The Sword of Gideon

CHAPTER XXVI

The weather that, through the latter part of June and July, had held so fine, had changed at last. With that persistency which for centuries has caused all in the Netherlands to say that their climate is the worst in Europe, or at least the most unreliable, a rainy season had again set in accompanied by considerable cold. The rivers were so swollen now that, in the case of all the great ones, the usually slow, turgid streams had turned into swirling volumes of water, resembling those which, in mountainous regions, pour forth from their icy sources; even the smaller waterways had overflowed their banks and submerged the low-lying fields around them. Thus, except in some particular instances, all military operations had come to an end for the time; the thousands of soldiers who composed the rival armies, and were drawn from half the countries in Europe, lay idle in their tents-when they had any-or in some town they had possessed themselves of; or, in many cases, on the rain-soaked ground.

Of these armies none suffered worse than did the principal portion of the English forces-namely, that under the Earl of Marlborough. For the torrid heat of July was all gone now-that heat of which, but a week or so before, Marlborough had made mention in one of his frequent letters to his wife, while adding the hope that it would ripen the fruit in their gardens at St. Albans, the gardens so dear to him since he knew well enough that she walked in them daily and thought always of him. For whatever John Churchill's faults might be, and whatever the faults of his beautiful but shrewish wife might be, neither failed in their absorbing love for one another-the love that had sprung into their hearts when he was but a colonel and gentleman of the bedchamber to the Duke of York and she a maid of honour to the Duchess.

The heat and fine weather were gone, and for refuge, there was little but the open left for the English troops. It was true Kaiserswörth was taken at this time, Breda was occupied by the English, Maestricht was the same, and Nimeguen had been long in our hands; but with these exceptions Marlborough, with 60,000 men under his command, lay almost entirely in the open. His lordship was at this time at Grave on the Meuse on his way to Venloo, there to attempt the siege and capture of that town, it lying some forty-five miles south of Grave and fifty miles north of Liége.

But however impassable, or almost impassable, the roads were at this present moment, traffic on them, other than that caused by the French and allied armies, had not ceased, for the sufficient reason that it could by no possibility do so. Along every road there streamed wagons and provisions, which, since the latter were to be offered to the first would-be purchasers, were in little danger of being seized as contraband of war by either side, especially as both the contending forces paid for what they appropriated, though, as often as not, the payment was not what the vendors demanded.

Horsemen were also frequent on these same roads, since, provided they were neither soldiers nor spies, nor bearers of despatches or disguised letters, as was soon apparent if they were stopped and searched rigorously, they were not molested, though in many cases the errands upon which they rode were more harmful than even secret news might have been. For many of these men were, under the assumed titles of suttlers and army agents, nothing more nor less than professional gamblers and "bankers," who, once they had got within the lines of either army, contrived not only to strip the officers of all the ready money they possessed, but also, in cases where they knew the standing and family of many of these officers, to lend them money (which they afterwards won back from them) at exorbitant rates of interest, the payment of which frequently crippled them or their families for years.

Besides these, there haunted the neighbourhood of the armies, like ghouls or vampires, or those vultures which can scent bloodshed from afar, a class of women, most of whom were horribly bedizened and painted hags, who followed, perhaps, one of the most dreadful trades to which women have ever turned their attention. But, though they passed along these roads under false names and sometimes titles, and rode in good hired vehicles and, as often as not, in handsome ones that were their own property, they presented a different appearance when a battle had taken place. For then their silks and satins, their paint and patches, their lace and jewels, and also their pinchbeck titles of marchionesses and countesses and baronesses, were discarded, and they stood forth as they really were-as women still in women's garb, it is true, yet in all else furies. With knives in their girdles; with, in outside pockets or bags, the hilts of pistols and some times-nay, often-rude surgical instruments bulging forth; with, too, more than one gold-laced coat buttoned across them, or with the sleeves knotted and with their other pockets crammed with scraps of lace and costly wigs, and miniatures and gold pieces, they stood forth as those earthly cormorants, les chercheuses des morts, and, in most cases, as the murderesses of the living. With their knives or pistols they put an end to the lives of wounded men, whom they afterwards robbed of their money and trinkets, and, also with those knives, they scalped the dying, since hair was valuable. Likewise, with their surgical instruments they wrenched the teeth, also valuable, out of dying or dead men's heads; while, if the wounded were still able to protect themselves, they played another part, that of the Good Samaritan, and offered them a drink of Nantz or usquebaugh, which generally finished the business, since it was usually poisoned.

Along a road between Venloo and Grave, over which a dyke had overflowed from the heavy rains, so that the horses passing over it were fetlock deep in mud, there went now a vehicle, or, rather, rough country cart, springless and having for shelter nothing but a rough covering of coarse tarred canvas supported on bent lathes. Seated on the shaft of this cart was an old man who, out of tenderness for the value of the beast that drew it, if not for the beast itself, never proceeded at any but the slowest pace possible. Inside, under the awning or cover, were Sylvia and Madame de Valorme, who, as is now apparent, had managed to escape out of Liége.

Yet it had been hard to do, and doubly hard to these two women, who, the soul of honour, had to deal with one other-De Violaine-who was himself a mirror of honour and loyalty.

And still they had done it.

In common with many other escapes recorded in past and even present days, theirs had been accomplished in the most simple manner, namely, by simplicity itself. Indeed, captives who, with their appearance unknown to their warders, had walked out of their prisons, both before and after this time; men who had been known to stroll out of such places as the Bastille, or Vincennes, or Bicêtre, and sometimes from English prisons and lockups, as well as he who, on the road to the guillotine, had escaped by the simple device of dropping out of the back of the charrette and then crying "Vive la Revolution!" and "À bas les aristocrats!" had not done so more easily than had these two women.

Only, it had taken time for Sylvia and the Comtesse to arrange their plans, and time, they soon knew, was of all things the most precious. For De Violaine, who had one morning come down to the Comtesse de Valorme from the citadel with a view to asking her why she had jeopardised her own freedom by espousing the desires of the Englishman, had confessed that, though Bevill could not at present be brought to trial, his peril was still extreme.

"De Boufflers is here," he said; "he has come to draw off all troops that can be spared, as well as to examine the state of defence in which Liége is."

"To draw off the troops!" the Comtesse and Sylvia both exclaimed, while the latter felt her heart sink within her at his words. "Is Lord Marlborough not coming?"

"Alas! it is because he is coming, mademoiselle, that it is done. We who are French desire to oppose your general in every way, so that he shall not reach Liége," and De Violaine sighed as he spoke; for he knew as well as De Boufflers that, if Marlborough appeared before Liége with one-fifth of those 60,000 men who were now under his command, the city would probably fall an easy prey to him.

"Why should this prevent an innocent or, at least, a harmless man from being put to his trial and released?" the Comtesse asked. "What evil has he, in truth, done? He has but committed a gallant action in attempting to carry away to safety the compatriot whom he loves, the woman who loves him."

Now, in one way, Sylvia and the Comtesse had thrown dust in the Governor's eyes from the beginning; they had concealed from him the knowledge that Sylvia and Bevill had not been lovers when first the latter made his way into Liége-the one piece of information, as they shrewdly guessed, which might stand as Bevill's excuse, his justification, for doing that which he had done.

"And," the Comtesse continued, "beyond this, what sin against France has Mr. Bracton committed? Is the fact that he, being an Englishman, should also be a Protestant a crime?"

"Nay, nay," De Violaine said; "that is no crime, else you and I are criminals; but-"

"But what?"

"There are other matters that may weigh heavily against him. Ah! mademoiselle," he cried suddenly, hearing a slight exclamation issue from Sylvia's lips while noticing that the rich colouring had fled from her cheeks, and that she seemed about to swoon, "I beseech of you to take this calmly. All may be well yet."

"What are these other matters, monsieur? On my part, I beseech you to tell me," Sylvia almost gasped.

"I-I? Nay, what need to tell? He may be absolved by the court that tries him; his attempt to save the woman he loved may justify all. We of our land are sometimes self-sacrificing in our love," with a swift glance at Madame de Valorme; "we should scarcely bear hardly on a foe for being so."

Other glances that De Violaine did not see had, however, been exchanged as he spoke thus-the glances of the two women as he uttered those words, "his attempt to save the woman he loved may justify all." Glances that conveyed to each the thought that was in the other's mind-the understanding that, in no circumstances, must it ever be known that the love had come to Bevill and Sylvia after they had met in Liége, and not before. If that were known or discovered, one of their principal hopes for his escape was gone. Also, as each of those women flashed the signal to the other, each remembered, and in remembering thanked Heaven, that even that base and crawling creature, Francbois, believed the love to be of an earlier origin than Bevill's arrival. Thence, therefore, sprang the hope that one frail chance in his favour might still remain, and that, from this secret, aid might be forthcoming.

In an instant, however, since glances are almost as swift as lightning itself, the episode had passed and Sylvia had asked once more:

"What are those other matters? Ah! do not torture me with concealment. You-surely you, must, noble as you appear to be-must have loved some woman once, have won the desired love of some true woman. Think, I implore you, think if her feelings had ever been wrung as mine are now, if she had ever been distraught as I am, how your heart would have been stirred with misery for her. Ah," she cried again, unable to restrain her sobs, "if you cannot pity me, at least show pity for my grief, my misfortune."

"From my heart I pity you, mademoiselle," De Violaine said, while as he spoke his voice was calm as ever, though, nevertheless, both women knew that the calmness was but due to self-control. "Even though," and now it seemed as if he braced himself to utter the next words, "I may-never-have known what love is; above all, have-never-known what it is to win the desired love of some true woman. Yet is pity shown to those who suffer, to those who fear, by placing our hand upon the sore, by telling them where the evil lurks?"

"What we know is less than awful imaginings. Let me learn the worst against the man I love," Sylvia continued, and now she was drawn to her full height once more; except that her cheeks were still wet with recent tears she was herself again. Tall, upright, almost commanding, beautiful as ever, she stood before De Violaine, and, in her nobility of nature, seemed to issue an order he dared not disregard. "Let me know the worst. I will not live in further suspense."

"A letter has been found upon him."

"A letter! What letter?" her thoughts flying back fondly to the one he had brought from her guardian-the letter that had commended Bevill Bracton so much to her regard-the letter she had kept and read a hundred times.

"A letter from one who is our bitterest foe-a restless, intriguing man seeking ever his country's glory and aggrandisement at the expense of ours; ever intriguing against us, setting those who are well disposed to us against us-"

"Who is this man, perchance?"

"The Earl of Peterborough."

"Ah! and is he all that you say? He is my guardian, and was my father's dearest, earliest friend."

"Your guardian! Your father's dearest friend!" De Violaine repeated, while inwardly he said to himself, "This must never be known. Otherwise, Heaven help her! She will stand in almost as much danger as her lover stands now, should it be discovered that she is Peterborough's ward."

But aloud he said, "In that letter Mr. Bracton" – De Violaine knowing Bevill's proper name by this time as well as Sylvia or Madame de Valorme knew it-"is addressed as 'cousin' by the Earl. Is he that?"

"He is," Sylvia replied fearlessly. "Some degrees removed, yet still his cousin."

"He could scarcely own a worse kinsmanship-in-in De Boufflers' eyes," De Violaine muttered once more-to himself.

To himself he had muttered these words, yet words were not needed to tell either of the others that here was a circumstance which must tell hardly, cruelly, against Bevill. They understood that by some act of forgetfulness, some inadvertency, he must have kept about him a letter that prudence should have warned him to destroy the instant he had set foot in the neighbourhood of the French; and now-now it would tell against him with awful force. They could not doubt this to be the case; no further doubt could exist in either of their minds. De Violaine's face, as he thought to himself that the unfortunate prisoner could scarce claim kinship with a more dangerous man in the eyes of France than the Earl of Peterborough, had been enough to tell them all, to banish all hope from their hearts.

CHAPTER XXVII

If the Comtesse de Valorme had taken but a secondary part in the conversation that had occurred, it was because she recognised that, to Sylvia, the moment was all important. Also she recognised, or understood well, that at the present moment the preservation, the earthly salvation of Bevill Bracton, if such were possible, stood before all else. Her own desires, her own hopes of coming into contact with the Generalissimo of the allied armies, or, short of him, of someone in high command, must, if only temporarily, give place to the saving of this man so young and so fearless. Yet, even as this thought possessed itself of her mind, she acknowledged that all power of so saving him was outside the efforts of Sylvia or herself.

What, she asked herself, was there that either of them could do to assist in that salvation-they who were themselves in a sense prisoners? De Boufflers was here at this moment; he would doubtless make himself acquainted with everything in connection with the prisoner, or, indeed, the prisoners; he would give orders as to what was to be done in the form of a trial, a judgment; and against these orders there could be no disobedience on the part of any. Nor could there be any suggestions of mercy. There were none who could venture to disobey or to suggest, or who, thus venturing, would be allowed a moment's hearing; while, worse than all, the facts were overwhelming. Bevill Bracton had placed himself in this position-a position that in war time was the worst in which any alien could stand. For, having, as an alien, obtained an entrance to Liége, he had next disobeyed the stern order that no aliens who happened to be in the city should attempt to leave it and thereby find the opportunity, should they desire it, of communicating with the enemy. To all of which was added the additional terror that, villain though he was, Francbois was a Frenchman, and the Frenchmen who listened to what he had to say might be tempted to believe his words. While, to cap everything, a letter of Lord Peterborough's had been found in Bevill's possession-Peterborough, of whom it was as well known in France as in London itself that he had loudly denounced the French succession, had counselled the rupture with France, and himself thirsted to take part in the present war.

Yet, even as Madame de Valorme acknowledged that there were none who could help him who now stood in such imminent deadly danger, a counter-thought, a counter-question ran through her brain like wildfire. "Is it so?" she asked herself. "Is it truly so?" and almost sickened as she found the answer that there were two persons who still had it in their power to afford timely help, though, in doing so, their own feelings, their own self-respect, their sense of honour, might be forfeited. The first was one who might be brought to influence the council, the court-martial that decided the unlucky man's fate-De Violaine!

And the second was one who might influence him. Ah, yes! She, the woman he had loved and lost-the woman whom-since it was idle to juggle with herself-he still loved. Herself!

Herself! and the moment had come when, if it were to be done she must do it, though, even as she knew that it was so, she loathed, execrated herself. For in her heart there dwelt, as there would ever dwell, the thought, the memory, of her unhappy husband who had died beneath the horrible tortures, the beatings, the sweat, the labour of the galleys; while in De Violaine's own heart there dwelt one thing above all-his honour, his loyalty to the country he loved and served and to the King he despised, yet had deeply pledged himself to obey faithfully.

But still the essay must be made. The honest, upright life of Bevill Bracton should not be sacrificed without some effort on her part, wicked though that effort might be, and surely-surely God would forgive her! The sweet, fair promise of Sylvia's young life should not be wrecked if she stood, if she could stand, for aught.

And the moment had come. Sylvia had left the room, unable to bear further emotion; had left it to retire to her own room, there to cast herself on her knees and pray for Heaven's mercy on him she had learnt to love so fondly. The Comtesse de Valorme and De Violaine were alone. He was glancing out through the window at the garden, now drenched with rain, while she was seated by the table as she had been seated since first he was announced.

For an instant the silence between them was unbroken; then, almost in a whisper, the Comtesse de Valorme spoke to the man who still stood with his back to her. For this was no moment for the practising of that ceremony which was the essence of all intercourse between the well-bred of those days, but, instead, a moment when courtesy must sink before those emotions that sometimes in men and women's lives pluck at and rend their hearts At last, however, the woman spoke, and the man was forced to turn round and meet her gaze.

"André de Violaine," she said now, and he observed how her voice faltered as she uttered the words and how her colour came and went, "have you forgotten a promise, a vow you once made me ten years ago, while demanding no vow in return from me?"

"I have forgotten nothing," the other answered, his voice more calm than hers as he turned towards her, yet with his eyes lowered so that they did not meet hers. "I have forgotten neither vows nor hopes-vows, the fulfilment of which has never been demanded; hopes that withered even as they blossomed. Shall I recall them, to show how clear my memory is?"

"Nay; rather let me do so. I recall a man who vowed in days gone by-far off now-that there should be no demand a woman-I-could ever make of him that he would not meet, not carry out by some means, even though at the cost of his life."

"His life," De Violaine said, lifting his eyes suddenly to hers. "His life. Yes."

"What can a man give that is more precious? What else is there for him to fear who fears not death, the end of life?"

"Nothing," De Violaine said now, leaving that question unanswered, "has ever been demanded of me by that woman-by you. Madame, there are some men so lowly, so unheeded in this world, that favours from them are scarce worth accepting or even asking for. Had you ever called on me to do you any service, to give you even my life, the service would have been done, would have been given without a moment's hesitation."

"How he dwells on the word life!" the Comtesse said to herself. "How he shields himself behind it! Because he knows there is another word neither of us dares utter." Yet, a moment later, she was to hear that word uttered.

Then she continued:

"And now it is too late to ask for favours. That time is too long past for vows to have kept fresh-even as, perhaps," and he saw she trembled, it may be shuddered, as she spoke the words, "it is for hopes."

"Too late for vows to be redeemed? No. For life to be freely given if required? No. For hopes? Yes, since no price can be demanded for the fulfilment of those vows."

"Is hope dead within your heart, or has it but turned to indifference?"

"Radegonde," De Violaine said now, speaking quickly, yet with a tremor in his voice, "all hope died within my heart ten years ago, on the day when, at Nîmes, you married Gabriel de Valorme. Nay," seeing she was about to speak, "do not tell me that he is dead; I know it now. But his memory, your love for him, is not dead."

"Ah!" the Comtesse gasped. For De Violaine's words were true, and she despised herself for having, even in so great a cause as this she was now concerned in, endeavoured to rouse fresh hopes within De Violaine's breast.

"Now," the latter said, "tell me what you desire-what your words mean. Though you are still wedded in your heart to Gabriel, still bound to him by memory's chain, there yet remains-my-life."

"No, no," she almost cried; "not that. Why should I ask your life-I who slew the happiness of that life-I who could not give you what was not mine to give? Instead-"

"Yes-instead?"

"I seek to save a life, a guiltless one." Then, rising from her chair and advancing close to De Violaine, she said, "You can preserve this Englishman. If," and she wrestled with herself, strung herself masterfully to utter the words, "if you ever loved me, if in your heart there still dwells the memory of that dead and gone love, I beseech you to save him. He is innocent of aught against France."

"The memory of that love is there, never to be effaced; but for what you ask-it is impossible."

"Oh! oh! And this is the man who vowed to give his life to me!" the Comtesse murmured. "The man who is supreme here, in Liége, yet will not do that!"