He might well do so!

CHAPTER XXVI.

DOOMED.

Remembering that his horse (which he would require ere long to carry
him to the mountains, since although, as he had thanked God again and
again, Urbaine was in no danger, Baville would doubtless desire him to
obtain her release at once) had been left in the stables behind the
Porte des Carmes, Martin made his way there. Went toward the gate,
resolved to fetch it away and place it in some more secure spot than
the one in which several dragoons had tied up theirs ere dismounting.

Reaching the yard, he found the animal; found also that the dragoons
must have preceded him, since now all their horses were gone excepting
one, which, by its caparisons and trappings, by the great gold sun
upon the bridle, the throat-plume and saddle-flaps, as well as by its
fleecy bear-skin saddle-cloth, was plainly an officer's.

"A fine beast," he mused as, ere he removed his own horse, he held a
bucket of water to its mouth, "a fine beast. Too good to be employed
in carrying its rider to such work as he and his men have been about
to-day."

As he thought thus he heard the heavy ring of spurred boots upon the
rough flags of the yard, also the clang of a metal scabbard-tip on
them, and, glancing round, saw coming toward him a young dragoon
officer, his face flushed, perhaps with the heat, perhaps with the
business that he and his troops had been recently employed upon.

"_Peste!_" the man exclaimed as he came up to his own steed and began
unfastening the bridle from the staple to which it was attached.
"_Peste!_ Hot work, monsieur, this morning, what with the glaring sun
and the flames from the mill. _N'est-ce pas, monsieur?_ Yet, yet I
wish those heretics had not been of the feeble. It is no soldier's
work slaughtering babes and women and _vieillards_. My God!" he broke
off, exclaiming, a moment later, "So it is you, villain!"

"What!" exclaimed Martin, astonished at this sudden change of speech
and regarding him as though he were a madman. "What! _Villain!_ To
whom does monsieur apply that word?" and the look upon his face should
have warned the young man to be careful of his words.

"To whom," the other sneered, however, "to whom? To whom should I
apply it but one? Who else is there in the stable-yard but you to whom
it would apply? And if there were fifty more, I should still address
it to you. Also the word murderer."

"To me! Are you mad that you assault a stranger thus with such
opprobrium? Answer, or, being sane, draw the weapon by your side."

"Which is that which I intend to do. Yet I know not whether you are
fit to cross blades with. You! You!"

"You will know it shortly," Martin said quietly, as now he drew his
own sword and stood before him, "unless, that is, you have some very
tangible explanation of your words to offer."

"Explanation! Explanation! Oh, _avec ça!_ you shall have an
explanation. Are you not the fellow who sat on the bridge when De
Peyre's dragoons rode into Montvert after the murder of the Abbé du
Chaila? Are you not the man who led the attack on the Intendant's
daughter, dragging her from her carriage, carried her off to the
mountains, to your accursed _attroupés_; doubtless assisted in her
murder? Answer that, _maraud_, and tell no lies."

And even as he spoke he struck at him with the gauntlet he held in his
hand, muttering, "I loved her, I loved her, and I will slay you." Then
said again, "Answer ere I slay you."

"I will answer you," said Martin quietly still--so quietly, yet
ominously, that, had the man before him not been a soldier, he would
have been well advised to flee from out the yard. "But it must be
later; when I have stretched you at my feet for your insolence. You
shall have the explanation when I have paid you back that blow, when
your soul is hurrying to join your victims of this morning."

His blood was up now. The abusive words of the soldier; the sting of
the heavy gauntlet still upon his cheek; perhaps, though that he
scarce recognized, the feeling of hate against this swashbuckler for
having dared to dream of loving Urbaine--all combined to make him
resolute to kill the man before him. Also the horror, the disgust,
that every effort he had made, every danger he had run, should be
subjected to such misinterpretation, added to the accusation, if any
addition were needed, that doubtless he had murdered her. For the
first time in the course of this unholy war his weapon was unsheathed,
about to be used. It should not find its scabbard again till it was
wet with this man's life blood.

"Have I been mistaken?" the soldier said, astonished by his words,
above all by his calm. "Made some strange error?"

"You have. No greater in your life than that foul blow. Put up your
weapon before you, or I run you through as you stand here. Quick, _en
garde_. I am neither 'woman, babe, nor _vieillard_.'"

"If it must be, it must----"

"It must!"

"_Soit!_ If you will have it so."

The yard was large enough for any pair of _escrimeurs_ to make fair
play in, yet had it been smaller it would have well sufficed, as the
dragoon found. Found that he had his master here before him, a man in
whose hands he was a child; a fencer who would not let him move from
the spot he was on, except backward slowly to the wall. And that not
by his own desire, but because the iron wrist in front of him rendered
resistance to its owner's will impossible.

Sword-play such as this he had never known, nor an adversary who
parried every thrust as he made it, yet never lunged himself,
reserving, doubtless, all his strength for that lunge at last.
Strength to thrust through muscle and chest-wall the blade which would
pierce his heart.

He felt that he was doomed. There rose before him an old _manoir_ with
a window high up in a _tourelle_, a window from which he knew that,
even now, a gray-haired, sad-eyed woman--his mother!--watched as she
had often watched for his coming. Ah, well, he would never appear
again to gladden her. Never, never, through all the years that she
might live. Never!

There was a click, a tic-tac of steel against steel that told him his
reflections were but too true and just, that the gray-haired woman's
chance of ever seeing him again would be gone in a few seconds now.
Also he experienced that feeling which every swordsman has known more
than once, the feeling that the wrist of the opponent is preparing the
way for the deadly lunge, the feeling that his own guard is being
pressed down with horrible, devilish force, that the lightning thrust
will be through him in a moment.

For a moment he was saved, his agony prolonged by an interruption. Two
men--warders--had appeared on the roof of the gate, and, seeing what
was going on below, stood there watching the play of the swords.
Joking and jeering, too, about his incompetency in spite of the
scarlet and gold he wore, bidding him take heart; that soon it would
be over; also that the pain was not great after the first bite of the
steel.

And disturbed, agitated, he but clumsily endeavoured to guard himself
from that awful pressure, knowing that the thrust must come directly.

Astonished, he found it did not do so. Instead, the pressure relaxed.
A moment later his adversary spoke to him.

"Those fellows agitate you. Take breath," and the dreaded blade was
still. Soon both weapons were unlocked.

"You are very noble," the dragoon said. "I--I--no matter. Let us
continue," and muttered to himself, "as well now as three moments
later," preparing for the death he knew was to be his. Or rather
thought was to be his, not dreaming that it would never be dealt to
him by the calm and apparently implacable swordsman before him. For
Martin, his blood cooling as he learned how poor a foeman he was
opposed to, a swordsman unworthy of his steel, had resolved to dismiss
him, strike up his weapon and give him his life, with some
contemptuous words added to the gift.

Not understanding, however, all that was in the brain of the man who,
as a boy, had been sent across the Alps from Paris to the best
_maestri di scherma_ of Padua and Florence to learn all they could
teach in the use of small arms; not knowing this, the other prepared
himself for his fate, seeing now that the men on the roof jeered and
fleered no longer; instead, stared with a look of apprehension at the
entrance to the yard.

Started, too, at a voice which Martin heard, as the others heard.

"Strike up that man's guard," the voice cried. "Secure him. For you,
Montglas, touch him not at your peril. Arrest the English spy."

The voice of Baville! As Martin knew well enough ere, contemptuously
disarming the dragoon by a _flanconnade_, he turned and faced the
Intendant. The man whose child he had saved, yet who now denounced him
as an English spy; who had learned by some means that he was a subject
of France's bitterest foe.

Behind him there stood six Croatian Cravates, part of the Intendant's
guards, swarthy fellows whose very name caused tremblings to all in
France, though they themselves had trembled once before Prince
Eugene's soldiers, and were to tremble again as Marlborough hedged
them in with English steel later--men who now advanced to seize the
English spy.

"Take his sword from him," Baville said. "If he resists, knock him on
the head. Yet spare his life. That is mine to deal with."

For a moment the glittering blade flashed ominously before the
Croatians; glittered, too, before Baville's eyes. Then the point was
lowered to the ground, and Martin spoke.

"What," he asked calmly, "do these orders mean?"

"Mean?" echoed Baville. "Mean! You ask _me_ that? They mean that you
are in my hands. That to-morrow you die."

"Upon what charge?"

"Bah! I equivocate not with such as you," and he turned to go. "Nay,"
he exclaimed violently, looking round as Martin again addressed him.
"Speak not. I require no answer. If you reply I shall forget that I am
the King's Intendant, shall remember only that you are the murderer of
my child, shall bid these men despatch you here upon this spot."

"The--murderer--of--your--child!" Martin repeated. "Of--of----"

"Of Urbaine Ducaire."

"You believe that?"

"Believe it? I know it. This man whom but now you attempted to slay,
le Baron de Montglas, saw you drag her from her carriage, carry her
off. Enough. Answer me not. Take him," he said to the Croatians, "to
the citadel." Then, once more addressing Martin, he said, his voice
calm now, his tones gentle:

"To-morrow you will have your chance to speak, even you, an English
spy, you, the murderer of an innocent woman, will not be condemned
unheard. The Court will sit at the earliest moment possible."

"What if I tell you that Urbaine Ducaire lives, is well, happy? What
then?"

As Martin spoke he saw the handsome face of the Intendant flush, the
dark olive complexion become suffused with a warm glow, the dark, full
eyes sparkle beneath their long black lashes. Saw, too, that he took a
step forward toward him, whispering, "Lives--is happy!" Next, turned
away again with a movement of contempt.

"What then!" he exclaimed, once more addressing Martin. "What then!
What, you ask, should I say or do? Say it is a lie, such as you told
before, only of five thousand times a deeper dye--a lie such as the
lie you uttered when you proclaimed yourself a _propriétaire_ of the
North. Shall do that which no power on earth, not Louis' own, can
prevent. Slay you as I have sworn a thousand times to do if ever by
God's grace I had you in my hands again."

At the feet of the soldiers there was a clang--the clang of Martin's
sword as he flung it on the paved stable-yard.

"Bid your bravoes pick it up," he said. "For yourself, do with me what
you choose. It will never be sheathed by me again till you have heard
my story before the Court you speak of. Packed as it may be, packed as
all the courts of Languedoc have been by Monsieur l'Intendant from the
beginning, packed by every one of your creatures whom you can gather
round you, they shall all hear to-morrow morning my story, if I am not
done to death ere I can tell it."

"Lies, bravado, will avail you nothing. Le Baron Montglas is witness
against you. Come," he said, turning to that person. "Come."

And he strode from out the stable-yard after bidding the Cravates to
follow with their prisoner.

Yet when he was alone in the house which he occupied at Nîmes his mind
was ill at ease. Ill at ease because, in the calm bearing of this
prisoner, in the contempt which that prisoner had shown for him and
his authority as he flung his sword at his feet, he saw something
which was neither guilt nor fear. Instead, contempt and scorn.

Also he had said "Urbaine Ducaire lives, is well, happy," and in
saying it had spoken as one speaks who utters truth.

Yet how could he believe that such as this could be possible?
Montglas, whose life had been at this man's mercy as he entered the
stable-yard, had seen the other in the _mêlée_, had seen him tear
Urbaine from the coach, lift her on to his horse, ride off with her.
To what, to where? To death, to the mountains where the Protestants
sheltered. And, if further confirmation was needed, had he not caused
to be brought before him one who had escaped from the massacre of the
Château St. Servas, one who plainly told how ere the Camisards
attacked the castle disguised as royalists, this man, the Englishman
as he now knew him to be, had brought Urbaine there, to wait doubtless
for his accomplices? Also that very day he had heard, had been told by
some who had returned from Cette, that among the Cévenoles who had
been on the beach waiting for the landing of the English, this man had
been recognised. His own spies had seen him; there could be no
possibility of doubt.

"Yet if, after all, they should be wrong," he mused to himself; "if,
after all, Montglas, the escaped one from St. Servas, the spy, should
be deceived! Or, not being deceived, Urbaine should still live! What
then? What if in truth he has in some manner managed to protect her,
to save her! What then?"

Even as he muttered these words, these surmises, he wiped the heat
drops from his brow. For--and now almost he prayed that this man might
be lying--if all were wrong in what they accused him of, if instead of
leading Urbaine to her death he had saved, protected her, all the same
he was doomed. Doomed beyond hope!

He had communicated with Paris, with Chamillart, with the woman who
ruled the King, had asked for information about this stranger who
stated that he was a kinsman of the de Rochebazons in search for one
who was the De Rochebazon himself, and not a week since had received
in return his orders from Paris. Orders written by De Maintenon's own
private secretary to arrest the man, to put him on trial as an English
spy found in France during a time of war, orders to have him condemned
and executed without appeal--his nationality, which was undoubted, to
be the justification for that execution.

And again, as he remembered this, Baville almost prayed that Martin's
words might not be true, prayed that, if they were true and Urbaine
still lived and was safe, _he_ at least might not prove to be her
saviour.

Her saviour! Yet doomed to lose his life at the hands of the man who
worshipped the girl, the man who, instead of doing that saviour to
death, should, instead, have poured out at his feet all that would
have gone to make his life happy, prosperous, and contented.

CHAPTER XXVII.

HER FATHER, URBAIN DUCAIRE.

It was in a great hall, or chamber, of the Hôtel de Ville that Baville
now sat, splendidly apparelled, as was ever his custom when assisting
at any great public function. Once more he wore his white satin jacket
with, over it, the _justaucorps-à-brevet_, and with, upon his satin
waistcoat, the gold lilies of France emblazoned. Also his hat--which,
since he represented the King, he did not remove--was white and
fringed with gold lace, his ruffles were of the finest point de
Malines, his gloves gold-fringed, his sword ivory-hilted and
gold-quilloned. The rich costume suited well the handsome features of
the terrible Intendant of Languedoc--_le fléau du fléau de Dieu_, as
he had been called. That superb dress, combined with his dark olive
complexion, classic outline, and soft dark eyes, shaded by their long
lashes, caused Baville to look, as indeed he was, the handsomest man
in Nîmes that day.

Beneath him sat a group of men of the law. Three judges in scarlet and
ermine; the _Procureur du Roi_, also in scarlet, but with ermine only
at his cuffs; _greffiers_ and clerks, as well as two men who were
termed _abréviateurs_ and practised the shorthand of the day, with,
near these, many other persons of importance in Nîmes. Sandricourt,
the governor of the city, was there, as also Montrevel, his fierce
eyes rolling round the Court as they glared from his inflamed face;
Esprit Fléchier, Bishop of Nîmes, a good and righteous man,
reverencing deeply his ancient faith, yet shuddering with horror at
all that had been done in Languedoc, and was still doing, in the name
of that faith; and many more. For it was known to every one in Nîmes,
Protestant and Catholic alike, that to-day a man was to be tried who
was himself a Protestant, an ally of the Camisards in the mountains,
an English spy who had been one of those waiting on the shore of the
Mediterranean to welcome the English invader. Tried! tried! Nay,
rather brought up for condemnation and sentence without any trial to a
doom which meant either the flames in the market place or the wheel by
the cross in the Cathedral _Place_ below the _Beau Dieu_, or perhaps
the lamp whose post was highest. All knew this, Protestant and
Catholic alike; all knew, the former shuddering and the latter
gloating over the knowledge, that this was to be no trial, but a
sentence; no execution, but a murder.

The Court, or great chamber, began to fill with spectators, also with
those who were to act as guards to all who presided at or took part in
the proceedings. That guard would indeed be necessary, since none
could say, among those who represented what was termed the _Partie
Royaliste_, how soon its services might be required to prevent them
from being attacked and done to death, even as, in Mercier's mill
yesterday, they had attacked and done to death those of the other
side. None could say how, at any instant, sweeping down from their
mountain homes, from their impenetrable fastnesses and caverns, might
come the dreaded _attroupés_ headed by either Cavalier or Roland, with
their tigerish blood on fire to revenge the hideous massacre not yet
twenty-four hours old, or with a fierce determination in their hearts
to save the man who had been their friend and ally. At any moment a
shout might be heard, o'ermastered by the pealing of a solemn canticle
from a thousand throats; at any moment a psalm might break upon the
ears of all, as it rose to Him whom they termed the God of the
Outcasts, even as, to the swell of that hymn, was heard the clash of
steel, the shriek of those who were in the avengers' grasp, the cry of
despair from those who fell before the avengers' glaives. It was well
those guards should be there.

They came in now, the fierce Cravates whose eyes gleamed like dusky
stars from beneath their heavy brows, whose faces were as the faces of
wild beasts that rend and tear others, not so much because rending and
tearing is necessary to their own preservation as because it is their
sport and delight; men from whom women drew back shuddering as they
passed, and before whom their fellow-men felt their blood tingling
with the desire to measure themselves. Also the Miquelets were there,
the wolves of the Pyrenees who fought with their short, thin-bladed
knives, yet slew as surely as others slew with heavy-handled
swords or by shot of musketoon. Outside were the dragoons and the
Chevaux-Légers, even the humble militia of the province, proud yet
half timorous of the company they were in.

Scarcely could even Cavalier, the undefeated, have made his way with
his followers into that hall, or, being there, have done aught to
avenge the butchery of yesterday or to save the one who would shortly
be doomed to-day.

The guard set outside and in, every precaution taken. Those of the
citizens who chose to enter and were able to find standing room were
allowed to do so. They were a strangely assorted company. Some were of
the class known as the _nouveaux convertis_, men whom misery and fear
of poverty had turned from Protestantism to Roman Catholicism, men who
could not endure to face the flames or the gibbets. These were mostly
old--too old to seek the mountains and fight for their lives and their
faith, _vieillards_ who told themselves that the only fire they needed
was that of their own hearths to warm their blood, and who persuaded
themselves, though with many a tear dropped unseen, that one religion
was much the same as another. Yet by their sides came others now who
should have put their weakness to shame: old women brought up in the
same faith as they, yet scorning to change to save their skins; women
who now mouthed and grimaced at Baville as he sat in splendour on the
dais which acted as a substitute for Louis' throne, and seemed by that
mouthing and grimacing to defy the Intendant to injure them that
morning. Also, too, there came in shepherds and goatherds clad in
fleeces of the Narbonne sheep that grazed on the hills around, with
knives in their girdles; men known to be of the new faith, yet men who
were safe to-day, since the butchery of yesterday would not bear
repetition. Even Montrevel knew this, knew that he dared take no
vengeance at present on those mountaineers who scowled at him over the
shoulders of his own scowling soldiers, and nodded to one another and
whispered as they glanced toward where he sat, while they gazed
inquiringly into each other's eyes, as though asking a question. What
question? One, perhaps, as to whether it would not be well to o'erleap
the barriers and cut from ear to ear the throat of the beribboned and
bestarred swashbuckler who sat glaring before them! It may well have
been such a question as that.

The soft yet piercing eyes of Baville saw all who entered by the great
porte that gave into the chamber--_nouveaux convertis_, mountaineers,
monks and priests, prohibited Protestant _pasteurs_, old women and
men, soldiers off duty, and some members of the _noblesse_ (_grande et
petite_) from the surrounding towns and villages. Those eyes missed
not one face, yet seemed, judging by the calmness that dwelt in his
glance, to observe nothing; a calmness that told no more than a mask
or a marble bust tells, yet only served to cloak a hell which raged
within him. The unhappiest man in Languedoc that day was Baville, the
most heartbroken.

Ere the dawn had long been come, the Intendant, a prey to his own
thoughts, to his own self-reproaches, not knowing whether he had not
committed an act that was irreparable in handing Martin over to the
judges as an English spy, had left his bed and made his way to the
cell in which Martin had been placed.

"I must see him," he whispered to himself as he hastily donned a dark
coat and cloak, vastly different from the splendour of the costume he
now wore in open court. "I must see him, for I fear--O God, how I
fear!--that I have sent to his doom the man who has saved Urbaine. His
manner, his words, were the words, the action of truth. What hideous
reparation may I not have made!"

Thinking thus, musing thus, he had taken his way from the apartment he
occupied in the citadel when at Nîmes to the place where Martin was
detained, a room stone-flagged and built into the wall, and strong
enough to detain the most ferocious and determined prisoner who should
once find himself within it.

"Unlock the door," he said to the man, one of the local _milice_, who
was appointed to sit outside on guard over the prisoner within. "Open.
You know me, do you not?"

"Yes, monseigneur, I know you," the soldier said, springing to his
feet and preparing to do as he was bidden. "Yet will monseigneur
venture within? The man is, they say, a dangerous----"

"Bah! Open."

And a moment later the Intendant was gazing down upon him whom he had
denounced to the law, the man for whose trial, a few hours later, he
had already issued orders and summoned the judges.

Upon a low pallet Martin Ashurst lay sleeping as peacefully as though
in his own bed in his far-distant home, nor was he disturbed by the
grating of the key in the lock nor by the entrance of Baville. He had
slept but little for some nights past, and his long rides and
exertions had worn him out at last.

Gazing down upon him, observing the fair hair and handsome features of
his victim, Baville knew that here was no guilty man capable of
betraying a young and helpless girl to her death. The calm and
peaceful figure beneath him could scarce be that of one who would
descend to such villainies. Murderers of the young and innocent looked
not so innocent themselves! And if any confirmation of his thoughts
were needed, he had it now. Upon Martin's face there came a soft
smile; his lips parted and he murmured the name of Urbaine.

"Urbaine!" he whispered. "Urbaine! My love!"

Had an adder stung the Intendant standing there, or the lightning
stroke blasted him, neither could have been more terrible. His love!
His love! His love! Therefore he must have spoken truth when he said
that she was well, was happy.

"God help me," Baville muttered. "Have pity on me."

Even as he did so, Martin's eyes opened and he saw his enemy, his
captor, looking down upon him.

"What," he asked, the softness of his face all gone, his glance one of
contemptuous disdain, "do you desire of me? Is my hour come, and are
you here to show me the way to the scaffold? Is that the reason of
your presence?" and as he spoke he rose from the pallet and stood
before the other.

"Nay, nay," replied Baville, veiling his handsome face with the end of
his cloak, as though he feared his emotion might be too palpable.
"But--but--I have judged you too hastily. I have learned that but now.
Have indeed misjudged you. All pointed, all evidence pointed, to one
thing: that, by treachery unparalleled, you were the betrayer of
Urbaine--to her death."

For a moment the clear eyes of Martin, all traces of slumber vanished
from them, looked into the equally clear ones of Baville with a glance
that the latter could scarce fathom. Then Martin said, quietly: "And
you believed that evidence? Believed that I, whom you had made welcome
to your hearth, had made known to your child, should do _that!_"

"Almost I was forced to believe," Baville answered, his voice thick
and hoarse, his eyes lowered to the ground. "You were in the _mêlée_,
the attack upon the escort. You were at the Château St. Servas, and
she too was there. After that massacre--I--I--was compelled to
believe."

"Do you still believe?"

"No," the other answered, his voice still broken, his eyes still on
the ground.

"What has changed your belief against the evidence you speak of?"

"You murmured her name but now in your slumbers, spoke of her as your
love. Is she that? Do you love--her?"

"Yes, I love her. Before all, beyond all else in this world, I love
her." Then he turned his face away from Baville and whispered low:
"Urbaine, oh, Urbaine!"

The dawn had come now, saffron-hued, bright with the promise of a fair
day; had come stealing in through the _[oe]illet_ high up in the wall.
Through the cross of the _[oe]illet_ the morning sun streamed, also
throwing one ray athwart the features of the two men standing there
face to face.

"And--and "--whispered Baville now, the voice, usually so rich and
sweet, still blurred with emotion, almost indistinct, "and she
loves--returns--your love?"

"Yes," Martin answered, "yes."

"Has told you so?"

"Ay, with her own sweet lips to mine." Then suddenly, his tone
changed, speaking loudly, clearly, he exclaimed: "Man, you can not rob
me of that! Make one more victim of me in your shambles if you will,
yet, as I die, my last word, my last thought, shall be of Urbaine. My
recompense, her hate and scorn of you."

"No, no, no!" Baville exclaimed, his hands thrust out before him as
though groping for something he could not touch, or as though to fend
off the denunciation of the other. "No, no, not that. Never that. You
must be saved--for--for her sake. For Urbaine. She is my life, my
soul. Sorrow must never come _anigh_ her again. Already I have done--O
God!--have done her wrong. Enough. Listen. You will be tried to-day,
condemned as an English spy; the De Maintenon has said it----"

"The De Maintenon!"

"Ay! You are the heir to the wealth of the de Rochebazons--to much of
it. You are English. It is enough. Tried, I say, condemned! Yet you
shall be saved. Here, in Languedoc, _I_ am Louis. _I_ am France," and
once more Baville was himself, erect, strong, superb. "It shall be
done--it--it--it; there must be no sorrow," he repeated, "for
Urbaine."

"You forget one thing--the Church."

"The Church! Bah! Theirs is a sentimental power; mine is effective,
actual. You must be saved. I am Louis, the King, here. Shall be
recalled for what I do; be broken, ruined. Yet, _until recalled_, the
King. Go to your trial, but say nothing. Refuse to plead; that shall
suffice." Then changing the subject, he said eagerly, feverishly
almost, "Where is she? Where have you left her?"

"In the mountains. Under the charge of Cavalier."

"Cavalier!" Baville exclaimed recoiling, his face a picture of
suspicion and doubt. "With Cavalier! Under the charge of Cavalier! My
God! They will slaughter her! And you profess to love her!"

"She is safe; as safe as in your own arms. They will protect her."

"Protect her! Protect her! They! Protestants, like yourself!"

"Yes, Protestants, like myself. And, as they believe, nay, as they
know, perhaps as you yourself know, Protestants like--Urbaine
Ducaire!"

Through the thick moted sunbeams that swept from the _[oe]illet_
across the dusty room, passing athwart of Baville's face, Martin saw a
terrible change come into that face. Saw the rich olive turn to an
ashen hue, almost a livid hue; saw the deep, soft eyes harden and
become dull.

"They know," he whispered, "they know that! That Urbaine
is--a--Protestant? How--can--they--know--it?"

"One of their seers, a woman, divined it, proclaimed her no papist.
And Cavalier has discovered those who knew her father, Urbain
Ducaire."

"My God!"

CHAPTER XXVIII.

BAVILLE--SUPERB!

There was a hush over the Court. Yet a hush broken and disturbed by
many sounds. By the sobs of more than one woman, by the shuffling of
many feet, by muttered ejaculations from those who strove to force
their way nearer to where the judges sat beneath the Intendant, and
once by a ribald laugh from a painted woman who leered at all around
her and flung nods and smiles toward Montrevel--the woman Léonie
Sabbat. By pushings, too, administered by brawny men who were possibly
mountaineers to the Miquelets and even the Cravates, since if they
were the former they feared not the latter; they had met before. Once
an oath was heard muttered and the ominous sound of a blow, then a
girl's shriek of horror. Yet at last some semblance of order was
obtained, the proceedings were about to commence.

"Bring in the prisoner," exclaimed the presiding judge, Amédée
Beauplan, a harsh and severe man who had sentenced countless
Protestants to the various forms of death dealt out to those of that
religion; and his words were re-echoed by the _greffiers_.

A moment later Martin Ashurst stood before all assembled there. And as
he did so many women were heard to weep afresh. Perhaps his handsome
manhood recalled to them some of their own men who had once stood
where he was standing now. Alone among her sex Léonie Sabbat, who was
eating Lunel grapes from a basket, laughed.

"_Tiens!_" she muttered, addressing herself to an elderly
decorous-looking woman who was close by her, but who shrank away from
the courtesan as though she were some noxious reptile, "_regardez moi
ça_. A fool! One who might have had wealth, vast wealth. Now see him!
Doomed to death, as he will be in an hour. I know his story. _Tout
même, il est beau!_" and she spat the grape seeds out upon the floor
at her feet.

Baville's eyes, roaming round the Court, yet apparently observing
nothing, he seeming indeed supremely oblivious of all that was taking
place, lighted casually upon two persons hemmed in by many others. A
man well enough clad in a simple suit of russet brown, who looked
somewhat like a notary's clerk, his wig _en pleine échaudé_ covering
the greater part of his cheeks, so that from out of it little could be
seen but his eyes, nose, and mouth. An idle fellow, the Intendant
deemed him, a scrivener who had probably brought his old mother to see
the _spectacle_. For he held in his hand that of an aged woman whose
eyes alone were visible beneath the rough Marseilles shawl with which
her head was enveloped, and with, about her brow, some spare locks
that were iron-gray.

The pair were not, however, always visible to Baville even from his
raised seat; sometimes the movements of others by whom they were
surrounded--of a fat and gloating monk, or of a weak and shivering
Protestant, or of a crowd of gossips from out the streets--obscured
them from him momentarily. Yet, as the trial went on, they came across
his view now and again, the youth holding always the old woman's hand.
And seeing that woman's hollow eyes fixed on him always, Baville
shuddered. He knew her now, from a far-off yet well-remembered past;
her face rose as a phantom rises.

That Martin, standing there, calm, almost indifferent, his hands
folded on the rail in front of him, should be the principal object of
attention in that crowded place was natural. For he was, as all knew,
awaiting a sentence that must indubitably be awarded ere long. All
knew also that the trial was but a preliminary farce leading up to the
great _dénoûment_.

That trial, such as it was, drew near to its close. Witness had been
heard; Montglas, who had seen Martin snatch Urbaine Ducaire from her
coach and ride off with her; also the one man who had escaped from the
massacre at the Château St. Servas; also the three men who had been
present on the beach near Cette and had seen the English spy hand and
glove with the Camisards--all had testified, Montglas alone with
regret and emotion.

"You swear this is the truth?" Beauplan said to him, looking up from
the papers on his desk before him. "There is no doubt?"

"It is the truth," the young dragoon had answered. "Yet I would that
other lips had had to speak. He spared my life but yesterday when it
was in his hands."

"He has led to the death of many others. Also he is an English spy.
_Mes frères_," he went on, turning to each of the other judges and
whispering low, so that none but the silent Intendant sitting above
could hear, "what is our verdict? We need not long deliberate, I
imagine."

Both those others fixed also their eyes upon him acquiescingly, yet
neither spoke. Words were not wanted.

Then Beauplan, turning his head over his shoulder toward the man who
represented the King's majesty, and seeing that he sat there calm and
impassable, statue-like, inscrutable, rose from his seat and made
three solemn bows to Baville.

"We await permission to pronounce sentence," he said.

"Pronounce--it," and Baville drew a long breath between the two words.
Yet the handsome face changed not. Or only grew more ivory-like--so
ivory-like that those standing in that hall, both enemies and
adherents, cast back their thoughts to their dead whom they had seen
lying in their shrouds ere the coffin lid closed over and hid them
forever.

"What does he see that blasts him?" whispered Montrevel in Fléchier's
ear, and the bishop, turning his own white face to the inflamed one of
the great bravo, muttered, "God, he knows, he only."

In the crowd beyond the railed-off place where the principals sat the
effect was the same. Among all who now fixed their eyes on Baville,
the greater number asked: "What does he see?" and glanced over their
shoulders as though expecting themselves to see something terrible.

"Can the dead rise?" exclaimed one swarthy Cévenole who, in any other
circumstances than the present, would have been arrested for an
_attroupé_ ere he had been an hour in Nîmes; have been borne to the
earth by the Cravates and loaded with chains ere hurried to a dungeon,
so certain did it appear that he was a Camisard. "Can the burned ashes
of our loved ones come together again, the limbs that have rotted on
the gibbets be restored to life? Has one of those come back to
paralyze him?" And he laughed bitterly.

"_Il est lâche_," whispered Léonie Sabbat through her small white
teeth. "_Mon Dieu! il a peur. Fichtre pour Baville!_" and she pressed
her plump jewelled hand on the shoulder of her unwilling neighbour as
she craned her neck over the balcony to observe the man she jibed at.

Yet he was no coward. Only his heart sickened within him. With fear,
but not the fear of either phantom risen from the dead or of fierce
Camisard ready to send him to join the dead. Sickened at the sight of
that aged woman who never took her eyes off him, who seemed about to
address all assembled there. For he remembered her. Recognised her
face now beyond all doubt. Remembered one night--how long ago it
seemed!--when all the land lay under the snow, and when, at the foot
of the mountains the _tourbillon_ whirled down from the heights above
great flurries of other snow which froze as it fell, and struck and
cut the faces of those riding through the wintry storm as knives or
whipcord strike and cut. Recalled how he himself riding through the
_tourmente_, followed by a dozen of his guard, had to strike breast
and body to prevent this freezing snow from ensheathing him in its
swift, hardening masses. Yet of what account such memory as that
compared to another which followed swiftly in its train!

The memory of a humble peasant's cot, a man stricken with years
reading his Bible by the fireside, a child playing at his feet,
rolling about the floor laughing and crowing as it teased a
good-natured hound that endeavoured, unavailingly, to sleep before the
crackling logs. Then a word from the man, another from him--O God! how
fearfully, horribly misunderstood! Next, the room full of smoke and
the smell of powder, the man gasping out his life, gasping, too, one
last muttered sentence, whispering that he, Baville, was forever
smitten by God's frown. And on the rude staircase that led from behind
the deep chimney to the room above a comely woman standing, the little
child clasped in her arms, her face distorted with terror, her voice
shrieking that he was a murderer, an assassin.

A comely woman then, now an old one and before him, there, in the body
of the Court.

What if she and Urbaine should meet? What if they had met?

The doomed man, the man upon whom Amédée Beauplan was about to
pronounce sentence, had said that Cavalier had discovered those who
knew her father, Urbain Ducaire. Was she one of those whom the
Camisard chief had discovered, and had she told all?

"Is he mad?" some in the Court asked again, while others answered,
"More like stricken with remorse or fear." Yet surely not the latter,
since now he repeated his last words referring to the sentence.

"Pronounce--it."

Yet with his eyes never off that woman's face.

A moment later and it was done; the sentence delivered, even as it had
been delivered again and again in Nîmes and Avignon, Montpellier and
Alais within the last few months by red-robed legal functionaries,
and, in countless bourgs and villages, by rough soldiers acting as
judges. A sentence of death by the flames before the _Beau Dieu_ of
the cathedral, to take place at the time ordered by the King's
representative, Baville. The ashes afterward to be scattered to the
winds.

Yet, as Amédée Beauplan's voice ceased, others were heard in the
Court, rising above all the noise made by the movement of the
spectators passing out into the street, by the orders shouted from
officers to men to clear that Court, and by the loud murmurings either
of approbation or disapproval which were heard.

"It will never take place," one clear, high-toned voice was heard
above all others to cry, "never. Ere it does, Nîmes shall be consumed
to ashes."

And Martin, turning as the warders prepared to take him back to his
cell, saw from whose lips that cry had come. From Cavalier, the man
dressed in russet-brown and with his features hidden by the long black
wig.

Perhaps, too, Baville suspected who might be the utterer of that
ominous threat, for now he rose from his seat once more, again he
stood erect and commanding; except for his pallor, which still
remained, he was himself as ever.

"Stop!" he cried, his voice ringing like a clarion above all the other
sounds, the shuffling of feet, the murmurings and mutterings, and the
clank of sabres; "stop and hear my words!" And seeing that all eyes
were turned toward him, he continued, his tones as firm and unshaken
as though the events of the past hour had had no actual existence:

"In this hall to-day are present--I know it well--many who are rebels
to the King's, to my authority. Men whose lives are forfeit even as
the lives of countless others have been forfeited. Enough! To-day they
are safe. This Court is open, but for to-day only. Let those rebels
therefore take heed. For so sure as there is a God above us, so sure
as I, Baville, Intendant of Languedoc and representative of his
Majesty, stand here, those rebels who are found in this city at
nightfall shall follow the same road their brethren have trod before
them. You have called me the Tiger of Languedoc, and, by the splendour
of Heaven, a tiger you shall still find me. Till rebellion is crushed
forever from out this province, so long as I live, never will I spare
one who takes up arms against the anointed King of France. Now," and
he sank back on to his chair, "begone all of you out of Nîmes.
To-night I cause a house-to-house visitation to be made--ay! a search
from room to room. Those found here die. Begone, therefore, while
there is yet time."

Then, without waiting to hear what answer might be made to his threats
by any in the crowd, he rose and, passing to the heavily curtained
door which led from out the Court, left them. Yet ere he did so, and
even while the attendants held back that curtain for him to pass
through, he paused once and, facing all there, gazed on them calmly.

A moment later he was gone; gone without hearing the curses and
objurgations muttered by many lips, the loud "Brava" which Montrevel
gave utterance to, or the little rippling laugh that issued from
Léonie Sabbat's lips as again she struck her unwilling neighbour on
the shoulder with her white hand and exclaimed, "_Avec tout, il est
superbe_."

Had she seen him, however, the instant after the heavily figured arras
had fallen behind him, she might have deemed he was less strong and
masterful than she had a moment before grudgingly allowed him to be.
For even as he passed down the passage which led to the door at which
his heavily-gilt state-coach awaited him, an exact facsimile of that
in which Le Roi Soleil himself travelled from Versailles to Marly or
from St. Germain to Fontainebleau, he walked unsteadily and his white
brow was moist and damp.

"If she should have met Urbaine," he muttered as he passed along the
passage, "or if she should meet her, and tell all!"

CHAPTER XXIX.

"HER FATHER'S MURDERER."

"I have not yet decided," Baville said that night to Beauplan as they
sat together in the new citadel, "when the sentence will be carried
out. Have my doubts as to whether I shall not release him."

"Release him!" the other echoed. "Release him! Such a thing is unheard
of. He, an Englishman, a consorter with the Camisards, a man under the
ban of Versailles! Surely you would not dare----"

"Dare!" exclaimed Baville, though very quietly, "dare! Monsieur
Beauplan, you forget yourself. Since I have ruled in Languedoc no man
has _dared_ to use that word to me before."

"Yet," said the judge, a member of an ancient family in the south, who
had always rebelled against the authority of this stranger to the
customs, as well as the _noblesse_, of Languedoc, "though none here
may question your authority, there are those in the capital who can do
so."

"There are. But you are not of the number. Monsieur Beauplan, I have
nothing more to say. I wish you a good-night."

"I understand," Beauplan replied, "understand very well. And your
conduct is natural; also natural that there should be an exchange of
prisoners, that your child's release should depend upon his. Yet
beware, Monsieur l'Intendant! I was at Versailles two months ago, as
you know, and--and--they said----" and he hesitated a moment while a
slight smile came into his face.

"What did they say?"

"That not only might a substitute he sent in place of Montrevel, but
of----"

"Baville! Is that it?"

"It is that."

"The substitute to be, perhaps, Amédée Beauplan."

"Nay, that is impossible, as you are aware. In Languedoc none can rule
as Intendant who are of the province. Yet I warn you, if you set free
this man even in the desire to obtain the freedom of Urbaine Ducaire,
neither Chamillart nor Madame de Maintenon will forgive."

"You mean well, doubtless," Baville replied, "yet I shall act as I see
best. Beauplan, you have children of your own, also a high post. If
the life of one of your girls were balanced against that post, which
should you prefer to protect?"

To this the judge made no answer, leaving the Intendant alone a moment
afterward. Yet, as he sought his own great sumptuous coach, he
acknowledged that, much as he detested Baville, what he was
undoubtedly about to do was natural.

Left alone, the other took from his pocket a paper and glanced at it
as, before the judge had appeared in his room, he had glanced at it a
dozen times--a paper on which were written only a few words. They ran:

"Urbaine Ducaire will be restored unharmed to none other than the
Englishman sentenced to death to-day. If he dies she dies too. Nothing
can save her, even though she is a Huguenot. Decide, therefore, and
decide quickly." And it was signed "Jean Cavalier."

"So," he mused, "he was in the Court to-day, or sent this message by
one of his followers, knowing well what the sentence would be. Yet the
decision was made ere this paper was smuggled in here, God knows how!
It needed not this to determine me."

He struck upon the bell by his side as he thus reflected, and, on the
servant appearing in answer to it, he asked:

"How came this paper here which I found upon my table?" and he touched
with his finger the letter from Cavalier.

"It was left, monsieur, by a woman."

"A woman! Of what description?"

"Old, monsieur, gray and worn. She said, monsieur, that it was of the
first importance. A matter of life and death."

Again, as the lackey spoke, there came that feeling to the other's
heart of icy coldness, the feeling of utter despair which had seized
upon him earlier, as he saw her face in Court. For he never doubted
that the bearer of the missive was the same woman who appeared as a
spectre before him at the trial--the woman who could tell Urbaine all.

"Where have they disposed the man who was tried and sentenced to-day?"
he asked next.

"In the same room he has occupied since he was brought here,
monsieur."

"So! Let him be brought to this room. I have to speak with him."

"Here, monsieur!" the man exclaimed with an air of astonishment which
he could not repress.

"Here."

Ten minutes later and Martin was before him, he having been conducted
from the wing of the citadel in which he was confined to the adjacent
one in which Baville's set of apartments were.

His escort consisted of two warders who were of the _milice_; nor was
there any need that he should have more to guard him, for his hands
were manacled with great steel gyves, the lower ends of which were
attached by ring bolts to his legs above his knees. Yet, since they
could have had no idea that there was any possibility of one so
fettered as he escaping from their custody, the careful manner in
which these men stood by their prisoner could have been but assumed
with a view to finding favour with the ruler of the province.

As Martin confronted the other, their eyes met in one swift glance;
then Baville's were quickly lowered. Before that man, the man whom
Urbaine loved, the man who had saved her life, who could restore her
once more to his arms--if, knowing what she might know, she would ever
return to them--the all-powerful Intendant felt himself abased.

"Who," he said, addressing the warders, "has the key of those irons?"

"I, monsieur," one answered.

"Remove them."

"Monsieur!"

"Do as I bid you."

With a glance at his comrade (the fellow said afterward that the
Intendant had gone mad) the one thus addressed did as he was ordered.
A moment later and Martin and Baville were alone, the warders
dismissed with a curt word, and hurrying off to tell their mates and
comrades that the rebellion must be over since the trial of the
morning could have been but a farce.

Then Baville rose and, standing before Martin, said:

"You see, I keep my promise. You are free."

"Free! To do what? Rejoin Urbaine?"

"Ay, to rejoin Urbaine. For that alone, upon one stipulation."

"What is the stipulation?"

"That--that--she and I meet again!"

"Meet again! Why not?"

Instead of replying to this question Baville asked Martin another.

"Was," he demanded, speaking swiftly, "Cavalier in Court to-day,
dressed in a russet suit, disguised in a long black wig?"

"Yes," the other replied, "he was there."

"And the woman with him, old, gray-haired, is she one of the dwellers
in the mountains, one of his band?"

"Nay. Her I have never seen."

"She can not then have met, have come into contact with Urbaine?"

"How can I say? It is a week since I left Urbaine there, safe with him
in those mountains. Since then many things have happened, among others
the horrors of Mercier's mill."

"It was not my doing," Baville answered hotly. "Not mine; Montrevel is
alone answerable for that. I was away at the beginning, on my road
back from Valence. None can visit that upon my head. Yet--yet--rather
should fifty such horrors happen, rather that I myself should perish
in such a catastrophe, than that this woman and Urbaine should ever
meet."

As he spoke there came to Martin's memory the words that Cavalier had
uttered to him. "Ere she leaves us there is something to be told her
as regards Baville's friendship for her father, Ducaire. And when she
has heard that, it may be she will never wish to return to him, to set
eyes on her beloved Intendant again."

Was this woman of whom Baville spoke the one who could tell her that
which would cause her the great revulsion of feeling which Cavalier
had hinted at?

"Why should they never meet?" he asked, the question forced from him
by the recollection of the Camisard's words joined to Baville's
present emotion.

"Because," the other replied, his face once more the colour of death,
the usually rich full voice dull and choked, "because--O God! that I
should have to say it--because I am, though all unwittingly, her
father's murderer. And that woman knows it."

"You! Her father's murderer!"

"Yes, I." Then he went on rapidly, his tones once more those of
command, his bearing that of the ruler before whom stood a prisoner in
his power. "But ask me no more. It was all a hideous, an awful
mistake. I loved Urbain Ducaire; would have saved him. And--and--by
that mistake I slew him. Also, I love his child--his!--nay, mine, by
all the years in which I have cherished, nurtured her. Oh, Urbaine,
Urbaine, _ma mie, ma petite!_" he whispered, as though there were none
other present to see him in this, his dark hour. "Urbaine, if you
learn this you will come to hate me as all in Languedoc hate me."

"Be comforted," Martin exclaimed, touched to the heart by the man's
grief, forgetful, too, of all the horrible instances of severity
linked with his name, "be comforted. She must never meet that woman,
never know. Only," he almost moaned, remembering all that the
knowledge of this awful thing would bring to her, "how to prevent it.
How to prevent it."

"I have it," Baville said, and he straightened himself, was alert,
strong again, "I have it. I said but now I would, must, see her once
more. But, God help me! I renounce that hope forever. To save her from
that knowledge, to save her heart from breaking, I forego all hopes of
ever looking on her face again, ever hearing her whisper 'Father' in
my ear more. And you, you alone, can save her. You must fly with her,
away, out of France. Then--God, he knows!--she and I will be far
enough apart. Also she will be far enough away from that woman who can
denounce me."

"But how, how, how? Where can we fly? All Languedoc, all the south, is
blocked with the King's, with your, troops----"

"Nay, the Camisards can help you. Can creep like snakes across the
frontier to Switzerland, to the Duke of Savoy's dominions. You must
go--at once. You are free, I say," and he stamped his foot in his
excitement. "Go, go, go. I set you free, annul this trial, declare it
void. Only go, for God's sake go, and find her ere it is too late."

"I need no second bidding," Martin answered, his heart beating high
within him at the very thought of flying to Urbaine, of seeing her
again and of clasping her to his arms, and, once across the frontier,
of never more being parted from her; of his own freedom which would
thereby be assured he thought not one jot, the full joy of possessing
Urbaine forever eclipsing the delight of that newly restored liberty
entirely; "desire naught else. Only, how will you answer for it?"

"Answer!" Baville exclaimed. "Answer! To whom shall I answer but to
Louis? And though I pay with my head for my treachery, if treachery it
is, she will be safe from the revelation of my fault. That before
all."

"When shall I depart?" Martin asked briefly.

"Now, to-night, at once. Lose no moment. A horse shall be prepared for
you. Also a pass that will take you through any of the King's forces
you may encounter on the road to the mountains. Once there, you are
known to the Camisards and--and she will be restored to you."

"Will they let me pass the gate?"

"Let you pass the gate! Pass the gate! Ay, since I go with you as far
as that. Let us see who will dare to stop you."

An hour later Martin was a free man.

Free, that is, in so far that he had passed the Porte des Carmes and
was once more upon the road toward the mountains, toward where Urbaine
Ducaire was. Yet with all around him the troops of Montrevel, the
field marshal having sallied forth that morning intent upon more
slaughter and bloodshed, and with, still farther off, the Camisards
under Cavalier in one division and under Roland in another,
descending, if all accounts were true, upon Nîmes and Alais with a
full intention of avenging mercilessly the burning of their brethren
in the mill.

Yet, sweet as was the sense of that freedom, sweet, too, as was the
hope that ere many more hours would be passed he and Urbaine would
have met once more never again to part, he could not but reflect upon
the heartbrokenness of Baville as he bid him Godspeed.

"Save her, save her," he whispered as they stood at the Great Gate,
"save her from France, above all from the knowledge of what happened
so long ago. Fly with her to Switzerland and thence to your own land;
there you can live happily. And--and--tell me ere you go that from
your lips she shall never know aught. Grant me that prayer at the
last."

"Out of my love for her, out of the hopes that in all the years which
I pray God to let me spend with her, no sorrow may come near her, I
promise. If it rests with me you shall be always the same in her
memory as you have been in actual life. I promise. And perhaps when
happier days shall dawn, you and your wife and she may all meet
again."

"Perhaps," Baville replied, "perhaps." Then from the breast of this
man whose name was execrated in every land to which French Protestants
had fled for asylum, this man of whom all said that his heart, if
heart he had, was formed of marble, there issued a deep sob ere he
moaned: "Be good to her. Shield her from harm, I implore you. She was
all we had to love. Almost the only thing on earth that loved me.
Farewell!"

CHAPTER XXX.

FREE.

The mountains again! And Martin free! Happy, too, because, as the cold
blast swept down from their summits to him as he rode swiftly through
the valley toward the commencement of the ascent, he knew that it came
from where, high up, Urbaine waited for her freedom and for his
return. Knew it beyond all thought and doubt; knew, divined that daily
those clear, pure eyes looked for him to be restored to her, was sure
that nightly, ere she sought her bed, she prayed upon her knees for
him and his safety. Had she not said it, promised it, ere they parted?
Was not that enough? Enough to make him turn in his wrist another inch
upon his horse's rein, press that horse's flanks once more, urge it
onward to where she was?

Yet though he travelled with Baville's pass in his pocket, though he
went toward where the Camisards were, who would receive him with
shouts of exaltation and welcome, he knew that again he rode with his
life in his hands as, but a night or so before, he had thus ridden
from the seacoast to Nîmes. For there were those abroad now who would
be like enough to tear Baville's pass up and fling it in his face if
he were caught, soldiers who served Montrevel and Montrevel alone, men
whose swords would be through his heart or the bullets from their
musketoons embedded in his brain, if he but fell into their hands. For
on this very night the great bravo had broken with the Intendant ere
he had quit Nîmes to march toward the Cévennes and make one more
attack upon the strongholds of the "rebels"; had sworn that ere
Villars arrived, who was now on the way from Paris to supersede
Julien, he would wipe out those rebels so that, when Louis' principal
soldier should appear on the scene, he would find none to crush.

Also he had sent forward on the very road which Martin now followed a
captain named Planque (a swashbuckler like himself) and a lieutenant
named Tournaud, in command of three thousand men, all of whom had
declared with many an oath that they took their orders from their
commander and from no governor or intendant who ever ruled.

At first Martin had not known this, would indeed not have known it at
all, had not his suspicions been aroused by finding that, as he rode
on swiftly toward where the principal ascent to the mountains began,
near Alais, he was following a vast body of men, among whom were
numbers of the hated Pyrenean Miquelets; men who marched singing their
hideous mountain songs and croons, such as in many a fray had
overborne the shrieks of the dead and dying.

"I must be careful," Martin had muttered to himself, as he drew rein
and moved his horse on to the short crisp grass that bordered the
road, "or I shall be among them. Where do they go to?"

Yet, careful as he was, he still determined to follow in their train,
to observe what road they took when farther on in their march, for he
knew, from having been much in the neighbourhood a year before, and
ere he had set out for Switzerland on his first quest for Cyprien de
Rochebazon, that ere long they must take one route of two. If that to
the left, which branched off near Anduse, their destination would be
undoubtedly the mountains; if they kept straight on, then Alais was
their destination. And if the latter, they would not hinder him. He
was soon to know, however, where that destination lay.

High above the chatter of the Miquelets and their repulsive chants--on
one subject alone, that of slaughter, rapine, and plunder
combined--high above also the jangle of the bridles, bridoons, steel
bits, and the hoofs of the dragoons and _chevaux-légers_ ahead, the
orders were borne on the crisp icy air: the orders to wheel to the
left--to the mountains.

Therefore an attack was intended there, or what, as Julien had himself
termed it, when planning that which was now to be carried out, _une
battue_.

That it would be successful Martin doubted. Never yet had the
royalists forced their way far up those passes, never yet had they
been able to possess themselves of one square yard of ground above the
level of the valley. And he recalled the treacherous drawbridges
constructed over ravines and gullies, as well as the other traps,
which he had seen and had pointed out to him as he descended from the
Cévennes to meet Cavalier. He doubted if now this enlarged attack
would be any more successful than former and less well-arranged
attacks had been.

Yet Urbaine was there. That unnerved him, caused him to shudder. For
if at last, if now, at this time, success should come to these troops,
as both Julien and Montrevel had sworn it should come eventually, what
then of her! Those in command might not know, or, knowing, not choose
to believe that she was Baville's cherished idol. And to think of his
beloved one in the power of those fiends, the Miquelets, was enough to
cause his heart to cease beating.

Or, better still, to beat more fiercely with a firm determination of
seeking her than even he had experienced an hour before; the
determination to get to where she was before these heavily accoutred
soldiers could do so, if they ever got there at all; to join her, save
her, protect her. But how to do it! How! How!

How to get ahead of this band; how gain the ascent before them, warn
the Camisards. Above all--ay, that was it--above all, how save the
girl he worshipped and adored! That, or one other thing: die in the
attempt.

He knew a moment later that the turn was made toward the mountains.
From beneath the tree where he had halted he saw, in the rays of the
now risen full moon, the sparkle of the breasts and backs and gorgets
of the dragoons as they wheeled to the left, also the glitter of
aiguillette and steel trappings. Perceived, too, that a deep silence
had fallen on all that moving mass. Even the Miquelets ceased to sing
and chatter. Nothing disturbed the silence of the night but the thud
of countless horses' hoofs, with now and again a neigh and now and
again the rattle of scabbard against charger's flank. They were in, or
near the country of the insidious, unvanquished foe. Doubtless the
order had gone forth for silence.

He must get ahead of them--reach the pass or mountain road before
them. Otherwise, what of Urbaine if they should win?

But, again, how to do it!

To the left of him, and still farther yet to the left of where the
battalions marched after wheeling, there was a stream, a branch of Le
Gardon; in summer a swift-flowing river beneath whose gliding waters
the reeds bent gracefully; now half frozen and seemingly without
current. If he could cross that, there was on the other side a wide
open plain, on which for centuries peasant landlords had been
endeavouring to cultivate grapevines, to redeem from the marshy soil
that was so common in the south some of the thousands of useless acres
which abounded. And across that plain, dotted here and there by
countless poles on which no vine had ever grown in man's memory, and
on which many sheep had browsed upon the short grass salted by the
spray (brought in from the Mediterranean on the wings of the Circius)
until the Cévenoles had descended and raided them, he might make his
way, might cut off by a short _détour_ that advancing force, get
before it to where the ascent began, be the first to reach the
mountains, the home of the outcasts.

Only he might be seen. And then--then--though the heavily accoutred
dragoons would undoubtedly not be able to leap the stream and chase
him, the balls from their musketoons and fusils would perhaps reach
him; one alone out of the number sent hurtling after him might reach
its mark. And that would be enough.

Yet all the same it should be done.

The horse he rode was a strong black, handsome creature, its nostrils
red and fiery, its eyes possessed of that backward glance which tells
the horseman ere he mounts what he is about to bestride, its legs as
thin and agile as a cat's. Well, he would see. Now for the stream,
fifteen feet across if an inch. Then he found the animal knew what was
meant even as his knee pressed beneath the holster, even as his wrist
turned inward to draw tighter the rein and as he sat down firmly in
the saddle. There was a rush upon the short, crisp grass--crisp both
from the salt of the distant sea and from the night frost--a quiver
from the body beneath him, a loosened rein now, a flight as of an
arrow, as smooth, too, and as swift. Then the animal's feet were upon
the other side; the rivulet was skimmed as though by a swallow. Over
and away, the black steed bounding like a ball beneath him.

"Thank God!" he said, "thank God!" And, ere he settled into the
saddle again, patted the firm, iron-sinewed neck beneath his hand.

Off through vine poles, over another and a smaller rivulet unseen by
him for the moment, yet clear as day to the keen eyes of the noble
creature that bore him; off now parallel with the dragoons, across the
plain--parallel with the dragoons so dangerously near! And with over
all, both them and him, a cloudless sky and a full bright moon.

Then, next, a shout from that advancing force, a hoarse clatter that
all know and recognise who have ever heard firelocks wrested quickly
from saddle-rests, white smoke curling on the night air, spits of
flame from twenty different spots near together, puffs of bullets past
his face, puffs such as the droning beetle makes as it flies by us; a
numbing shock against the saddle-flap, yet on, on, on! The horse
uninjured and still going fleet as the deer, or even fleeter still,
because of fear and nervousness. But still on, and followed by a
dropping fire that ceased almost directly. The musketoons were useless
by this time; they were out of range and he was ahead of the others.
Nothing could stop him now, the danger was past. Nothing, unless the
horse reeled in its stride, was wounded. Yet that he knew was not so,
or else that swift, even motion below him would have ceased ere this.
"Heaven be praised! Where is she?"

The night wind blew more piercingly as he felt the earth rising
beneath the steed. Far up he saw more and more plainly the burning
lights that burned near false bridges and declivities, to fall down
which meant death and destruction. The air was nipping even to those
two whose bodies were heated by their last hour's motion together. The
ascent had begun. The horse breathed more heavily now, threw out great
snorting gasps from mouth and nostrils, yet hardly halted, or only so
far as to change from canter to trot and from trot to walk. But still
went on up, until at last one of the red flambeaux on the hilltops was
winking and flickering close by.

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

At that moment three forms sprang lightly into the mountain road from
behind a piece of fallen rock, the moon showing that each bore in its
hand a firearm--a firearm raised and pointed at the advancing man and
horse.

"Who goes there?" one cried. "Quick, your answer, or this," and each
weapon's butt was brought to the shoulder.

"The Englishman," Martin called out in reply. "The man doomed to death
to-day at Nîmes for consorting with you."

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

"To seek for her who was my fellow-prisoner with you," he replied as
he got off his horse. "Is she well?"

"She is well--"

"Behind. Up there," and he cast his eyes toward the summits. "She
descends with brother Cavalier to-night."

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

"Ay, he is back, three hours ago. Now, to-night, he descends. Nîmes is
doomed. You would have been rescued by the morning. It was brother
Cavalier's second plan. He warned the tyrant, Baville, to free you at
pain of the girl's death, but _tout de même_, he meant to have you out
himself. Yet," he repeated, "Nîmes is doomed."

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

"To repay the slaughter at the mill. Ho! Doubt not! That goes not
unrewarded. Nîmes first, then Alais, then Montpellier. 'An eye for an
eye, a tooth for a tooth.' It is our holy shibboleth."

"It can never be----"

"Never be! Why not?" asked the man who alone had spoken among the
three. "Why not? What shall prevent the Lord's children from
outrooting their persecutors? Why not? You are on our side. Is it not
so?" and he looked menacingly at Martin.

"You do not know," the latter replied. "Advancing here not two hours
behind me there comes a vast body of royalist soldiers in two
battalions. Among them the Miquelets. And, though they may never scale
your mountain passes, never reach the plateau, yet surely they will
bar your way to Nîmes. Even though your full force descend, they will
outnumber you."

The man, whom Martin remembered well when he was a prisoner in the
caverns and whom he had heard addressed as Montbonneux, pondered a
moment; then he said suddenly, with a slight laugh:

"Perhaps they will reach the plateau. Perhaps we shall not bar their
way. One catches the rat by leaving the trap-door open, not by
shutting it," and as he spoke his companions laughed too, while as
they did so Martin again remembered the _oubliettes_ and snares
prepared for any who might wander up into the gloomy refuges of the
_attroupés_.

Ere he could reply, however, or announce his intention of proceeding
to where Urbaine might be ere setting forth with Cavalier, there rose
a sound close to them. A sound borne on the night wind toward where
they were, a sound that told him and them that down from their
mountain home were coming the Camisards. A chant that, rising above
all else; spoke of revenge decided on, of fierce unsparing
retaliation:

    "Quand tu te léveras, oh, notre Roi celeste!
     Pour délivrer enfin les élus d'ici-bas,
     Le vent de ton tonnerre à nos tyrans funeste
     En Balaiera le reste
     Au gouffres du trépas.
     Venge--Venge----"

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

CHAPTER XXXI.

BETRAYED.

They had met again. Were together, never more to part unless parted by
one thing, Death! Death that was imminent at any moment, that might
overtake them that very night, or to-morrow, or the next day; for
Cavalier was on his way down to the plains to make those reprisals of
which Montbonneux had spoken. God only knew what might be the end of
all.

She, riding on the captured little mule and enveloped in costly
furs--as usual, part of a spoil of a successful foray made by the
Camisards on a more or less unprotected _manoir_--had seen him as the
large body of Cavalier's followers had rounded a point in the mountain
pass, and, springing from the animal's back, had thrown herself into
his outstretched arms, unheeding those who came behind her and the
Cévenole chief, thinking of naught at the moment but that he was safe
and with her again, deeming all else insignificant beside that one
supreme mercy vouchsafed by God. For she knew in what awful danger he
had stood not many hours before; knew that, not more for the purpose
of exacting vengeance than for that of rescuing him, was this descent
from the mountains being made. And now he was safe, by her side again.

He drew her apart from where Cavalier stood with all his followers
behind him; drew her apart and whispered words of love and
thankfulness at seeing her once more. Then suddenly, observing on the
fair young face and in the clear, pure eyes a look that he had never
seen before, he murmured:

"What--what is it, Urbaine, my sweet?"

But she would not answer him, only contenting herself with saying,
"Not now, not now," while even as she did so he saw beneath the light
of the full moon that her eyes were full of tears. Felt, too, the warm
hand which he held quiver in his grasp.

And as he noticed those symptoms of unhappiness he wondered if she had
learned while among these Camisards that secret which one at least of
them knew--that secret which, to prevent her from ever learning, had
caused Baville to bid him fly with her out of France, away, anywhere,
so that she might never know it. Never know that her father's death
lay at his door.

"Come," said Cavalier, approaching them and speaking very quietly,
after having carried on a hurried conversation for some moments with
Montbonneux and the other two men, "come, we must move forward. Thank
God, you are free, out of the tiger's claws; for your sake and ours as
well, if what my followers report of the news you bring is true. _Is_
it?" and he looked piercingly at the other in the moonbeam's light.

"It is true if they have told you that a large force is making its way
toward these mountains. They must have left Nîmes some time before me,
since I followed them a considerable distance before coming up with
their rear, and I have outstripped them by perhaps two hours, though
not longer, I think."

Then he told Cavalier that Baville had himself released him.

"Baville released you! Because of my threat?"

"Because of----" yet since Urbaine was by his side he paused and told
no more, or only with a look which Cavalier understood sufficiently
well, for he also now knew of the Intendant's part in the death of
Urbain Ducaire, understood that his love for Urbaine had grown out of
his remorse.

"Come," he said shortly, after meditating for a moment with his eyes
fixed on the ground, "come, we must go forward now. Best meet this
force and check it, or part of it. How many strong are they, do you
suppose?"

"At least a thousand. Perhaps more. Composed of dragoons,
_chevaux-légers_, and Miquelets. Can you cope with those?"

"If we are united, yes. But Roland is away, ahead, with half our men;
yet, stay. We have to meet at the Tour de Bellot. If we can join them
before these soldiers reach that, then we can win. If not, if they
catch Roland's force alone, then God help Roland!"

As he spoke, from afar off there came a sound that none in all the
vast band which had descended from the mountains could have mistaken,
unless it were Urbaine alone. A sound deep, muffled, roaring. That of
cannons firing. Heard first down in the valley, then reverberating
high up amid the clouds that capped the summits of the cold mountain
tops.

"You hear?" he said. "You hear? We must on at once. On, on! What will
you do with the lady? She is yours now. You see, I remembered my
promise. I was bringing her to you, knowing full well that either by
threats or siege we would have you out of the hands of Baville. Yet I
thought not you could have been free to-night, so soon."

"My place is by her side forever now. Where she is, there am I."

"Be it so. Will you go back with her? Yet I know not, if they gain the
passes, the caverns will be surrounded and--and--if they succeed we
shall not be there to help or succour. God, he knows what is best!"

"Can they do that, gain the summits?"

"Scarce can I say. Yet now at last I fear. The prophets see visions,
speak of rebuffs at last. The _extasées_, the woman seers, the female
children--all foretell disaster. Even I, who have ere now believed
that I could read the future, am shaken, not in my courage, but my
hopes."

His last words were lost, or almost lost, in the dead muffled roar
that rose once more from far down in the valley, and as the sound was
heard again Cavalier started.

"We must not tarry, even for her. Decide, therefore, and decide
quickly," while, as he spoke, he gave orders briefly to all who
surrounded them and commanded that they should be transmitted along
the line of Camisards which stretched far behind and up to where the
great plateau was.

"I have decided," Martin answered. "That firing is some distance off,
some five or six miles at least. At the foot of the mountains there
are many side-paths leading east and west. I can convey her by one of
those to some haven of shelter, out of harm. Let us accompany you to
the valley; then, Cavalier, we part."

"Do as you will," the other answered. "I gave you my word that all
should be as you desired when you returned from Cette. I keep it to
the last. We part to-night forever. Remember me in years to come as
one who was an honourable man."

Then, as though he wished no more said, he gave another order for the
band under his command to set forth again upon its descent, and,
quitting Martin, went forward and placed himself at its head.

And now Martin took his place by the side of her he loved, walking by
the little mule, holding her hand in his beneath the richly-furred
cloak. Also he told her what was decided on as best for her safety.
Once, too, he asked, after he had informed her of the arranged plan:

"You do not fear? Are content?"

"Content! To be with you!"

And the glance that rested on him, and plainly to be seen beneath the
ray of the moon, told more than further words could have done.

"We shall be together forever and always now," he continued, speaking
clearly though low, so that she might catch his words above the deep
thud of the Camisards' tread as they swept down the mountain road.
Above, too, the roar of the cannon that grew louder as they approached
nearer and nearer to the spot whence it proceeded. "Forever and
always, once we are across the frontier and in the Duke of Savoy's
dominions. Man and wife, _ma mie_, in a week's time if we escape
to-night. Will that suffice?"

And once more she answered with a glance.

They were descending fast now toward the plain, yet, as they neared
it, it almost seemed as though the booming of the cannon grew less
continuous, as if the pauses were longer between each roar. What did
it mean? the Camisards asked each other. Was the cannon becoming
silent because Julien and his detachments had been caught in some
trap, or had the royalist troops been driven back again as they had
been so often driven back before? Were the outcasts, the _attroupés_,
again successful, still invincible? Above all else, above that thud of
mountaineers' heavy feet and the clatter of musketoon and fusil
shifted from shoulder to shoulder; above, too, sword scabbards
clanging on the ground, Cavalier's voice arose now.

"Down to meet them!" he cried. "Down! Down! Faster and faster, to join
Roland and sweep the tyrant's soldier from out our land, or perish
beneath their glaives. On, my brethren, on!" and as he spoke the tramp
of the men was swifter and heavier, the march of the band more
swinging.

The plain was reached. They poured out upon it, no longer a long, thin
line, but a compact body now which marched not only on the straight,
white road that gleamed a thread beneath the moon's rays, but spread
itself over the sodden marshy lands bordering that road; went on swift
and fast, while as they almost ran they saw to the priming of their
firelocks, and buckled rough goatskin baudriers and bandoleers,
wrenched from many a dying royalist, tighter round them, and loosened
swords and knives in their sheaths.

Yet, as they went, the firing ceased or rather rolled farther away
from them, sounded now as if coming from where, beneath the moonlit
sky, the cathedral spire of Nîmes lifted its head. Surely, all
thought, the enemy must be driven back. Otherwise the booming of the
cannon would not have ceased altogether; at least would not become
more distant, farther off.

And now they were near the Tour de Bellot, the rendezvous, the spot
where Roland was to have joined forces with them, if all was well. So
near that the solitary and lofty structure--once the round tower of an
ancient feudal castle that had stood many a siege in days as far off
as those of the Albigensian crusade, but on to which, in later years,
had been built a farmhouse, now a ruin also--could be seen rising
clear and pointed to the heavens; clearer than the more distant spire
of Nîmes itself.

And Roland was not there, nor any of his force. One glance showed
that, long ere they reached it, the battle which had been going on for
now more than two hours was farther off than they had at first
supposed.

The place was deserted, except for the shepherd who dwelt within it, a
man holding the creed of the outcasts, one who had also at that time
two sons in their ranks.

"Where is Roland?" demanded Cavalier of this man as they all streamed
into the place, leaping over the stone walls which surrounded the
pasturage and rushing hastily into grange and granary, there to snatch
some rest, even though but half an hour's, ere they might have to set
forth again. "Where? Where?"

"Forward toward Nîmes," the fellow answered, speaking stolidly and, as
it seemed to Martin, who stood by, stupidly; "toward Nîmes. He has
driven them back."

"God be praised!" exclaimed Cavalier and many who stood around. Then
the former asked: "And followed them toward Nîmes? Is that so?"

"Nay, I know not," the other replied, seeming even more stupid than
before. "I know not. They are not here. The battle was afar. I did but
hear it."

"We can do nothing as yet," Cavalier said, "nothing. Can but wait and
abide events. Yet 'tis strange, strange that of all his force he could
not send back one messenger to tell me of his doings, his whereabouts.
Our rendezvous was to be ten of the clock; 'tis past that now.
Strange!" he repeated, "strange!" And his eyes followed the shepherd
searchingly as he moved about preparing rough, coarse food for as many
of the band as he could supply. He had been warned that the descent
was to be made that night from the mountains, and also to prepare as
much bread and wine as possible; and now he produced all that he had,
he said, been able to obtain without arousing suspicions.

At this time Martin was standing beside Urbaine, she having been
placed in a rude armchair possessing neither pillow nor covering,
which had been set in front of the fire for her; and to them Cavalier
now addressed himself, saying:

"For you to go forward now would be madness; nay, madness even to quit
this house and seek any road either to right or left. For--for--Heaven
forgive me if I am wrong, yet I misdoubt me of this man, one of us as
he is and the father of two others."

"I have Baville's pass; they would respect that. Would not harm her.
Even though the men in command have never seen her, they would
understand. And--and--it is imperative that I convey her across the
frontier to Savoy without loss of time." Then, drawing the banished
chief away from the close neighbourhood of Urbaine, he said in a lower
tone, "He dreads that she should learn from any here that he caused
her father, Urbain Ducaire's death!"

With a swift glance the other looked up into Martin's face, far above
his own; looked up with a glance that was almost a mocking one.

"He dreads that, does he?" Cavalier replied. "_Malheureusement pour
lui!_ he dreads too late. He should have taken steps bef----"

"What?"

"She knows it."

"Great God! 'Tis from that her fresh sorrow springs. How--how did
she----?"

But ere he could finish his question there came an interruption which
prevented it from ever being answered.

Across the broken flags of the farmhouse kitchen there came a man, one
of the prophets, known as _Le Léopard_, because of his fierce staring
eyes, a man in whose belt there was a long knife, the hilt of which he
fingered savagely, and on whose back was strapped a long military
carabine, another spoil of the enemy. And, reaching Cavalier's side,
he muttered hoarsely from beneath his ragged, dishevelled mustache:

"We are betrayed. There has been no battle. Roland is not within
leagues of this spot. The cannon was a snare, a lure. And--and--come
forth into the moonlight and see what is without."

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH.

From that old, dismantled farmhouse, built on to the tower, there
sloped down, toward where a small stream ran some four hundred yards
away, a long stretch of bare land, covered sometimes in the summer
heat by short, coarse grass, while in the winter time it was, if any
of it were left uneaten by the sheep, frost-bound or snow-covered. It
was so now on this clear, cold winter night, its surface being dotted
by innumerable folds and pens into which those sheep had once been
driven, but which, since the mountaineers had been forced into
revolution and had raided the place, were empty. They were so on this
night, of sheep. Yet not of other living things, unless the moon
played strange tricks with the eyes of those regarding the pens.
Instead, were being filled rapidly with human forms creeping like
Indians or painted snakes toward them, wriggling their bodies beneath
the hurdles they were composed of, entering by that way into the
ready-found ambush--the forms of the Miquelets, the most hated by the
Camisards of all the troops which had been sent against them; the men
whose extermination was more vowed and determined than the
extermination of either dragoon, _chevau-léger_, or _milice_.

"You see?" whispered Le Leopard to Cavalier and Montbonneux as they
stood together sheltering themselves from observation behind the great
stone posts of the farmhouse's antique stoop, "you see? They first,
then next the cavalry. Observe, beyond the stream; look through the
trunks of the trees across it. The moon sparkles on breast and back
and the splints of the gorgets. You see?" Then added, "And hear?"

For from down toward where _Le Léopard_ had directed the other's
attention there rang that which told beyond all doubt that the foe was
lurking there; discovered them to the surrounded, hemmed-in Camisards.
The neigh of a horse, long, loud, and shrill, taken up a moment later
by others in their company and answered.

After that no need for further disguise or hiding. The presence of the
enemy was made known. An instant later the trumpets rang out the
"Advance!" Across the stretch of bare land the cavalry of Montrevel
were seen riding fast.

"To arms! To arms!" sounded Cavalier's voice on the night air, it
rivalling almost in distinctness the clear sounds of the royal
trumpeters. "To arms! The tyrants are upon us. To arms! I say," and
ere, with one wild shriek in unison from the throats of the Miquelets,
the latter sprang from their ambush, the Protestants had leaped from
the floors where they had flung themselves and were in the open, face
to face with the Pyrenean wolves.

Instantly the whole surface of the earth beneath the bright rays of
the moon was changed. Soon no moon was seen. The smoke from countless
firelocks covered, obscured her. Smoke dispelled for an instant now
and again by volleys of flame belched forth from fusil and carabine,
flame that showed Miquelets dashing at huge mountaineers' throats,
their long knives in their hands or 'twixt their teeth as they so
sprang and clutched; that showed, too, these savage creatures forced
to release their grasp, hurled to the earth, their brains clubbed out
by butt and stock. Showed also the dragoons in the midst of all,
sabring, thrusting, cutting down, overriding ally and foeman
indiscriminately, reeling back themselves over their chargers'
haunches as, from the windowless apertures of the tower, came hail
after hail of bullets from Camisards ensconced therein.

But still the battle raged. Still from the Protestants' throats rang
their war cry, "For God and his children!" from those of the
royalists, "For God and the King!" from those of the Miquelets, in
their hideous shrieking falsetto, "Guerra al Culchielo!" "Guerra al
Morté!"

"Save yourself and her," cried Cavalier, rushing back for a moment to
the farmhouse kitchen and stumbling over the dead body of the
treacherous peasant, Guignon, who had been poniarded by _Le Léopard_
the moment he was certain that the man had betrayed them, "save
yourself--and her. There is a backway by the fosse to an ancient
passage 'neath the old castle; save yourselves. We are lost, lost!
Outnumbered! Save yourselves!"

Then in a moment he saw that neither Martin nor Urbaine were there.
Gone! either to destruction or safety, he knew not which, yet gone.
And he rushed back to his doomed band; rushed back to see that the
tower was in flames, that all of his men who were in it were beyond
earthly salvation. Already it seemed to rock beneath the great
spouting flames that leaped forth from roofless summit and openings
where windows might once have been. Doomed!

_Le Léopard_ came near him at this moment, an awful
spectacle--bleeding from a dozen wounds, his vast and iron-gray beard
crimson, yet with his eyes glaring as ever. Came near, staggering,
reeling, yet able to gasp:

"To the fosse, to the fosse! You can save some that way. To the
fosse!"

"Come you also," muttered Cavalier, "Come----"

"_I_ come!" _Le Léopard_ exclaimed. "Nay, never more. See!" and he
tore open his rough coat, showing on his breast a hideous gaping
wound. And as he did so he reeled more heavily than before, then fell
across the body of a dragoon lying close by.

But still, all around, the fight went on; the sabres swung and the
volleys rattled, while from the tower there rose now the death song of
those within it. Above all else that was heard a hymn of praise to the
God of Battles, the God also of the outcasts--a hymn blessing and
magnifying his name. And as it rolled through the fumes and the grime
there came next an awful roar, a vast uprising of a monstrous sheet of
fresh flame, and, with a crash, the tower came to earth, burying
beneath its ruins not only those within it, but also many others
around, Camisards and royalists.

"They are bringing their culverins," cried one now above all the
tumult, "to play upon the house," and in answer there rang out now
another voice which all knew, the voice of Cavalier, the words he
shouted being: "Disperse, disperse, my brethren! Children of the
mountains and the clouds, disperse as do the clouds themselves. Not
to-night is our triumph, yet it will come. It must come."

He spoke truly. The triumph was to come ere long now. The Camisards
were to gain their cause at last, but it was not to be to-night, nor
by the sword. Instead, by the gentle mediation and mercy of one whose
name is still spoken gently in the Cévennes--the name of the great and
good Villars.

"You can go no farther?" Urbaine said an hour later to Martin Ashurst,
"no farther. Oh, my God, my God, that it should come to this! And for
me, for my sake!"

"Nay, dear one, what matter? We are together to the last. And you love
me. What more is there to ask?"

"Alas! Alas! I can not live without you, stay behind alone. My love,
my love, you must not leave me. Shall not go before. If you die, then
must I die too."

And as she spoke she loosened his vest and sought for the wound in his
shoulder which had brought him to this pass.

They had found the fosse the Camisards knew of in the old farmhouse.
Even as the attack began, Martin, seeking for a place of refuge for
her, had thrust open a door at the back of the great old kitchen in
which they were, and had led her out of the dangerous room that gave
upon the spot where the conflict had begun. Had led her on through a
passage sloping down into the earth from behind the house, until, by
following it, they found themselves in a place which none could have
supposed would have been there; a place like a crypt, stone-flagged,
the stones themselves roughly hewn, the pillars dwarfed, yet strong
enough to bear a vast fabric above them; a place so old, so long since
built, that it may have been some Roman sepulchre, or hiding-place of
Albigenses in long-forgotten days, or secret chapel of worship beneath
the old feudal castle that had once existed.

Yet there it was, calm and quiet. Even the sounds of the battle now
waging in all its fury without came gently to their ears, was scarce
heard more strongly than the murmur in a shell or the breaking of the
ocean on a far-off shore. Calm and quiet, with, through a recess in
the farther wall, perhaps once a niche or shrine, a moonbeam streaming
brightly and making the dull flame of the lantern Martin had brought
with him, snatching it off the nail where it hung, burn dull and
rustily.

And Urbaine, entering with him this haven into which they had
penetrated--surely none of those soldiers knew of it, would find it,
surely God in his mercy would not permit that--flung herself on her
lover's breast sobbing that they were saved again; again were saved by
him whom she so loved with her whole heart and soul.

Then started back, a look of terror on her face--a look of awful fear
and apprehension--seeing what she did see in her lover's eyes as she
sought them.

"My God!" she half whispered, half shrieked, shuddering, "what--what
is it? Martin, my love? Oh, what--what has happened?"

For his lips were cold, there was no answering warmth in them as they
met hers; his face was white as death, his eyes dull and filmy.

"It--it--is not much. But--I--am struck. As we left the place above, a
bullet--through the window--struck me. I--I--can go no farther. Alas,
I can not stand," while as he spoke he swayed heavily against the
middle pillar of the crypt, then slid, clutching at it, to the earth.

Even as he did so, even, too, as she a moment later undid his vest to
seek for the wound, there came to her ears, though perhaps not to his
as he lay there faint and almost insensible, the sound of many rushing
feet, a heavy trampling; then, next, men passing swiftly by and
farther on through the fosse--men whose smoke-grimed faces (sometimes,
too, their wounded faces) she recognised as the moonbeams flickered on
them. Camisards fleeing hastily, dispersing as Cavalier had said. The
Camisards in whose power she had once been, in whose company she had
but a few hours ago descended from the mountains.

"O God!" she moaned, "are they pursued by Montrevel's troops? If so,
and he, my love, is found here by those troops!"

But he was not all unconscious; he could still hear, and, hearing,
understood that moan.

"Nay, dearest," he whispered back, "even so it matters not. The
Protestants, these men, are our friends. Baville's pass, the packet he
bade me give you on our wedding morn--alas, our wedding morn!--will
hold us safe from the soldiers. Fear not, _ma mie_."

Baville! The name stung her like an adder's fang. Baville! The man who
had slain her father, and then endeavoured by a false, pretended love,
to take that father's place! The man she would never see again, had
vowed, as deeply as one so gentle as she could vow, never to see or
know again.

Baville! And he had written to her, sent her a packet. Her lover had
it about him at this moment. What could such a thing mean? What
import? Yet, yet she upbraided herself for thinking of her own griefs
and sorrows now at such a time as this. Baville! Faugh! Baville! Yet
if he knew to what a pass they had come, knew that this man whose life
might be ebbing slowly from him now, was ebbing slowly, was here? If
he knew that he who had saved her was dying? Baville! The man whom
once she had loved with a daughter's love.

Again the hurrying feet passed, again the gaunt fugitives went by, yet
she heeded them not. Her whole soul was in what she was endeavouring
to do--to staunch that gaping wound. Then suddenly one, an old,
white-faced, terror-stricken man with long gray hair, stopped, seeing
those forms; stopped, peering through the moonbeam that slanted down
upon their faces; stopped, then advanced toward them.

"'Tis he," he whispered, bending toward the wounded man. "Martin!
Martin! O Martin, my friend!"

"You know him? Your friend? You know him?" she whispered back. "Who
are you?"

"His friend, Buscarlet, the inhibited _pasteur_ of Montvert. Driven to
the mountains at last, forced to abide with these unhappy outcasts,
but, thank God, not yet to draw the sword. No, no, not that! Never,
never! Only to pray upon my knees to them by morn and night to shed no
blood, to bear, to suffer all. To do that, I followed them here. Only
they will not listen. Oh, Baville, Baville, has not your tiger's fury
been glutted yet?" And he gazed down upon the almost senseless form of
Martin lying there, muttering, "If I could save you!"

Then, a moment later, he spoke again.

"Who," he said very gently now, "are you? Not his wife or sister, I
know. But what?"

For a moment she did not answer, looking up at him, instead, with
wide, clear eyes so full of sorrow that her glance struck him to the
heart.

"I was to have been his, am his, affianced wife. And--and--God help
me!--I am Baville's, that tiger's, adopted child!"

"You! _His_ adopted child, and Martin's affianced wife!"

"Even so." And she bent her head and wept.

For a moment there was silence in that deserted place, deserted now
since all the fugitive mountaineers had passed through the fosse;
silent because no longer was heard the distant sound or hum of shot or
cry of combatants. Then he bent over Martin, looked to his wound,
touching it very gently and afterward replacing the hasty bandages she
had made from some of her own linen, and said:

"He is exhausted from his loss of blood. But, though he dies, it will
not be yet. The cold is to be feared, however. If that reaches the
wound--I know somewhat of surgery--he can not live. Now I go to seek
succour, help!"

"Succour! Help! Where can it be obtained? In Heaven's mercy, where?
Nîmes is three leagues off."

"I will do my best. Pray God I am not too late."

And so he left her.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

TOUT SAVOIR, C'EST TOUT PARDOXNER.

Coming to himself, Martin, lying there, wondered where he was. He felt
no pain in the wounded shoulder, only, instead, an awful weakness.
Also he felt no cold. Knew too that around him was wrapped some soft
warm garment, yet knew not that it was the great fur cloak in which
the woman whom he had loved had been muffled up as she descended from
the mountains, and in which she had long since enveloped him. Long
since to her, watching, waiting there for succour to come, through
two, three, four hours, and then another, but to him no length of time
whatsoever. And he did not know--he was indeed even still in a
half-unconscious state--how those hours had been spent by her,
heedless of the cold which pierced through and through her, spent in
sitting on the ground by his side, soothing him when he moaned
painfully, holding his hand, kissing his hot brow. Attending also to
his wound, and going even some distance farther along the fosse in the
hope of discovering water, yet without success.

He knew nothing; had forgotten how he came there, that she had been
with him, that there was such a woman, and that they loved each other
madly.

Then suddenly a voice broke in upon his unconsciousness--a voice that
seemed to recall him back to the world--the voice of Urbaine, yet, as
she spoke, stifled now and again by sobs.

"Better," it seemed to him that he heard her say, "better have slain
me with him, upon his desolate hearth, than have spared me to learn
this at last. Of you, you whom I worshipped, whom I so reverenced."

If he had doubted whether he lived or was already in the shades
leading to another world, or in that world itself, he doubted no
longer, when through that old crypt a second voice sounded, one known
to him as well as Urbaine's was known--a voice deep, solemn,
beautiful. Broken, too, as hers had been, yet sweet as music still.

"If," that voice said, "you had escaped with your lover to some
far-distant land as I hoped, ay, as even such as I dared to pray that
you might do, you would have learned all. In those papers I sent by
him you love, you would have known all on the morning you became his
wife. Now I must tell you with my own lips. Urbaine, in memory of the
happy years gone by, the years when you grew from childhood to
womanhood by my side, at my knee, hear my justification, let me
speak."

It was Baville.

Baville! Her father's murderer there! Face to face with Urbaine once
more!

For a moment the silence was intense, or broken only by the woman's
sobs. Then from her lips he heard the one word "Speak" uttered.

"Urbaine, your father died through me, though not by my will, not by
my hands."

"Ah!"

"I loved Urbain Ducaire," the rich, full voice went on. "Loved him,
pitied him too, knowing something, though not all, of his past life.
Knew that he, a Huguenot, was doomed if he stayed here in Languedoc,
stranger though he was, for his nature was too noble to conceal aught;
he was a Catholic who had renounced his ancient faith, a _nouveau
converti_, yet of the wrong side for his future tranquility. And he
boasted of it loudly, openly. He was doomed."

Again there was a pause broken only by the weeping of Urbaine. Then
once more Baville continued:

"I beseeched him to go, to leave the neighbourhood, to depart in
peace. Provided him with safe conducts, implored him to seek an asylum
in England or Holland where those of his newly adopted creed were
safe. He refused. Your mother, a woman of the province, had died in
giving birth to you. He swore he would not leave the place where her
body lay. He defied me, bade me do my worst."

"And--and----" Urbaine sobbed.

"And the orders came from Paris. From Louvois, then alive, and Madame
de Maintenon. '_Saccagez tous!_' they wrote. 'Those who will not
recant must be exterminated.'

"Then I sent to him by a trusty hand a copy of those orders. I bade
him fly at once, since even I could not save him. Told him that on a
fixed night--great God! it was the night ere Christmas, the night when
the priests bid us have our hearts full of love and mercy for each
other--I _must_ be at his cottage with my Cravates. He was a marked
man; also I was known to favour him. If I did so now, spared him and
imprisoned others, all the south would be in a tumult."

Again Baville paused. Again went on:

"I never deemed I should find him; would have sworn he must be gone
ere I reached his house. Yet went there, knowing that I dared not omit
him. Went there, praying, as not often I have prayed, that it would be
empty, forsaken. Alas! Alas! Alas! he had ignored my warning, my
beseechings. He _was_ there, reading his Bible. He defied me. By his
hand he had a pistol. Seeing the Cravates behind me, their musketoons
ready, it seemed as though he was about to use it. Raised it, pointed
it at me, covered my breast."

The pause was longer now. Martin, hearing, understanding all, his mind
and memory returned to him, thought Baville dreaded to continue. Yet
it was not so. The full clear tones reached his ear again:

"I could not deem him base enough to do that, to shoot me down like a
dog, since I had drawn no weapon of my own. It was, I have divined
since, the soldiers whom he defied. Yet in my contempt for what I
thought his idle threat, I cried scornfully '_Tirez donc_.' Alas, ah,
God! the fatal error that has forever darkened your life and mine!
Those words were misunderstood. The Cravates misunderstood them,
believed the exclamation an order given to them by me; a moment later
they had fired. O Urbaine! my love, my child--I--I--what more is there
to tell?"

And as he ceased, hers were not the only sobs Martin heard now.

Then, as they too ceased somewhat, another voice was heard by the
listener--the voice of Buscarlet.

"You hear? The wrong, that was in truth no wrong, is atoned. Has never
been. Your way is clear before you. The evil he has wrought has not
come nigh you or yours. Woman, as his heart has ever cherished you, I,
a pastor of your rightful faith, bid you give back your love to him."

The dawn was coming as the old man spake these words. In the thin
light of that new morning which crept in from where the moon's ray had
shone through the night, Martin, his fur covering tossed from off him
long since, saw Urbaine fall on Baville's breast, heard her whisper,
"My father, oh, my father!" Knew, too, that they were reconciled, the
past forgotten. And thanked God that it was so.

Yet once again Buscarlet spoke, his white hair gleaming in the light
of the coming day, his old form erect and stately before the other.

"You are absolved by her," he said; "earn absolution, too, for your
past cruelty by greater mercy to others of her faith. I charge you, I,
a priest of that persecuted faith, that henceforth you persecute no
more. God has given you back your child's love. Be content."

                        *    *    *    *    *    *    *

A little later and those three were gathered round the spot where
Martin lay, with, in the background, a fourth figure, that of
Baville's own surgeon. He had been brought by the Intendant after
Buscarlet had told the latter all that he had ridden hastily to Nîmes
to inform him of, and when the pastor had declared that if surgical
aid was not at once forthcoming the wounded man must surely die. And,
seeing him, the surgeon had said that his life still hung in the
balance; that if what Baville desired was to be done, it had best be
done at once.

"It will make you happy?" Urbaine whispered, her lips close to her
lover's, her arms about him.

"Passing happy," he murmured, "beyond all hope. Now, now, at once."

"You can do it?" the Intendant asked, turning to the pastor.

"I can do it now."

"So! Let it be done."

"Stay there by his side," Buscarlet said then to Urbaine, "upon your
knees.--Take you her hand," to Martin.

And in whispered tones he commenced the marriage ceremony of the
Huguenots as prescribed by their Church.

"Repeat after me that you take Urbaine Ducaire to be your wedded wife"

"Nay, nay," said Baville, interposing. "Nay, I had forgotten. Not
that. Not that. The packet would have told what both must have learned
ere they had been married elsewhere. Now I must tell it myself. Her
name is not Urbaine Ducaire."

"Not Urbaine Ducaire?" all exclaimed, looking up at him. "Not Urbaine
Ducaire?"

"Nay. Nor her father's Urbain Ducaire. Instead, this," and he produced
hastily his tablets from his pocket and wrote on them for some few
moments, muttering as he did so, "I knew it not till lately, until I
communicated with those in Paris, though I suspected. Also," he
repeated, "the packet would have told all."

Then, thrusting the tablets into the pastor's hands, while all around
still gazed incredulously at him, he said aloud: "Marry her in those
names and titles. Hers by right which none can dispute, and by the law
of Richelieu passed through the Parliament of Paris in the last year
of his life. The right of sole daughters where no male issue exists."

"These titles are lawfully hers?" Buscarlet asked, reading in
astonishment that which Baville had written, while Urbaine clung
closer still to her lover, wondering what further mystery surrounded
her birth, and Martin, no light breaking in on him as yet, deeming
Baville demented. "Lawfully hers?"

"Lawfully, absolutely hers. Proceed."

And again Buscarlet commenced:

"Repeat after me that you take Cyprienne, Urbaine Beauvilliers----"

"My God!" whispered Martin faintly ere he did so. "My God! that my
quest ends here!" Then he repeated the words that Buscarlet read from
Baville's tablets as he had been bidden.

"Baronne de Beauvilliers," the pastor continued, "Comtesse de
Montrachet, Marquise du Gast d'Ançilly, Princesse de Rochebazon,
daughter of Cyprien, Urbain Beauvilliers, former bearer of those
titles, to be your wedded wife--to----"

                        *    *    *    *    *    *    *

It was finished. They were married. The union blessed by a pastor of
their own Church and attested by him who had so persecuted the members
of that Church by order of the man, if indeed it was by his orders,
whom they called "The Scourge of God."

And Martin, gazing up into the eyes of his wife, murmured:

"I have not failed, my love, in what I sought. But, ah, that my search
should bring me to such perfect peace, should end with you! Now, if I
die, I die happy."

But even as she held him close to her, his head upon her shoulder, he
knew, felt sure, that he would not die; that God would restore him to
a new life, to be passed as long as it lasted by her side.

Postscript.--The historical incidents in the foregoing story have
necessarily, for obvious purposes in one or two instances, been
altered from their exact sequence. With this exception they are
described precisely as they occurred, each description being taken
from the best authorities, and especially the best local ones.
Exclusive of the names of Ashurst, Ducaire, and all pertaining to that
of De Rochebazon and of De Rochebazon itself, the others are, in
almost every case, authentic.

FOOTNOTES

[Footnote 1: Baville judged accurately. Of all who are descended from
those great Protestant houses, there is not one now who is not of the
Roman Catholic faith.]

[Footnote 2: Doubtless the Prophet's visions foresaw the Battle of
Almanza, whereon many hundreds of Camisards fell fighting for England
and the allies against France. A strange battle this! in which the
French were led by an Englishman, the Duke of Berwick, and the English
by a Frenchman, Ruvigny, afterward the Earl of Galloway.]

[Footnote 3: Among the inspired prophets of the Cévennes, none were
supposed to be more penetrated with this gift than the youngest
children. In their histories there are recorded instances, or perhaps
I should say beliefs, of babes at their mothers' breasts who had
received it, and were by signs and motions supposed to direct the
actions of their seniors.]

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Scourge of God, by John Bloundelle-Burton