his opportunity.
Perenghi had parried a thr -it in tierce, and
lunging back, slipped on a fallen chestnut burr,
and for an instant staggered.

Backward he sprang beyond reach, but
Marco's blade had caught his, and, by a trick
of fence learned in the Ravennese wars, snapped

MAN AND MONK

31'

it a few inches above the gu'rd. The very
force of the blow staggered Marco in his turn ;
but Nicolo Perenghi had time to read the
murder in his eyes, and wheeling, he sped across
the glade and up the slope to the chapel, still
grasping the broken sword.

With a howl that was both cry and curse
Marco sped after him. Midway up the slope
he came, as he thought, within striking distance,
and slashed savagely at the flying man ; but the
blow failed in its purpose, inilicting only a
slight flesh wound in the other's arm as he
swung himself aside. Marco's effort was Nicolo
Perenghi's safety, for in reaching forward he
missed his footing on the dry grass and slipped
backwar!., down the slope. As he recovered
he saw the light curtain draping the chapel
door flung aside and Perenghi disappear
within.

' Neither hell nor St. Dominic shall save
thee!' he cried, and panting in his breath, again
rushed onward, expecting each moment to have
the doors thrust -to in his face. He was on
the very steps with his hand outstretched to
tear the curtain from its fastening, when the
rings rattled on the bar and the white robe of a
Carthusian friar blocked the entrance. In his
mad rage Marco lowered his sword-point to the

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312 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

level of the monk's breast, and drew back his
arm to strike.

' Stand aside !' he cried, ' or by all the saints

there will be two What ? Cosimo ? thou,

thou ?' and he paused, still holding his sword at
the charge.

' Nay,' cried the monk back, in a voice as full
of menace as his own had been. ' Not Cosimo,
but God's priest. Stand thou aside. Thou
art done with the brother, and as thou thyself
hast said, thou hast the Church to face. I tell
thee, as priest of God, Marco da Murate, that
hell gapes for thee ; its smell is on thy garments.
What ? Was the measure of iniquity not yet
full with rapine, lust, and slaughter that thou
must needs add sacrilege to murder, and seek
to steep God's own altar in the blood of God's
own image?

' In bygone years the brother bore with the
brother's spoliation of his house and the
trampling on its honour ; ay, the very uprooting
of a father's name and the planting in of a
stranger. That was brother to brother — Cosimo
to Marco ; but now the brother is dead, and it
is the Church that speaketh. Another inch,
and I pray with all the power of my soul that
God strike thee. Ay, and He will strike thee,
for the measure of iniquity is full to running

m^'^

MAN AND MONK

313

over, and hell is but a hand's-breadth from
thee.

' Begone, Marco da Murate, and give thyself
to repentance — if, indeed, there is yet time, for
God groweth impatient !'

Leaving the curtain still drawn back, he
turned, and in the dim light Marco saw him
bend above Nicolo Perenghi as he knelt pros-
trate on the altar-steps.

With a rage in his heart none the less bitter
for its impotence and repression, Marco re-
turned to the wine-house, and calling for his
horse, paid his reckoning with scant thanks,
mounted, and rode slowly down the path to the
valley. The excitement was spent, and in its
place was a sullen resentment. Brotherhood,
the other had said. Brotherhood, forsooth!
If there had been obligations of brotherhood,
truly they were wiped out now, and his debt to
Cosimo was acquitted in full.

' Cosimo ? H'm, Cosimo ? Not Cosimo,' he
said, ' but God's priest — God's priest — God's
curse — a plague upon the man's sharp tongue !
Had he held to his saints, it had been a lighter
matter.' Marco had cared litde for the saints for
hard upon a score of years, but this was another
thing.

Plague take the horse, with its jerky stride

314 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

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down the hill! It seemed to pound in the
words with its hoof-beats on the rocky path :
God's priest — God's curse — priest and curse —
priest and curse. Was it the wine or the sun
that had set his brain a-smouldering ? for truly
there was a strange fire in it. Not the leaping
fire of the struggle in the glade, but a withering,
smothering heat, so that his brain lay in his
skull like hot brass. Or had Cosimo's curse
struck home already? Hell but a hand's-
breadth off, he had said ; God's priest— God's
curse— God— God— God! Not the saints:
they were but little and could be placated , but
God, God Himself. This thing came newly
home to Marco.

It was a dazed and broken man who an hour
later rode into the little courtyard of the inn at
the foot of the hill, and rolled out of his saddle
more like some drunken lout than a spurred
knight.

When Marco come to himself a week later
he was but a wreck in strength, though the
weight had gone from his head and the heat
from his brain, and there was no longer fever
in his blood. For another week he lay slowly
regaining his lost powers of body and mind,
piecing together the past and out of it building
much that was ugly to think upon. Then he

MAN AND MONK

3^5

took a resolve, and bade the woman of the inn
send for Cosimo da M urate.

• Cosimo da Murate ?' She shook her head ;
there was no Da Murate in valley or hill that she
k .ew of, nor had been these seven years.

'Cosimo da Murate,' persisted Marco; 'he
who is priest of the little chapel below the
Certosa.'

' Ah ! Fra Ugo— a spare, straight man with
eyes that saw your soul, and thin lips that
spoke so much of kindness to the poor. Fra
Ugo, Messire?'

'Ay,' said Marco grimly ; ' the eyes are right
enough, and you see your own soul in them. Send
for Fra Ugo, and God grant the rest be true
likewise, for there are few more needy than 1 1'

As his strength had grown and the pulse of
the blood beat fuller, there had been a return
of the horror which had beset him on the hill-
side, but born this time not of fever but of
memory. With every hour the conviction was
confirmed, needs must that he see Cosimo.
Surely the power which had cursed could also
bless, and the priest of God the Judge was
priest of God the Father also. Therefore,
needs must that he see Cosimo.

When Fra Ugo came in haste, knowing
nothing but that a sick knight sought his

316 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

comforc, and saw Marco stretched upon the
bed, white, and still gaunt with sickness, his
first impulse was to turn away in wrath. There
had been some fresh outrage, he thought, some
new loosing of lawless passion bringing its own
well-deserved vengeance in its train. But the
monk's instinct of charity conquered the man's
anger, and he paused.

From the bed Marco thrust out a shrunken,
beckoning hand.

' Fra Ugo,' he said, and stopped, the words
or the thought which underlay them choking
him.

Two words only, but enough to make the
priest's heart leap and to bring a dimness to
his eyes. It was the priest, then, that was
wanted, and not the brother.

He caught firm hold of the shaking hand,
and as he held it fast the uncertain voice came
again.

' Fra Ugo, take me, and make me whatso-
ever thou and thy God wilt.'

With a cry that was a groan, it so rent him
in the outburst, the monk flung himself on his
knees by the bed.

* Thou hast come to me, Marco, my brother
— thou hast come to me by a way that I
dreamed not of, and at a time when I despaired.

MAN AND MONK

317

Sorrow for a night— ay, long was the night !—
but joy in the morning.'

And he broke into a passion of tears such as
he had not wept over the body of his father.

That night the two were brothers as they
had not been since childhood.

•Thou wert ever the stronger soul,' said
Marco. 'Remember how I said there was
more man in the monk than in the soldier.
And now thou wilt make me one of you, that
these scorching fires may die out. Oh, the
terror of them, Cosimo ! the terror of them I'
ut Fra Ugo shook his head.

* Thou art sick,' he said ; ' sick in mind as in
body. Wait till both be strong and thou hast
tried thyself, lest worse befall us both. The
quenching of fires comes from within, and not
from the putting on of a frock.'

So for a week they waited, Marco growing
in power every hour. Then came a day when
he said :

' Bid them bring my horse that I may ride
for the last time up to the Certosa. A second
time, I say, make me one of you, Cosimo, that
I may have peace.'

But again the priest shook his head.

'God seeks not terror, but repentance,' he
said. ' Love born of fear hath a short life and

3i8 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

brings no willing service with it. Wait till
thou art sure.'

' Man, man 1' cried Marco, ' what knowest
thou of the lures of the devil .-* Bid me not
wait. Or, see now, give me but a cave on
the hill-top and bid me wait there as a lay
brother, that there may be a hope before me.
Dost thou fear my steadfastness ? See, I will
break my sword, and if thou knowest aught of
man, thou wilt know that he who breaks a sword
as loved as I have loved mine will never look
back.'

The wistfulness of a keen heart-hunger was
in the priest's eyes as he answered :

' Thou hast conquered ; only break not the
sword, but keep it and hang it in thy cell. If
there comes the thought of turning back, it will
remind thee of what thou hast been.'

Through ten years' watchful love and unflinch-
ing faithfulness, Fra Ugo had won for himself
a reverence in the hearts of rich and poor
alike. No misery had been too wretched for
his love, and there never was a time when
misery was more wretched than then. But
also, as no state, however arrogant, could awe
him into silence when wrong-doing was to be
rebuked, so no wretchedness palliated crime.

But what it had taken the monk ten years

\ m

MAN AND MONK 319

to win, Marco the hermit gained in as many
months.

' No change of name for me,' he had said :
• Marco I was, Marco I will be to all the world,
lest those who knew me of old cry out upon me
for a coward seeking shelter under a disguise.'
Where the ridge of the hill was roughest he
had chosen an angle in the rocks, stretched two
beams across it, and thatched it lightly with
boughs, leaving the front open towards the
south. Against the wall of rock which first met
his eyes on waking he had hung his naked sword
to rest and rust. Here, with tlie earth as bed
and a rolled-up cloak as pillow, Marco the
hermit passed such of his nights as were not
given up to the nursing of some of the many
miserable among the vine-dressers of the hills.

His days were full enough. As has been
said, what took Fra Ugo ten years to accom-
plish, Marco did in as many months. He was
a man who knew men, and had no need of
time to teach him their sins, their follies, and
their wretchedness ; all these, in ten times
deeper degree— sorrows, sufferings, frailties-
he had learnt in a score of years of soldiering,
the most perfect of all schools in which to study
the complexity of contradictions which goes to
make up man.

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320 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

Naturally, the transition from Marco the soldier
to Marco the lay-friar had not passed unmarked.
For a week it had been the jest of the circle he
had quitted, the target for barbed gibes such as
he himself would have uttered a month before,
then the bruitings of an advance of the Floren-
tines upon the city drowned the laughter. In
six months Marco the soldier was forgotten,
but in six more Marco the hermit was better
remembered than had ever been Marco the

soldier.

Two years passed, in which his influence
grew daily, grew so that, had it been the era
of revolutions from below, he could have taken
rank with Campanella and Bassi, or any of the
many patriot priests who have given their lives
for freedom in the last half-century — two
years, in which the brothers' lives grew the
one into the other with a love that was some-
thing greater than that of brother and brother
—a love that was as much kinship of soul and
spirit as of heart and blood. Once Cosimo—
for between the two it was Cosimo once more,
and no longer Fra Ugo— touching the sword,
seamed and brown with rust, said :
♦ Thy life began when its life ended.'
And it was with something like a sigh that
Marco had answered :

IrjIfvP

MAN AND MONK 321

' But an unworthy life for us both ; it in its
time, I in mine, not but what it could strike a
stout blow yet for all its rust, if only there were
need.'

•Then ye are a pair,' Cosimo replied; 'the
heart sound for all the roughenings of the
world ' ; but his face had darkened at the other's
reply, and he added : ' I was a fool to bid thee
keep the thing. Break it across, lest the blade
whisper thee to a sudden fury, as the North-
men say the spirit of it doth at times.'

Marco shook his head.

'That were cowardice, and, besides, the
spirit is dead these two years past.'

• Then promise,' urged Cosimo, ' that what-
soever Cometh thou wilt never strike blow with
it again.'

And Marco promised readily enough. What
had he to do with sword-strokes ?

It was a week later that, as Marco picked
his way down the path built for himself from
the upper ridge where lay his hermitage, he
was met by a vine -dresser of Casamaldi.
Breathless from the haste which he had made,
the man was almost inarticulate.

'Messire Marco '—the title clung to him
for all his lay brotherhood — ' the Fra, Fra
Ugo *

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1 ■ '

322 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

Where the tongue is dumb, the eyes and
face are tell-tales, and a message of ill is no
hard thing to read.

A light that was ugly to see shot into Marco's
eyes as he gripped the man's shoulder with a
pressure which left its print for many a day.

• What of the Fra, fool ? Quick, and waste
no speech I'

Still panting in his breathlessness, the man
took Marco at his word, and gasped :

•The Fra— it is evil news— the Fra — is
struck — dead.'

Up swung Marco's other hand until he held
the vine-dresser as in a twin vice.

• Dead !' It was the howl of a wild beast
rather than the cry of a man. ' Dead— Fra
IT go ? Where gottest thou that fool's lie ?'
and all unconscious of his violence, he still
tighter clenched his grip on the other's
shoulders, shaking him the while.

• No fool's lie, Messire, but the truth.'

' How ? Where ? How knowest thou the
Fra is dead ?*

• We three *

' What three, man ?"

' A stranger and I and the Fra, there by
St. Dominic's. These two on the steps, I
below. The stranger thrust the Fra from him
by the shoulder ; why, I know not ; there had

) 1

MAN AND MONK

3*3

been words perchance. The Fra spun round
and fell, and the Fra is dead."

' Dead ? How knowest thou ?'

' The Fra slipped, and the steps— his skull.
Best ask no more, Messire ; thou hast seen an
axe-stroke in battle. Then, the stranger '

•Ay, what of him.?'

' Nicolo Perenghi, as the Fra called him '

•Nicolo Perenghi.?' The howl rose to a
true beast's cry now. sharp, shrill, and savage.
' Nicolo Perenghi again > Art sure, man .?—
sure ?

• You are killing me, Messire. What have I
done ? It was so the Fra called him. I know
no more.'

With a spasm of the muscles rather than a
conscious violence, Marco tumbled the man in a
heap by the pathway, then turned and ran at his
full speed back to his hermitage, tore the rusted
sword from its hanging-place, and was disap-
pearing in the timber fringing the upper slopes
before the fallen man could stagger to his feet.

His brain was already on fire with the same
hell's lust for man's blood which had possessed
him the day he crossed swords with Perenghi.
The almost-forgotten vows sworn at Casamaldi
and renewed in Simeoni's banking-room were
sounding in his ears, hounding him to a hotter

21 — 2

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324 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

fury. Woe to the slayer of his father ! woe to
him who touched Cosimo! And now the two
woes were linked in one, centred on the one
head. Death to Nicolo Perenghi ! — death !
And in his flight he kissed the rusted hilt of
the sword with a fresh dedication.

That Cosimo was dead was now second in
his thoughts ; that Perenghi lived came first.
Down the hill he sped, his robe looped to his
knees and caught up in his left hand, while the
right held the sword aloft. Down the hill —
down, down, the heat of the thirst for blood
glowing more furiously with every panting
breath ; round his head in his mad rage he
swept the sword till it whistled in its circuits.
The spirit was awake, and called him to
slaughter ; then, chill upon the heat of his
passion came the memory of the promise made
to the dead.

The pledged word of a Murate I And for an
instant he stopped in his course, choking with
the conflict and revulsion of thought. The
word of a Murate ? Bah ! Was not his oath,
too, his word ? Ay, and twice pledged — word
against word, oath against promise. The oath
was the greater. And again on he sped.

There, at last, was the chancel end of
St. Dominic's gray chapel through the tree-
stems. What lay beyond ? A double venge-

MAN AND MONK

325

ancc — God's justice and man's revenge — and
he drew a deeper breath for all his haste.
Round by the northern side he skirted, and on
into the space fronting the west side of the
chapel— on, with the sword heaved up and
ready to strike. Below the steps lay Cosimo,
outstretched as if in sleep, and by his head,
bowed in prayer, was Nicolo Perenghi.

At the sound of the hurrying feet he raised
his head.

' At last,' he said. • I have been waiting for
thee.'

Panting from his haste, Marco stood above
him with the sword still poised, and looked
from the sorrowful face of the living to the not
more placid face of the dead.

Perenghi's cap had been flung aside as he
bent in prayer.

' God above knows this was not meant,' he
said ; 'but strike and let blood wipe out blood.'

From the dead Marco looked ba^k to the
'".'ing, then to the rusted sword heaved up
aoove his head. For an instant the blade
wavered in the air, then with all his power he
flung it upon the steps, splintering it

' He would have it so,' he said.

And when Michele the vine-dresser stole
irembling round the church, there were two
elt praying by Fra Ugo.

who

HOW MARTIN HUGHES FOUND
MANOA-LAND

The days were the days when England built
up her greatness out of a grain of ignorance, a
bushel of courage, and an all-pervading leaven
of restlessness. Without the first not even the
other two would have given her stomach and
impulse enough to have faced the forces of
Spain at home and in the West. Without the
second the other two had shaped but little of
the world's history ; and lacking the third,
the heart of England had never flung itself
beyond seas, seeking out E! Dorado, Manoa,
and all the gilded shadows of the age, and
finding in the shadows something of an abiding
substance.

Compound of all three, as became his age,
was Martin Hughes, shipwright, of the port of
Rye in the county of Sussex.

The comfortable lie disposed of at Patay,

MARTIN FINDS MANOA-LAND 327

Formigny, and Zutphen, the last at the expense
of England's Marcellus — that one Englishman,
by reason simply of being an Englishman, was
the equal of two Frenchmen, three Spaniards or
five Portugee — was to him an article of faith,
wherein may be seen the grain of ignorance
helping to build up the greatness.

Though the Armada had come and gone
these seven years, those midsummer days were
fresh enough in memory to set a seal on such
a faith ; and God-fearing man as was Martin
Hughes the elder, the story of the long Channel
fight had lost nought in the telling, whether
in the odds to be overcome or in the dogged
courage that overcame the odds. Twas God
Almighty fought for England, and a right
thing, too, seeing that England fought for God
Almighty ; and in coupling the one with the
other, he spoke in all honesty and reverence.

Of the traditions of these days Martin
Hughes the younger was bubbling full, and
when all's said and done, it was wholesome
meat on which to feed both mind and spirit.
In such simple faith men drew the nearer to
their God, and held the honour of their country
shrined the higher, since the one and the other
were interwoven. The Little Englander of
these latter days would in those have had a

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328 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

shorter shrift than rope, and more hands to
hang than hearts to pity.

The seven years were years of packed life ;
years of defence, attack, strength, growth,
development ; and with the years Martin the
younger grew, knitting into his fibre the loves,
the hates, and the restlessness of the age, but
chiefly to fear God, revere the Queen, and hate
the devil and the King of Spain. And with the
knitting of the sterner stuff came, as has come
in all generations, the knitting of those softer
loves, those hopes, those fears which make or
mar the man, even as the sterner do the nation.

Then, as now, craftsmen worked by families
in a single groove. It was enough that Martin
Hughes the elder had been a shipwright, that
Martin Hughes the younger should be a ship-
wright also. And in like fashion, it was a
thing of nature that a father and son should
serve a father and son generation by genera-
tion, if the kinship of fellow-craftsmen in those
days could be called servitude.

Since the York and Lancaster days there had
always been a Ned Barriscote and a Martin
Hughes, master and servant, until at length it
now had come that the entail of craft-kinship
was broken, and there remained only a Martin
Hughes and a Mary Barriscote. In such a

■^l^'

MARTIN FINDS MANOA-LAND 329

case the problem of life hath a holy, a gracious
and a natural solution ; and Martin Hughes had
willingly found a dearer and a yet more ready
servitude, had not one of Drake's men fared
round by Rye and spoilt it all.

It was the time of beating up recruits for
that last unhappy venture of a venturesome life,
and the restlessness of the age was in Martin
Hughes but as so much tow waiting a spark
and puff of breath.

Both came from tarry Peter Morgan, able
seaman, and still more able liar, in the service
of Admiral Drake. The spark was a jeer at
the stay-at-home lads who, when Spain's back
was broken, hung off from snapping her neck
too, and the puff of breath stirred in every
windy tale of the piled-up ingots, unstrung
pearls, and outlandish jewels hidden away south
of the west for the first searcher to find. Oh,
the wonder of the things Peter Morgan had just
by a hair's-breadth missed the seeing !

As the magnet draws steel, so does gold
draw a man ; and when Peter Morgan told of
El Dorado, Manoa, and their fellows the
glittering fables of the day, Martin Hughes
laid down axe and chisel and swore he'd face
Manoa-land, though he sought until he died.

His mind made up and closed tight as Wctx

sCt

330 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

against argument, he naturally, manlike, set to
work to prove himself in the right. Rye was
no longer the Rye of old days. Trade had
slipped westward there to Portsmouth, ay, and
still further, round to Plymouth. That was
Drake and Hawkins's doing, and now Drake
must be made to pay for Drake. All of which,
as to the trade, Mary knew full well.

' But,' quoth she, being a shrewd lass, ' will it
not slip away the faster, you being gone ? Such
a thing is hard to hold in a woman's hands.'

Then Martin, being more nimble with his
hands and head than with his tongue, shifted
ground, talking ' Peter Morgan * as if it had
been Martin Hughes's own thought.

' A shame,' he said, ' now Spain's under heel,
not to crush the life out once and for all.
Leave her another five years, and it's a second
Armada we'll see sweeping up the Channel.
Cut off supplies and so starve her, and England's
safe.'

' Ay, ay !' said Mary, ' and who put that
fine thought in Martin Hughes's brain ? Not
Martin Hughes, I'm thinking.' Which, while
it was not argument, showed that Mary Barris-
cote had a shrewd head on her shoulders, and
could go cruelly to the truth for all her love, or,
perhaps, by reason of her love, that being a

MARTIN FINDS MANOA-LAND 331

fashion of woman. ' Well enough to singe the
King of Spain's beard at Nombre de Dios, but
who's to fend the maids at home from the
bruisings of the King of Spain's fists ?'

'Tut, lass!' said Martin, out of his point
of cardinal faith. 'What England's done
England '11 do again, though Drake, Hawkins,
and Martin Hughes be beyond seas. And 'tis
but a year, or two, or three, and the gold of
Manoa '11 pay for all.'

Whereat Mary did what she should have
done at the first, and fell to crying quietly
behind her fingers.

'And how am I to live at home without
you a year, or two, or three, ay, or all my life,
you being dead beyond seas .^ Tell me that,
Martin Hughes?'

Now, when a woman cries softly, as if the
tears came slowly from the heart, the nobler
and honester the man the heavier the gentle
tempest smites him, and there are but two ways
of meeting it — annihilate the lesser storm by a
greater, a veritable tornado against a mid-
summer outbreak, and be a brute in your
passion, or fly for shelter until the skies are
clear. What could Martin do but say :

' The Lord forbid, lass. Ha' done with
weeping ; we'll say no more of it,' and then

If ; ■ :;

i ' ■

i : ':

W '

i'*

'■

^■« 5

If^

332 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

show how he thought no more of it, by spend-
ing the next three hours tramping Rye beach
in a more evil temper than Martin Hughes had
ever dreamed lay in Martin Hughes. No man
knows how dear a thing is to his heart till the
hope of it is crushed out.

The seven days that thereafter crept so
wearily far from one another's heels were days
of heaviness. The burden of death is ever a
heavy one, whether that which lies dead is
hope, honour, ambition, or any other of the
passions men are playthings to, or that love
which hath been life itself. And so the days
were days of heaviness. Then, Martin Hughes
coming upon Mary Barriscote stitching hard at
garments which were certainly none of women's
wear, suspicion was added to this burden ; and,
like a fool, he bore the heartbreak for a full
day, then spoke out, asking bluntly and with
scant grace what things these were.

Now, women's ways are truly hard of com-
prehension even to a man in love.

'What of this?' said Mary, stitching the
harder. ' Nay ! how could a man go west with
Drake without a vvoman to look to him first,
and you with neither mother nor sister to set
you on your way in comfort ?'

Upon which, for neither rhyme nor reason.

MARTIN FINDS MANOA-LAND 333

Dut to show, I suppose, that the comfort went
lot all westward, she flung garment, thread,
needle, tape and what-not all on the table, and
her head on top of the heap, and broke out
a-crying.

' But ' said Martin, and because that rest-
lessness was in his bones, there, like a fool, he
stopped, not knowing which way the good lay.

• But,' said Mary between her sobs, ' if
Manoa-land lie not for you here in Rye, then
go westward with Drake and seek it. What
joy to me to hold you here fretting your heart
out ? It's only a year — or — or two years — or —
or three, and — oh, my God ! I would Philip of
Spain had choked Peter Morgan ere he came
here.'

And the weeping that came now was no
quiet weeping, but a passion ot grief under the
shadow of bereavement.

And now the wind was from the other
quarter. It was Martin who, honestly enough
on the surface, would have nought of Manoa,
and Mary who, out of naked misery, open and
hidden, would have nought but Manoa.

' Better love me and go,' said she, ' than bide
and fret till fret breed resentment and resent-
ment hate. Better a three-years' sorrow than
a thirty-years' canker.'

I;'!

334 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

And in the end, Martin, being the weaker of
the two for all his talk, werv westward with
Drake, full at the last of Manoa and its riches,
and by that much, as well as by reason of his
coarser fibre, the less stricken at the parting.

In any case, it is the woman who bides at
home who suffers. With the man, the new
world and its importunities fill the blank. But
the woman, hourly face to face with the beggary
of her happiness, her loss, and her silence, finds
no such easy comfort, and for her the world
grows dark.

But it is not with Mary and her over-late,
barren repentance of her wilful sacrifice that we
have to do, a repentance that is the reaction of
loneliness when the grandeur of abnegation
shows poor and gray. Self-sacrifice is so
magnificent and endurable until the conse-
quences come ! Nor yet, indeed, with Martin
Hughes in that weary journey westward, now
tempest, and now a drifting calm, with its
grievous check at Grand Canary, and its none
too joyous rendezvous at the Admiral's old
anchorage — a journey of dissension and dis-
aster, overshadowed first by the death of old
John Hawkins, weary enough of life after his
seventy -five years of this world with its buffets
to spirit as to body, but never weary of fighting

MARTIN FINDS MANOA-LAND 335

the Queen's battles. Sad hearts they were,
every one, on that small fleet of twenty-six sail
when they laid the grand old sailor to his rest
off Puerto Rico.

Thence to La Hacha to a barren conquest,
on to Santa Marta and Nombre de Dies,
whence Martin tasted the flavour of Spain and
the new world for the first time in Baskerville's
ill-fated expedition up the Chagres. Thence
across the Musquito Gulf to the deadly paradise
of Escudo de Veragua, sowing the seeds of
pestilence in every breath drawn in the glory
of the luxuriant undergrowth. Within a month
of laying Hawkins to rest the shadow had
loomed yet deeper, and Francis Drake himself,
the brain and soul of the attack, had passed
away.

A mighty funeral that which bowed all
hearts with sorrow that December day off
Porto Bello; and a fitting procession it was
which swept downward through the depths
with England's best sea-warrior, a procession
of battered war-ships and Spanish prizes, and
flung across the face of the waters rolled the
pall of smoke from the Spanish forts as they
went up in flame, a fiery sacrifice to the manes
of the dead.

A voyage, truly, of disaster and death, but

336 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

with which, after all, we have little to do, seeing
that this is a story of the finding of Manoa and
not of the losing of heroes.

It's a far cry from Porto Bello to north of the
Mexican Sea, and to tell how Martin Hughes
and eieht of the nineteen who adventured with
him fared on their way would fill an hour to the
full, and yet leave overmuch untold, the marvel
of the tale being not so much that they lost
eleven men in winning their way, but rather
that nine set foot on the coast.

A war-worn nine they were, and worn by
more battles than those fought with the
Spaniards. Their own element, the sea, had
dealt savagely with them, battering into des-
perate state the boat wherein they had made
their adventure. Disease had grappled them
almost from the first, choking two, and even
now held three hard by the throat. Hunger
had laid close siege, starving two more into the
quiet submission of death. Thirst, and thirst's
near ally, tropic heat, had fought on the side
of Spain and slain one by the way.

Of ^he other six, five had death dealt out in
open warfare; and of the sixth it were better not
to ask too cl<jsely, for like as not the Inquisition
would tell no truths pleasant to be learned.

Thus the nine were war-worn and spent in

MARTIN FINDS MANOA-LAND 337

spirit when, as near as they dared to San Jose,
they faced away from the waters. Their cloth-
ing was in rags, their bodies gaunt with priva-
tion and sickness, their stubborn tenacity of
spirit strained to breaking. Hitherto the
journey had been, at the worst, coastwise and
by salt water. Now the beloved sea was a
thing of the bygone, md for the first time there
came a real counting of the cost, and with the
counting came discord and disruption.

' Manoa is overfar,' said some, ' and no man
knoweth where it lies. What matter that we
set out to seek Manoa if we find instead El
Dorado, and with it the better prize } Gold of
the one weighs as heavy and shines as bright
as gold of the other. Drake himself — God
rest him ! — has shifted a worse plan for a better
before now : why not we ?'

As all the worlr knew, El Dorado lay clus-
tered round the Lake of Nicaragua. But where
was this Manoa ? A far cry to El Dorado,
forsooth! Well, at the worst, it was for the
most part a cry over a sailor-man's natural
home, the bonny sea, and not a cry over the
Lord alone knew what desperate chances of
swamp, forest, desert, plain, or mountain, as
was the cry to this Manoa. Better take ship
again and fare west.

■

IJI

iir^

338 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

So for one grievous day there was a bitter

strife. .

« Better the swamp and all the rest of it, and
I grant the risks,' said Martin, ' than that ac-
cursed back-track to the San Juan River '

If of twenty men hard fed and with their
lives whole in them elevf :n died on the outward
journey, how many— such as they were now,
shadows in strength and spirit— would live
through the return ? Plainly, none. Or, worse,
live they might until it pleased Spain to send
them to heaven in a chariot of fire. Better the
savagery of the unknown than the tender
mercies of Spain.

• No El Dorado for me,' said Martin. ' Manoa
I vowed I'd seek, and Manoa I'll find, if I die
for it. The plan hath cost overmuch for a
shift at this time of day ; and if I die, please
God, I'll die as becomes a man, and not in
some filthy Spanish prison.'

As for the where, Manoa lay north and west
—more north than west, maybe— and another
hundred miles or two of a tramp would be of
small account at the journey's end when the
gains were reckoned up. Manoa for him. So
again there was bitter strife, and that day
Englishmen had wd' nigh done Spain's work
one upon the other.

^*^-|

r:ARTIN FINDS MANOA-LAND 339

hi t'^ie ei J even took to t^^eir crazy boat
cp more unc' '^red south by west again, nor
of in this world ; and two —

-vt-c I •<■ I '^J I.

' 1 ' ii,:h i and tarry Peter Morgan —
I rn! >. tlieir w.iy into the woods, supremely
cc Ka.n. r ■ •' the calm assurance of post- Armada
■:.. I.at th'^ looting of Manoa to their advan-
tage was out a question of discovery.

Positions had shifted with Martin Hughes
and Peter Morgan. While on salt water the
latter had to lead, and Martin obeyed like a
good sailor and an honest Englishman, seeing
that of the two Peter Morgan was the better
versed in seaman's craft. Now, with the blue
sea behind their backs, and neither one nor
other knowing what before, it was Martin who,
as the bolder spirit, the more sanguine, and the
more determined. . i the way. To say truth,
had it not been for a certain shamefacedness,
Peter Morgan nad joined the seven who fared
seaward. But as evils thickened upon them,
his conscience grew burdened with the thought
of Mary Barriscote and the useless mischief
wrought by his prating tongue. So, for very
shame's sake, he clung fast to Martin.

A pathetic expedition it was, and forlorn
enough when reckoned by any other measure
save that of ignorance and courage, in both of

22 — 2

340 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

which they lacked little. For weapons they
had stout hangers, and each a Spanish knife in
the waistbelt, and each a musket, with more of
rust than ammunition. For clothes they had

but rags.

It had been about the New Year when they
thrust out from Porto BeDo ; since then the
moon had waxed and shrunk many a time, and
now all count of days and weeks had long been
past ; nor, thenceforward, for. years to come did
Martin Hughes reckon time except by seasons
and sorrows, and of both he lost count.

The story of the early struggles may be lett
aside for the present ; some day they may be
worth the telling. Their record was the record
of dogcred perseverance and uncommensurate
gain. Nay, worse, of no gain at all, since the
end was no nearer for the labour. Then the
day came when Peter Morgan, for all his re-
morse, would fain have turned back and braved
even th. Governor of Nombre de Dios himself
for the sake of the sea washing the coast. But
Martin would none of it, and in the main

Martin was right. , ^ ,

'Nay, man,' said he, 'we've faced nor-
west by north over-long to make a back-track.
The sea's as near before as behind, mayhap
nearer by scores of miles. To turn back is to

MARTIN FINDS MANOA-LAND 341

give up hope, and here hope is life ; but, what's
more to the purpose, we came after Manoa-land,
and to Manoa we'll fare, and nowhere else.'

Not once, or twice, or thrice came the
conflict, and each time the masterfulness of
Martin Hughes overbore the other till the day
came when the elder man laid himself down
under the compulsion of a still greater master-
fulness than that of Martin Hughes, for Death
hearkens to no man's nay.

It was the early summer-time, when the
nights were warm and starlit, and the days
bright with the quick fulfilment of a new life's
promise ; and saving for the weight of the hand
laid upon him, Peter Morgan was at ease.

The grip tightened slowly, for it was the
simple weakness of nature that was the strength
of death, but for all its slowness both men knew
that the grip tightened daily. At no time these
months past had there been much talk between
the two. Their daily present had had but little
of comfort. Even from Martin's expectation
the glamour of Manoa had at last faded, and so
the future held but litde of good. Once Peter
Morgan had rambled back to the past, Rye
beach, the swirl of the Rother, and bonny
Mary Barriscote, till the bitterness of Martin's
heart broke out so that he roundly cursed the

If I

342 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

other between his teeth, and bade him be silent
for a fool.

Therefore it came chat they talked but little ;
but as the grip tightened and the face of death
was reflected in the face of the living, Peter
Morgan spoke.

' Martin lad, get you east again when all's
done wi' me. Manoa-land's a fool's errand to
seek after wi' love left behind. Get you back
to bonny Mary Barriscote, and the Lord
forgive me that I brought you from her, for a
dying man sc^s more than a living.'

Whereat Martin grit his teeth together and
held the other's hand the firmer, saying nothing,
though in his heart he thought the bidding easy
enough, the doing none so easy.

' Ay, a fool's errand wi' love behind, and all
my doing. Yet, I'm not so blind but I know
if it were to do over again, and the Admiral
bid me win ye west, win ye I would, knowing
all I do, for needs must that Admiral Drake
ha' his way.'

Then he sighed and mumbled to himself of
Drake's old sea-fights, with growing intervals
between his babble, till he turned his face to
the darkest part of the cave where he lay, and
was silent, and, to Martin, dead — but that his
hand kept its grip.

MARTIN FINDS MANOA-LAND 343

The day had worn into grayness beyond the
face of the rocks, when suddenly Peter Morgan
turned his head.

' Hist !' he said, 'it's callin' me, it'scalUn' me,
the whish o' the waters, the whish, the whish,
and the wrastle ; God's music o' surf an' swirl.
I never held wi' the text, "An' there was no
more sea.' A poor thing the world an' God's
sea blotted out ; but it's there, praises be, for I
hear it beat. An' Drake's a-sailing it, ay, an'
Hawkins an' Gilbert.' He struggled up on his
left arm and held out his right, listening.
' God be thanked for the sea in the world to
come, an' it's callin', it's callin', it's callin'.
Come aboard, Admiral Drake— come aboard,

sir, come abo ' And then Martin Hughes

was left to seek out Manoa-land alone.

Waking up nine mornings later, he found six
copper-skinned Indian warriors sitting round
him, and scant as had been the time since
Morgan's death, the sound of human voices,
for all that he understood them not at all, re-
conciled him to the slavery that followed.

Thenceforward he was the servant of a
wandering tribe drifting north or south, east
or west, with equal indifference and without
plan ; kindly treated, yet guarded in such a
fashion that there was no escape, even had he

!l 'I'

344 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

desired It Of Manoa, when he came to know
their tongue, he heard neither hint nor rumour,
nor was there aught of gold, or indeed of any
metal, in all the tribe's poor belongmgs. Yet
for all the silence, servitude, and discourage-
ment, the stubborn heart of the man clung to
the fulfilment of his quest.

If there had been but a broken record of time
in the past, there was none now, and the days
followed each other as shadows. Little by
little the Indian life grew into Martin Hughes,
and after a sullen fashion, he was content.

As months passed, skins and clothing of
woven grasses took the place of the rags,
linking him to those dim days beyond the
Musquito Gulf, and in an outward show he
was Indian. Of simple needs, Nature's common
supplies were ordinarily sufficient for all wants,
but once there fell a drought that withered up
the fruits and drove far afield both bird and
beast to seek for water. Needs niust that
Manitou be supplicated, and with all haste the
tribe sped eastward, and day by day grew fewer
and more gaunt as thirst and hunger struck the
weak and ickly from their ranks. Day by day
they tramped on, halting for none, chid chief
or woman, till of a sudden a glint of fretted
lights broke through the trees, and Martin

MARTIN FINDS MANOA-LAND 345

Hughes's Indian heart leaped in an English
breast at sight of the sea— leaped, and leaped
again to see, not two furlongs from the beach,
a stout galleon with the red cross of St. George
flying bravely at the foremast.

The years went to the winds and Manoa
with them, and before five minutes were passed
Martin Hughes was plunging through the surf
with all his heart aflame at the thought of
England and the sight of England's flag.

We may leave rntold the regeneration of a
Sussex Englishman out of a Western savage,
and tramp into Rye town with Martin Hughes
in the dusk of a December afternoon.

The world moved more leisurely then than
now, and as he tramped down the village street
it was to find nothing so changed as himself.
Except for life, death, and men's growth. Rye
was as Rye had been. That none knew him
was small wonder, since who would recognise
the lad of twenty or but little more in the
sorrowful-faced man of worse than two-score,
and to none he told his name.

The Queen's Good Hope Inn had long
changed to the King's Crown, but there was
stili the old gossip in the porch even in the
gloom of a winter's fvpning,

' A supper and a bed ? Ay, an' welcome,

'ffrri a mwni'ri iTM 11 n iiil'm' rfimn vwauyvi — t - irr.i ■■ 1 r nwr" ^ rai^i mnrin t i"nTTtTnr 'i 1 . .kiubk^j wirssr . ss^v^KJf^ .ib^KnAi^ jl

] t

346 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

an he could pay for it. These were troublous
times, and there were many rogues about — as
when were rogues scant and the times not
troublous ? No offence, but there were over-
many loose-bred sailors from foreign parts flung
on the country, to live as they best might out
of honest folks. A dozen, roaring drunk, had
passed Hastings way not an hour gone, and
God grant some poor innocent suffered not
before morning. Gold pieces? That's another
story, master. Good pay makes sure welcome.
No offence, but a man must look after his own.
Changes in Rye town ? Ay, ay, changes
enough. Ship - building ? Nay, that had
drifted west, and was like to drift faster since
the sea was silting up the old harbour-way.
What name was that ? Barriscote ? Barris-
cote? Barriscote? Mistress, a sailor-man's
seeking Barriscotes. I'm none so long here
myself, y' see, but she'll know. Born and
bred, and lived every inch of her life in Rye
town. Oh, ay, I have them now. There
was but one left, a lass, and things went
crooked with her, not one year, but five or six.
Things drift, y" see, with none but a woman to
see to them. She was sore put to it, poor soul,
to keep soul and body in health. Ay, ay, so
'twas. She married Phil Hargraves there,

MARTIN FINDS MANOA-LAND 347

Hastings way, and God grant they have no
trouble to-night, for the house lies ready to the
hand of such a crew as I told ye on. A sailor-
man himself, Phil Margraves, and one who had
picked thf, Don's pocket to a pretty tune, if all
were true folks heard ; and ay, ay, there was
that other story of a bribe in the hand whereby
a Spanish prison swallowed a ship's company
to Hargraves' profit. Lies, no doubt, though
the story had a curious fashion of cropping up,
if 'twere all a lie. If they lads who passed
were by chance some of them who had saved
their skins, why Hargraves is four miles out,
and not a soul for woman or bairn to cry to.
God save the man ! Was he mad, craving
supper and then fleeing the house in such a
fashion ? An ill-looking rogue and well rid of.'

Into the darkness, Hastings way, Martin
Hughes was swinging at a man's pace, with no
very clear thought in his head but that the
blacker the darkness and the colder the ni'jht
the better for him till his brain
think.

That Mary should marry, that he had
schooled himself to expect, or thought he had,
since there is none a man can so easily deceive
as himself, but now the blunt truth in plain
words was like a grip on the throat, choking
back the life. Marry, and for bread, while he,

got

time to

348 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

who should have been her man, tramped the
Indies seeking Manoa and finding nought.
Curse — curse whom ? Himself— who else ? and
on through the blackness of the wintry byways
Martin Hughes tramped, wrath and self-
reproach shredding the good of life to pieces
with every thought of the past, the present,
and the days to come.

Presently his hearing, long trained in the
New World's forest silences, caught the sound
of voices seawards down from the road, voices
held in check, and yet, to an alert ear like
Martin's, voices with a menace in them.

A stretch of pasture, broken by blurs o!
thickly-set leafless trees, lay down to the left,
and beyond them a darker and more solid
curve told of pine, fir, and such- like shelter
timber drawn across the west. As he paused,
listening, it came upon him in a flash that
hereabouts lived the Mary Barriscote that once
had been, and hereabouts was the rabble of
mischief set upon doing the devil's work.

Schooled by his woodman's insf'nct, Martin
Hughes shirked the pasture and plunged into
the black shelter of the pine belt, and swiftly,
soundlessly skirted round behind the house
which lay hidden somewhere in the darkness.
Presently the loom of it came against the sky,
and Martin Hughes crept from the shelter and

MARTIN FINDS MANOA-LAND 349

picked his way to the stout back doorway
facing seawards.

From the front came the babble of many
voices in careful importunity. A demand, the
silence of an unheard reply, and a demand
reiterated again and once again.

' Hargraves the traitor ! Hargraves the
traitor !' therein was the burden of the demand,
varied with curses and hard words. Piecing
tOEfether a word to a word, a sentence to a
sentence, Martin Hughes told himself a tale of
greedy treachery these many years gone by, a
slinking into hiding of the traitor and a hunting
down by unrelenting vengeance, and now at
the last it was ' Hargraves or fire !'

From the silence between the gusts of passion,
passion the more deadly from the cool intent
that curbed it back from its own frustration by
overmuch anger, from the silence Martin judged
that Hargraves was absent, and that Hargraves'
wife and children were there alone to bear his
sins' weight thrust upon them. After a Spanish
prison, vengeance is vengeance, and there is
no room for nicety as to whom it falls upon.
Hargraves' wife and Hargraves' bairns must pay
for Hargraves. Hargraves' wife to them, Mary
Barriscote to Martin Hughes, and so Martin
knocked sofdy on the oaken panel, knocked
softly again and again.

, i

ill

350 THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

Presently there came a voice from within —
Mary's voice :

' Burn an ye will, you murderers of children !
Philip Hargraves is out of reach.'

' Hist!' said Martin, 'hist, Mary!'

Within, could he but have seen it, the woman
fell a-trembling. Not that she knew the voice,
but he called her Mary, and in her despair it
seemed as if God were nearer than she thought.

' Softly, Mary lass ; softly now : these devils
are all to the front. Down with the bar and
make no noise.'

' And who ?*

' It's Martin Hughes come home, Mary
Barriscote, and down with the bar before all's

lost'

* You lie ! Martin Hughes is dead.'

• My God ! Mary woman, will you slip the
bar ? They're tramping this way.'

An instant's pause, the jar of a bolt shot back,
the creak of a heavy bar turning on its pivot,
and none too soon the door was opened and
shut with Martin within.

Back against the wall shrunk a woman but
little like the Mary Barriscote of a score of years
gone by — old and worn in the face, and seem-
ing older and more worn for the play of shadows
from the rushlight thrust in a sconce five feet
away.

MARTIN FINDS MANOA-LAND 351

From the room above came the fretful wail
of an infant in pain or terror, and more than all
the score of years the cry of the child came
between them.

Without a word Martin Hughes crushed out
the rushlight, and in the darkness turned again
to the door, now shaking under the buffets of
those without.

' Get you back,' he said to the woman, ' back
to your children, and leave me to handle this
affair. Only, first, them they seek is '

' Away 1'

* Ay, away ; that settles it. Back then to
the children.'

And a shadow crept into the darkness, and
presently the wail was hushed.

With all his strength Martin Hughes smote
the door with his clenched fist, and at the
stroke within the buffeting from without ceased
and a voice cried :

' Trapped, y' fox ! Come out an' die like a
man, if there's aught of man in you. Three
minutes now or we'll burn you out !'

And Martin Hughes answered back :

' Two words to that. A house on fire's light
enough to shoot a man by ; ay, an' two, or
three, or four. Four lives in here ; four lives
with you. It's an even score.'

' You hound ! you traitor hound ! The

r* ^' II

1. }

11;

Ik '

35a THE BEAUFOY ROMANCES

thought's h'kc you. Kill wife an' weans to glut
your slaughter— that's Phil Margraves.'

' Fool's talk,' said Martin ; ' there's room for
terms, an' you know it.'

•Terms? Ay! Well, then, come out and
die like a man, an* we'll lay no finger-touch on
wife or bairn.'

' Stick or stone — you swear it ?' cried Martin.

'We swear it,' the voice answered, and on
the heels of the words there was a hubbub of
hoarse shouts binding the pact

Back in its socket the rusty bolt was shot,
the oaken bar creaked once again on its pivot,
and, framed in the gray of the doorway, Martin
Hughes stood looking out into the night.

From the outer darkness came a snarl of
execration, the sudden loom of three, four, five
gray shadows, a moment's scuffle, a fall, and
the soft thud of hurrying feet upon grass, then
silence.

Slowly the floorway just within the door was
thrust up, and from a cellar Hargraves' white
face peered out at a darker shadow, prone and
black against the shadows of the night.

When all's said and done, the Land of Manoa
was none so far from Rye.

r. -

r -
I