In the Day of Adversity. John Bloundelle-Burton

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СКАЧАТЬ him in there," said Boussac with sang froid. "That will keep him quiet for some time at least," and he pointed to an open grave which yawned very near where they stood, and into whose black mouth he had been peering for some time. He added also: "It will be his only chance of ever occupying one. Such as he end by hanging on roadside gibbets or rotting on the wheel they have been broken upon – the peaceful grave is not for them."

      St. Georges turned his eyes to the spot indicated, exclaiming that it would do very well. It was no newly made grave, he saw, prepared for one who had recently departed, but, instead, an old one that had been opened, perhaps to receive some fresh body; for by the side of it there lay a slab that had, it was plain to see, been pushed aside from where it had previously rested, as though to permit of it being so opened.

      "Ay," echoed Boussac, sardonically, "it will do very well. Add when he is in – as we will soon have him – the stone shall be pushed back to keep him safe. Then he may holla loud enough and long: no one will hear him."

      His hollas began again at once, however, for at the terrifying prospect of being thus incarcerated in so awful a manner he flung himself once more on his knees, and bellowed out:

      "Nay! Nay! In pity, I beseech you. You know not what you do – what terrors you condemn me to. A plague, a horrible one, a sweating sickness, passed over this province a year back – it took many, among others him who laid here. He was of Chantillon – a seigneur – and is now removed by his friends. Mercy! Mercy! Mercy! Condemn me not to this. Think, I beseech you. The grave is infected, impregnated with contagion. Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!"

      The fellow had thrust at his child's life – St. Georges remembered it even as he spoke! – yet, being a brave soldier himself, he could not condemn the ruffian to such horrors as these. Revenge he would have taken earlier, in the heat of the fight; would have killed the man with his own hand, even as he would have killed that other, the leader, had the chance arisen; but – this was beneath him. Therefore, he said:

      "Bind him, Boussac, to this old yew. Bind him with his horse's reins and gag him. Then he must take his chance – the night grows late. We must away."

      It was done almost as soon as ordered, the mousquetaire detaching the coarse reins of the man's horse – which was itself wounded and seemed incapable of action – and lashing him to the tree, while he took one of his stirrup leathers and bade him open his mouth to be gagged.

      "To-morrow," he remarked to the unhappy wretch, "at matins you may be released. Meanwhile, heart up! you are not alone. You have your comrades for company." And he glanced down at the others lying still in death.

      "Stay," said St. Georges, "ere you put the gag in his mouth let me ask him one question. – Who," turning to the shivering creature before him, "who was your leader? Answer me that, and even now you shall go free. Answer!"

      For a moment the man hesitated – doubtless he was wondering if he could not invent some name which might pass for a real one, and so give him his freedom – then, perhaps because his inventive powers were not great, or – which was more probable – his captor might have some means of knowing that he was lying, he answered:

      "I do not know. I never saw him before."

      "You do not know, or will not tell – which?"

      "I do not know."

      "Whence came he to your village? From what quarter?"

      "The north road. The great road from Paris. He had not come many leagues; his horse was fresh."

      "So! What was he like? He did not wear his burganet all the time – when he ate, for instance."

      "He was young," the man replied, hoping, it may be, that by his ready answers he would earn his pardon even yet, "passably young. Of about monsieur's age. With a brown beard cropped close and gray eyes."

      "Is that all you can tell?"

      "It is all, monsieur. Ayez pitié, monsieur."

      "Gag him," said St. Georges to Boussac, "and let us go."

      So they left the fellow gagged and bound, and rode on once more upon their road, passing swiftly through Aignay-le-Duc without stopping.

      "For," said St. Georges, "badly as we want rest, we must not halt here. To-morrow those dead men will be found, with, perhaps, another added to their number if the frost is great to-night, as it seems like to be. We must push on for Chatillon now, even though we ride all night. Pray Heaven our horses do not drop on the road!"

      So through Aignay-le-Duc they went, clattering up the one wretched street, their animals' hoofs waking peasants from their early slumbers, and the jangling of their scabbards and steel trappings arousing the whole village. Even the guet de nuit– who because it was his duty to be awake was always asleep – was roused by the sound of the oncoming hoofs, and, rushing to his cabin door, cried out, "Who goes there?"

      "Chevau-léger en service du roi," cried St. Georges; and "Mousquetaire de la maison du roi," answered Boussac; and so, five minutes later, they had passed the hamlet and were once more on their road north.

      "Yet," said St. Georges as, stopping to breathe their horses, he opened the cloak and gazed on his sleeping child, "I would give much to know who our enemy is – who the cruel wretch who aimed at your innocent little life. 'A young man with a fair beard and gray eyes!' the ruffian said. Who, who is he?"

      And, bending over, he brushed her lips with his great mustache.

      "My darling," he whispered, "I pray God that all attacks on you may be thwarted as was this one to-night; that he may raise up for you always so stout and true a protector as he who rides by my side."

      "Amen!" muttered Boussac, who among his good qualities did not find himself overwhelmed with modesty. "Amen! Though," he exclaimed a second after, "he who would not fight for such an innocent as that deserves never to have one of his own."

      CHAPTER VII.

      A REASON

      Midnight was sounding from the steeples of Chatillon as the soldiers rode their tired beasts across the bridge over the Seine and through the deserted street that led up to the small guard-house, where, Boussac said, would be found the Governor of the Bailliage with some soldiers of the Montagne Regiment.

      As they had come along they had naturally talked much on the attack that had been made upon them outside Aignay-le-Duc, and St. Georges had decided that, as Chatillon was the most important town on this side of Troyes, it would be his duty here to give notice to any one in authority of that attack having taken place.

      "For," said he, "that it was premeditated who can doubt? The leader spoke of me as a brigand who had stolen a child, while he himself was the brigand who desired to steal my child. Then, see, Boussac, we were followed – or preceded – from Dijon by that man who warned him we were coming – merciful heavens! who could he have been? – so that it shows plainly that I am a marked man. Marked! tracked! known all along the route."

      "But why? Why?" interposed Boussac. "Why is your life, the life of the pauvrette, aimed at? Across whose path do you and she stand?"

      "That I can but guess at," replied the other; "though I have long suspected that I have powerful enemies to whom my existence was hateful." Then, since their tired horses were now walking side by side across a wide plain, at the end of which rose Chatillon, he leaned over, and, putting his hand on the mousquetaire's saddle, said gravely:

      "Boussac, СКАЧАТЬ