CHAPTER XXIX
THE LAST CHANCE
Another hour passed-the dawn was close at hand-and the ruin of the greater part of the fabric was almost accomplished. For that was what Andrew perceived now, as still he kept his vigil above and listened still to the cries of those below, who were all by this time outside in the courtyard and the fringe of the copse, revelling in their handiwork and the accomplishment of their long-thirsted-for vengeance.
Beneath him the fire still raged and burned, though by God's mercy it had even now left untouched that side of the building on which they were-the side that was nearest to the slope of the mountain from which he had originally crossed: untouched at least at present! Therefore, he knew that for some time they were safe; below where they stood there was still the floor of more or less solid masonry, then the other floor from which they had escaped-the one that was beneath the leads on which they were. In the front, also, the fire had not yet got a hold, it was on the two sides that its fury seemed to have been most expended. Of them, the north wing had already fallen in, as has been said; the south one looked as though it would do so at any moment. And, gazing at the gap made by that destroyed on the other side, Andrew could not but shudder, for had it so happened that they had been there when it gave way, had it so happened that the way to the leads had lain through the north wing, they would have gone with it in its fall, have all been lying crushed to death beneath the stonework and woodwork which had been hurled into the great hall.
Yet, even as he looked across the gap left by that fallen wing, as he peered down into the now blocked-up hall, so blocked up, indeed, that the débris of the north side rose almost level with the top floors of the sides still standing, he saw that here was something which would prevent the total annihilation of the house, and deprive the Lorrainers of their vengeance in its entirety; would also prevent the whole of the building from being razed to the ground.
Something, too, that would, perhaps, save those who were upon the roof, render it unlikely that that roof should sink beneath them, and, in so sinking, carry them with it to destruction.
He saw that, as the northern side had crashed in, the lower, or stone, portion had fallen upon the mass of burning matter, and, thereby, had beaten out much of the fire, which now only smouldered beneath the masonry and wreckage of that lower portion, which, in its turn, had received above it the wooden part. The flames from below-even if not totally extinguished-could never, therefore, reach the woodwork above; it was as likely as not that, soon, they would be entirely pressed out by the weight. If, therefore, the foundations of that portion of the house over which they now stood were not injured, if that wing did not fall in, they were saved. The fire would die out, and, when it had done so, surely some means of descending to earth again could be found, even though there were now no stairs left.
"There is yet a chance for us," he said, going back to where Clemence was, and telling her briefly what he had observed, and what he deduced from that observation. "Still a chance-that is, if the Lorrainers are content with what they have done. Will they be, or will nothing satisfy them but the total destruction of the house? If so, they will set it alight again on the other sides. Then nothing can save us."
"They may be content," the woman answered, glancing up at him, "if they suppose that he is dead. Otherwise they will not. And more than one half of the house still stands secure. Therefore, they may think he is safe somewhere. They will begin again; they will never desist until he is slain."
"Our danger is not then over," Andrew said quietly. "It seems-if you guess aright-that we are doomed. How is it now with her?" and he glanced down at Marion as she lay in the woman's arms.
"She is more peaceful. And she breathes easily. Yet, the shock has been too much for her. She will not live."
"You are sure of that?"
"I fear so."
"Therefore," said Andrew more to himself than to her, "my determination to kill him is greater than ever. Two lives now to demand expiation for, besides his other crimes." Then, turning to Clemence, and bending down to her, he asked: "What think you? Has he escaped? Oh! that I should have let him-let him go without me at his heels."
"I know not," she muttered, "yet, as I have said, there is some way out of this house. His father knew it-I have heard him speak of it-though he kept the secret well. But, even though he escapes you, he is a doomed man if he stays in this land. They have begun," and she waved her hand to the depths below, where still the Lorrainers could be heard calling to each other and-sometimes, it seemed-from the sounds which arose in the early morning air-gloating over the ruin they had wrought: "now there can be but one end. I know my own people."
"He will not escape me," Andrew replied. "As you know your own people, so I know myself. If I live through this night-this day which is now dawning-I will find him. And then his last chance is gone. I spared him once when he lay stretched at my feet-I saved his life-to-night I have let him trick me and so save himself. Well! 'tis the last. When next we stand face to face I slay him like some poisonous reptile."
While, as he spoke, he gazed down on Clemence, and saw her great starry eyes gleaming out at him through what was not, now, all the darkness of night.
And they had lived through it! For he had said truly-the dawn of another day was come-that night of horror had passed.
Far away to the east, away to the side of the slope from which he had crossed to the roof of this now ruined house, there was a light in the sky-dim at present, yet gradually becoming clearer, which told that the night was indeed over; also the tree-tops were beginning to be visible, other objects to stand out and be recognizable. And as Andrew on that roof gazed towards the coming day-wondering if, with it, would come also safety and escape; if the next night would find all or any of them alive-he knew that he, too, had become visible to those below. He heard a shout from the fringe of copse beyond the great courtyard, and, turning his eyes down, saw the danger which threatened him.
Observed the gleam of a dozen musketoon barrels pointed his way, and, as he sprang back behind the buttress of an angle close to where the women were, saw their puffs of smoke and darts of flame, followed half a second after by the reports, and heard some of the bullets hurtle against that buttress while others sang through the air over the very spot he had just quitted.
In a moment he knew and understood!
"They take me for him," he said, turning to Clemence, who had half sprung from the ladder where she sat supporting Marion, while the girl moaned, either at being disturbed, or at the falling pieces of brick and stone that scattered round her, "take me for him. 'Tis not strange in this half light. Yet, how to make them understand? Even if there are any there who have known me-Jean, to wit-they think me dead. They knew I was within this house."
"See," the woman interrupted, and scarce listening to his words, "see, the fire breaks out again. On the south side now-and it has reached the top floor. Soon all that will be in flames. There is no hope."
It was true. From the parapet that ran beneath the leads of the south side, and which was at a left angle to that portion of the roof on which they were, there sprang a long thin line of flame-flame that bubbled out accompanied by white, clear smoke, but which, thin as it was, yet grew thicker every moment Both flame and smoke were finding a vent from below; they could not doubt that, underneath, a large portion of the south wing was burning fiercely.
"There is one hope," Andrew said, "still one. Observe. The volumes of smoke from the hall no longer roll up as they did; there the fire is almost extinguished by the masonry and débris that has fallen on it. Also, the trap leading here from the garret is open, yet none comes forth either. I will back to the garret. I may find the secret way. The way he went."
"Impossible. Others have sought for it, even though only to gratify curiosity-I myself have done so all over the house. You will never find it."
"Yet will I try. If that fresh fire spreads and we cannot escape, we shall be roasted alive. I will go," and as he spoke he went towards the trap opening below (shielding himself behind buttress and chimney base as he did so, so that no bullet from the Lorrainers should find its mark), and descended.
Yet, when he had spent half an hour looking round the garret in all directions, he had to give up his search, had to acknowledge that it was unavailing. No use to look under the bare, uncovered rafters, to see if there was any entrance, however small, to some descent-there was none a cat could have crept down; no use to stamp upon the boards of the floor on which he had lain so many days and nights; they were solid oak planks, affixed to the joists below with great clove-headed nails. It would have taken an hour to get one of them from its place. Yet, fearing to miss any chance, he tried and tested each one separately.
Once he advanced to the horrid shaft-the "oubliette" – and peered down that, wondering if, there, might be the secret way. Yet, he felt sure and told himself, the way out could not be there. The great mouth of the shaft gaped black and cavernous, while, as he laid himself on the floor, and, with face over the edge, peered down into it, there came up a damp odour which seemed to tell for certain that its depth was terrible. And if it were not an "oubliette" – a "guet-apens," as he had once termed it-wherefore that mounting block which they had all had to use so recently, and why that treacherous staircase, or ladder, from above, which ended abruptly, so that the hastening victim should be plunged blindly into the abyss of the shaft below?
Yet he sounded it as well as he was able; leant over and, with his sword in his extended hand, thrust down to see if there were any ledge or bottom within reach-and found none! He discovered, too, a link of the chain which had bound him, and hurled it down, listening for the sound of its fall. But heard nothing-except that it struck once against the side, owing to his not throwing it precisely straight. Then, nothing more.
"There is no way there, except to death!" He muttered. "It is useless. As well return to the roof and await what comes. At least, Marion Wyatt will not die alone."
The flames of the south side had increased to a great extent as he regained the spot where the women were-also a soft wind was fanning them, so that now they leapt up some feet from the roof, burning clear and bright against what was still half night, half day. Standing there watching them, and watching also the direction in which the wind came, he knew that it would not be long-not an hour perhaps-ere those flames had spread to the wing where they all were.
Then the end would be very near. Well! it must be borne. There was nothing for it but that.
From these thoughts he was startled by the action of the woman, Clemence, at this moment. Startled! Amazed!
She had been sitting gazing heedlessly, almost, it might have seemed, indifferently, at those flames towards which he had at that instant turned his back to look down on Marion, when, suddenly, she removed the girl's head from her lap and rose swiftly to her feet-heedless of whether she might be seen or not by the besiegers below. Then she raised her hand-her eyes gleaming strangely as ever-and pointed away towards where the road to Remiremont ran behind the woods. The road along which Andrew had come on that night when he paid his visit of observation.
"Look," she said, and he noticed how firm and unshaken her voice was, "Look, what is that? There are none to help us; none here; not one of the Duke's men would raise a finger to help him-also they come not from where the Duke is. Yet, look. Look, I say."
Following her glance, Andrew did look. And saw that which, at first, he could not understand the meaning of. Amongst the trees, over which the wintry day had now broken, the trees which separated Bois-le-Vaux from the Remiremont road, he saw a long cavalcade of horsemen winding down from the mountain slopes. A cavalcade of horsemen which stretched on and on until several hundreds of them had descended and were still descending to the plains of Lorraine-horsemen on whose glittering corselets and backs-and-breasts and headpieces, as well as bridles and stirrups (though over many of them their long riding cloaks were thrown) the now rising winter sun sparkled. He saw, too, from the roof of the ruined house on which he stood, that, in the morning light, there fluttered the pennons of lances and banners, bearing on them devices of many kinds, guidons also, having on them a large and glittering sun; flags bearing emblems, crests, and coats-of-arms.
Overmastered by that which he observed-for the shining splendour of that great sun upon a purple silk ground told him plainly enough who were those men streaming down from the Vosges-overmastered by the certainty of their safety being at last assured, he threw prudence to the winds, and, boldly exposing himself to the Lorrainers below, he shouted:
"Look! Look! Behold! Your hour is past-you have missed your chance. Behold the army of France is in your land."
Whether surprise at seeing him there-for now none could believe that it was De Bois-Vallée himself-prevented one single shot from being fired at him, or whether it was that, as they saw that army streaming down into Lorraine, they became paralyzed with consternation, Andrew could not tell. Yet one of these it must have been, for soon, from all below, there came a babel of shouts and cries, from all their throats there rose the words:
"The army of France! the army of France! Lorraine is lost to all eternity!" And, even as they so cried, they dispersed and sped away. Sped, too, as fast as they could go, for now it was evident that the burning house had been observed by some in the ranks of the advancing cavalry. Already more than one troop had been detached and was breaking off from the main body, and seeking for a road that should bring them to it.
While Clemence, white now to the lips, white as the woman whose face lay once more on her lap, muttered hoarsely:
"What? What does it mean? What portend?"
"It means," replied Andrew, "that Turenne has crossed the Vosges, that your fair Lorraine will be wrenched from out your Duke's hands for ever-that the Imperialists are in a trap. Also-it means that we are saved."
CHAPTER XXX
FREE!
Andrew had divined aright. That was what, in truth, it did mean.
Turenne had performed the greatest military feat of Louis' reign, had set the chief seal upon a long career of glory.
Weary of lying inert in winter quarters for weeks after the battle of Entzheim, he had suddenly conceived, and afterwards carefully matured, the achievement which he had now carried through. The whole of his army had left Alsace in three different brigades, and, passing over the Vosges in the depth of a winter remarkable for its inclemency and particularly for the amount of rain which fell-progressing through roads and mountain paths rendered almost impassable by the mud and water with which they were soaked-had reached Lorraine. There remained nothing now but to fall upon the unsuspecting Imperialists at Belfort, Mühlhausen, and elsewhere, to hunt them from Lorraine and, once more and finally, to make Louis master of that much disputed province. How this was done countless other pens have told.
Of those three brigades which had so wondrously and rapidly crossed the mountains, the one that had met the eyes of Clemence first and of Andrew afterwards, on this winter morning and after that night of horror, was led by the great captain himself-it taking possession of Remiremont ere many more hours had passed. Amongst those who had been detached towards the still burning house, the moment that the flames were seen, were some that formed the brigade of cavalry under the Count de Lusignan, with also several of the English and Scotch auxiliaries, under the command for the moment of the Marquis De La Fare.
They rode into that great courtyard half an hour after the Lorrainers had deserted the place, and, used though they were-God knows the devastation of the Palatinate had made them so! – to the sight of burning houses, even of burning towns and cities, they could not but stare in amazement at what met their eyes.
For, still, from the south wing of that great house the flames poured forth in fury-that side of it having now caught well alight; upon the roof of the west wing they saw, clear against the threatening sky, the form of a great man standing looking down upon them, his arms folded.
Then, from the midst of those rescuers, there rode forward one who was, undoubtedly, in command of them-the rich justaucorps with its gold gallooning and flammes d'or showing that he who wore it belonged to the nobility-who called up to Andrew standing above.
"Sir, are you the owner of this unfortunate house?" while, as he spoke, he raised his hand to his thick, three-cornered felt hat.
"Nay, sir. Yet am I the last man left alive in it. But if you will, or can, rescue us from our perilous position, for there are two women here as well as I-"
But, as he spoke, he noticed that his questioner's attention had been withdrawn from him by several of his followers, all of whom appeared to be speaking earnestly to their leader, while at the same time they directed their eyes up to Andrew, as did that leader also a moment later. Then the latter said, or rather called up to him again:
"Sir, my men here tell me strange news. I cannot think but that they are mistaken. Yet they aver it is not so, and you can soon decide. They say that you are of our army, of the English auxiliary force, and fought for us recently."
"'Tis true, sir. I was of the English Regiment under Colonel Churchill, and am on leave of absence. And," pointing to where some of the English and Scotch were now making their way towards the house, "there are some who should know me, seeing that we fought side by side. But, monsieur, the fire gains rapidly, if the wind shifts a point it will soon reach here; I beseech you lose no time in effecting our rescue. We have had a terrible night of it, and-once I am with you-I have a marvellous story to tell."
The rescue was not effected for still some two hours, while, during the passage of that time, the fire in the south wing crept ever nearer and nearer towards the one on which Andrew and the two others were. At last, however, it was accomplished. And thus it was done.
Leaving Marion in the charge of Clemence, and observing that she seemed somewhat easier now, though all that she had gone through during the night, the excitement of the past few days, the terror of the burning house, and the exposure to the cold of the early morning, had undoubtedly brought her very near her end, he descended once more to the garret and, through it, to the floor below. This was still untouched by the fire, and it seemed indeed as though, should the flames from the south wing be prevented from spreading, or should they by any chance become extinguished, that portion of the house would not be destroyed. Then he went on farther down, reaching at last the top of the first floor, and standing over the gulf left yawning by the falling in of the great oak stairs.
It was here that his further descent was impeded, though, had the fire not still been smouldering below, he could perhaps have escaped easily enough: could have leaped down on to all the fallen débris that was heaped up a dozen feet beneath him, have attempted a way across it to the open doorway-bereft now of its huge double-door, which had been chopped off its hinges by the besiegers and hurled on as fresh fuel to feed the flames-have possibly forced his way out thus to safety and freedom.
But, now, at this time, no such attempt was wise-not wise, even had he been alone and unencumbered with Marion Wyatt and Clemence.
For, although the fire no longer blazed up from the centre of that hall, although from the vast heap beneath him there rose only the slow-curling, grey smoke that told of what was smouldering beneath, he knew that, to spring into its midst yet, would be to spring into a seething, still burning mass, to hurl himself into a vast heap of charred embers-to be choked, burnt, suffocated beyond any hope of recovery.
The way was not to be found there!
He went, therefore, rapidly along the gallery of that floor on the west side in hopes of finding, perhaps, some other descent, some escalier de service, or back stairs, by which escape might be made. But there was none, or, if there had ever been any, it must have existed in the north wing, which was long since entirely destroyed, or in the south, which was on fire-or perhaps the front, which was unreachable.
"There is but one way," he told himself, "one way left. From some window. I must bring the women down here, find somehow the opportunity of lowering them to the ground. Yet 'twill be no easy task. This stone basement is high, was once the whole height of the house-was the house itself. Laurent told me-'tis far to the ground from here."
It was, indeed; the windows of the rooms that opened off the corridor he was now on being fully thirty-five feet from the ground. A height to appal a man who had to lower two almost helpless women-one certainly helpless-from it to the earth; a man who had also not so much as a cord in his possession wherewith to do so. Yet that, he thought, could be overcome, provided for. The cavalry men outside might catch the women in their arms as he lowered them; if they sat close upon their horses and near together under the windows from which he let down Marion and Clemence, at his-and their-full arms' length, the distance would not be so much to fall. But entering the room nearest to him, in which, to his horror, he found Beaujos, the steward, lying dead in a bed-no doubt he had been keeping that bed since the injuries he had received in Andrew's encounter with him when he and Marion made their first attempt to escape, and had been suffocated while lying there forgotten-another obstacle presented itself. Outside the small diamond-paned lattice windows, themselves a strong barrier to any exit, with their leaden framework for the small panes, and with small stone columns dividing each window into three compartments, he noticed at once that they were strongly guarded by iron bars crossed both horizontally and perpendicularly. He tried another room-it was the same, both as regarded bars outside and stone columns within; was indeed a counterpart of the first. They offered no chance.
"Curse these Lorraine wolves," he muttered to himself, as he rushed to a third room, "they protected themselves well. Did indeed mean that none should get into their house, or, being in, should ever get out again."
The third room was as useless as the first for his purpose, and-there was but one more left! If that was the same, God only knew how the escape could ever be made, unless it was back across the chasm, the way he had come. Could that be done, he mused, as now he approached the fourth room. Was that possible? If one, or a dozen, of the men outside should proceed to the brink of the chasm, fasten a rope to the tree as he and Laurent had done-if-
"Ha! the chance is here," he exclaimed, breaking off in his calculations. "Here. Here. It must be."
He had entered the fourth room-in this case he had to burst the door open by hurling himself against its stout oak panels, since it was locked-and, in doing so, found the chance of which he spoke.
The window was of the same form as the others, but it had been subjected to some great violence and was much damaged by the shock; the slim columns were broken quite out of base and socket, the shattered fragments of the stone lay on the floor and, with them, lay, too, the leaden framework of the diamond panes, and most of the panes themselves. The violence had come from outside-later on, Andrew learnt that, during the night attack, a petard carried by the besieging Lorrainers-one of a number brought by them to assist in destroying the house-had been hurled against that window and had blown it in. Yet, when this had been accomplished, their object had failed. The window was too high from the ground to allow of their obtaining entry, and the petard, after bursting it open, had fallen back, doing no further damage.
Still, it had performed a service never dreamt of by the Lorrainers-it had provided a way for the escape of those three prisoners in the burning house.
The cavalry men, who had by now been joined by those belonging to the English and Scotch auxiliaries, were all upon that side of the mansion-since 'twas there, above, that they had first perceived the form of Andrew outlined against the threatening morning clouds-and as his head appeared through the shattered window they hailed him with a shout. Also from those of his own countrymen, as well as from the Scotch, came noisy greetings. Some had stood side by side with him in other campaigns than these; all had seen his prowess at Entzheim and honoured him for it.
"Yet," called up the young Marquis De La Fare, he being the officer in command, "the height is great. How to descend; how bring the ladies you speak of?" While, as he himself spoke, he bade some of the men search the outhouses they observed near by. Perchance some ladder might be there, by which the window could be reached.
"It may happen," said Andrew, "that I can drop the women to you-yet the distance is almost too great-if they should be missed by your soldiers it would be instant death."
"It is impossible," the other replied. "Yet, have patience-my men seek even now for some means to reach you-if a ladder can be found all will be well. Meanwhile, I counsel you, go bring the ladies to the window. By then the way may have been found."
The advice was good, and Andrew lost no time in following it. Ere a quarter of an hour had passed, Clemence and Marion had been brought down from the roof, and were with him in the room. But, almost he feared that ere they should be rescued Marion would be a dead woman. She was nearly helpless now-nay, quite so, and half insensible; it was in those great, untiring arms that she had to be carried from the roof below.
And behind them had followed Clemence, muttering:
"She will die. She will die." While as she so said she wept.
That she would die, Andrew could not doubt; this last shock, following on the long detention she had been subjected to by her deceiver, De Bois-Vallée; following on, too, the agony of mind she must have suffered in musing on what those at home would feel at her disappearance; had brought her to her end. He could not doubt it.
"And still," he murmured to himself, "Philip is unavenged. Soon there will be two victims of his villainy. God! how I have failed. Failed to avenge him, to save her-failed even to learn how the evil was wrought. And if she dies now-to-day-to-night-I shall never know."
Yet, even as he so spoke, there came into his face a look which would have told plainly enough to anyone observing it, that, in one thing, at least, he would not fail. If ever De Bois-Vallée stood face to face with Andrew Vause again, he would escape no more with life-the hour when he did so would be his last. Only-would he ever so stand? Might he not by now have put leagues between them; might he not ere long put the mountains, the seas, between him and the avenger who sought for him!
As Andrew gazed below from the window of the room in which they were now, he learnt that no ladder was to be found, either in outhouse or elsewhere. If there had ever been one it had been removed, probably by the Lorrainers; had possibly been used by them to furnish fresh fuel for the flames inside. But, even as the men who returned from the search told the Marquis De La Fare of their failure, from another group who had wandered further into the woods around the house there came a shout-it seemed of triumph and rejoicing. Then, quickly, one came running back, breathless, and soon the story was told of what they had lit upon.
A shed not far from the mansion, hidden in one of the copses of Bois-le-Vaux; a house used by the woodmen for storing the felled logs of trees-a house piled full of what was, doubtless, the winter store of fuel-doubtless, also, overlooked by and unknown to the besiegers. Otherwise, for sure, all in that but would have gone to swell the flames-the attackers would not have laboured to hew down saplings and branches had they known of that store so near to their hands.
Now, it was to be directed to a vastly different purpose-to save instead of to destroy. By twos and threes, by squads as well, those men who, for nights, had scarce rested during that weary and rough passage of the mountains, set to work once more, bringing one by one, or half a dozen at a time between them, the logs to the spot beneath where those three prisoners were; untiringly they worked. And so they placed them against the window from which Andrew gazed, making first a deep base of the larger billets, edged round and secured by fallen masses of stone and beams from the old house, and then building others above, pyramid-wise, until, at last, the work was done.
Until, at last, the stage was erected on to which those three could step forth to safety and salvation. To which two of them, at least, could step forth, but on to which the other, the dying woman, had to be lifted.