hot. Every day's delay gives them a better chance for their plans, if
they mean to attack the Inn."

"I doubt if they'll do that. I don't think force is precisely their line.
You know, I believe that the story Madame de la Fontaine told isn't
altogether a fiction."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Tom. "I don't believe a word of it. Naturally they
wouldn't use force, if they could help it. But their plans have all been
upset, and a gang like that won't stop at anything."

"But we live in a civilized community, my boy. This isn't the
middle ages."

"We live in a civilized community, perhaps; but if you can find a more
isolated spot, a place more remote from help, in any other part of the
civilized world, I'd be glad to see it. We might as well be in the middle
of the Sahara desert. Find the treasure and get it out of harm's
way--that's my idea."

"All right, but to-morrow; I swear I'm not up to it to-night."

"To-morrow! Well, then to-morrow. Though for the life of me, I don't see
why you want to delay things. Jesse and Ezra can keep watch tonight."

"But we must get some sleep, Tom."

"The devil with sleep! However, you're the boss now. It's your inn, your
treasure, your sister, that are involved. I'll take a back seat."

"Come, come, Tom--don't let's quarrel. Give me to-night to--to get myself
together, and tomorrow I'll pull the Inn down with you, if you wish."

Perhaps Dan was right, he did need rest and sleep and a few hours would
restore him. They had their supper, then, apportioned the night into
watches, and Dan went upstairs for his first period of sleep.

His brain was a-whirl. All through the afternoon, during his talk with
the Marquis, and later during his talk with Tom, one idea had been
dominating his thought, dictating his plan of action, colouring his
judgment. The fascination which Madame de la Fontaine exerted over his
senses was too strong for him even to contemplate resisting it. She was
confessedly in league with a gang of adventurers upon a quest for
treasure. She had lied to him at first about the Marquis, she had lied
to him about Nancy, she had lied to him about his release; and when she
had left him under the pretext of arranging his return to the Inn, she
had in fact gone to Tom to bargain an exchange of him for the old
Marquis. Her lies, her subterfuges, her flatteries, had been evidently
designed but to get possession of the torn scrap of paper which was so
necessary to their finding the hidden treasure. All this Dan told
himself a hundred times, and then, quickly dispelling the witness of
these cold hard facts, there would flash before him the vision of her
wonderful eyes, of her strange appealing beauty, of her stirring
personality; he would feel once more the touch of her cheek and her lips
pressing his, intoxicating as wine; and delicious fires flamed through
his veins, and set his heart to beating, and made havoc of his honour
and his conscience. Whatever were the consequences, he would meet her
again that night as he had promised. It was his first experience of
passion and it was sweeping him off his feet.

Alone in his room Dan sat down at the table. He drew from his pocket the
torn paper, and as an act of justice to the friends he felt that he was
about to betray, he labourously made a copy of the difficult French
handwriting. This done, he locked the copy in his strong box and put the
original back in his pocket. Then, like the criminal he thought himself
to be, he crept cautiously down the stairs. The door into the bar was
open, and he stood for a moment, shoes in hand, peering into the
dimly-lit room. Tom sat by the hearth, reading, a pipe in his mouth and a
cocked pistol on the table by his side. A pang went through Dan's breast,
but he checked the impulse to speak, and stole softly across the hall and
into his mother's parlour. Ever so cautiously he closed the door behind
him, crossed the room, and raised the sash of one of the windows.

It was dark, but starlight; the moon had not yet risen. In a moment he
had slipped over the sill and stood upon the porch. Lowering the sash, he
crept across the band of light that shone from the windows of the bar,
and into the shadow of the Red Oak. There he buttoned his great coat
tightly about him, put on his shoes, and started softly down the avenue
of maples. Scarcely a sound disturbed the silence of the night, save the
lazy creaking of the windmill as it turned now and then to the puff of a
gentle breeze.

At every few steps, he paused to listen, fearful lest his absence had
been detected and he were followed by some one from the Inn. Then he
would start on again, peering eagerly into the darkness ahead for any
sign of her whom he sought. At last he reached the end of the avenue.
His heart was beating wildly, in a very terror that she might not come.
Nothing--no catastrophe, no danger, no disgrace,--could be so terrible
to him as that the woman he loved so recklessly and madly should not
come. She must not fail! He looked at his watch; it was already three
minutes past ten. If in five--then minutes she did not come, he would go
to seek her--to the House on the Dunes, aye, if must be to _The Southern
Cross_ itself.

Suddenly a dark figure slipped out of the gloom, and Claire de la
Fontaine was in his arms. For a moment she let him clasp her, let his
lips again meet hers; then quickly she disengaged herself. "Are we safe?"
she asked in a whisper. "Is it that we can talk here."

"We are perfectly safe," he answered. "Nothing can be heard from the Inn.
No one is about."

"You escaped without notice? Are you certain that no one follows you?"

"Absolutely. I am sure. And you?"

"I?--Oh, no, no--. There is no one to question me. I have been at the
House on the Dunes all the evening. Marie, my maid,--she thinks that I
am gone to the schooner. _Mon Dieu! cher ami_, what terrors I have
suffered for you. It had not seemed possible that Claire de la Fontaine
would ride and walk two so long miles in a desolate country to meet a
lover--It must be that we are gone mad."

"Madness then is the sweetest experience of life," said Dan, seizing her
hand again and carrying it to his lips.

"Ah _peut-etre, mon ami_. But now there are many affairs to discuss. Tell
me--the Marquis, he was released, as your friend has promised me he
should be?"

"Of course, didn't you know it?"

"I know nothing. Why then is it he has not left the Inn?"

"But he did leave--in the middle of the afternoon, half an hour after I
returned."

"And where is it that he has gone?"

"To the schooner, I suppose. He left alone, giving directions for his
things to be sent after him."

"Ah! to the schooner, you say? You are certain?"

"Yes--that is, I think he went there. Jesse took his boxes and bags down
to the shore, and Captain Bonhomme received them, and thanked him in the
Marquis's name,''

"_Mais non! Est-ce possible_?" For a moment she was silent, considering
deeply. "_Bien_!" she exclaimed presently. "It is as you say, of course.
And you, my friend?" She stopped suddenly, for they had been walking
slowly forward, and withdrawing her hand from his arm, she held it out
before him. "The paper?" she demanded.

"Here it is," murmured Dan, fumbling in his pocket, and pulling out the
scrap of paper. She took it eagerly from his hand and held it up before
her eyes as though trying to see it in the dark.

"This is it, really?" she asked.

"I swear it," he answered. "It is the piece of writing that I found in
the hidden cubby-hole of the old cabinet in the Oak Parlour. It is written
in French, you know."

"Yes, I know, I know," she assented absently. For a moment she was quite
still, and then, with a strange exclamation, she put the paper to her
lips. "_Quels souvenirs, d'autrefois_!" she murmured. "_Ah, mon Dieu,
mon Dieu_!"

"Dearest, what is it?" asked Dan.

"Nothing, nothing," she replied, withdrawing a little from his touch. "I
was unwell for the moment,--_ce ne fait rien_. No, no, you are not to
kiss me, please." Again she unloosed his arm from about her neck, slipped
the paper into her muff, and pressed a little forward. For a space they
walked slowly, silently, toward the Inn.

"But, dearest one," murmured Dan, "this proves to you my love, doesn't
it? You no longer doubt me. For your sake, I give my honour; it may be,
the safety of my friends. You must see how I love you with all my heart
and soul. Won't you,--"

Suddenly she stopped again quite still and faced him. "My poor boy," she
said gently, "you really love me?"

"Love you! My God, have I not proved it! What more would you have me do?"

"_Mais oui_," she answered quickly. "You have proved it, but I have
thought that it was not possible."

"And you--you do care--oh, tell me--"

"_Hélas, mon paurve ami_. I love as tenderly as it remains in me to love.
Ah, dear, dear boy, so sincerely, that I cannot have you to sell your
honour for the futile kisses of Claire de la Fontaine."

"What do you mean? Have I--"

"No, no, no! This--take the paper. You must not again give it me, I
desire that you will not." She drew the paper from her muff with an
impulsive movement and thrust it toward him. "Take it, I implore you."

"But why--?"

"Because that you shall not give your honour to a woman such as I am.
_Mai vraiment_, I love you. That is why you must take back the paper."

"But you must explain--"

"_Mon Dieu_! is it that I have not explained? There is time for nothing
more. I have fear, _mon ami_; a kiss, and it is necessary that I go. It
is good-bye."

"But you love me, you have said so. I cannot, I will not let you go."

"Listen to me, my friend," she said, her voice rising for the moment
above the whisper in which she had cautiously spoken heretofore. "From
the first I have deceived you, betrayed you, played upon your affection
but to betray you afresh. And now I find that I love you. I am not that
which you call good, but it is impossible that I injure you. Go back to
your friends."

"Never! I love you. What matters now anything that you have said or done?
And you love me. Ah dearest one, what can that mean but good?"

"_Bien-aimé_, what will you that I say?" she interrupted speaking
rapidly, "I am what you Americans call 'a bad woman',--the sort of woman
that you know nothing of. I was the woman who sixteen years ago stayed at
the Inn at the Red Oak with François de Boisdhyver, the woman your mother
called nurse, who cared for his little daughter. And now I have told you
all. Will you know from now that I am a thousand times unworthy? _Pour
l'amour de Dieu_, give it to me to do this one act of honour and of
generosity."

CHAPTER XIX

THE ATTACK

With these words she thrust the scrap of paper into his hands and turning
swiftly, started forward as though to escape his further importunities by
flight. But Dan was instantly by her side, trying to catch her hand in
the darkness.

Again she faced him passionately. "_C'est folie_," she cried hoarsely,
"have I not told you that we are in great danger? Go, go back to the Inn.
It is there only that you will be safe.--O, _mon Dieu!"_

A figure had sprung suddenly from the blackness of the trees. Dan felt a
sharp blow on his shoulder, and then he was grappling with a wiry
antagonist, striving to keep at safe distance a hand that clutched an
open knife. Locked in a close embrace, swaying from side to side of the
road, they fought desperately. Dan striving to get at the pistol which he
carried, his assailant trying to use his knife.

It seemed as if Dan could no longer hold the man off when two small
hands closed over the fist that held the gleaming knife and a clear voice
rang out in French. Dan felt his antagonist's grip loosen and he wrenched
himself free. Madame de la Fontaine had come to his rescue. "Quick,
quick--to the Inn. I am safe. You have but one chance for your life," she
cried. Already his assailant had put a boatswain's whistle to his lips
and was sounding a shrill blast.

As Dan hesitated, uncertain what to do, he heard a number of men come
crashing through the underbrush of the neighbouring field. Again Madame
de la Fontaine cried, "_Mon Dieu_! will you not run?" Then she turned and
disappeared in the darkness. Simultaneously came the crack of a pistol
shot, and a bullet whizzed by his ear. There was nothing for it but to
run; and run he did, shouting at the top of his voice the while to Tom in
the Inn. He probably owed his start to the fact that for the moment his
attacker, who had been held at bay by Madame de la Fontaine, was
uncertain whether to follow her or Dan. That moment's delay saved Dan's
life, for though, with a curse, the man started after him now, he had a
poor chance of catching him in the darkness. But on he came only a dozen
yards or so behind, and after him the thundering steps and harsh cries
of those who had responded to the call of the whistle.

At last Dan was at the door of the Inn, beating wildly upon it, and
calling, "Open, Tom; quick, for God's sake! It's Dan." As the door was
flung back, he sprang in and slammed it shut. Already the attackers were
in the courtyard, a volley of shots rang against the stout oak, followed
almost at once, by the flinging against it of half-a-dozen men. But the
great oaken beam had been slipped into place and held firmly. Dan was
none the worse for his experience, save for a graze on the cheek where
the knife had glanced, and a slit on his shoulder from a bullet.

"They're here!" he cried. "No time for explanations, Tom. I went
out--fool that I was!--was attacked. They're here in force."

By this time Jesse had rushed into the bar, attracted by the firing, and
soon Ezra Manners came running down from the floor above. After the first
impact against the door those without had withdrawn, evidently taking up
a position in the courtyard again, for almost at once there was a
fusilade of shots against door and windows, which luckily the heavy oak
was proof against.

"They're welcome to keep that up all night," said Tom. "Only a waste of
ammunition. How many are there?" He would liked to have asked Dan why he
had gone out, but there was no time for discussion.

"I don't know--half-a-dozen at least, I should guess," was Dan's reply.
"Bonhomme is at their head, I'm sure. It was he who tackled me in the
avenue. They may have the whole crew of the schooner here. That would
mean a dozen or more."

"Well," said Tom, "we're in for it now, I guess. We'll have to watch in
different parts of the house, for we don't know where they will attack.
Unless they are all fools, it won't be here."

"You're right. I'll stay and look out for the south wing. You go to the
north wing, Tom; Jesse to the kitchen, and Ezra to the end of the south
passage. That'll cover the house as well as we can cover it. They'll try
to force an entrance somewheres. Have you all got guns? Good. Leave the
doors open so that we can hear each other call."

Evidently the attacking party had concluded that they were wasting their
lead and their time in shooting at doors and window-shutters, for as Tom
had said, all was now quiet outside. Fifteen minutes, half-an-hour
passed, and nothing occurred to alarm or to relieve the tension on the
anxious watchers within. At length Dan stole upstairs to reconnoitre.

It was fortunate that he chose the precise moment he did, for as his
head emerged above the last stair, he saw that the great shutters at
the end of the south corridor were open, and a man stood before the
window, evidently on the top rung of a ladder, trying the sash. It was
locked to be sure, but at the instant Dan saw him, he raised his fist
and smashed it. He was about to leap through the opening, fringed
though it was with jagged glass, when Dan aimed his pistol carefully,
and fired. There was a cry, and the form at the window fell crashing to
the ground below. Dan rushed to the casement, and could hear in the
court beneath him the curses and exclamations of the surprised
assailants. Quickly he thrust the end of the ladder from the wall, then
seizing a fresh pistol from his belt, fired at random into the darkness
below. Another cry of pain attested to the fact that his chance shot
had taken effect. By this time Tom had rushed to his assistance, and
together they barred the window again.

Dan gave a brief account of the incident. "But, for heaven's sake, Tom,"
he concluded, "get back to the north wing. We are in danger there every
moment. I'll watch out here."

As Tom returned to his post in the cold corridor of the north wing, he
heard heavy crashes, as of a battering-ram, against the great door that
opened into the gallery. A shrill whistle brought Ezra Manners to his
assistance. "Watch here!" he commanded. "If the door crashes in, shoot,
and shoot to kill; then run into the bar and barricade the door between.
I've a plan."

He himself ran into the bar, blew out the candles, and risking perhaps
too much on the chance of success, cautiously opened the front door. He
could scarcely make out the group at the farther end of the gallery, as
he stepped out; but he could hear the resounding crashes against the door
into the north hall, each one of which seemed to be the last that even
that massive frame could hold out against. Leveling his pistol at the
group; he took aim, and fired; snatched another from his pocket, and
fired a second time. Again, by good luck, the defender's shots had told.
There was a thud on the gallery floor, and the besiegers scurried to
cover beyond the courtyard fence. Tom dashed safely back into the house,
and slipped the great beam into place.

Upstairs Dan's attention had been attracted by the commotion in front of
the inn. He opened a window on to the roof of the gallery, climbed out,
and crawled along on his belly till his head just abutted over the eaves.
For a few moments, after the firing, he could hear the attackers moving
about behind the fence across the courtyard. At length, a couple of them
stole across the court and up on to the gallery beneath him. In a moment
they returned carrying the dead or wounded comrade; then all of them
seemed to go off together up the dark avenue of maples. He waited till
they could be heard no more, then crept back into the house and ran down
to tell Dan of their temporary withdrawal. For an hour or more the four
defenders of the Inn kept themselves occupied parading the corridors and
rooms, on the watch for a fresh attack. But nothing happened. They felt
no security, however, and would feel none till daylight.

In the silent watching of that night Dan had ample opportunity to reflect
upon his extraordinary interview with Madame de la Fontaine. He loved
her. Good heavens how he loved her, but--had she been sincere in her
refusal at the last to keep the scrap of paper for the possession of
which she had so desperately intrigued? Had she decoyed him to the
rendezvous in the dark but to betray him to the bandits with whom she was
in league? At first it would seem so. And yet the paper was in his
possession; and, she it was who had rescued him from the assassin's
knife. Where was she now? What had become of her? What was to be the end
of this mad night's work? That she was the woman who had accompanied
General Pointelle--or the Maréchal de Boisdhyver--somehow did not
surprise him. And for the time the full import of what that implied did
not dawn upon him. But what mattered anything now that he loved her?

He determined at last to reconnoitre again from the roof of the gallery.
It still lay in shadow, but it would not be long before the moon, now
rising over the eastern hills beyond the Strathsey flooded it with light.
In a moment, he had opened the window, was over the sill, and, creeping
cautiously along the roof to the ledge, he worked his way toward the
great oak at the farther end.

All was still and deserted below as the Inn courtyard would have been in
the middle of any winter's night. While he stood peering into the
darkness, listening intently, the moon, just showing above the distant
tree tops, cast the first rays of its light into the courtyard beneath
him. At the instant the figure of a woman stole across the flagged
pavement and crept fearfully to the Red Oak. With a strange thrill he
recognized Claire de la Fontaine. Reaching the shelter of the great tree,
she stooped, gathered a handful of gravel from the road bed, and then
cast it boldly at the shutters of the bar, calling softly, "Dan, Dan."

Instantly he replied. "Claire! Is that you? What is it? I am here, above
you, on the roof."

"Ah, _mon Dieu_!" she exclaimed, as she looked up startled, and
discerned his form leaning over the eaves, "for the love of heaven, my
friend, open to me. I am in danger and I must tell you that which is of
great importance to you. _Mais vite, mon ami_. In ten minutes they will
return again."

It did not occur to Dan to doubt her. Careless of the risk, he rushed
back to the window, climbed in, and in a few seconds had opened the door
to the anxious woman without. She seemed physically exhausted as she
stepped into the warm bar. Taking her in his arms, he carried her to a
chair, and poured out a glass of wine, which she eagerly drank.

"It matters not what I have been doing," she murmured in reply to his
questions, "I have but little time to give you my warning. _Ecoute_.
Bonhomme and his men are gone only to carry back their dead and wounded,
and to bring cutlasses, and the two or three sailors who were left on the
schooner. I have followed them--God knows how--and heard something of
their plans. They will make an attack--now, in a moment--in two different
places. But these attacks will be shams,--is not that the word?--they
will mean nothing. It is the Oak Parlour that they desire to enter. At
the window of that so horrible room Bonhomme will try to make an entrance
without alarm while the others hold your attention at the front and back
of the Inn. Is it that you understand? It is necessary that you are
prepared for these sham attacks, but the great danger is Bonhomme. The
window in the Oak Parlour is not strong. They have information--recent
information--from the Marquis probably,--that it will not be difficult to
break in. One of you must conceal himself in the dark and shoot Bonhomme
when he enters; you must shoot and shoot to kill, then we will be safe.
I have no fear of Monsieur le Marquis. The others--they are brutes--but
they will flee. And they know nothing, they do this for money,--ah, _mon
Dieu_, for money which I have furnished!"

For a moment, torn between his love and his deep distrust of this woman,
poor Dan stood uncertainly. Suddenly he knelt at her side and clasped his
arms about her. "Claire, you are on our side? You swear it."

"Ah, _mon Dieu_! is it that I deserve this?" she exclaimed bitterly.
"Ah! I tell you truth," she cried. "You must believe me--Listen! Are
they come already?"

"No, no, there is nothing. But I trust you, I will go."

Suddenly she sprang to her feet. "Let me go with you. It is terrible to
me to enter again that room; but I desire to prove myself of honour.
_Allous, allous_!"

"Tom is there."

"Ah! send him here to the bar. But do you come, _mon ami_. See, I go with
you." She rose and forcing herself to the effort, led the way across the
bar and into the corridor of the north wing, as if to show him that in
sixteen years she had not forgotten.

CHAPTER XX

IN THE OAK PARLOUR

"You know the way?" Dan exclaimed as he caught up with her, and held open
the door that led into the old north wing.

"But so well," she replied, catching her breath. "Would to God that
I did not!"

"Ah!" he murmured, "I forgot that you have been here before."

They pressed on silently. At the turn of the corridor upon which the Oak
Parlour gave, they discerned Tom Pembroke, a weird figure, in the dim
light of the tallow dip upon the table, that cast fantastic shadows upon
the whitewashed walls.

As he recognized them, he sprang forward in astonishment. "Madame de la
Fontaine! Dan! What does this mean?" he cried.

"You know Madame?" Dan replied hastily and in evident confusion. "At
great risk she has come to warn us--she is our friend, understand.--She
has come to tell us how Bonhomme and his men will attack the Inn."

Tom listened to his explanation with unconcealed dismay. "Good heavens,
Dan!" he protested, "You trust this woman? You know she is in league with
these ruffians. Do you want us to fall into a trap?"

"No, no, Monsieur Pembroke," interrupted Madame de la Fontaine, "you must
listen to me. I understand your fear. But at last you can trust me. I
repent that which I have done. Ah, _mon Dieu_, with what bitterness! And
now I desire to do all that is possible to save you. You must trust me."

"I do not--I can not trust you," Tom cried sternly. "Don't go in there,
Dan. Don't I beg of you, trust this woman's word. It is a trick."

"Perhaps," said Dan grimly, "but go back. I take the responsibility. I
do trust her, I shall trust her--to death. There is no time to lose,
man. Go back!"

"What deviltry has bewitched you?" cried Tom passionately. "Already once
to-night you have risked our lives by your fool-hardiness,--for the sake
of this woman, eh? By gad, man, I begin to see. But I tell you now, I
refuse to be a victim to your madness."

"_Mais non_, Monsieur Pembroke," Claire cried again. "By all that is good
and holy, I swear to you, that that which I have said is true. You must
go. They will attack the bar and the kitchen. If those places are not
defended, there will be danger."

"At any rate," said Dan, "I am going into the Oak Parlour. If you refuse
to act with me, barricade the door between the bar and the north wing. If
need be, I shall fight alone. Only now we lose time, precious time."

Pembroke looked at him as if he had gone mad, then shrugging his
shoulders he turned back into the bar, whistling for Jesse and Ezra as
he did so.

For a moment, glancing after Tom's retreating figure, shaken to his soul
by conflicting emotions, Dan stood irresolute.

"But come," said Madame de la Fontaine, touching his arm. Again like the
weird genius of this strange night she led the way on down the shadowy
hall, and paused only when her hand rested upon the knob of the door into
the Oak Parlour. "It is here," she said simply.

As Dan reached her side, she opened the door. The light of the candle
down the hallway did not penetrate the gloom of the disused room. A musty
smell as of cold stagnant air came strong to their nostrils, and Dan
felt, as they crossed the threshold together, that he was entering a
place where no life had been for a long long time, a place full of dead
nameless horrors.

The woman by his side was trembling violently. He put his arm about her
to reassure her, and there shot through him a sensation of strange and
terrible joy to be with her alone in this darkness and danger. For the
moment he was exulting that for her sake he had risked his honour, that
for her sake now he was risking life itself. He bent his head to hers.

"No! no!--not here!" she whispered hoarsely, but yet clinging to him with
shaking hands. "It is so cold, so dark. I have fear," she murmured.

"It is like a tomb," he said.

"The tomb of my hopes, of my youth," she breathed softly.

"Shall I strike a light?"

"No, no,--no light, I implore you. _Ecoute_! What is it that I hear?"

"I hear nothing. It is the wind in the Red Oak outside."

"But listen!"

"It is an owl hooting."

Suddenly she drew her hand from his, and he could hear her moving swiftly
about. "All is as it used to be?" she asked.

"Precisely," he answered; "nothing has been changed."

"Here is the cabinet," she said, from across the room. "I can feel the
lion's head. It is opposite to the window and the moonlight will stream
in when the casement is opened, but if I crouch low I shall not be seen.
_Bien_! And you, _mon ami_? Tell me, is the old _escritoire_ still to the
left of the door?" Now she was back at his side once again.

"The _escritoire_?" he repeated.

"The little table where one writes. Ah! yes, it is here. See, behind
this, _mon ami_, shall you hide yourself. The moonlight will not reach
here--and it is so arranged that you will see plainly any one that
appears at the window. When the casement is opened, you will shoot, will
you not, and shoot to kill?"

"Yes, I will shoot," said Dan, his voice trembling.

"You promise me?" she cried in a tense whisper, as she grasped his arm
and held it tight in her grip.

"I tell you, yes."

"You must not fail."

"No. Shall I shoot at any one who opens?"

"Any one?--it will be Bonhomme,--no other."

Suddenly there came, from the front and the rear of the Inn, at the same
instant it seemed, the sharp staccato of a fusilade of pistol shots, and
the lumbering blows as of beams being thrust at distant doors.

"They are come!" she whispered, "hide." Dan could hear the swish of her
garments as she rapidly glided across the room to the old cabinet, then
he turned and crouched low behind the writing desk that she had chosen
for his place of concealment. He knelt there motionless, a cocked pistol
clenched in his right hand. His breath seemed to have stopped, but his
heart was pounding as though it must burst through his breast. How could
he shoot down in cold blood a fellow man? The horror of it crowded out
all other impressions, sensations fears. He could fight, risk his life,
but to pull the trigger of that pistol when the casement should open
seemed to him an impossibility. He would wait, grapple with him, fight
as men should.

Suddenly a ray of moonlight fell across the dark floor. Dan, looking up,
seemed frozen by horror. The shutters had opened, the casement swung back
noiselessly, and there in the opening, sharply outlined against the
moonlight-flooded night, was the great black hulk of Captain Bonhomme.

For a moment he stood there irresolute, listening intently. Dan was
fascinated, motionless, held as in a vice by the horror of the thing.

Suddenly Bonhomme moved his head to one side as if to listen more
acutely. As he did so, the ray of moonlight fell upon the cabinet, fell
upon Claire de la Fontaine, upon something that she held in an
outstretched hand that gleamed.

"_Nom de Dieu_!" There was the flash and crack of a pistol, a sharp cry,
and the great figure fell back and sank out of sight.

With that Dan sprang forward, reckless of danger, and ran to the window.
He heard without the confused sounds as of persons scurrying to cover,
saw their forms dash across the moonlit courtyard, into the shadows of
the trees and outhouses. Beneath him on the floor of the gallery was
something horrible and still.

Almost instantly Claire de la Fontaine was by his side, and as
regardless of danger as he, she was calling sharply, calling men by their
names. Her hair had been loosened and fell over her shoulders in black
waves, her dark eyes flashed with excitement and passion, and her face,
strangely pale, in the silver moonlight, was set in stern harsh lines.
Even then this vision of her tragic beauty thrilled the man at her side.

But she was as unconscious of him as she was of her danger. With hand
uplifted she called by name the desperados, who had taken shelter in the
darkness and to those who now came running from front and rear where
their attacks had been unsuccessful.

Appalled, spell-bound by the vision, even as Dan was, they stopped, and
stood listening mutely to the torrent of words that she poured
forth,--vehement French of which Dan had no understanding.

At last, ending the frightful tension of the scene, two of the men came
forward, crept up to the lifeless body of Bonhomme, and grasping it by
head and feet, carried it away, across the courtyard, into the darkness
of the avenue of maples. One by one, still mysteriously silent, the
others of the gang followed, till at length the last one had disappeared
into the gloom. Weird silence fell once more upon the Inn.

It was only then that Madame de la Fontaine turned to Dan. "They will
come no more," she said in a strained unnatural voice. "We are saved,
safe.... I have proved, is it not so?--my honour, my love."

With the words she sank at his feet, just as Tom, candle in hand,
appeared in the doorway.

CHAPTER XXI

THE TREASURE

Owing doubtless to the death of Bonhomme and to the orders given in no
uncertain tones by Madame de la Fontaine, the bandits from the schooner
in the cove did not make a further effort to attack the Inn that night.
There was no rest, however, for Madame de la Fontaine, after her heroic
exploit in the Oak Parlour, had swooned completely away. They carried her
to the couch in Mrs. Frost's parlour, and, awkwardly enough, did what
could be done for her by men. It was over an hour before they succeeded
in restoring her to consciousness, and when they did so, she awoke to
delirium and fever. Distracted by anxiety and by their helplessness, at
the first streak of dawn, Dan started for town to get a doctor, and Ezra
Manners volunteered to go to the Red Farm and bring back Mrs. Frost,
Nancy, and the maids.

About six o'clock in the morning the women folk returned to the Inn. But
the briefest account of the attack was given them, though they were told
in no uncertain terms of Madame de la Fontaine's heroic action in coming
to warn them and of her courageous shot at the leader. Then Mrs. Frost
and Nancy turned all their attention to the sick woman, caring for her as
tenderly and devotedly as if she were their own. Half-an-hour later Dan
returned from Monday Port with the family doctor, a grave silent old
gentleman, in whose skill and discretion they trusted. After making an
examination of his patient, he nodded his head encouragingly; gave a few
directions to Mrs. Frost, and then left, promising to return later in the
morning with medicines and supplies.

At last, utterly worn out, the four men threw themselves on their beds
and slept from sheer exhaustion. The sun was high in the sky when they
came down stairs again and found Nancy waiting for them, and a smoking
breakfast ready on the table. After greeting them, she pointed to the
window, across the fields, almost bare of snow now and gleaming in the
morning sunlight, to the bright waters of the cove. "See!" she cried,
"the schooner has disappeared."

They both looked. "By Jove, it has!" exclaimed Tom, rushing to the other
side of the room, and peering out at the shipless sea. "Heigho! that's a
relief. Pray God we've seen the last of her. The Marquis gone, the
schooner gone,--we three together once more! Perhaps we shall begin to
live again. Ah!" he added more softly, glancing with sudden sympathy at
Dan's white drawn face, "I forgot the poor woman across the hall."

Dan turned aside to hide his emotion, for though a load of anxiety had
been lifted from his heart by the vanishing of _The Southern Cross_, he
was sick with fear for the issue of the illness that had stricken down
the woman he loved,--the woman who had proved her love for him by so
terrible and so tragic a deed.

As though aware that for the moment they were best left together alone,
Nancy slipped away into the kitchen.

"You love her, Dan?" asked Tom simply.

"Yes, Tom, with all my heart and soul. I staked my honour, my life, on
her sincerity. And how she has proved that we were right to trust her! It
can't be--she mustn't die--I couldn't bear it!"

"She'll be all right, old fellow, don't worry; trust to your mother and
Nance. It is only the shock of the terrible things she went through last
night. Come on, we must take something to eat. Here is Nancy back again."

There was no doubt of the fact, _The Southern Cross_ had sailed away,
vanished in the night as mysteriously as a week before she had appeared
in the Strathsey and found moorings in the Cove. They did not count on
the certainty of her not reappearing, however; and that night and for
many nights thereafter the Inn was securely barricaded and a watch was
kept, but neither then nor ever did _The Southern Cross_ spread her sails
in those waters again. She and her crew disappeared from their lives as
completely as from the seas that stretched around the coast of Deal.

Tom at once was for making a search in the Oak Parlour for the hidden
treasure, but for the time Dan had no heart for the undertaking. He urged
delay at least until Madame de la Fontaine had recovered; and as for
Nancy she would not hear of it.

"I can't bear to think of it,--of the trouble, the crime, the suffering
of which it has been the cause. When our poor lady recovers, she will
tell us all we need to know. I dread the Oak Parlour. I would not go into
that room for anything in the world. Nor, believe me, Tom, could Dan do
so now. You have guessed, haven't you, that he loves Madame de la
Fontaine?"

"Of course, dearest; poor fellow! he betrays his love by every word and
act. But good heaven, Nance, he couldn't marry her!"

"No--I don't know. I suppose not. But Dan will do as he will. To oppose
him now would only make him the more wretched."

"Does your mother know?"

"No, and it is best she should not. I don't think she has the faintest
suspicion."

"Well, I suppose we had better let things rest awhile;" Tom assented,
"but I swear I would like to get at the Oak Parlour and tear the secret
out of it."

"We must wait a bit, Tom dear. Let's just be glad now of what we
have and are."

And with that he drew her toward him and pressed for a definite answer to
the question which so deeply concerned their future.

"When Madame has recovered, when we know all and the mystery is solved,"
she replied; then she added inconsequently, "I wonder if we shall ever
hear of the old Marquis again."

"I wonder too," Tom exclaimed. "Though he has sailed away on _The
Southern Cross_, I doubt if he will willingly leave the treasure
behind him."

"That dreadful treasure, Tom," cried Nancy. "I wish to goodness that the
Marquis had it and might keep it always. We have each other."

The evening of the second day after the terrible night of the attack, as
Dan was entering the Inn from his work outside, he saw Madame de la
Fontaine standing on the gallery under the Red Oak. It was the dusk of a
mild pleasant day. She was clad still in her soft grey gown with furs
about her waists and neck, and a grey scarf over her head. But there was
something infinitely pathetic to him in the listlessness of her attitude,
in the expression of a deep and melancholy that had come into her face.

He stole swiftly to her side, and taking her hand in his pressed it to
his lips, with a gesture that was as reverent as it was tender. For a
moment something of the old brightness returned to her face as she bent
her clear gaze upon his bowed head.

"You love me, Dan?" she murmured.

"You know I love you," he whispered passionately.

"Yes, I believe that you do," she said simply. "I shall always be
thankful that I have won a good man's love." But suddenly she withdrew
her hand, as the door of the bar opened. "See, here is Mademoiselle
Nancy. She is coming for me: she is to be with me to-night. There is
much for me to do."

His heart surged within him; for he knew that in her simple words there
was the tragic note of farewell; but he could not speak, he could not
plead from that sad and broken woman for a passion that he knew but too
well she could never give. He knew that she would leave him on the
morrow, that his protests would be vain;--nay,--he would not even utter
them! With the gathering of the darkness about the old Inn, he felt that
the light in his heart was being obscured forever.

The evening passed, the night. Morning came, and Madame de la Fontaine,
accompanied by Nancy, left the Inn at the Red Oak for Coventry. There
remained to Dan of his brief and tragic passion but one letter, which Tom
handed to him that morning, and which, with despairing heart, he read and
re-read a hundred times.

"_Mon cher ami_:

"You would forgive that I do not know well how to express myself as I
desire, if you could read my heart. I bade you good-bye to-night under
the Red Oak, tree for me of such tragic and such beautiful memories. I
could not say farewell otherwise, dear friend, nor could you. We have
loved sincerely, have we not? We will remember that in days to come; you
will remember it even in the happier days to come that I pray God to
grant you. I know all that you would say, my friend, but it cannot be. I
must vanish from your life, be gone as completely as though I had never
entered it. I love you deeply, tenderly, but I could not be to you what I
know that now you wish. All the past forbids. The very tragedy that
proved to you that I was worthy of your trust forbids. It is my only
justification that I saved your lives, dear friend; but oh how bitterly I
ask pardon of God for what has been done! Then also, dearest friend, my
heart is no longer capable to bear passion, but only to feel great
tenderness. I could not say these things, and yet they must be written. I
cannot go with them unsaid. Certain other things must be told you in
justice to all.

"The story I told you on the schooner that day was largely truth. The
General Pointelle, who was at the Inn at the Red Oak in 1814, was in
reality the Maréchal de Boisdhyver, the father of your foster-sister
Nancy. She is truly Eloise de Boisdhyver. The Maréchal returned to France
to support the Emperor, as he wrote to madame your good mother; and he
fell, as I told you, on the field of Waterloo. Admitting the importance
of his mission, admitting my ambiguous relation to him (indefensible as
it was), to have left the child as he did was an act of kindness. In
truth the treasure concealed in the Oak Parlour is considerable, and it
was always my purpose to return, but the necessary directions for finding
it were not entrusted to me, but to the Marquis Marie-Anne, whom I didn't
meet until many years after Waterloo. Then I was induced by the
Marquis,--your old Marquis--to provide the money for the miserable
enterprise, of which we know the tragic result. From the first I was
uncertain about the method we adopted; and then soon after our arrival
here, from a hundred little indications, I became convinced that Bonhomme
was prepared to betray us, once we secured the treasure. As for the
Marquis, I suppose that he sailed away on the schooner. You need fear him
no longer. It was he, I am convinced, that conveyed to them the
information of the loosened casement in the Oak Parlour, and unwittingly
arranged for his own undoing and our salvation. At all events he will
have realized now that he has hopelessly lost the fight. As for the
treasure, by right it belongs to Eloise, who should not disdain to use
it. I enclose a transcription of the other half of the torn scrap of
paper, which will supplement the directions in your possession.

"And as for me, my friend, I shall seek a shelter in my own country apart
from the world in which I have lived so to little purpose and for the
most part so unhappily. Believe me, so it is best. My heart is too full
for me to express all that I feel for you.

"Dear, dear friend, do not render me the more unhappy to know that my
brief friendship with you shall have harmed your life. Your place is in
the world, to take part in the life of your own country, not, dear Dan,
to waste youth and energy in the fruitless desolation of this beautiful
Deal, not above all to grieve for a woman who was unworthy.

"I commend you to God, and I shall never forget you.

"CLAIRE DE LA FONTAINE."

It was with a heavy heart that Dan consented later in the morning to
Tom's proposal that they force at last the secret of the Oak Parlour. He
got the torn scrap of paper which he had found,--such ages ago it seemed,
though it was scarcely a week,--in the old cabinet, and gave it to Tom,
with the copy of the other half which Madame de la Fontaine had enclosed
in her letter of farewell. The copy in Madame de la Fontaine's
handwriting did not dovetail exactly into the jagged edges of the
original portion, so that it was some time before they could get it into
position for reading. But at last it was pasted together on a large bit
of cardboard, and Tom, with the aid of a dictionary, succeeded in making
a translation, which Dan took down.

"Learning of the attempt of my Emperor to regain his glorious throne, I
leave these hospitable shores to offer my sword to his cause. In case I
do not return, the person having instructions for the discovery of this
paper, which I tear in two parts, will find herein the necessary
directions for the finding of my hidden treasure. This treasure, bullion,
jewels, and coins, is concealed in a secret chamber in this Inn at the
Red Oak. This secret chamber will be entered from the Oak Parlour. The
hidden door is released by a spring beneath the hand of the lady in the
picture nearest the fireplace on the north side of the room. A panel
slides back revealing the entrance. Instructions as to the deposition of
the treasure will be found in the golden casket therewith.

"FRANÇOIS DE BOISDHYVER."

"Well?" said Tom, "the instructions are definite enough. Now we can put
them to the test. Let's get to work at once. Wait a second till I get
some wood, and well make a fire in the Oak Parlour." He filled his arms
with logs from the bin under the settle in the bar, while Dan got the key
for the north wing.

Soon they were at the end of the old hall. It was with an effort that Dan
brought himself to enter the room, for there flashed into his mind the
vision of the last time he was there,--the cold silver moonlight, the
dark burly form at the casement, the white drawn face of Claire de la
Fontaine, and then the sharp flash and crack of the pistol.

But with an impatient gesture, as if to thrust aside these tragic
memories, he stepped across the threshold, and kneeling at the hearth,
took the wood from Tom's arms and began to lay a fire. In the meantime
his friend fumbled at the window casements, opened them, and let in the
light of day and the pure air of out-of-doors. Soon the fire was
crackling cheerily on the great andirons and casting its bright
reflection on the dark oak panelling of the walls. Nothing had been
disturbed--the old cabinet with the lions' heads stood opposite the
window; the little _escritoire_, behind which he had crouched on the
fatal night, was pushed back against the wall; the chairs, the tables,
thick with dust, stood just as they had been standing for many years.

"Do you realize, Tom," Dan said, as they stood side by side watching the
blazing logs, "that it is sixteen years since General Pointelle stayed at
the Inn and used this room? And the treasure, if there is any treasure,
has been mouldering here all that time."

"Let's get at it," said Tom. "I confess this place gives me the creeps.
Have you got my translation of the directions?"

"Yes, here it is." Dan spread out the bit of paper on one of the tables.
"'The hidden door is released by a spring beneath the hand of the lady in
the picture nearest the fireplace on the north side of the room.' Ah!
that must be it--that old landscape let into the panel there." He walked
nearer and examined it closely.

It was a simple landscape, a garden in the foreground, forest and hills
in the distance; and in the midst a lady in Eighteenth century costume
caressing the head of a greyhound. It was beautifully mellow in tone, and
might well have been a production of Gainsborough, though the Frosts had
preserved no such tradition.

Dan began to fumble, according to the directions, beneath the hand of
the stately lady, pressing vigourously here and there with thumb and
forefinger. "What's that?" he cried suddenly. A faint click, as of a
spring in action, had sounded sharp in the stillness, but apparently with
no other effect. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I believe there is something
behind it. You heard the click? See there! the panel's opened a bit at
the side." Surely enough, there was a long crack on the right--the length
of the picture. "Here, let's push."

Careless of the landscape, they put their hands upon the panel and
pressed with all their force to the left. It yielded slowly, slipping
back side-wise into the wall, and revealed a narrow opening, beyond which
was a little circular stairway, leading apparently to some chamber above.

"Here's the entrance to the secret chamber all right," Dan exclaimed.
"Let's see where it goes to." He climbed in and started up the winding
flight of stairs, Tom close behind him. About half way up the height
of the Oak Parlour he came to a door. "Can't go any farther," he
called to Tom.

"What's the matter?"

"There's a door here; it leads, evidently, into some little room between
the Oak Parlour and the bedroom next. Who would ever have guessed it?"

"Can't you open the door; is it locked?"

Dan fumbled about till he found and turned the knob. "No," he answered.
"I've opened it. But it's pitch dark inside. Get a candle."

He waited anxiously while Tom went below again to get a candle, a
strange feeling of dread creeping over him now that at last he was about
to penetrate the secret which had been of such tragic purport in his
life. In a moment Tom had returned, a candle in either hand, one of
which he handed to Dan, and together they entered the secret chamber. It
was a little room scarcely six feet square, without light, and so far as
they could see without ventilation. As they stood looking about the
candle flickered strangely casting weird shadows over the walls.
Suddenly they saw at their feet a tiny golden casket, and then, in a
corner of the room a row of small cloth bags, several of which had been
ripped open, so that a stream of golden coin flowed out upon the floor.
Nearby stood another little golden chest; and Tom, lifting the lid,
started back astonished. For there sparkling and glowing in the candle
light as though they were living moving things, lay a heap of precious
gems--diamonds, rubies, opals, sapphires, amethysts, that might have
been the ransom of a princess.

"It's a treasure right enough!" cried Dan. "But what's this?" He turned
to the opposite corner where there lay a heap of something covered with a
great black cloth. They approached gingerly, and Dan stooped and picked
up an edge of the covering. "It's a cloak," he exclaimed. Startled, he
paused for a moment; then quickly pulled the cloak away, uncovering, to
their horror, a lifeless body.

"Tom!" Dan cried in a ghastly whisper. "A man has died here."

Tom held the candle over the gruesome heap. "But who?" he asked in a
hoarse whisper.

For reply Dan pointed significantly to the cloak which he had dropped on
the floor.

"What!" cried Tom. "Good God! the old Marquis! But how? I don't
understand--" he added, staring blankly.

"He must have come here the afternoon he pretended to leave the Inn, must
have learned the secret passage somehow. It was he who loosened the
casement in the Oak Parlour that night, and got his message to Bonhomme.
He was waiting here for him. Can't you see it all--the panel slipped
back; he couldn't open it again; Bonhomme didn't come; he was caught like
a rat in a trap."

"My God, what a fate!"

"We can't leave his body here. We must give it decent burial, you and I,
Tom, for we can't let this be known."

"And the treasure?"

"Ah! there was treasure, wasn't there? Wait, let's see what is in the
little casket." He picked up the golden casket that they had stepped over
as they entered, and raised the lid. A single scrap of paper was inside
on the little velvet cushion, inscribed in the same handwriting as the
paper of directions, "_Pour Eloise de Boisdhyver_."

"But come," Tom whispered, holding back the door, "I can't stand this any
longer. We'll come back again, and do what must be done. Come, Dan."

Dan gave a last look into the strange horrible little room, then he
followed his friend. They closed the door behind them and crept slowly
down the narrow winding stairs to the Oak Parlour, leaving the
treasure in the secret chamber and the Marquis guarding it in the
silence and darkness of death. What had been so basely striven for was
sorrily won at last.

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Inn at the Red Oak, by Latta Griswold