CHAPTER I.

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Upon a pleasant knoll or hillock, not very far from Rennes, in
that most beautiful department of France, which takes its name
from the Vilaine, on the post-road from Chateaubriant to La
Guerche, the traveller passes through the little hamlet of Martign
è. It is but a small place, even now, and in the times of which
I write—the dark and bloody days of Mazarin—it was little more
than a cluster of white washed cottages, grouped round an old
gray church, the spire of which rose sharp and slender, above the
foliage of the dense forest, that lay stretched for many a mile
around it. About two miles to the northward of the village, the
causeway, having scaled a steep and rocky hill, descends almost
precipitously toward a strong copious brook, too large to be termed
a rivulet, and, at the same time, too small to aspire to the name of
river; across which it is carried at the height of two hundred feet
above the water, upon a one-arched bridge of Roman brick, the
work of those world-conquerors of old.

From this point, the view is very striking, and even magnificent;
and, as with it are connected many of the incidents which I
propose to record, it will be worth the while to spend a few words
in describing it. Looking up the stream to the right hand, the
ravine, from the water's edge to the level of the bridge, is walled
by perpendicular precipices of black limestone; above these, the
hills slope backward gently—that on the southern side, clothed

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with the thick verdure of the unbroken forest—the other, although
fringed with belts and clumps of wood, and many a single tree of
rare dimensions, cleared as a park or chase, and crowned in the
far distance by the gray towers of a noble castle, half seen above
the evergreens that grace its stately gardens.

In this direction, the view is cut off suddenly at about a mile's
distance, by an abrupt turn of the ravine—which here runs east
and west—due northerly; the southern mountain thrusting its
leafy shoulder forward, and cutting sharp and clear against the
sky. A deep and constant roar, distinctly heard above the murmur
of the winds among the tree-tops, connected with the foaming
whiteness, and arrow-like velocity of the waters when first
they rush into sight, tells of a cataract concealed beyond the curvature
of the gorge, where the brook plunges from a higher level;
and sometimes in calm weather, the spray may be seen floating
slowly upward, or hanging like a gauzy veil among the woodlands.

Downward to the left hand, the scenery is milder; and the
glen expands gradually, till at the distance of a league, or perhaps
something more, it opens into a wider valley; in which its
brook unites itself with a larger stream, and rolls away to join the
broad Vilaine. Here, on both sides the gorge, the forest gradually
breaks away; first into scattered timber, and low brushwood, and
beyond that into cultivated fields and open commons. Here, too,
as in the opposite direction, the eye is attracted by the peaked roofs
and belfries of an old chateau, placed on the tongue of land between
the meeting waters, among wide level meadows sheltered
by belts of noble elm trees; so that the accidents, as a painter
would term them, of the scenery, tell almost as plainly as words,
what is in fact the case—that the brook separates the contiguous
estates of two of those great feudal nobles, whose power it was the
policy of Mazarin, at the period of my narrative, to break down
and annihilate. One thing alone remains to be noticed, that a
small horse-path, scarce wide enough for one to go abreast, wound
up the dell, between the boiling waters and the black precipice,
and turning round the northern hill seemed to lead upwards to
the foot of the cataract.

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Such was indeed the fact; and we will follow it for a little space,
dear reader, and look upon the wonders, which are hidden from
the eye of the gazer from the bridge above.

Immediately above the turn, the brook spreads out into a broad
round basin, walled in on every side, by precipices so abrupt and
overhanging, that nothing can be seen of the slopping hills above,
except the lowest tier of the tall oaks and ashes, which feather
their rude sides, and these dwindled to shrubs by distance.

Over this mighty barrier the brook leaps at two plunges, each of
a hundred feet at least; the first clear and unbroken, and so deep
that it reflects the color of the skies above it, varying from azure to
the deepest green, and thence to the star-sprinkled hues of midnight;
the other broken and dashed into a thousand streamlets,
white as the mane of a snowy charger, and scattered at the
bottom into a cloud of spray, arched often by the iris colors of the
sunbow.

Beneath, the pool round and round, sullen and black and deep,
with here and there a foam-bead on its dark eddies, till, as it
turns the angle, it again rushes down a flight as it were of shelving
ledges, and is again lashed into foam and fury. Beyond
this, there is now no path, but there may still be seen, nestling
into a niche scooped out from the black rocks close to the cataract,
the ruins of what seems to have been once a mill, and something
that resembles a decayed and ruined staircase, mounting
as far as to the platform whence bounds the second fall.

At the day when my narrative commences, those ruins were
as picturesque an object, though in complete and orderly preservation,
as ever gladdened the gaze of wandering artist—a long
low stone-built cottage, with a huge roof of weather-beaten
thatch, all overrun with lichens and yellow-flowering, stone-crop,
projecting at the caves so far as to form a rustic portico, supported
by rude wooden columns, covered with vines and woodbine—
at one end, black and dripping, stood the tall overshot wheel,
that set the stones in motion, with a long wooden trough above
it, propped upon timbers morticed into the solid rock, conducting
a small thread of water from the platform to drive the rude machinery.
There was one window in the gable, next the wheel,

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which overlooked the pool; but in the front, besides the flourwhitened
door of the mill, there were four bright and cheerful lattices,
and a hatch doorway; for the mill was the miller's dwelling
likewise.

At the opposite end was the rustic staircase, with a slight balustrade
of rough oak branches, by which the rocky platform could
be reached, and the supply of water cut off or turned on, at the
pleasure of the machinist. Here the path ended on that side the
water; but on the farther bank, a zigzag path Lad been scarped
out of the precipice's face, with no small labor; and, as it was
protected on the outer side by iron chains and stanchions, it would
appear to have been made solely to enable persons from above to
reach the best point of view, without the trouble of crossing the
bridge and descending the stream several miles, to reach the
opening of the other road into the valley—which was rendered yet
more probable, in that the path terminated at a little circular recess,
with a stone bench, immediately in front of the lower fall,
and gave no access to the valley.

Such was the mill of Martignè, at the period when Mazarin's
persecution of the Huguenots was at the height; and when France
had been filled, by the revocation of the edict of Nantes, with
all the horrors of intestine and fanatic warfare. This most impolitic
and arbitrary measure had been some time promulgated;
many arrests of important personages, and some executions, for
obstinate adherence to the forbidden faith, had taken place already;
and for the most part, throughout France, the Protestant nobility
had either taken up arms, or were in the act of mustering their
vassals in defiance of the weak monarch and despotic minister;
while the adherents of the old religion were armed or arming for
the destruction of the persecuted remnant.

Nor was it public and religious rancor only, that were at work
in that fair realm; for, as must ever be the case in civil warfare,
family feuds and private enmities had their full sway; and jealousy,
or avarice, or lust, oftentimes aimed the blow which was attributed
to loyalty or zeal; and many a private murder was committed
upon the field of public strife.

In the department of Vilaine, war had not as yet broken out,

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nor had arrests been made on the score of religion; probably because,
of the authorities of Rennes, several of the most prominent
were of the obnoxious faith; and because most of the high nobility
and gentry in that province were, more or less openly, of the
same creed; and so presented a front too powerful to be attacked
without mature and deliberate preparation.

One of this number was Charles de Martigne, the owner of the
castle I have mentioned as situated on the summit of the hill above
the cataract; to which, indeed, his chase sloped downward;—the
stream above that barrier, flowing all tranquilly and clearly, along
the southern verge of his fair lawns and terraced gardens. While
the lord of the other chateau which we saw from the bridge, some
three miles to the westward, Achille de Roudun, was noted through
the province as the most bigoted Catholic in the west of France;
and one who, if his power were equal to his will, would probably
be the bitterest persecutor of the proscribed religionists.

Both were young men; both wealthy and accomplished; and
as yet, neither had carried arms in actual warfare, for they had
been too youthful—being, indeed, mere children, during the sanguinary
conflicts of the preceding reign, known as the “Battles
of the League.” It was supposed, indeed, throughout the land,
that should occasion show itself, the lords of Martigne and Roudun
were not unlikely, aud would not be unwilling, to be opponents
in a more real warfare than that which had been waged
between them in the courts of Rennes; and which might be termed,
not inaptly, a feudal and hereditary law-suit.

It had been rumored, too, that they were rivals in a different and
far more interesting suit: for the affections, namely, of the sweet
Isabel of Issengeaux, an orphan cousin of De Roudun—who, under
the protection of her aunt, the young lord's mother, had been
an inmate of his chateau, since, at her father's death, she was
forced to leave her native home, among the wild glens and volcanic
peaks of beautiful Auvergne.

Report said, too, that if her cousin had the advantage of opportunity
and constant intercourse, Isabel still smiled more sweetly
on De Martigne; and that her heart had been freely yielded, although
her hand might never be, to the young and gallant

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Huguenot. Men argued, therefore, though the young men had never
yet appeared in any other light than that of neighbors and acquaintances,
if not familiar friends, that they would feel no great
reluctance at any event, which might bring their cause to the arbitration
of the sword; and the old gossips whispered, as they shook
their knitted brows, that the De Rouduns had, in all ages, been
good haters; and that the present lord was no degenerate descendant
of a house famed for its bitterness and pride.

It was a still and lovely summer's evening, as ever smiled upon
the face of earth a portion of the bliss of heaven. The green trees
waved aloft in the clear yellow sunshine, while a soft wind from
the westward whispered among their swaying branches. The
gray rocks, even, seemed to share the genial influences of the time
and season, for many a gorgeous wild flower glittered, self-sown,
among their rifted crevices; and many a briar-rose hung its
flaunting pennants from their tall peaks, and the green ivy clothed
their buttresses with its rich umbrage.

The upper fall gleamed blue as steel under the cloudless sky,
and a bright bow spanned the pure whiteness of the cataract below,
as the slanting rays streamed up the pass from the west,
which glowed one sheet of gold. The tall mill-wheel stood silent,
the doors were closed, and the shut lattices gleamed back the radiant
sunbeams through the luxuriant cresses that waved round
them. No smoke curled upward from the chimnies, announcing
that the evening meal was preparing; no voice of women, warbling
at their light labor, came from the cottage; no hum of
childish laughter. All appeared empty and deserted, and not a
sign of life was on the premises, except an old gray cat, which lay
dozing in the sunshine under the portico, too fat and lazy to
be considered an efficient or watchful guardian to the stores of
the miller.

On a white stone beside the wheel, a king-fisher sat watching for
the small-fry in the mill-race; a dozen martins were twittering and
sailing round the eaves, and twice as many swallows skimmed the
dark pool beneath the cataract, in pursuit of their insect prey;
and, all the while, heard clear and musical above the bass of the
waterfall, the joyous carol of the thrush came from the bushes that

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grew here and there among the limestone ledges—but sound or
sight of man, there was none in that lovely solitude.

Perhaps half an hour elapsed before any change took place. The
kingfisher had dived twice unsuccessfully, and, at the third attempt,
had caught an unfortunate minnow, which he was leisurely
devouring on his rock; when, suddenly, he cocked his head, as if
alarmed by some distant sound; and, taking wing almost instantly,
glanced like a flying turquoise across the basin, and was, in a moment,
hid in some cavity of the bold shore.

Directly afterward, the clank of a horse's hoofs was audible upon
the stony road: and, the next minute a gentleman came into sight,
mounted on a powerful gray horse. He was quite young—not,
seemingly, above twenty-three or twenty-four years old; and
eminently handsome, with rich brown hair and a short pointed
beard, such as we see in the portraits of Vandyke. His forehead,
which was the most striking feature of his face, was high—and
not that only, but very broad and solid—conveying the idea, instantly
to the beholder, of powerful capacity and sound intellect,
not all ungraced by fancy. The general expression of his features
was gay, and even joyous; but there was nothing light or trivial in
the character of his gayety; and there was, at times, an air of
thought that cast a shade of gravity, and even sternness, over a
face wont to beam with good feeling and benevolence.

He was dressed richly, though not gaudily, in the fashion of the
day—a fashion which admitted many articles, now appropriated
only to the softer sex, into the mode of man's apparel. Velvets
and silks, ruffles of lace, and Ostrich feathers, and floating locks,
curled like the ringlets of a girl, were worn in those days, by all of
gentle birth. But, although most of these materials were exhibited
in the apparel of the cavalier, they were worn in such a
manner, and so harmonized in their grave dark hues, that they
conveyed no suspicion of effeminacy in the character of the
wearer.

He had a heavy basket-hilted sword in a steel scabbard at his
side, and there were pistols in his velvet-covered holsters; but no
servants followed him, although few gentlemen, at that time, were
accustomed to ride out without the company of half-a-dozen

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armed retainers. His seat and hand upon his horse were perfect;
and, though the path was both narrow and uneven, running close
to the edge of the narrow stream, and, in some places, slippery
with the spray of the cataract, he cantered onward as easily as if
he had been riding over a smooth lawn or gravelled road.

After a minute or two from his first appearance he reached the
little space before the cottage door; and, pulling up his horse,
sprang lightly to the ground, calling out as he did so, first gently,
and then, as he received no answer, in louder tones: “Ho! miller!
miller! what, Martin Guerne! Peste! this is most unfortunate!
Ho! miller! miller! miller!”

His voice, with the concluding words, was raised to a pitch so
high and clear, that it resounded through the rocky amphitheatre
distinctly audible above the deep roar of the falling water,
and must have reached the ears of any one within the mill or the
cottage. Then, finding that he met no answer but from the ringing
echoes, the young nobleman fastened his horse to a staple in
one of the pillars, and lifting the latch of the door, looked into the
little kitchen; but, though quite clean and in perfect order, it was
evident, at a glance, that no one had been there for some time; for
the wood-fire had died completely out, and the decayed brands
lay scattered over the hearth, where they had fallen, and become
extinct.

With a look of disappointment the young man turned away;
unhooked the rein from the staple, and had already set his foot
into the stirrup, when he was delayed, and his purpose altered by
a voice of extraordinary depth and power calling to him from
above:

“Hold! hold! Count Charles: you were wont to be more patient.
I will be with you presently.”

“Oh! that is well,” answered the young lord. “I should have
been vexed enough to miss you, Martin;” and, with these words,
he raised his eyes to the direction whence the sound proceeded;
and, not a little to his surprise, saw the man whom he sought standing
upon the rocky ledge or platform, whereon the first pitch of
the torrent dashed itself into sheets of foam; although he was
quite sure, that, a moment previously, no person had been there,

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and that his own voice, from the first, must have been perfectly
audible to one in that position. There he stood now, however,
with an axe in his hand, looking down upon the youth as if he had
seen or heard nothing of his approach till that moment. Immediately,
however, he turned, and, passing rapidly across the ledge
of limestone, came down the steps, and quickly stood beside his
visitor.

Martin Guerne, or, as he was more usually styled in the neighborhood,
the Miller of Martigne, was a personage in himself too
remarkable, and one who played a part too prominent in the
events to which my narrative relates, to suffer us to pass him
over in silence, or with slight notice.

He was, then, in the first place, remarkable for his extraordinary
stature, being, in fact, almost a giant; for, as he stood beside the
young Count Charles de Martigne, who was, himself, a tall man—
measuring, at least, five feet eleven—he over-topped him by
the whole head and shoulders; and could not have been many
inches short of seven feet. His shoulders were broad in proportion,
and his chest singularly prominent, while his flanks were unusually
thin, and his waist slender for a man of such vast proportions.
There was, moreover, nothing bulky or unwieldy in any
part of his frame; his limbs, although close knit, and muscular,
being as lithe and agile, and his tread as elastic as that of his
young visitor. But on a closer view, when his features were considered
nearly, they rarely, or never, failed to impress those who
saw him with the idea that he was a person of uncommon parts
and qualities, mental as well as corporeal.

His clear, well-opened eye—his broad and solid forehead—and
the bold sincere expression of all his features, were, indeed, true
indications of a mind frank and direct almost to a fault; as was
the firm curve of his well-formed mouth, garnished with strong
white teeth—of a temper as resolute and decided, as it was generous
and mirthful in times of hilarity and recreation. He wore
his hair, which was as black as a raven's wing, in long loose curls—
a fashion in those days rarely followed, save by the gently born;
and a thick, close, curled beard, of the same hue, covered the
whole lower parts of his countenance.

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His dress was the ordinary leathern frock of the French peasant
of the day—which, having recently been cleaned with some
ochrous composition, was of a greenish yellow tint; his head was
covered with a sort of woollen berret, not much unlike the bonnet
of the Scottish lowlander; and his legs and feet were protected by
stout leathern buskins. Such was the aspect of the man, who,
hurrying down the rustic stairway, stood, axe in hand, before the
youthful noble; greeting him with an air of reverence, it is true,
but with an unabashed and free demeanor exceeding uncommon
to the lower orders of that day and kingdom.

“What on earth have you been about up there? and how is it
that you did not hear me call you?” asked Charles de Martigne.
“I have been shouting these ten minutes, till the rocks rang round
about me as if they had been the walls of an opera-house; and
yet you never heard a sound, I fancy. Where had you hid yourself,
good Martin?”

“Never ask, never ask, Count Charles,” replied the sturdy miller,
extending his hand to grasp that of his guest. “There are
some things, always, of which it is better to be ignorant until the
time comes when it is right to know them; and this is one of them.
As for not hearing you, the din of the fall up there, upon that
ledge, is enough to drown the sharpest cry that ever came from
mortal lips. I might have been at work about the conduit there,
or looking after the gray falcon's eyrie in the cliffs, or twenty other
matters; but I trow it was not about these things you have ridden
down hither to consult me, this bright evening.”

“No, indeed, Martin Guerne,” replied the youth. “I wish it
had been; for I have sad, and, at the same time, stirring news for
you. In short, I believe the time is come of which I spoke to you
some weeks ago.”

“Is that all?” answered the miller, gayly, although a grave
shade had come across his features while the count was speaking.
“I am glad of it, then, for my part.”

“Glad of it!” cried the other, recoiling a pace or two, and
speaking in accents of astonishment not unmixed with reproval—
“glad of it! Good God! what do you mean, Martin? Glad
that half France—”

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“Yes! yes! Count Charles,” returned the other; “just that!
I am glad that the affair is coming to open action. Who would
not be glad, I pray you, that the wolf's brood, which had fed, in
the darkness of their inaccessible den, upon the firstlings of his
flock, should crawl out into the clear daylight, where he might
crush them? That's what I mean to say! So you need not look
so wild, count, like a startled charger. I was afraid, at first, that
something had fallen out amiss about Mademoiselle Isabel.”

“No! no!” said Charles; “oh, no! but I must speak to you at
once about these things, and that in private. Where can we be
quite secret?”

“We are so here, for that matter,” answered the miller, “unless
the trout of the stream or the birds of the air convey the
tidings. But wait a moment: I will lead your horse into the
shed, under the staircase there; and then you can come in and talk
with me, over as good a stoup of cider as any in all Normandy.
Come, Oliver! come along, good horse!” he continued, taking
hold of the rein, while the charger laid back his ears and whinnied
playfully, as if he knew the voice; and he led him out of
sight, under the covering of the first flight of steps alluded to
above. In a moment he reappeared, and was about to open the
cottage door, when Charles interrupted him, saying: “But where
is Manette? Where is good commere Guerne? It will never do
for us to talk before them.”

“Manette has gone to pass the day with some of her gossips, at
the village yonder. Some one has died, or married, or been
brought to bed—I don't know which—and there is a merry-making.
She went at the first cock-crowing, and I will warrant her
to tarry late. My mother I sent off, three days since, to pay a
visit to my uncle at St. Maloes—the old smuggler, you know,
count, who—”

“Yes, I know! I know!” interrupted Charles, somewhat impatiently;
“but there is no time now to lose. Let us go in at
once.”

And with these words they entered; and though the miller,
on hospitable cares intent, would fain have renewed the
fire—which the cavernous shadows of the overhanging rocks and

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the spray of the near cataract rendered agreeable even on the
summer evenings—and still more wished to produce his vaunted
cider, the Count de Martigné persisted in refusing, and Martin
was compelled to forego his purpose. Sitting down, then, beside
the table, with his long sword standing erect between his legs,
and his arms crossed upon the board, he motioned his host to
take a seat opposite to him, and said:

“The time has come, as I told you it would, Martin. Are you
of the same mind still?”

“Am I so wont of change, Count Charles, at every gust of
fancy, that you should ask me? No! no! I do not think that you
would readily embark on any wrong career; and I should be sorry
if you would—for, by my soul! I fancy I should follow you even
then. But when I know that your cause is as just and clear as
the sun in heaven, do you think I could ever change, for fear or
favor?”

“I thought thus of you,” answered Charles. “You, at least,
I have never doubted; though I have cause to know that we have
had a traitor in our councils, and that more than a few of our
plans are known.”

“Do you know who—do you know who?” inquired the miller,
starting to his feet, and grasping his broad-axe, as if the traitor
stood within his reach; but the count shook his head, as he replied:

“I do not suspect even! but of this I am informed, by a sure
hand, that the names of all our leaders are made known to Mazarin,
and warrants issued even now for their arrest. A heavy force
of cavalry is on the march to Rennes, under the Baron de St.
Pierre and Monsieur Viosmenil; commissions have been issued
to the Catholic nobles to array their vessels secretly; and within
three days at the farthest, we shall be all arrested in detail in our
own castles.”

“I guessed as much last night,” said Martin Guerne. “I had
some business, an hour or two past midnight, that called me to the
river yonder; and as I went down through the little chase, to the
left hand of the great wood that runs up all the way to La Guerche,
I saw a regular review of horse—above three hundred, I should
think—going on in the moonlight: they manœuvred about as well

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as the royal troops, I assure you, and charged very steadily. Well,
count, I thought it could do no one any harm to see a little more
of it; so I crept along through the scattered bushes—having fastened
my old mare to a great chestnut-tree, with branches sweeping
the ground like a tent—and got close to them; and, sure as death,
Achille de Roudun was their leader—and Henri de La Roche,
Paul d'Armencon, and young Jules de St. Etienne, and the lords
of Pontorson and Dol, were with them as their captains. I knew,
too, a good many of the men—and all I knew were of the persecutors.
There was an officer of the king's, too, who stood a little
way aloof inspecting them; and, if I am not mistaken, it was the
Governor of St. Michael.”

“Ah!” replied Charles, as he ended, “I thought not they had
been so ready. Well, they shall find that we are ready also.
Now, Martin,” he continued, changing the meditative tones in
which he had spoken hitherto for sharp and decided accents, “how
many men can you raise at need—and at what notice?”

“A hundred and ten,” he answered promptly, “within two
hours of the ringing of your ban cloche; and at any hour of the
day or night, within six hours, five hundred. Fix but time and
place, however, and there shall be no failure.”

“And all armed, Martin?” inquired the youthful noble. “I
have full harness ready for some fifty troopers, whom I can muster
from my own household and home-tenants, most of whom have
seen service with my father; but, setting that aside, unless we fall
back on the partizans and halberts, and the plate-armor in the old
knight's hall, I can do little—some dozen muskets or so, perhaps,
and a score or two of steel caps and broadswords.”

“Never care you for that, my lord—my men will be found
ready at a pinch. And if carbines and pistols, broadaxes and
wood-knives be not so regular and seemly arms for infantry as
pikes and muskets, yet in stout hands they can do you very good
service!”

“Be it so! be it so!” answered Charles de Martignè; “we can
soon weapon them more orderly, if it please God. See to it, then,
at once, good miller; there is no time to be lost. Let them be
mustered all, two hours before daybreak of the day after

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to-morrow, in the small meadow, by the ash covert in the thick forest—a
mile, you know, from St. Mary's Well.”

“Why, that is in the seigneurie of Roudun!” answered the
miller—“and within a short mile of the chateau!”

“I know it,” answered Charles—“I know it well; and that is
the reason why I fix on it. Let them be there well armed, and
well prepared with three days' food and thirty rounds, at least, of
ammunition, at two hours before dawn. It were best they should
come together singly, and no earlier than the time that I have mentioned.”

“I see, my lord,” said Martin, “and perhaps understand—but
I shall ask no questions! I will, however, pass the word round instantly,
and have them scattered through the woods within a mile
or so this very night. Then, should you see fit cause to change
your plans, strike one note on the ban cloche for attention; then
strike the hour, counting by twenty-four from midnight until midnight,
at which you would have us meet; and then, after a pause,
a single note for every day that shall pass before the meeting.
Come no more hither, if you can help it. Should you want
sudden aid at the chateau, six quick, short notes will bring you
fifty men within ten minutes; and ten notes, all that we can muster
within two hours. Do you quite understand, sir?”

“I do—I do,” said Charles; “but I shall not change my mind,
unless I am forced to it by events. My plan is to make De Roudun
and all the other lords my prisoners, before the time at which
the royal horse can be at Rennes; and to join with our friends,
whom I shall speedily advise of my intentions, at once. We can
I think, make up twelve hundred foot and some three hundred
horse within six days; and if we can surprise the leaders here, the
others will not dare to rise without them—nor will the royal
horse venture to act unless supported by the neighboring Catholics!”

“It is well thought of,” replied Martin; “yet may it all fail
easily. I would we knew the traitor—I think it is not one of my
men. I would —I would we knew!”

“And I,” said Charles; “but as that seems impossible at
present, we must do as we best can, trusting as few as possible.”

[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]

“Trust none—trust none, Count Charles!” the miller said, interrupting
him; for heaven's sake, trust none, count! Breathe
not, even in your sleep, the purport of your gathering, nor hint to
your own followers that you expect men from me. If you must
see me, send out your surest man to blow three notes upon a horn,
by the great pine-tree on the hill behind the house, and I will find
means to converse with you right shortly. I have eyes and ears in
the green-wood everywhere; and since I last spoke with you, I
have smelt danger in the wind—though not this danger altogether—
and have provided for it. One word more: be not surprised,
nor think it strange, whatever messenger I send to you, or in
what guise soever, ask him but this—`When rests the mill-wheel?'
if he reply—`When the hawk flies at midnight,' believe whatever
he shall tell you, follow wherever he shall lead, but do you tell
him nought!”

“Be it so, miller!” said the young man. “Be sure I will remember.
But, tell me—tell me, what did you fear or fancy, concerning
the young lady whom you mentioned?”

“And whom you love, Count Charles!” replied the miller, laughing.
“Nay, never blush for it, count! she is as sweet and beautiful
a lady as any in all France—and as good, too, as she is beautiful,
my life on it! For the rest, whatever I may fear or fancy, be
sure that you can in no wise avert—and that I can, and will!
And now, go your way, count—go your way, and meet her in the
yew walk, by the nun's well, as you told her you would at evensong,
last night!”

“How know you that—how know you that?” exclaimed Charles,
very angrily; but ere he had time to say any more, the miller interrupted
him, with a gay smile upon his face:

“Green leaves have ears, Count Charles, as well as stone walls;
but, I pray you, look not so darkly and suspiciously—he who
heard had no thought of seeing you at all, howbeit he might have
deemed it well to watch, unseen, over the lady's safety; and, count,
he never told it!”

“Not to thee?”

“Not to me, even—does that satisfy you? but if it do not, you
must ask me no more, for I neither may nor will tell you. Now I

[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]

will get your horse, and do you as I tell you. Ride away straight,
and meet her; and whatever you may tell her, tell her not one
word of that I have now said, as you value your own life, or—
what I suppose you think you hold yet dearer—your love's welfare!”

As he spoke he went out, and soon reappeared at the cottage
door, leading the young lord's charger; and Charles, after pacing
uneasily to and fro the little parlor, during the absence of his host,
and exclaiming anxiously:

“Strange! this is very strange, and disagreeable!” looked up;
and, seeing the bold, frank visage of his host at the door, smiled,
and said, “I will trust you, Martin Guerne—I will trust you!”
and with the words he sprang to his charger's back.

“You may, my lord,” answered the miller; and with that De
Martignè rode away swiftly, and was soon out of sight; but Martin
Guerne gazed after him a long time, with a wistful and half
melancholy eye, and shook his head forebodingly, before he passed
into the cottage, closed the door, and barred it strongly after him.

CHAPTER II.

[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]

At about the same time, when Charles de Martignè made his appearance
at the mill, two ladies sat, in earnest conversation, in a
large oriel parlor of the chateau of the Count de Roudun. It was
a gay and pleasant room, situate in the north-western angle of the
building, with a large embayed window on each of two sides—
that to the north overlooking the rivulet described above, that
to the west commanding its junction with the large stream which
came from the southward, and the long valley down which the united
waters flowed to join the distant Vilaine just visible on the
horizon.

That was a fair and gentle scene: deep fertile meadows, sheltered
by clumps and belts of noble elm trees, spotted with groups of
sheep or cattle, with here and there a white-walled cottage peeping
out from the shadow of its vines or orchards, and in the remote
distance, veiled by the rising mists of evening, the spires
and turrets of the little town from which the lords of the mansion
derived their revenues and title. In the recess, formed by this
western window, was it that the two ladies I have mentioned sat,
as it were, to catch the pleasant warmth of the evening sunshine,
tempered by the soft western breeze.

One of these ladies—both of whom bore in their persons those
indescribable but certain indications of aristocracy, which are unquestionably
the results, if not of high birth itself, at least of that
high mental culture which accompanies it—was far advanced in

[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]

years, although she still retained the traces of considerable beauty.
She was a mild and gentle-looking woman, with soft blue eyes,
and hair, which, although now very gray, had been originally of a
rich light brown; and features, the almost inspired sweetness of
which was surpassed only by the benevolence which constantly
beamed from them.

The other was a beautiful girl of eighteen or twenty years—tall,
delicate, and slender, yet with every rounded limb developed to the
glowing fullness of young womanhood. Her hair which was singularly
luxuriant, was black as night—as were the pencilled brows,
and long soft silky lashes, that curtained her bright eyes; and very
bright they were, and, what is certainly not common to her country,
or her complexion—which was that of a pale, clear brunette,
with scarce a shade of color in her cheeks—they were of the lightest
and most lustrous shade of blue.

Features it is not easy to describe so as to convey any true idea:
perhaps it is not possible to do so. Suffice it to say, therefore, that
hers were very, very beautiful; and though not strictly Grecian,
approaching nearly to the standard of the classical ideal. They
were full, too, of a bright and flashing life, that spoke volumes of
the high intellect which gave its inspiration to that fair clay which
so befittingly enshrined it. It appeared, also, that the habitual expression
of those lineaments must be of gay and joyous animation;
for, although they were now overcast by a grave and melancholy
shadow, there was nothing in the lines of the face that showed like
anything of settled gloom, but, on the contrary, all told of woman
mirth and gentle gayety.

“No! no!” she said, “dear aunt—I might almost say, dear
mother!—you must not press me on this matter. Believe me, if
it were possible at all, that I should be too glad to do anything
that would give you and my cousin Achille pleasure, and tend in
aught to wipe away the great debt of gratitude which I owe you.
But surely, surely, when, after this, I say that it is impossible, you,
as a woman—as one who has been a wife, and, I have heard, a
happy one—must understand me.”

“Perhaps I do, Isabel,” replied Madame de Roudun, with a
faint, sad smile; “but I would rather not do so: and I hope, too,

[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]

dear girl—I hope that you may be mistaken in your own feelings.
Youth is impetuous, I know, and often says—ay, and feels too—
that thing to be impossible to-day, which it does willingly to-morrow.
Besides, it may be, perchance, that a mother's partiality
blinds me. I cannot imagine, how Achille—so handsome, so accomplished,
so brave, and, above all, so devoted—should be an object
of dislike to any one.”

“Oh, not dislike, sweet aunt,” said Isabel, interrupting her impetuously—
“oh, for the love of God! do not say such a cruel word
as dislike. No! no! I know that he is all you say—accomplished,
handsome, young, brave, kind—oh, too kind! too kind to one who
never can repay his kindness. But may not this well be?—nay,
was it not even so with yourself? Were there not many others
as brave, as handsome, as deserving in all things—nay, perhaps,
more so in the eyes of others—as the late Count de Roudun,
whom, for your own soul's salvation, you could not have loved as
a wife should love? Tell me this, aunt, before you speak so harshly
to your poor Isabel. Nay, tell me more: is it not your son's
happiness at which you aim, in pressing his suit thus upon me?
and do you fancy, for a moment, that you would further that, in
winning to his bridal bed an unresponsive and reluctant maiden?
Oh, aunt! believe me—if his love, as you say, be true and constant,
and founded on esteem and reason, no curse so bitter could fall on
him as to wed one who does not, cannot return that deep soul fraught
affection; and if it be but passion, remember that the charms on
which that dotes alone, fade rapidly away, and leave but a desert
waste behind. Oh, in congenial natures only can union be attended
by true bliss! and ours, in all things, are most uncongenial!
I love my cousin dearly, but as a cousin only—too dearly,
though you will not believe it, to mar all his happiness on earth
by giving him a cold, unwilling, and unloving wife.”

She paused, and as she paused her mood was altered; for, when
she first began to speak, there was a glow of impatience on her
pale cheek—a flash of indignant fire in her blue eye; but, as she
went on speaking, her voice, which had betrayed at first the quickness
of her feelings, showed less and less excitement; and the glow
faded from her cheek, and the brief fire died in her glance, till,

[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]

when she ceased, her face was paler than its wont, and her beautiful
blue eyes swam in tears, seemingly soon about to overflow the
deeply-curtained lids, which, by a mighty effort, tremblingly restrained
them.

Her aunt, who had watched her every motion while she uttered
this her pathetical expostulation, and weighed every word as it
fell from her lips, looked her full in the face for a moment as she
addressed her, and then said, in cold but not unkindly tones:

“This is all very well, and very true; but there is something
more than this, Isabel.”

“There is—there is!” she exclaimed, passionately, clasping her
hands together and bur ting into tears. “There is something
more, that sets a bar between us that cannot be removed or broken;
but do not—oh! I implore you, do not ask me to tell you
what!”

“I have no need to ask,” Madame de Roudun answered; “I
know it without asking, Isabel. You love another!”

“It is not that I mean,” replied Isabel, without a moment's hesitation,
although her tears ceased instantly to flow, and she blushed
crimson—“it is not that, upon my honor! But, if it were, would
you have married M. de Roudun, loving another; or, loving him
as you did love him, would the whole universe have bribed you to
love any one beside? Nay, more—if I did love another, would
you, I say, wish me to give my hand, my person, to your son, when
my heart were in that other's keeping?”

“Your words but confirm what I suspected. But whom—whom,
Isabel? Can it be that you love Charles de Martigue? Oh! I
trust not, indeed! for were it so, I should tremble. Oh, say it is
not so, dear Isabel!”

“For shame! for shame! aunt Gabrielle,” the young girl interrupted
her; “your heart should tell you that this is neither fair
nor womanly. I pledged my word and honor to you, that I meant
nothing of that kind at all; and now I swear to you that, though
there were not on the face of the whole earth another man alive,
I could not be the wife of Achille de Roudun. That ought to
satisfy you.”

“But it does not—it does not satisfy me! What is this barrier

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

you speak of so fixedly? I have a right to ask, and I insist on
knowing it.”

“Then, if it must be so, it must,” replied Isabel, turning very
pale. “I may not deny your authority—for you have been to
me, indeed, a mother. But once more, I implore you, do not—
oh! do not ask me.”

“Is it, then, so disgraceful?” asked Madame de Roudun, fixing
upon her a stern and penetrating glance. “I know but one thing
that can be such a bar, as you mention, why any lady should not
wed with the Count de Roudun—that she should know herself unworthy
to be the wife of a man of honor!”

She spoke with a grave and sad air, as if she indeed believed,
or suspected, that she had fallen on the true exposition of Isabel's
reluctance; but she had little calculated on that fair and gentle
maiden's spirit, if she expected a reply in form to so degrading a
surmise.

The clear flood rushed in a torrent hot as lava, to brow, neck,
and bosom—nay, even to the slender hands—ay, to the fingers'
ends of the indignant girl; and her eyes flashed—not with a momentary
spark—but with a strong and concentrated fire; and she
sprang to her feet, and flung her arms abroad, and cried in accents
clear and sustained, and thrilling as the notes of a silver trumpet:

“Me! me! to me!—is it to me you dare say this thing?—to
me, the orphan child of your own sainted sister?—to me, in whose
veins flow the last drops of the high blood of Rohan? Is it
against me that you dare hint dishonor? Oh! pride, pride, pride!
what a base, grovelling fiend art thou, that canst drive a mother,
in revenge of a small, fancied slight to her first-born, to wrong a
hapless orphan—to cast a calumny upon her own sex—a false reproach
on her own race and name! I—I—I—Isabel of Issengeaux,
unworthy? I tell you, Gabrielle de Roudun, if all the blood of
all the noblest born of France's nobles flowed in the veins of your
Achille, he might be proud to take purity like mine unto his
bosom!—ay! and esteem himself the honored one! I trust, from
my soul, I trust, you did not mean this thing that you have spoken—
nay, interrupt me not; for you have made the charge, and must
hear the vindication. You will regret to hear it; my life, and it

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

may be, yours also, hangs on the words I am about to utter. Ten
minutes since, I would have given all but honor, to escape speaking—
now worlds on worlds could not buy my silence. Lady, my
faith is not thy faith; I am a Huguenot! denounce me, if you
will—you shall not slander me! give up my body, if you will, to
the stake—my good name you shall not destroy. I am a Huguenot!
Is there not now a barrier?—is there not now a great gulf
fixed between thy son and me? Speak now, am I unworthy?”

Scarcely had the words, which aroused Isabel to such a flight of
indignant eloquence, fallen from the lips of Madame de Roudun,
before she wished them unspoken; for it need not be said, that she
had not, in truth, entertained for one moment the smallest doubt of
her niece's purity or truth; for, if there was one quality more than
another, for which Isabel of Issengeaux was remarkable, it was
her entire and absolute truthfulness, which rendered it impossible
for her not only to deceive, but even to conceal the truth, when
even it might be unnecessary or indiscreet to make it public.

It was in vain, however, that she attempted to interrupt or explain;
for the spirit of her niece was thoroughly awakened: and
her woman fame thus underservedly and cruelly attacked, she could
rest content with nothing short of an absolute and unqualified vindication
of her character, which she perceived could only be effected
by the disclosure of her real motives.

Uneasily, then, Madame de Roudun had listened to the words
of Isabel, expecting to hear, at every moment, something which she
would have perferred not to hear—for she felt that she had pressed
her both injudiciously and unfairly; and knowing, as she did, the
nature of her niece's mind, she was nearly sure, almost as soon as
she had spoken, that she would not have implored her so earnestly
on the subject, if it had not, indeed, been better for all parties that
she should keep silence. All this she would have said, if the
impetuosity of Isabel's speech had allowed her to do so; and she
would now as gladly have enforced her silence, as a few minutes
earlier she would have compelled her to speak out.

But now the fatal words were spoken; and as their full import
flashed upon her mind, Gabrielle de Roudun turned as pale as
ashes.

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

“My God! my God!” she exclaimed; “that it were anything
but this! So young, so fair—lost, soul and body! Oh, Isabel!
sweet, dearest Isabel! unsay the dreadful words! Think! think!—
a heretic! an accursed, an excommunicated heretic! I was
wrong—I was too harsh—I never dreamed the possibility of that
wild, cruel accusation; and I deserved—yes! I did deserve to be
punished—and you have punished me—punished me enough, by
the sad fright you have given me! So now, unsay that fatal word.
You shall never be pressed or annoyed any more; you shall do in
all things as you will, altogether; you shall wed whom you choose;
I promise—I swear it to you, Isabel—only, only deny that you are
what you have said—and what for worlds I would not call you!”

And she, too, in general, so calm and self-restrained, was now
all agitated, and dismayed, and tearful; but Isabel, who had listened
to her aunt's disclaimer with an air of grave and sad satisfaction,
now answered firmly, but quietly:

“`Whoso denieth me before men, him also will I deny before
my father which is in Heaven!' I have said it—I am a Protestant;
I have read in the Book of books; grace has been vouchsafed
to me to believe; and not for all that this bright world and
its unnumbered glories may put forth to tempt me, would I be
anything save what I am. Try me not, my beloved aunt—bend
me, you cannot; and to speak more of this, is but to wring our
hearts to no good purpose. Me you have known from my childhood;
and never, I believe, have you known me to turn back from
that which I deem good and right. I have not taken this great
step unthinkingly, nor without wise and pious teaching; and having
taken it, nor hopes nor fears will, I trust, turn me from it.
Would to God that you, too, could think as I think.”

Grievously and terribly as this stroke fell on the heart of Madame
de Roudun, herself a strict and almost bigotted Romanist, she had
yet the good sense to perceive that anger or opposition could avail
nothing here; and sorrowing as she did bitterly at her niece's defection
from a faith, by which only, she believed, eternal happiness
could be attained, she yet determined to let the matter rest where
it was, hoping, although indeed but faintly, that something might
occur to wipe out the impression from the mind of Isabel, which,

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

it was evident, was now too strong upon her to be successfully opposed,
whether by argument or by entreaty.

This seeming acquiescence cost her, however, no slight effort,
as Isabel's disclosure had given her no small or momentary anguish—
for she, in truth, loved her orphan niece very dearly; and
apart from the imminent peril, which as she most religiously believed,
would accrue to her soul through this apostacy—the danger
which she incurred in this world, by the avowal of her adherence
to the forbidden faith, was not a thing to be passed over lightly,
or to cause no just apprehension.

“Oh! Isabel!” she said—“dearest Isabel! your words have
made me very, very wretched!” and bursting into a flood of passionate
tears herself, she caught the fair girl round the waist, and
clasped her to her bosom; “nevertheless, it was my fault, all.
Pardon me, Isabel, for I did not mean to hurt you; nor did I,
for one second, doubt or suspect you. What prompted my harsh
evil words I know not; pardon me, only, dearest, even as I forgive
the pain and anguish which these, your words have caused me:
and, above all things, promise me never to say what you have this
day owned to me, to Achille de Roudun!”

“Why? why not?” exclaimed Isabel, in somewhat of astonishment:
but instantly recollecting herself, she continued: “but
never mind, I promise it! so long as no higher duty interfere, I
will never tell him;” and, as she spoke, she returned her aunt's
embrace; and she wept likewise, affected partly by the anxiety of
the past scene, and partly by the evident emotion of one who had
for years, been a mother to her unfriended childhood: and many
minutes passed before they ceased to mourn, each on the other's
bosom, or began to recover anything of serenity or calmness.

Suddenly, while they were thus employed, the clatter of a horse's
hoof was heard on the gravel road without, and the next minute a
young gentleman rode rapidly past the windows, followed by several
large dogs, and two or three serving men.

“Here is Achille!” exclaimed Madame de Roudun; “calm yourself,
Isabel, and wipe away your tears, or he will soon see that
something is the matter.”

“No! no!” replied the girl; “I will not wait to see him.

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

Indeed, I am not equal to it now:” and with these words she hurried
from the room; and the door by which she vanished, had scarce
closed behind her, before the booted stride of her cousin came hastily
and loudly up to the other, and the latch was turned by a
heavy and impatient hand.

Achille de Roudun was a young man, of about the same age as
his rival, Charles de Martignè, but, as unlike him in appearance
as he was in character and disposition. He was tall, indeed, and
broad-shouldered, but exceedingly spare, and even lean of person—
too much so, indeed, to convey the idea, either of strength or
vigorous constitution. Yet he was strong and sinewy, and full of
nervous energy—enough so even to compensate for the lack of
muscular development, and to render him a match for men apparently
his superiors in elasticity and power.

His limbs, with this exception, were shapely, and well turned;
and his face and expression were such as women are, for the most
part, accustomed to call handsome, though men are apt to deny
their claim to manly beauty. The features were all small and
delicate, and very regular; the skin soft and smooth; and the complexion
of the deepest shade of olive that is ever witnessed in persons
of the European race; the teeth were even and of a pearly
whiteness; the eyes of a soft and lustrous hazel; and the hair,
which was profuse, curled in waving ringlets, black as an Indian's.

His smile, too, was sweet and winning, although at times, it almost
degenerated into an affected sneer; and, in a word, the whole
expression of eye, lip, and feature, was calculated to attract the
admiration of a passing stranger; though certainly not to conciliate
the good opinion of a physiognomist, or to impress him with
a belief in the candor, firmness, or sincerity of the well-favored
youth.

The riding-dress which he wore, though somewhat disarranged
by his recent exercise, was rich, and, perhaps, even gaudy—for it
contained several colors, and these not particularly well assorted;
and was bedecked with a profusion of embroidery, and waving
lace, and ribbons. He had a long sword by his side and wore
riding-boots, which were bespattered with stains of various colors

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

—as if his road had been a long one, and running through many
kinds of soil, and crossing several districts.

His dogs followed him boldly into the rich saloon, and flung
themselves at length, all soiled and panting, on the sumptuous
carpets, while their master unbuckled his rapier, and casting it,
together with his plumed hat, on his mother's work-table, threw
himself into an arm-chair, as if fatigued by his journey, with curled
lip and moody brow; and so remained for several minutes, without
speaking; while Madame de Roudun, gazed anxiously upon him,
with an air of devoted tenderness, not all unmixed with apprehension
and timidity.

“Well!” he said at length, but not apparently without an effort—
“well! mother mine, have you spoken with Mademoiselle Isabel?”

“I have! I have! Achille!” she answered, “and grieved I am
to the heart's core to be obliged to say to you, that, however, it
may tear your heart strings, you must resolve to give her up. It
is no idle whim of Isabel's—it is no womanish caprice of mine, but
a deep, firm conviction, that she never, never can be yours!”

“Why? why?” he interrupted her, almost fiercely; “I say she
shall be mine, and I should like to see who will gainsay me! She
loves another man, I suppose you mean; and what in the fiend's
name care I for that? By Heaven! that is the very cause, why I
the more insist on it. To know that she is dying for another, and
that other, the smooth-tongued hypocritical De Martignè, while
she is forced to yield herself to my caresses—ay, by St. Paul!
and to return them, that were a climax of scornful hate, worthy
the gods themselves! Why, madam mother—why, I say, shall she
not be mine?”

“I may not tell you Achille,” she replied, “but I swear to you,
that I know not, believe not, that she loves any man at all; and
that the cause I spoke of is totally distinct from all thought of love
or dalliance. I swear to you, Achille, dearly although I prize her,
even as if she were my own and only daughter, I would not for the
universe see her your wife.”

“Tush! riddles! riddles! riddles!” he returned furiously; “sermons,
or riddles ever! But, hark ye, madam, in your ear! I am

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

not one to be fooled by the unchaste phantasies of lovesick misses,
or by the superstitious saws of over-virtuous old women! If there
be any real cause, speak; if not, I swear that she shall wed me!”

“Oh, peace!” his mother answered, bursting at once into a
flood of bitter, and almost convulsive weeping; “you know not
what you say, Achille; but I know well what you feel—I can
imagine what it must be to bear the pangs of love unrequited.”

“Love! love!—Ha! ha!” he interrupted her with a fierce,
sneering laugh, that suited ill to his placid, mild features. “Hate!
say hate if you will, madam! By all the powers of darkness! I
hate the very earth she treads on—the proud, vain, cold, contemptuous
coquette! I hate her —God! how bitterly! and therefore—
I say, therefore will I wed her; that she may know what a
hell this fair world may be rendered to a woman! Where is the
minion? In her own chamber, eh!” and without a reply he strode
away, pulling the door to with a degree of violence that made
the windows rattle in their frames; and leaving his mother almost
paralyzed with terror at his strange and unusual demeanor.

After disturbing the whole household, and terrifying Isabel's
maid, a pretty little peasant girl of Auvergne, into fits, by his violence,
he learned that his destined victim had gone out to walk in
the park alone; and provoked yet farther by finding himself unable
to wreak his rage upon her, he hurried down stairs to his own study,
and sending for his head forester, a stout dark-visaged man of forty,
with a hard eye and sinister expression, kept him for some time
closeted with him, giving him orders.

No word of these, however, could be distinguished by the listeners,
of whom there were several on the alert, to discover the
young lord's distemperature; except that, as he dismissed him, one
of the maid-servants heard him say: “Every step that she takes;
every word that she utters; every soul that she speaks to—do you
understand, eh?” To which the man replied: “I warrant me,
sir,” with a look of keen intelligence; and went out at once to
the park, which was now brightly illuminated by the long, level
sunbeams, displaying in its every aspect a peaceful and contented
beauty, as different as possible from the unquiet passions and fierce
cares that possessed the bosom of its owner.

CHAPTER III.

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

Isabel had set forth within ten minutes of the time at which
Achille de Roudun returned from his ride, partly to soothe her
wounded feelings and disturbed spirit by a solitary walk among
the lovely scenery, and under the sweet influences of the twilighthour,
and delicious summer weather; and partly, if truth must be
told, to keep a certain rendezvous under the greenwood bough, as
she had promised to do on the preceding evening.

Those were days, it must be remembered, when manners prevailed
widely at variance with those of the present time—there was
a touch of chivalry yet lingering in the heart of men, although it
had been the consequence, as indeed it had the intention, of the
iron rule of Richelieu, followed by the wilier despotism of his successor,
Mazarin, to crush it altogether; there was a large infusion
of the romantic in the souls of women, and the world had not become
so altogether bitter, calumniating, and censorious; but that
much scope was still permitted to circumstances, and much allowance
made for true love.

It was by no means, therefore, the same thing then for Isabella
d'Issengeaux to go forth at twilight to meet her lover in the green-wood,
as it would be at this day for a young lady to make and
keep an evening assignation. There never was a purer spirit out
of heaven, than that which informed the mortal part of Isabel;
there never lived a maiden, to whom all thoughts of delicate and
native modesty were more instinctive—were more familiar

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

inmates, than to her;—yet there was not a flutter in her pulse, not
a throb in her bosom, stronger or warmer than its wont; not a
blush on her pure and unconscious cheek, as she turned her steps
toward the spot where her Charles awaited her.

It may be that some tremor would have moved her slight frame,
that some doubt would have agitated her innocent bosom, had her
errand been merely to list a plaintive love tale.

But there were higher and more potent spells at work within
her; and motives of more vital weight were to be discussed at that
solitary meeting, than vows of eternal constancy, and unchanged
affection; and, guarded by these, Isabel passed on, if not “in
maiden meditation, fancy free,” at least careless of evil tongues,
as she was free from unhallowed thoughts or evil wishes.

On leaving the house, she had walked unusually fast, for the agitation
of her mind acted, as it were, the part of a spur to her body;
and, before the forester set out in pursuit of her, she had been gone
nearly an hour. This, which in ordinary circumstances, would
have rendered it almost impossible for him to overtake her, was, in
this instance, of little detriment to the sagacious and sharp-eyed
woodman; for, in the first place, he had a general knowledge of
the walks and haunts of the lady, on whose motions he was directed
to keep watch, and, secondly, he learned, from a groom,
who was exercising his horses on the lawn, the direction in which
she had set forth.

Thus, pre-admonished, he had no cause for hesitation, but set
off, at a round pace, for the forest-walk, to which he was certain
she had gone; and, before long, as the summer dews began to fall
more and more heavily, he found that he was right in his conjecture,
by the traces which her slender feet had left in the wet herbage.
In a comparatively short time, therefore, he had gained so
much upon her, that he was, in fact, scarcely a half mile behind,
when she passed through the wicket-gate, opening from the wooded
chase into a narrow pathway, bordered with dark yew hedges,
which led to the high road, midway between the bridge and the
hamlet of Martignè.

Hurrying on, at a pace as rapid as he could sustain, he was
within a hundred yards of this gate, when the full ringing sound

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

of a carbine-shot came down the wind from a tuft of hawthorn
bushes; and the next instant, a herd of fallow deer swept madly
by him, at a wild gallop, as if disturbed by some sudden terror.
He had already turned, exclaiming, as he did so: “By God! some
of those rascally Huguenots are after the deer—but I'll be even
with them this time!” when a beautiful brown doe came up at
a light canter, pausing from time to time, and snuffing the air,
and then resuming her flight, as if half-reluctantly.

As soon as she perceived the keeper, whom, under ordinary
circumstances, she would have avoided as a foe, she stopped short,
and then half-timidly advanced to him, with a short plaintive
bleat, circled twice round him, as if wishing to attract his observation,
and then turned back, stopping at little intervals, and reverting
her head, to see if he were following her.

Poor thing!” he muttered to himself—“poor thing! they have
slain thy fawn, I warrant thee, and fain would I go with thee, but
that I dare not; and yet,” he added, grasping his quarter-staff,
and gazing wistfully toward the bushes—“and yet it would not
take me so long either.” Just at this instant, as if to conquer all
his scruples, a second shot was fired from the same clump; and the
doe, which he was following, bounded six feet into the air, and
dropped to the earth with a bullet in her heart, and that within
two score yards of his person.

This insult—this temptation, in the line, too, of his own proper
duty, was too much for him; and, with a bitter curse, he darted
off in the direction of the suspected poachers. Before he reached
the bushes, however, he saw two persons, one carrying a fawn on
his shoulders, and the other holding a short musketoon in his hand,
break from the covert, and run at their best speed, toward the palings,
which separated the park from the wilder forest-land without.

The forester was noted for his speed of foot, and never before
had he been tried and found wanting: yet now, not one, but both
the poachers, to his extreme surprise, outran him so completely,
that they had actually increased the space between them by nearly
one-half, when they climbed the tall palings, and disappeared beyond
them. Meanwhile the man had gained time for reflection;

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

and, remembering that his lord's recent orders were paramount to
his ordinary duties, he began to think that, in addition to the disgrace
of being foiled by the deer-stealers, he was likely to incur
the grave displeasure of his master.

While these surmises were disturbing his mind, he saw, at a distance,
two or three of his subordinates, with a bloodhound or two,
returning from the pursuit of an out-lying deer; and halting instantly,
he wound a keen blast on his bugle to attract their attention.
It was not long before they joined him; and then, having
laid them on track of the fugitives, he hurried back to the
performance of his interrupted duty, with a mood singularly made
up of fierce discontent toward her who was unconsciously the
cause of his distasteful occupation, and of ill-will and bitterness
toward mankind in general.

Having passed through the wicket, he was hurrying onward as
fast as he could through the yew walk—though pausing now and
then to listen for the sound of distant steps or voices, lest he should
intrude suddenly on those whom it was his part rather to overhear
than to disturb—when, at a sudden corner of the path, where
a second alley crossed it at right angles, he saw a tall man, dressed
in the leathern jerkin and broad bonnet of an ordinary peasant,
running a little way ahead of him, as if desirous of escaping observation.

“By God! there goes one of them!” he shouted; and, loosening
his wood-knife in its sheath, and grasping his tough quarter-staff
with a firmer hold, he started in pursuit with a loud whoop, intending
to attract the attention of his fellows, if they should happen
to be within hearing.

But, at the shout, the man turned round, and stood still, seemingly
awaiting his approach; the distance between them was considerable,
yet, at a glance, the forester perceived that he wore a
huge black beard, and was a man of most unusual dimensions.

“By Heaven!” he muttered to himself, “I do believe it is that
cursed miller! Now, by St. Hubert! I would give half my year's
wages to catch him red-handed in the fact!” and rushing on, at
a pace yet more impetuous, he soon perceived that his surmise was
right; although there was nothing in the appearance or demeanor

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

of the miller, unless it were the fact that when first seen he was
running, to indicate his connection with the deer-stealers.

Such was the frame of mind in which the forester came up, that
it is like enough he would, if left alone, have been guilty of some
outrage; but it would appear to have been no part of the miller's
plan to await his action in the matter, for as soon as he was within
earshot, though he could not have failed to observe the flushed
face and angry appearance of the man, he called out to him in a
loud jeering voice:

“Ho! ho! Maurice; whither so fast? whither so fast? Why,
you pant as much, and look as red in the chaps, as when I stood
between you and pretty Jacqueline of Vern, in the forest.”

“And you, Maheutre,” replied the man furiously, using a contemptuous
term applied to the Protestants; “what do you in the
forest here? By the Lord! I will arrest you, and have you up
before the seigneur for deer-stealing!”

“And I,” answered the miller, with a careless langh, “if you
but lay the weight of one finger on me, will break every bone in
your body. Why you dull ass, I am not in the forest, nor have I
been. I'll let you know that this is a free footpath, despite your
lord of Roudun.”

“I don't care! I don't care!” returned the other; “I don't
care if it be. I charge you with deer-stealing in the park. Go
with me quietly, or I shall seize you.”

“Seize away!” said the miller; “seize if you dare!” and then,
seeing that the other hesitated, he went on in a yet more provoking
tone: “Now's your time, man, to pay me off, as you have often
sworn you would, behind my back, for interfering between you and
Jacqueline. What had you done to her, that she ran so, and
screamed Maurice? Ah, ha! I trow you are more valorous among
lasses, than among men with beards—eh, Maurice, eh?”

“Nay, nay,” said the other, “I mix not my own quarrels with
my lord's matters; and since you say that you were not in the park,
why it could not have been you I saw with the fawn half an
hour since. So, seeing that I am in haste, you may go free this
time. Let me go past you, Master Miller.”

“Ah! it is Master Miller now!” Martin replied, with a hoarse

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

laugh; “I think it was Maheutre but now—was it not? So it is—
so it is; you are but a poor wretched dastard! Maurice Bure;
a cringer to the great, and a grinder of the poor; a bully among
girls and children; a poltroon among men! Well, well; since you
will not take this fine opportunity of clearing off old scores with
me, let me see if I cannot reckon up something for which I am in
debt to you.”

Then, changing his manner from the bantering tone he had used
hitherto, to a stern and determined air, he stepped close up to
him, and said: “You have bragged sundry times that you would
tan my hide for meddling 'twixt you and the poor girl you would
have wronged; and you told Anthony, the carpenter, that I came
not to the last Saints'-day-dance, for fear of you—of you indeed!
Now, for that will I beat you; so, off with your jacket, if you
will fight fair; if not, hold to your quarter-staff and knife, like a
coward as you are!”

“I never said so,” exclaimed Maurice, now seriously alarmed;
for, except in the first moment of indiscreet passion, he had never
contemplated, without terror, a conflict with the gigantic miller;
“Anthony lies! I swear I never said so!”

It seemed, however, that the miller had some especial cause for
desiring to pick a quarrel with this fellow; for, paying no attention
to his abject demeanor, or his attempt at apology—

“Well, then,” he said, “you cannot deny, at least, that you
called me Maheutre to my face but now; and, if for nothing else,
I owe you a belaboring for that; and so, have at you.”

And, with the word, he dealt him a slap with his open hand on
the side of his face that made him stagger; but, leaping nimbly
back as he recovered himself, the woodman flourished his long
quarter-staff around his head, making it whistle through the air,
and aimed a downright blow at Martin, which seemed as if it would
have felled an ox.

The sturdy miller was on his guard, however; and as the staff
descended, he sprang aside, catching it in the hollow of his left
hand, and in a second, and almost without an effort, wrested it from
him, snapped it, tough though it was, across his knee, and flung
the fragments over the yew hedge.

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

“Now try your wood-knife!” he exclaimed, with a sneering
laugh; “try your knife, that's a gallant fellow!”

The words had scarcely left his lips, before the woodman did
indeed resort to the weapon he had named—a broad, strong, twoedged
blade, above a foot in length—springing full at his throat
like a wounded wild-cat. Scarce did he spring, however, drawing
his weapon as he did so, and keeping time with hand, and eye, and
foot, before he was met by a tremendous left-handed blow, planted
with the science and accuracy of an English prize-fighter, full in
the face, which hurled him to the earth, as if he had been shot out
of some powerful engine.

A moment more, and the wood-knife had followed the quarter-staff,
describing a glittering circle through the sunlit air, as it
was whirled away by the stalwart arm of Martin Guerne; and then
succeeded one of the most complete and dreadful threshings that
ever befel any man, except within the precincts of the prizering.

It was quite plain, that the miller had some ulterior end in
view, beyond the punishment of one whom he knew and hated as
a villain; for, after the wretch had cried craven, and bellowed
lustily for mercy, he gave him a finishing blow or two; and when
he crawled off homeward, miserably bruised and disfigured, it appeared
what that end was: for Martin looked after him with a
well-satisfied air till he was nearly out of sight, and then nodded
his head as if perfectly contented.

“So, so,” he said to himself, “I do not think he will do anything
in the way of spying this bright evening. But now I must
away and tell Count Charles; for something will come of this before
long, I fancy;” and with the words, he pursued his way
down the green alley singing to himself an old Protestant warsong
of the days of Henri Quatre, while his mind was completely
occupied with other thoughts and more immediate matters.

At a little more than a mile's distance from the spot where this
conflict was occurring, and nearer to the high-road, leading from
the bridge to Martignè, the yew-walk expanded into a little open
green, or carré-four, as it is termed in that country, where three or
four similar walks come to a common focus. In the centre of this

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

little green there was a bright, clear spring, covered by a half-ruined
cell, or canopy of gothic stonework, with an iron cup attached
to it by a chain of the same metal; and overshadowed by
three enormous elm trees.

There was a low, stone bench at the foot of each of these; and
the nuns' well, as it was termed, from some old, half forgotten
legend, despite of a dim superstition which attached to it, was,
on bright summer afternoons, a favorite rendezvous for the village
girls and their rustic lovers.

At that hour there were, however, but few who would have dared
to intrude upon its haunted precinets; for the sun had long since
sunk below the green boughs of the forest, though not, perhaps,
below the true horizon; and while the open fields were still glimmering
in his level rays, that purple shadow, the umbrarum horror
of the old poet, was stealing over the deep woodlands. Yet, despite
the decreasing twilight, and the ill-omen of the spot, two persons
lingered, in deep converse, beside the haunted well; while a
tall, powerful, gray charger stood champing his bits and pawing
the ground, impatiently, as if to remind his master of the flight of
time.

“Be sure, however, that I tell you truly,” said Charles de Martign
è—for he it was who, with Isabel d'Issengeaux, had sought
that solitary spot, wherein to hold uninterrupted converse—“for,
not to purchase life, or what I hold far dearer than life, even
your hand, sweetest Isabel, would I say one word to persuade you
to do, even what I am sure is right and wise, if it were not founded
on truth—for, without truth, all is mere vanity and folly!”

“Oh! I believe you! I believe you, Charles!” answered Isabel,
fervently; “I know that you are the very soul of truth and honor—
but this which you would have me do is very terrible indeed!
and, I confess, that I shrink from it with I know not what of
timidity and awe!”

“Is it so very terrible, then, Isabel?” asked the young lord, with
a quiet smile, “to give this little hand to one who has so long
enjoyed the promise of it?”

“Oh, no!” she replied—“oh, no! you know it is not that,
Charles; you know that from the day when I first pledged

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

myself to be your wife. I have never doubted or hesitated for a moment;
but have considered myself to be as much your wife as
though the words of the priest had already joined us. But this—
this, which you ask me now—is quite different; to steal from
my home like a fugitive, a guilty thing, in the shade of night—
without the knowledge, the consent of friends—nay, more, in direct
opposition to their will—to become a bride, not amid honors
and festivities, in the face, openly, of God and man—but secretly,
by stealth, without a witness, save inferiors, menials!—amid reproach
and obloquy, and the world's bitter scorn—this cannot but
be terrible and painful, to any noble and true-hearted woman.
Nay! Charles; you would not have it otherwise?”

“I would not—I would not, indeed” he answered; “I would
not, for the world, that you should feel otherwise in doing this
thing; and yet, my own girl, you must do it, or we are severed,
without hope of ever being reunited—unless it is beyond the grave—
where `they neither marry, nor are given in marriage;' for,
certainly, to-morrow is our last day. When the second sun after
this which is now setting, shall arise, I must be in arms against this
persecuting Government; or I must be, as I have told you, a
condemned prisoner. The Lord who is in Heaven---He knows,
that if, by yielding myself up to die unresistingly a martyr in this
cause, I could do anything for his afflicted people, I would not
stir an arm to ward off the coming danger. But of this I am
positively sure, that my death, humble as I am, followed as it
would be by the destruction in detail of hundreds, better in every
way, and wiser than myself, would work no good—but much evil;
that our only hope of winning toleration, lies in resisting persecution.
The second sun will see me in my saddle, if it see me a
free man; and plunged in actual hostilities against your house
and kindred, but not against your people---for is not your God my
God? and shall not my people be your people likewise---and my
country yours?”

“I believe you are right, De Martignè,” she said, looking up
into his face, with eyes full of perfect confidence; “but I must
think of this further—I must think of it when I am alone; for,
when I stand beside you, knowing your wishes, I feel that I am in

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

no state to judge equitably, or decide fairly; and when your voice
is in my ears full of persuasion, I do not pause to weigh your arguments,
but am borne away unconvinced, indeed—but yielding
as it were to conviction, by the mere strength of feelings. I promise
you that I will weigh this thoroughly to-night; and if, when
alone, I think as I do now, I promise that I will be yours to-morrow.
Will that satisfy you?”

“I suppose it must,” Charles replied; “but I should say falsely,
were I to say it does! I am sure, I have not a doubt, how slight
soever on the subject, that you will think to-morrow as you think
now—or rather, that you will perceive the more strongly, the
longer you reflect on it, the force and necessity of what I have
proposed to you. So that on that score, I have no reason to be
discontent; and I am not so impatient, or so rash a fool, as to
quarrel with bliss, because it is deferred for four-and-twenty hours.
But what I would say is this—a thousand things may chance, even
if nothing is suspected, and no means taken to frustrate us, which
would prevent our interview to-morrow; that once prevented, all
is lost under heaven! Besides, now that you have confessed yourself
a Huguenot, you will be watched, espied upon, beyond all question;
your aunt, your cousin, suspect even now something of our
attachment; and now that they have learned this further link between
us, I fear—I fear that they will put some constraint upon
you; the rather, that they will deem that constraint needful for
one or two days at most, since they esteem it certain that I shall
be arrested within the week, unresisting. I suppose, therefore, that
I must be satisfied; but I shall be in agony, until I have learned
your decision—until I have held you to my own bosom, under my
own roof, as my own wedded wife!”

“Why—why!”—she faltered; “what is it you would have?—
surely you would not wish—”

“Yes, would I,” he interrupted—“yes! I would have you walk
with me now to my chateau, and there in my domestic chapel, be
joined to me, by my own chaplain. The present time is our own
to do what we list; but for to-morrow, He only knows what shall
be born thereof!”

“Oh, no!” she answered—“I cannot; I must not—do not ask

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

me. What! without even my own woman with me?—oh no! indeed!
indeed, that is impossible!”

His cheek grew very pale as she spoke, and as, in every tone,
he read her unshaken determination; but when she saw the sad
expression that overshadowed the bold, frank features of him she
loved so tenderly—“Oh! look not,” she exclaimed, with deep
feeling—“oh! look not, my beloved, so anguished—your Isabel
would give her life to make you happy. But you would not—no!
Charles, you would not have her do that which she cannot deem
but wrong.”

“You do me simple justice,” he answered, still very sadly;
“indeed, I would not. But I cannot but mourn bitterly, that I
cannot induce you to think otherwise. My mind is full of dark,
indistinct terrors. But, God's will be done! and may He guide
our thoughts aright, and help us in our need.”

“Amen! amen!” cried Isabel, clasping her hands, and turning
her eyes upward—“had I to consult my own heart only, I should
do as you wish—but my reason and my sense of right, forbid me.
And now it is growing late, and we must part. At this hour to-morrow,
I will be here again—and, if I decide as you think I
shall—”

“As I am sure—as I am sure you will,” he interrupted her.

“Well then, as you are sure I shall,” she continued, with a
smile, “I will bring little Justine with me; and all shall be as
you would have it. And now, good night, Charles—dearest
Charles; and be of good cheer, my beloved, for all shall yet go
well with us.”

“God grant it may!” he continued, “but I much fear it; yet I
will not say aught to discourage, or affright you—but let me go
with you, so far at least, as the wicket-gate; it is growing dark,
and the forest is not safe always.”

“Oh, yes! it is quite safe; I have traversed it a hundred times—
my cousin's foresters watch it too rigidly, that there should be
any danger in its precincts. I would not, on any account, that you
should go with me, for we run much risk in meeting even here; but
to go with me to the gate, would be certain discovery. So, farewell!
farewell, Charles, until this hour to-morrow.”

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

“Farewell! Heaven bless you, Isabel,” cried the young nobleman,
springing forward, and kissing her hand fervently. “Heaven
bless and keep you, and send that we may meet again.”

No more words passed between them. The fair girl hurried
homeward, not trusting herself so far even as to turn her head toward
her lover—who stood as still as if he had been carved in
stone, on the spot where she left him, gazing with eyes of eager
and affectionate anxiety on her retreating form, until it was lost
to him, behind the first angle of the dark and narrow alley. Then
mounting slowly on his good gray horse, he rode away at a
deliberate pace, with his deep mind occupied by sad and serious
meditations.

Isabel had not advanced many yards on her homeward way,
after she had parted from Charles de Martignè, before she was not
a little startled to see the figure of a man burst violently through
the yew-hedge, and stand full in her path, so that she could not
pass in that narrow walk without almost brushing his person.

For a moment she stood still, with her heart knocking against
her bosom, as if it would have broken all restraint—all wild imaginations
of dismay and terror rushed through her mind. Once
she was on the point of turning back, or shrieking to Charles, for
assistance; but almost in the self-same moment, she fancied that
she could recognize something familiar in the aspect of the figure,
who so strangely barred her way; and rallying her senses, she
walked calmly forward to encounter him, sustained by the quiet
might of conscious innocence.

She had not taken many steps, before she recognized in the
intruder the person of good Martin Guerne; and it was with a
half smile at her own imaginary terrors, that she gave him, in passing,
the good evening. But Martin did not pass onward with that
salutation; but pausing and taking off his cap, he said, with an air
more embarrassed than was common to him: “So then, Mademoiselle
Isabel, you would not do what he asked you—that was a
pity—that was wrong. I am very sorry.”

“What? what?” cried Isabel, now seriously alarmed, and
blushing fiery-red—“what do you mean?—do what?—do as who
asked me?—surely you—you—you would not insult me, Martin?”

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

“Surely not,” answered the miller, “not to be lord of Roudun
and of Martignè together—but I know, and see more of many
things than people fancy; and I would serve you if I could, for
I knew and loved your mother, and I love one whom you love
too—no better than I do, but in a different way; and I am certain
that I know what he did ask of you, or what he ought to have
asked, if he did not—and right sorry am I that you refused to
grant it!”

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed the poor girl, “can he have told
you this—or have you played the spy?”

The miller smiled, nay, almost laughed—although there was
but little mirth in his heart, as he replied:

“He told me nothing—he would have died sooner! and as
for spying, little need is there of espial, when people's hearts are
in their eyes, and on their tongues! No, lady, no! I have been
told nothing, and have seen very little—but I know that you and
Charles de Martignè love one another truly, and I am almost sure
he asked you to be his to-night; and that you very foolishly refused
it!”

“Why very foolishly?” she asked, forgetting all reserve in the
intensity of her curiosity, and the excitement of her feelings.
“You seem to know all about it—and I know that he trusts you.
Why very foolishly? I do not think it was foolish at all!”

“Because there is no time like the present—because it is fifty to
one that you will not be allowed to see him to-morrow—because
time should be ever grasped by his forelock: but girls will be girls,
I fancy, so long as the world lasts; and men will be fooled by
them! Know all about it! to be sure I do! and lucky it is for
you both that I do so! Why, here this very night, you would
have both been caught on this very spot by that black-hearted
scoundrel, Maurice Bure, had I not hindered it; and neither of
you anything the wiser!”

“Maurice Bure!” exclaimed Isabel, “good heavens! what
of him?—he is my cousin's right-hand man! What of him,
Martin? tell me quick.”

“Little enough—little enough's left of him now,” answered
the miller, with a grim smile. “But Count Achille sent him

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

out to watch you, as I fancy, and he would have been at the
nun's well this hour past if I had not—”

“What? what?” she cried almost wild with terror: “if you
had not done what, good Martin?”

“Beaten him just as near to death as one Christian man may
beat another;” answered the miller; “and never man better deserved
it. I have not forgotten how poor pretty little Jaqueline
screamed as she ran, if he thought I had. Now listen to me, dear
young lady—I know my place very well; and I would not be rude
or impudent for anything; but you must perceive, by what I have
told you, that I can see a good way into what is passing—that
I have stood your friend a little—and that I wish to serve you!
Now, do not him you love so much wrong as to fancy—and I can
see that you are, even now, half fancying it—that he has sent me
on to say this to you; for he was mad enough when I hinted
something of this to him, and would be madder yet if he knew I
was speaking to you now. I pray you, mark me: if you have
promised to meet him to-morrow, do so at the earliest moment—
grant all that he asks of you; for so sure as I tell it to you, if not
to-morrow, it will come to pass never; and more, if anything
should fall out contrary to what you expect or hope, and you
wish to see him before the hour you have named, or if you be in
any strait or peril, send any one whom you can trust absolutely,
or come yourself, to the old fountain by the root-house, in the
little garden. On three distinct claps of the hand, some one will
come forth from the shrubbery—it may be some one whom you
will know, and perhaps suspect, but never heed for that; let him
know everything—everything I mean that has befallen! Do not
doubt, lady; do not doubt—he will be one of our people. Will
you do this?”

“I will,” she replied, firmly; “for I think you know more, and
see farther than I do, or Charles either. I trust you perfectly—I
trust you, Martin Guerne; and if I do wrong, and you are a
traitor, God forgive you—and help me! but, I trust you: and
so I say—I will!”

“Thank you,” said Martin. “You are quite right--I do see
farther; and what is more, I can and will save you from what

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

I do foresee. I am no traitor, yet I thank you for trusting me—
for confidence, though a beautiful thing, especially in the young
and handsome, is a dangerous thing too! Now good-night, gentle
lady; go on your way, and forget not what I have told you.
Go on your way, and fear nothing; for I will follow after, and
see you safely to the wicket; and I think, while I am near, no
three men in these parts will dare to harm you. Nay, lady, no
more words—go on your way. God keep you!”

And she uttered no more words; but went on her way pondering
deeply, and, strange to say, gaining fresh hope and confidence
from things that would have dismayed and agitated a less
noble spirit. At a respectful distance, the sturdy miller followed
her until she reached the wicket; and, after she had entered the
safe precintcs of the park, he stood still for nearly half an hour
leaning upon the moss-grown paling, with every sense on the alert,
till he was satisfied she must have reached the chateau, the lights
of which he could see glittering through the shadows of the plantations
that environed it. Then he too turned away, and was
soon lost in the dim twilight of the forest glades—into the depths
of which he struck, heedless of the approaching night and almost
present darkness.

CHAPTER IV.

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

Darker and darker grew the night, and wilder waxed the forest
scenery—yet still through tangled brake and swampy dingle, over
steep ledgy hills, across deep glens and miry levels, the miller
steadily pursued his way; and though there was no path, nor any
traees visible by which to direct his steps, he never paused or turned
aside, but walked straight on as if he had been following a known
and well-marked road. After about an hour's walking, he reached
a part of the woodland far rougher in its aspect, and more secluded
than any which he had yet traversed—the trees growing very tall,
with huge umbrageous heads above, and below, the under covert
being so dense and matted that it was not without difficulty that he
forced his way through it.

The stars were by this time twinkling in the sky, from which
the last gleams of sunset had departed; and a slight thread-like
crescent in the west, gave far less light than the clear evening planet
which burned so lustrously beside her.

Strange noises rose from the dense forest, as the tramp of the
stout miller disturbed its sleeping echoes; but too well was his ear
practiced in the mysteries of woodcraft, to be astonished or mistaken
as to the nature of the animals they indicated—whether the
timid hare skirred through the tall green fern, her swift feet pattering
over the brown leaves of the last autumn—or the proud stag
tore his way through the clustering hazels—whether the snarling
whine, half-bay, half-howl, announced the whereabout of the gaunt

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

wolf, or the deep grunting snort and plunge among the reeds and
marsh grass, told of the huge wild-boar.

Soon after he had reached this lone and sylvan region, a distant
light became visible to him, glimmering out one moment, and the
next lost altogether among the leafy bushes. The moment he descried
this gleam, he walked as straight toward it as the nature of
the ground would permit, and within ten minutes had come near
enough to perceive that it proceeded from a vast bonfire, kindled,
however, in a deep hollow; so that it was rather the reflection of
the blaze on the boles of the huge trees, and the illumination which
it cast upward on the canopy of branches and green leaves, than
the fire itself, which had reached his eye.

He was now within twenty yards of the spot where it was kindled,
yet even here he could distinguish only the volumes of ruddy
smoke, with now and then a flash of wreathing flame among them,
that surged up, as it now appeared, from the brink of an old sand-pit
or quarry, long neglected, which had been cut sheer down
through the summit of a low knoll or hillock, the sides of which
were quite bare of underwood, though covered by a scattered
growth of gigantic beeches.

Here Martin halted, and uttered suddenly a loud, shrill whistle.
There came no sound in answer, though he paused for a moment,
unless it was a quick rushing noise, as of many men rising to their
feet simultaneously, and a slight clang as of steel weapons. A second
whistle was more successful, for it met instantly a response
of the same kind; and while the notes were still ringing through
the forest, the head of a man, covered by an old-fashioned pot or
morion of rusty iron, and the muzzle of a short musketoon were
raised above the verge of the sand-pit, and brought into clear relief
against the illuminated smoke.

The eye of the look-out fell instantly on the tall form of Martin
Guerne, as he stood in the full light of the bonfire, and at once
seemed to recognize him; for the man laid aside his air of guarded
caution, and came boldly forward to encounter him, exclaiming:
“Ho! Martin, is that you at last? we have been waiting for you these
four hours.”

“Ay! and a proper blaze you have made here. Why, one would

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

think you wanted to let the whole country know where you are,
and what you are about. Why, Clement, this is sad work; this
will be seen, six miles round from every hill-top!”

“Oh, no! you are mistaken there, shrewd as you be, master miller,
for we have been out on all sides; and you cannot perceive it
at all till you are through the dingle in the hollow: we thought of
that, I promise you.”

“Proper sharp woodsmen, certainly, you are,” Martin replied.
“You go and look from the bottom of a valley, and then because
you are hidden yourselves, imagine that the light is concealed. I
tell you I saw it myself ten minutes since, as I crossed the village;
and I warrant me the sky is crimsoned over head, and can be seen
from every watch-tower in the country. We must look to this
without loss of time. Where are Jacques Monistrol, and Pierre
Dupont? and above all, where is the good priest?”

“Oh, they are all down there by the fire—at least they were
when we heard your whistle; but I suspect they fell back to the
covert when I came up to see who it was on the hill.”

“Preciously you have managed it in every way,” answered the
miller. “Why, I could have brought five hundred men with me
as easily as I have come up alone.”

“And if you had brought five hundred,” retorted the other,
“you would have found six hundred here and better, Master
Guerne.”

“So many?” said the miller; “have you brought up so many?
Well, let us go and see them.”

And with the words, he advanced rapidly to the brow of the hill
above the watch-fire; and as he did so, a wild and romantic scene
as ever was beheld lay there before his eyes. The huge pile of
massive trunks blazing and roaring like a furnace, with two or three
deer and a noble boar roasting whole before them, composed the
foreground of the picture, while the fierce, crimson glare, which
was obstructed on the side where Martin stood, by the abrupt bank
under which it had been kindled, streamed far and wide through
the arched aisles of the forest, making every object clear and visible
as at noonday; though shedding over all a lurid and unnatural
glare, that gave a fantastic meaning to the most ordinary objects.

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

The objects on which that red light fell were far, however, from
commonplace or ordinary. Within about a hundred yards of the
fire, nearer to the verge of the brushwood, and within the shelter
of the tall trees to which they had fallen back on the first alarm of
danger, was drawn up in irregular array a strong body of armed
peasantry, whom some five or six persons, seeming to be their leaders,
were, with much vehement and eager gesticulation, endeavoring
to force into something like military order.

Nothing, indeed, could be more rude and picturesque, and at the
same time nothing more unsoldierly, than the appearance and
equipment of these men. Some of them wore steel-bonnets, or
sallets, as they were termed, as old as the days of Henri Quatre,
while a few even had gorgets and cuirasses, that might have seen
service at Arquès or Ivry; but the greater proportion wore only
their accustomed doublets of serge or leather, with hats or bonnets
of the commonest description. All were well armed, however; each
man having a gun of some sort or other, varying from the long
matchlock musket, which could not be fired without a rest, to the
ponderous harquebuss which succeeded it in point of time; and
thence to the short, heavy musketoon, or carbine, the most effective
fire-arm of the day.

All wore cross-belts of leather, with a broad-axe and wood-knife,
in lieu of sword and dagger; although a few had long rapiers at
their sides, and one or two carried the huge two-handed broadswords
of the fourteenth century. Between this motley mass,
however, and the foreground of the picture, there was a small body
of about sixty men, all equipped regularly, with steel caps on their
heads, pistols and cutlasses in belts about their waists, and carbines
in their hands, which they held cocked and ready for immediate service,
awaiting only the appearance of an enemy and the commands
of their superior—a short, stout, weather-beaten man, armed like
the rest, with a telescope in a leathern case swung athwart his
shoulders.

In earnest conversation with this person was a tall, white-haired
man, of an appearance singularly venerable and majestic, wearing
the blue Geneva gown and broad white bands of a Protestant
preacher; who, though he bore no arms, seemed to be even less

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

moved than any of his flock by the prospect of approaching danger;
for by his gestures, which were high and energetical, and by
the few words which could be caught of his discourse, uttered in
clear and lofty tones, he seemed to be exhorting them to a resistance
worthy of their sufferings and their cause.

Beside the fire lay many rude drinking-cups and horns, and
several casks and runlets; a case or two, seeming to contain stores
and ammunition, and a stack of long pikes, which had been neglected
in the hurry of their late surprise.

For a moment or two, the miller stood looking thoughtfully upon
the scene before him, without disclosing himself, and then stepping
forward to the brink of the sand-pit, he showed his gigantic
form, raising his hand as he did so, as if to command caution, and
exclaiming in his deep notes:

“Silence! men, silence! keep your ranks.”

Having said these few words, he sprang down the abrupt declivity
and mingled with his comrades, who seemed to recognize him
at once as their captain.

“So,” he said, as he shook hands with one or two of their leaders,
“So! this is well—this is all very well; except that beacon,
which will betray us if we don't look to it. But you have done
right well to come up so quickly. Now then, my lads, move those
things away from the blaze, not forgetting the venison and the
wild boar, and then six or eight of you jump up with shovels, and
throw down the sand from the bank on that huge volcano. You
can pull out a few of the brands, and make up two or three little
fires in different places, which will do just as well to cook and eat
by, as this great treacherous beacon! Why, I should have thought
you, at least, Baptiste, could have told them better than this,” he
added, addressing himself to the man with the telescope; “you sailors
ought to know something about bale-fires.”

“We smugglers, you mean to say,” answered the man he called
Baptiste, laughing heartily; “to be sure we do—to be sure
we do; and I told them that such a light as that, on the coast,
anywhere from the Raz de Gatte to the Tete du Buch, would
bring down all the cruisers in the channel on us—but they would
not believe me.”

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

“Ah! ah! they would not?” replied Martin; “it is well, then,
that I came up, for I am sure—hark! hark!” he exclaimed, interrupting
himself, “do you hear that?” And as he spoke, the
deep sound of a heavy bell came booming over the forest, from
the direction of the chateau of Roudun.

“Yes! yes!” cried several voices, “it is the ban cloche at
Roudun!”

“Hurry, then, hurry!” said the miller; “out with it all! out
with it! save nothing but half a dozen brands for torches. Pack
up those things, my lads—we must move instantly. How did
you bring the runlets up, and the gunpowder, Baptiste?”

“Upon the ponies,” he replied—“upon the ponies. We have
got them here. I only came up two hours since, with as many
men as I could make—but if you strike a blow now, and succeed,
you will have three or four times as many of our fellows, all the
way down as far as to Oleron and Rhe!”

“Let some of your fellows load them, then, as quick as may be;
and Gaspard, here, will lead them down by the wood-roads, and
get them into the mill to-night. And now you, Baptiste, and you,
Jacques Monistrol, and Pierre Dupont, and Antoine, and good
Father André, come hither on one side, and speak with me about
these matters.”

His orders were obeyed, almost as quickly as they were uttered.
The fire was quenched instantly; yet still the heavy tolling of the
ban cloche continued to arouse the forest echoes. The ponies
were soon loaded, and sent off under the guidance of Gaspard,
with a small escort of armed peasants, in the direction indicated,
while Martin Guerne and the confederates were still in deep and
earnest commune.

“The time is come, men,” he said, “when we must strike or
be lost. Count Charles has fixed on the next morning after this,
which is coming in a few hours, to pounce upon our enemies; but
I think that will be too late—”

“That it will, that it will,” exclaimed Monistrol; “why, here
is Gregoire, the wheelwright from La Guerche, who brings tidings
that two regiments of royal horse were at Vitré at sunset, on their
way to Rennes; and we have news that the garrison at chateau

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

Gontier has been reinforced by three full battalions of pikes and
musketeers. If we wait till they are united, all is lost—”

“Yes,” interrupted Pierre Dupont; “and what is more, Achille
de Roudun's volunteers have received orders to parade at the
castle door, at noon to-morrow.”

“Ha! that is news—that is news!” exclaimed the Miller; “are
you quite sure of that, Dupont?”

“Do you think I would say so, if I were not, Martin?” replied
Dupont, an old grayheaded peasant of sixty years, at least, but
still erect and straight, as the long musket on which he was leaning.
“I know it from him you told me of!”

“Then it is true!” cried Martin: “but, ha! ha! Monsieur le
Comte de Roudun, we will be too quick for you! Now then,
where is Gregoire, the wheelwright?” the word was passed quick
as lightning through the crowd, and a stout hard-faced, and hard-handed
mechanic came up to the group of leaders. “Well, Gregoire—
you have brought us news; how got you it?”

“From the young lord of Landavran, who rode down at full
gallop to La Guerche, to speak with me about a set of wheels I
am making for his state-coach, you know; and he told me to
come and let you know that he had seen the cuirassiers of St.
Pierre, and a party of the Marechausse, with De Viosmenil march
into Vitré, when the sun was within an hour of setting—he said,
too, that their horses were much jaded, and that they could not
reach Rennes before night, to-morrow. I have some more to say,
too, but it is for your ear only, Martin!”

“Out with it, then! out with it,” said the stout Miller, “all
these are as good men as I, and are as fit to hear it.”

“Well then, he bade me say he had seventy horse, well trained
and mounted; and you are to let him know at what time and
place they will be wanted.”

“Ha! that is good,” said Martin; “at what time, eh? Pierre
Dupont, it is at roon you said the volunteers are to parade? So,
so! he cannot mean to join the king's men to-morrow. No! his
plan must be to arrest Count Charles, and the other lords, himself,
to-morrow—and to march upon Rennes the next day. Well,
Gregoire, hie thou back at once to La Guerche—and, hark you,

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

are those wheels ready? they are? that is well, too—then put
them on a cart at daybreak, and carry them up to Landavran, and
say to the seigneur, to be with his men on the lawn, before the
chateau of Martigne, at two hours later than to-morrow midnight.
And now, Dupont, choose me three quick and trusty lads, to run
all night to warn the lords of St. Aignan, and St. Erblon, and the
Chatelain of Bourg les Comtes, to keep muster at the same place
and time. They must stay with the lords, in the meantime, and
guide them to the ground, through the forest road; so send such
men as know the country well. You, Gregoire, will bid Monsieur
of Landavran to start a little before sunset, and lead him by the
great wood of Erbree, avoiding all the towns and villages on your
route—and mind the time! be sure that they all mind the time!
two hours past midnight—no sooner, for the world—the whole
depends on their acting in concert, and being ready to the moment.”

“It will be difficult,” said Gregoire; “there will be ten leagues
to march, if not more.”

“It will!” said Martin, in reply—“it will—but it can be done,
and it must! and so you must tell Eugene de Landavran—and so
good night, good Gregoire.”

“Take a sup of Nantes, before you go, old friend;” said the
smuggler, handing him a leathern bottle; “you have a long night's
work before you!”

“No! no!” the wheelwright answered; “if it were only body
work—but this is head work, also; and for that I must be clear
above. Good night, friends, au revoir!” and with the words, he
girded up his loins, and started off at a sort of swinging trot through
the woods—leaving his arms in charge of a comrade—nearly in
the same direction, from which Martin Guerne had come to join
them.

“Now, Pierre,” exclaimed the miller, as he returned from the
crowd, accompanied by three tall and athletic youths, “have you
got me the men? Ha! Guillaume, is that you, lad? you are right
swift of foot, I know; and can tell every foot of the forest.”

“Hence to Dinan!” replied the young man, laughing, “and
south as far as Nantes, as well as any wolf that scours it!”

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

“Then you shall have the longest race for your pains: so off
with you to Bourg les Comtes—you know what to tell the seigneur;
and you, La Force, to St. Aignan; and you to St. Erblon,
Paul! You all know what to say to the gentlemen?”

“Yes!” the men answered, simultaneously: “Dupont has told
us!”

“Well, then away with you! and now to business. Good
father Andre, we have much work to do in two or three ways.
We may be sure that Achille de Roudun will strike his first blow
at De Martigne—this, somehow or other, we must prevent; and,
as we neither know how he will strike, nor at what hour, the only
plan for us is to be on the spot always. All the men, therefore,
must go down to the mill to-night; and as I have much to do,
myself, I must intrust you with it. Bestow them where I told you—
and you, Dupont and Monistrol, will take command, and stand
sentry, one or the other of you, the whole time; and suffer not a
man to go forth, or to show himself, whatever you may hear or
see, until I come to you. You all know what I mean—now,
Monistrol and Pierre, disperse the men into small parties, and let
them make their way, all severally, to the mill. You should be
there within the hour. Father, you will stay with me; and hark
you, Monistrel, if Matthieu be with your men, the gardener I
mean, at the chateau Roudun, send him this way!”

A vast deal of bustle followed, as the men broke off into small
parties, which one by one disappeared, under the dark aisles of
the forest; all but the little band of smugglers, who, at a word
from Baptiste, stacked their carbines, and sat down, or threw
themselves at length on the ground, waiting until the council of
their leaders should be ended.

What followed passed in whispers between the priest, the
smuggler Baptiste, and the stout miller; but while they were yet
busy, the keen note of a bugle-horn came ringing down the wind
from a mile's distance, and was answered by another even more
remote.

Martin Guerne listened for a moment or two, and then said
quietly:

“The foresters are out—we must be moving, and it is well the

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

others have gone off already. Hark you, Matthieu, I expect a
message from your young lady of Issengeaux—wait near the root-house,
by the old fountain in the little garden all this night, and
all day long to-morrow, until sunset. Her signal will be three
claps of the hand. Whosoever makes that signal, hear all that
they have to tell you, but say nothing in reply. Have your horse
saddled in the wood, and bring me word, as hard as you can ride,
to the stone cross, a mile on this side of the cross-road to Tourie.
If you hear nothing, join me at early twilight in the mill. Now,
Baptiste, get your men together; we will be moving. Father,
you will go with us, till you reach the road; then make the best of
your way to join Dupont and Monistrol—it is in you, under Him,
that I put all my trust.”

CHAPTER V.

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

Furious and beyond all control was the first rage of Achille de
Roudun, when the man, whom he had sent out to watch Isabel,
returned all maimed and bloody, and scarcely able to drag one leg
after the other; and bitter was the vengeance which he denounced
upon the head of Martin Guerne, and his patron Charles de
Martignè.

Nor did he entertain the slightest doubt, but that, upon the morrow,
he should have ample power to glut his bitter hatred by the
destruction of his enemies. For all his plans had been laid with
so much secrecy, and all had thus far succeeded so completely to
his wishes, that it never once occurred to him, that they might
yet be frustrated; the less, that all the vigilance of his best spies
had failed, hitherto, to detect anything like consciousness or preparation
on the part of Charles, or of any other of the Huguenot
lords.

His own part he had already fully decided on. It was, to march
with his own regiment, now passably well drilled and organized,
at noon the next day, to the chateau of Martignè; to arrest Charles
whom he looked upon as the most dangerous of the Protestant
nobles, in the first place; and holding him in custody in his own
house, to send out parties, who should seize on the persons of the
rest, during the evening of the same day and the night following
thereafter; and on the second day, he proposed to unite his force
with the royal regiments at Rennes, and with the garrison of

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

chateau Gontier—a force which would have frowned down, once
united, all chance of successful opposition.

His plot was well laid; so well, that although his young rival
had foreseen his movements, he would have been still surprised,
and his counter-plans defeated, by the unexpected celerity of the
movement of the Catholics, had it not been for the recent espials
and able conduct of the miller. Of all this, however, Achille de
Roudun was completely ignorant; and, enraged as he was by the
catastrophe which had befallen his forester—a catastrophe, by the
way, which he attributed to anything but its just cause—and by
the unexpected opposition of Isabel of Issengeaux to his wishes,
he was still so certain of ultimate success, and of full triumph
over all those whom, because he hated them, he chose to term his
foes, that his brief passion had quite passed away; and that
he was even smoother, and more courtly, and more joyous than
his wont, when he returned to the saloon and rejoined his
mother.

She was alone when he entered—and was still suffering, it appeared,
from the effects which had been produced on her spirits
by the wild and unusual conduct of her son, during their last interview.
Her air, at least, was very grave and melancholy; and
on her face were many traces of recent tears; although she raised
her head and smiled affectionately on Achille, as he came in with a
slow, soft step, and half penitent manner.

“Dear mother!” he said, with a low-toned and pleasant voice,
taking her hand in his, and raising it to his lips, as he spoke—“I
am ashamed and sorry for my vehemence and ill-temper when I
last spoke with you; but you must pardon me, dear lady, for, independent
of the disappointment which your words conveyed to
me, I have had much of late to vex and disappoint me. Will you
not pardon me, mother?”

“You were pardoned,” she replied, “as soon as the fault was
committed; but I am glad you regret your error, and trust that
you will tell me also—that you can tell me truly—that the hard
words you spoke about dear Isabel, arose from the same distemperature,
and not from any real bitterness of feeling.”

“Of course—of course!” he answered somewhat impatiently:

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

“I love her dearly—too dearly, I am afraid for my own happiness!
But still, if she will not let me love her as my wife, I shall
ever be prepared to do whatever in me lies to make her happy—
as I would for a sister, had I been so fortunate as to have one—
saving this only, that I would rather see her dead, than the
bride of that accursed Martigne!”

“My son! my son!” interposed Gabrielle de Roudun, anxiously:
“this is uncharitable—this is unchristian—this excess of hatred!
And why—why do you so abhor him? He seems to be a
very fine and promising young gentleman.”

“He! he!” exclaimed De Roudun; “he promising! a heretic,
a fanatic, a preaching psalm-singing maheutre! He who has won
from me her love! But, enough of this; to-morrow will set that
all to order! And now, dear mother mine, I have to tell you
something that will be necessary to be done to-morrow; yet
something that will, I fear, seem very hard to you, and terrible.
You must prepare to leave this place immediately.”

“To leave this place?” she cried, turning very pale, and letting
fall the piece of embroidery on which she was employed. “For
what? When must I go, and whither? Oh, no! no! my Achille,
it is impossible! you must be jesting?”

“I would it were a topic fit for jesting,” her son answered
gravely. “Before two days, the whole of this beautiful and
peaceful province will be filled full of arms and warfare, fury and
blood, and castles burned; and all the horrors of a civil war, rendered
more fierce by bigotry and this dark new fanaticism, will be
enacted at our doors. The Huguenots outnumber us moreover,
and for a lady of the true faith there will be no safety on this side
of the metropolis!”

“And you?” she whispered, trembling excessively the while—
“and you—Achille?”

“I shall be where my country calls me; wherever my king
orders, and my God needs me! All things have been made ready;
relays of horses are provided on the route; your almoner will
accompany you, with your women; a band of trusty servants have
been appointed to insure your safety. I have engaged a hotel
near the Louvre; and if you love me, mother, you will go

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

willingly; and not increase the cares and sorrows which I suffer by
weak and fruitless lamentation. You are a soldier's wife, and you
will, I am sure, not prove yourself unworthy to be a soldier's
mother!”

“Indeed I will not!” she answered, raising her head proudly;
every sign of anxiety or agitation having already passed away.
“It will be a pang, and a very keen one, to leave this place, where
I have lived so tranquilly since that event—which I shall never
cease to mourn—which left me a young widow, and you an infant
orphan. But I perceive that it is my duty—and that I have learned
to do unmurmuring. My presence here—apart from any peril
to myself, of which I think very lightly—could only tend to distress
and disturb you, when your heart will require most freedom
from disturbance. Your cause is just and holy; your country, as
you have said, your king and your God, alike demand you;
and God forbid that I, for any selfish motive, should call you back
from this sacred and heroic duty!”

“I am rejoiced to hear you speak so!” answered Achille, speaking
in his most soft and soothing tones, and with an indescribable
and almost painful fascination of manner, “although I expected
no less of your known constancy and magnanimity; but I want
now to consult you. You would not think it wise, I fancy, to expose
Isabel to the dangers of the great world of Paris?”

“Why not?” his mother asked in answer. “I do not understand
what else we can do with her. We never could leave her
here at Roudun—you cannot think of such a thing!”

“Oh, no!” he said, “of course not!—but I thought, that as you
will not, I know, choose to go out at all into the world of the metropolis;
and as her father has many friends at court, who will be
loading her, as his daughter, with invitations, which it will not be
easy to reject, and which it would be very irksome for you to comply
with; and, lastly, as she is rather resolute and self-willed, for
so young a lady, it did occur to me, I say, that it would be better
if we could devise some other place for her, during the present
winter. By Spring, I trust, these civil wars will be ended, so that
we may all be again reumited here at Roudun!”

“Yes,” she replied, after a moment's musing—“yes, there is

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

something in that. I would not go out into the world, that is
certain!—oh, no! that would be quite impossible! And she as
certainly would be invited everywhere; and it would seem hard
to keep her at home—so young, and gay, and beautiful, and so
qualified by nature to shine in society!”

“And difficult, I fancy, also!” he suggested, with a peculiar
sneering smile: “so resolute as she is! For though she is, assuredly,
a very charming creature, she has a most decided will of
her own, has ma belle cousine!”

“A little independent she is, certainly!” answered his mother,
but very feminine withal: resolute to do right she is in everything.
I do not believe one half the world would bribe her to do anything
which she thought wrong, or to leave undone anything
which she thought right. She is a dear, good girl; and I love her
as if she were my own daughter!”

“And depend upon it,” said Achille, “that she will think it
very wrong to refuse the kind hospitalities of her dear father's
friends—and her most bounden duty to go to every ball to which
she is invited! I never knew a girl of eighteen who would think
otherwise!”

The mother looked intently into the handsome face of her son,
and smiled fondly. It was a weakness, perhaps; but it is a natural
and a lovely one in woman, and with her it was almost a solitary
one--her admiration, her almost adoration, of her first-born
and only child. She saw that he was interested in the subject, and
she was already half won to his project, whatever it might be.

“Well,” she replied, after a little pause, “you have not told me
yet what is your project--let me hear what it is. I dare say it
will be something both wise and kind. What is it?”

“Why, you know,” Achille answered, with a little hesitation in
his voice and manner, as if he knew—as indeed he did well—that
his proposal was likely to be unpalatable, even to his partial auditress—
“you know my father's sister is Principal of the House of
Ursulines, at Rennes. She, I am sure, would be delighted to receive
her upon our request, and she would be quite safe there.”

“Oh, no!” his mother answered positively; “a nun of Isabel!
oh, utterly impossible! how could you dream of such a thing?”

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

“It must be you who are dreaming, mother mine!” replied
Achille; “I never said a word about nun, or novice either—of
course, it would be utterly impossible! Why, when she comes of
age she will be Chatelaine of Issengeaux, and heiress of one quarter
of Auvergne! No, no!—nuns are not made of such! besides,
to make a nun of her, would be quite a new way of winning her
to be my wife!”

“What do you mean, then? She never can be your wife. I
tell you—but what do you mean?”

“Simply that my good aunt would receive her en pension for
the winter, until these troubles shall be over. She would be quite
safe there, and much quieter and more decorously situated, than
at the court, so young; and I dare say she would be very happy,
too; and if not, it would be only for a few months.”

“No, no!” said Gabrielle de Roudun, “it would be cruel—too
cruel—she is extremely strict, I have heard say, and the Ursuline
rule, even for boarders, is too rigid! No; I cannot consent to it!”

But almost as she spoke the words, it crossed her mind—imbued
as it was with all the prejudices and superstitions of her own
faith, and with the absolute belief, that through it only could one
attain salvation—that by a winter's residence in that strict nunnery,
and under the peculiar spirit and guidance of one who was
considered as but little less than a saint on earth, her niece might
be won from the fatal heresy into which she had fallen, and brought
back into the pale of the one true church.

She saw, too, that her son was most anxious to obtain her consent
to his scheme; and the two motives in co-operation, effected
that, which neither of them could have brought to pass singly.
Certain it is, that she could never have been induced to consent to
the imprisonment of her niece—for such she felt that it indeed
was—for merely selfish reasons, if she had not been convinced that
it would be profitable to her eternal welfare; while it is doubtful,
to say the least, whether she would so clearly have discovered that
advantage, had there been no private ends to be subserved by the
measure. After a short pause, then, during which her son played
nervously with the hilt of his sword, she added:

“And yet I do not see what better we can do with her; it is

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

quite out of the question, that she should remain here all alone, in
the midst of armies and of actual fighting; and as you say, Paris
is not a fit place for her. I do not see, I say, what can be thought
of better. I think it must be so; and still I do not altogether like
it. I fear she will not agree to it.”

Achille de Roudun raised his eyes quickly as she spoke, and
fixed them, with a piercing, scrutinizing glance, on his mothers
features; which she in turn averted somewhat, conscious that she
had secret motives, which she would not, on any account, that
her son should penetrate—for though she loved him with all the
deep affection of an almost doting mother, and though she had
persuaded herself into a sort of general belief, that he was everything
generous, and virtuous, and noble, she had yet a sort of conviction,
unconfessed to her own mind even, that he would not be
likely to entertain many scruples about forcing any one in his
power to his own purposes.

Perceiving, then, that he could not as yet discover the meaning
of this sudden change of her opinions, he shrugged his shoulders
slightly, as he answered, “Ah! you think so. I fancied that you
would, when you considered it. All the rest, then, is plain and
easy. You are her guardian for the present; and, having your
authority, I shall not dream of consulting her caprices. It is understood,
then, that at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning, you will
set out for Paris, by La Guerche and Vitre—and she for Rennes,
by Tourie!”

“I do not know,” answered Gabrielle; “I am not her guardian—
you know that as well as I do. Her guardians, under her
father's will, are the Counts of Clermont and Tankarville.”

“Yes, but they are so far off! besides, they have ceded her to
your charge. No! no! there is no difficulty, I assure you—only
leave all to me!”

“I will, I will,” answered his mother, “only, I pray you try
persuasion first—for Isabel—”

“What about Isabel, madam?” asked a clear silvery voice, interrupting
her; and the door opened as she spoke, and the fair
girl, whose name she had just mentioned, entered the parlor, all

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

radiant from the excitement of her walk, and her interview with
Charles and the sturdy miller.

“Ah! cousin Achille, so you are returned. Welcome home!
welcome home again!” and she extended her hand to him, in an
easy and affectionate manner, such as became their kindred, but
told nothing of any warmer feeling.

“I thank you, Isabel! I thank you!” he replied, raising her
hand to his lips; “and I have much need of your kindness and of
your welcome, for these are dark and melancholy times—and they
press heavily upon me in particular, and I am forced to do many
things which makes my heart bleed; and though you are the first
to greet me home, I fear that, when you shall have heard all, my
coming will be anything but welcome!”

“Let me hear all, then, cousin,” she replied, looking him full in
the face; for she knew the man, and knew him to be never so
dangerous as when the most full of soft and smooth professions.
“Let me hear all, then, quickly! Good news will bear delay, but
evil tidings never can be too soon told!” And she took a seat
opposite to him quite quietly, and sat in a position of profound attention,
waiting his words, and prepared to sift their meaning.

“We are upon the point of war—terrible, sanguinary, civil war,
Isabel,” the young man replied. “The fierce and cruel strife
which has been begun for some time in other parts of France, and
which we hoped and prayed would have remained aloof from our
quiet woods and pastures, is about to break out here—even here,
at our very doors!” and he paused, as if to allow her to take in
the full force of his words; but, in reality, that he might judge, by
her answer, how he might best approach his end.

“I undertand,” she said very coolly; “you are about to take up
arms against the Huguenots!”

“They are about to take up arms against the king, Isabel, and
his laws; and his majesty has been pleased to send me a commission
to levy men, in order to coöperate with his troops, who are
marching hitherward in order to put down these bloody fanatics,
in their incendiary and heretical rebellion!”

Madame de Roudun watched the varying features of her niece
with intense interest; and, as she sat a little space behind her son,

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

so that he could not see her movements, she joined her hands and
raised them imploringly to Isabel, terrified lest she should disclose
her interest in the denounced religion. But though the color
mounted to her cheeks and brow, and though indignant words
were trembling on her lips, the fair young girl restrained them,
and merely replied: “Well?” with an inquiring accent.

“No, it is far from being well, Isabel,” he answered, sternly;
“it is as far as possible from being well; for these maheutres are
numerous and well armed, and have seen service; nor is it at all
likely that they will suffer themselves to be taken without opposition—”

“I should think them great fools if they did,” Isabel interrupted
him, with a half-derisive smile; “for, I suppose, if they did they
would be either burned alive for heretics, or, at the best, would
have their heads cut off for rebels!”

“Unless they recanted their false creed! But, not to discuss
that—they will resist, and it is likely that the struggle will be both
obstinate and bloody; and at me, I am sure—though God knows
I have given them no cause—will the chief vengeance of these fanatics
be aimed. I should not wonder if my castle were burnt
over my head any day.”

“I should, exceedingly,” answered his cousin, almost laughing.
“In the first place, you have a large household of devoted servants
and retainers, and a still larger tenantry of Catholics—more than
sufficient to protect your house; and, in the second, I should conceive
the Huguenots will have quite enough to do to protect themselves,
without attacking other people—and they have sufficient
odium and plenty of enemies against which to contend already,
without seeking to make themselves new ones!”

“Ah! Isabel,” returned Achille, turning his fine eyes up to
Heaven; “you little know the malice, the bitter and envenomed
hatred which these dark fanatics bear to all those who are true to
their king and their God! Heaven grant that you may never
learn it!”

“Perhaps not,” said Isabel; “indeed, I rather think I do not:
but what of all this? what are you about to do? and how will it
affect us? This I am all anxiety to know.”

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

“Why, very disagreeably indeed, it will affect us! I have just
been talking of it to my mother here—our mother, I might almost
say—and she quite agrees with my views of the subject, although,
like me, she bitterly laments the necessity—”

“The necessity of doing what, cousin? I have heard, as yet,
of no necessity—”

“Of shutting up the chateau until better and safer times shall
come round again; and of sending her and you where you will
not be so much exposed to peril as in this distracted province!”

“Indeed! indeed!” said Isabel, perceiving at a glance the truth
of what Charles de Martigne had told her, yet doubting still
whether it was an accidental chance, or a premeditated blow;
“and when do you mean to do this, Achille? Whither are we to
go, dear aunt?”

“At noon to-morrow,” replied the count, “I must be in the
saddle and in arms for my king; before nightfall I shall be very
probably engaged. I wish you, therefore, to set off by eleven
o'clock at the latest!”

But whither? whither?” she inquired eagerly—for, knowing
her lover's plans, and perceiving that her cousin had anticipated
them, and would in all probability succeed, her agitation was now
great indeed. “Whither do you intend to go, dear aunt?”

“To Paris,” answered Madame de Roudun; “I go to Paris,
but—”

“Oh! I am glad of that,” cried Isabel; and, as she spoke, she
half resolved to let matters take their course, and to do nothing
which could be deemed by any one unmaidenly or indecorous.
“Then I shall see my good guardian, and my dear uncle, the old
Count of Clermont.”

“I am sorry to say, Isabel,” answered her aunt, who, being now
determined to support her son's decision, perceived that the rest
must come from her, if it was to affect anything, “that we—I
mean to say I, do not consider it safe either to carry you through
these convulsed provinces, many of which are even now the seat
of war, or to have you at present in the metropolis! With a
young, beautiful girl like you, and an old woman, like myself, the
case is quite different. Besides, you will be a great heiress. Health,

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

youth, and beauty, are three vast temptations to adventurers, and
the country is quite full of them; and the times are so stormy and
unsettled, that things might be done now—nay, are done daily—
which, in less turbulent periods, never would be as much as thought
of.”

“What do you mean to do with me, aunt?” she asked, turning
very pale; for she now saw, at a glance, that all these measures
were in some sort directed at herself. “Let me hear the worst—
let me hear all at once!”

“Oh! it is nothing bad, Isabel,” replied Madame de Roudun,
forcing a laugh; “to hear you, one would think that I was going
to imprison you. I think it best that you would pass the autumn
and the next winter at Rennes; that is a pleasant place, you know;
and you will be quite safe there; and Achille will be in the neighborhood
all the time. And in the spring we trust that this rebellion
will be quite put down, and that we can all be once more
reassembled here—if not, it will be time enough then to make
some fresh arrangement.”

“To Rennes? to Rennes?” repeated Isabel, half bewildered;
“send me to Rennes? why, I do not know a soul there. What
should I do at Rennes?”

“You forget, Isabel—you forget my sister-in-law—Achille's
aunt—the good Principal of the Ursulines!”

“Oh!” exclaimed Isabel, with a piercing shriek, wrung from her
by the very ecstacy of terror and surprise. “Oh, no! no! you
will not—no! no! you cannot be so cruel! What have I done?
what have I dreamed of doing, that you—that you, aunt Gabrielle,
whom I have ever reverenced, ever loved as a mother, should
doom me to this fate! Oh, no! you cannot be so cruel! Give me
up to that cold-hearted, proud, stern, selfish, cruel woman! No!
I will not believe it! Oh! aunt, it is not possible!”

“It must be so, however,” replied the aunt, coldly, nerving herself
for the performance of a duty, which, having once resolved on
it, she was determined to carry out, how distasteful it might be soever.
“It must be so, and you will do well to make up your mind
to it at once. Justine will go with you; and you can take your
books and drawings, and your music. And you will be under the

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

authority of no one, but merely en pension. There are many ladies
there of the best families of the west; I doubt not you will be very
happy—at all events you go, and that to-morrow at eleven.”

“Then I reply,” said Isabel, drawing herself up to her full
height—“then I reply, that I will not!—do you hear that?—that I
will not go! You are not my guardian—you have no right to dispose
of me. I appeal to my true guardians, the Counts of Clermont
and of Tankarville; let me see who will dare detain me!”

“I shall, most certainly,” answered Achille de Roudun; “that
is to say, if my mother desires me to do so. I think she is quite
right, and it would be very dangerous, indeed, for you to attempt
to reach Paris now. Why, if the Huguenots should get you into
their power they might detain you as a hostage, or use you ill in a
thousand ways. No! I think my mother is quite right. You can
write, if you please, to your guardians; but, until my mother hears
from them, she has the right to command your obedience; and,
therefore, I shall take it on myself to have the carriage ready, with
a troop of men to protect you until you are under my aunt's roof
at Rennes,to-morrow at eleven o'clock!”

“And do you sanction this? Can it be that you sanction this?”
asked Isabel, looking at her aunt wistfully, with the tears streaming
from her beautiful blue eyes.

“I must! I must, indeed, Isabel. I believe it to be the best thing
I can do for you.”

“You do! you do!” cried Isabel, rallying from her momentary
weakness, and looking at Gabrielle as though she would peruse her
soul. “You do believe that truly! Then God forgive you! You
drive me to do things I would not; but when they happen, Heaven
will judge between us. But if you use force I have nothing more
to say. Resistance for a woman is in vain; but remember, I go to
Rennes unwillingly! If ill come of it, remember!” and, with the
words she arose as if to leave the room.

“You had better not go, cousin,” said Achille, rising likewise;
“they will serve supper almost instantly.”

“Supper for those, sir, who have appetite for it!” she answered,
with a voice full of collected indignation; “your tidings have taken
mine away for to-night—perhaps forever! I go to make

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

preparation with my maid for our forced journey. I beg that I may not
be disturbed this evening. I wish you better rest than your conduct
will permit me to enjoy!”

And, with these words, she quitted the room, leaving her aunt
in tears—for now, that the excitement which had nerved her had
gone by, she saw her conduct in its true light—and her ecusin both
abashed and angry. There was a gloomy pause after she had departed,
of some moments, before either spoke. The first who broke
the silence was Achille; and it was evident, from his words, that
he was alarmed and uneasy at her manner.

“I told you,” he said, “how resolute a girl she is, and how wilful!
You do not think,” he added, with an embarrassed manner,
and sinking his voice to a whisper, “that there is danger of her
doing herself any harm?”

“Any harm?” echoed his mother, in tones of unmixed wonder.
“Good God! no! What do you mean, Achille? Any harm?—
what harm?”

“Killing herself, I meant,” he answered, turning white as ashes
as he spoke; “but it is nonsense—madness!”

“Jesu Maria! kill herself!” exclaimed Gabrielle de Roudun.
“Our Isabel! who is all piety and calm submission! Why, you
are mad, Achille!”

“She seemed so stern and resolute,” answered the young man,
almost trembling, “that I believe she almost frightened me! But,
at least, I will give orders that a good watch shall be kept on the
house to-night, and that she shall not be suffered to go out of doors—
she might escape.”

“Escape! escape to whom?” cried Gabrielle; “you almost
frighten me! What is there that she should escape from? or to
whom should she fly?”

“I don't know,” said the young count, doggedly; “perhaps to
Charles de Martigne! I suppose that is madness, too!”

“Madness! indeed!—sheer idiocy!” replied his mother; “she
is the last girl living to do such a thing; and he the last person she
would go to!”

“Perhaps!” returned her son, with his dark, sneering smile—
“perhaps! But, nevertheless, I shall take precautions, and make

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

sure!” and he left the apartment, muttering between his teeth, “I
shall not be easy until she is within the walls of Rennes—within
the house of the Ursulines!” and he gave orders to his men—and
all that live-long night they kept watch and ward at the chateau
of Roudun.

When she had reached the solitude of her own chamber, after
the painful and exciting scene which she had just gone through,
Isabel threw herself into a large arm-chair, standing beside the
open window—and remained for some moments buried in deep
thought; although she appeared to be gazing only upon the young
moon, and the myriads of bright stars, which were glimmering
everywhere in the calm summer sky. The more she thought, the
more clearly she perceived that indeed, as De Martigne had told
her, she had already cast away her best chance of escape; and
that the only hope now left to her was of flight, before the time
which had been named for her departure.

“I can trust to Justine—thank God! I have one friend. I will
tell all to her, and after all the household are asleep; I will take
her and fly to Charles,” she muttered to herself. “Heaven will
protect me, for I am innocent, even of a thought of evil; and
the blame must rest upon those who have driven me to this
thing!”

Scarcely had this resolution formed itself in her mind, before her
maid, Justine, a pretty little black-eyed girl of Auvergue, her
own native province, tripped lightly into the room, carrying in
one hand a candle, and a dress of her mistress thrown lightly over
the other arm.

“Ha! mademoiselle!” she exclaimed, as she entered; “what
is all this they tell me? that we are to go to Rennes to-morrow
morning, and that the chateau is to be shut up, and that there is
to be a great battle here to-morrow?”

“Who told you all that, my poor Justine?” asked Isabel in her
turn, desirous to ascertain, so far as possible, everything that was
in progress.

“Oh! Mademoiselle Isabel!” answered the girl speaking eagerly,
as if anxious to display all her information, “I am quite sure it is

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

all true; for the household is all in a bustle, and maitre Vigneron,
the steward, is giving out the arms and gunpowder to all the servants;
and there are sentinels on guard everywhere round the
house; and Jean, the courier, and nine of the grooms, are getting
their jack-boots ready, and loading pistols, and sharpening their
couteaus de chasse, to escort us to Rennes—yourself and me, mademoiselle!
And Clement, with as many more, are to go to La
Guerche with Madame de Roudun; and maitre Vigneron told me,
mademoiselle, that the young count was to have an army to-morrow,
and to arrest Lord Charles, and all the other nobles in
their houses; and that they would be all burned at the stake, in
the market-place of Rennes, next Tuesday! Oh, dear! I am so
frightened! Are we to go to Rennes? Is it all true—all?”

“Not all, Justine,” scarce able to return a smile at the minuteness
of the details—“not all of it, Justine—though, I am sorry to
say, there is too much truth in it. Now listen to me, girl. You
have lived with me many years—ever since we were little, little
girls together, when my mother adopted you, when you were left
an orphan; and I have ever treated you more like a sister than a
servant; and I hope—I believe, you love me; is it not so,
Justine?”

“Oh, Isabel! oh, mademoiselle! oh, my dear, dearest mistress!
how can you say such things to your poor Justine? I love you!
I worship you! I would die for you! did you not nurse me when
I had the terrible fever, and none of the servants dared to stay
with me? Did you not stand between me and farmer Godard's
savage bull, when I was so weak as to faint, and save my life at
the risk of your own? Have you not always been the best of
friends to me—the kindest of mistresses—kinder than a sister,
even? and do you ask me now, if I love you—oh, my God!—if
I love you?”

“There, there, Justine!” Isabel interrupted her, half-laughing
and half-crying, “you need not take on so, for I did not doubt
you at all; I believe you do love me. But it was natural for me,
when all, who ought to love and protect me, are persecuting and
oppressing me, to wish to hear how you feel towards me, from
your own lips!”

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

“Who—who are persecuting you, lady? who are oppressing
you? Heavens! how I hate them!”

“No! no! Justine! you must not hate any body—that is all
wrong. But listen to what I am going to tell you, and then tell
me if you will help me.”

“Help you? To be sure I will!—to be sure I will!” the girl answered.
“I do n't want to hear anything about it—only tell me
what I must do, and I will do it: you may depend on me.”

“Thank you, my good Justine; but you must hear me,” answered
Isabel, in a low voice, “otherwise, you cannot assist me.
They are going to send me to Rennes—to a nunnery! to the
house of the Ursulines, under the charge of the late Monsieur de
Roudun's sister, the prioress, who, you know—”

“Yes! yes!” replied Justine, with her eyes staring wide, between
anger and astonishment—“that terrible old woman! But,
my God! my God! what horror—you to a nunnery! You? Oh!
they will never dare it!”

“Yes, they will, Justine,” answered Isabel; “they want to
compel me to marry my cousin Achille; and because I will not
do so, they will immure me in that living prison, until I consent to
be his wife—and that I never will, although I die for it; because
I do not love him, and—”

“You need not say it, lady—you need not say it; I understand,
as well as if you did; and because you do love another! I see—I
know quite well! No! you shall never marry him! No!
they shall never shut you up with that savage, old hard-hearted
abbess!”

Isabel blushed very deeply, as Justine alluded to her love for
another; but there was a directness in her nature that would not
suffer her to dissemble; and having made up her mind to put
trust in the girl, she was too wise to make any half confidence; so
she said, quietly:

“Yes, Justine, I do love another—although I cannot imagine
how you knew it; and of course that is another reason why
I would not marry Achille de Roudun; but still, if there
were not another man in the world, I would not be his wife—no!
never! never!”

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

“Oh! mademoiselle,” answered the light-hearted soubrette;
“we femmes de chambre see and know more things than the world
and our mistresses give us credit for. Have I not seen your cheek
burn, and your hand tremble when he spoke with you, and that
not unpleasantly? and do I not see you always wear the colors
that he loves? and if he ever gave you a little flower, have not I
noticed that you treasured it away when he was gone? and
do you not sing the songs he loves? and read the books he speaks
of to you? and do you not know the tramp of his gray horse,
Olivier, from a thousand? and are not your eyes full of beautiful
and speaking love whenever he is named? Oh, lady! we see
many things!”

“I had not thought you so observant,” replied poor Isabel,
with a sad smile; “but, now, all this is nothing to the purpose, if
I must go to this nunnery to-morrow; and, truly, I can hardly see
how I may hope to shun it!”

“Why, not fly to him? why not fly to-night?” cried Justine;
“it is but three miles; there is not the least danger. I will go
with you—let us go! let us go, dear lady! We can get out, and
nobody will see us, while they are at supper!”

“You forget—you forget, Justine!” said Isabel, sadly, “you
told me that the house was guarded!”

“So it is! I did forget! and Peter told me, although I did not
choose to say so to you, that they were to keep a particular look-out
to prevent you from going forth. Oh, dear! oh, dear!
what shall we do?” and she sat down and wrung her hands
bitterly.

“Hush! hush!” said Isabel; “we may be saved yet; but I
forget when I say we. And what right have I to involve you in
danger? and you, too, who do not know—let me think! let me
think! I must tell you all; I am a Huguenot, Justine!”

“Are you?” cried the girl, with her eyes brightening—“are
you a Huguenot? Then I am one, too—I am one too, mistress
Isabel!”

“What do you mean?” cried Isabel; “are you indeed? what do
you know about it?”

“Nothing! dear lady—nothing!” Justine answered, “nothing,

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

except that you are one, yes, and that Charles de Martigne is one
too! and, I believe, Martin Guerne, the miller, is a Huguenot,
also, and you three are the three best people I have ever heard of:
so I am one, too!”

“Nonsense!” said Isabel, half angrily; “I do not like to
hear you talk such nonsense; religion is too grave a thing to be
dealt with in that manner.”

“I can't help that, mademoiselle,” answered Justine; “I have
not sense enough to know anything about creeds. I want to do
that which is right, always, and try to do it; but I can't; and I
suppose I am very wicked, at least Father Thomas says so; and I
should have been a Huguenot long ago—because Count Charles
and Martin, and all the best people I know are Huguenots—only
I would not, because you were good, and I did not know—but
now, that you are one—that's all—I am one too! there's no help
for it! Now, let us talk about the rest!”

Isabel was surprised, it is true; and, at another time would probably
have gone farther into the strange discussion which had
arisen from the original subject; but time pressed, and matters,
which were to her, for the present all important; and waving the
argument, she said:

“Well, we will talk of this hereafter. The Huguenots are
aware that the Catholics are taking up arms to hunt them down
like wild beasts; and they, too, are arming; but they will be surprised,
I fear, before they are ready. But I know this—we have
friends all about us; and if I could get a message carried to the
root-house, by the old fountain, in the little garden, Count Charles
would hear of it, and your friend Martin Guerne.

“Well, what is the difficulty?” said Justine. “Give me the
message; that is quite easy; I am not afraid, at all!”

“But the guards?”

“Oh! the guards! a fig for the guards, when I am alone. Give
me the message, and I will carry it. Whom shall I see? to whom
shall I give it?”

“Nay! even that I know not; you are to go to the root-house,
and clap your hands three times, and, on that signal,
some person will come out from the shrubbery; and tell him—”

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

“What, mademoiselle? what am I to tell him?”

“Simply, that Isabel of Issengeaux will be conveyed to
Rennes to-morrow, at eleven of the clock, by the way of Tourie,
with a guard of ten men to escort her; that once there, she will
be immured in the nunnery of the Ursulines.”

“And what then?” asked the girl, as if quite unsatisfied.

“Nothing,” said Isabel—“nothing but to hope and to trust,
you will receive no answer!”

“But if it should be anybody that I know—if it should be an
enemy?”

“Whoever it may be, tell him just that—no more, nor any less;
you are not to explain who sent you, or wherefore you come there;
only say just what I have told you.”

“If it should be the Count Achille?”

“The same—the same! you are to do the same, whoever it
may be!”

“Well, well! I understand, and I will do it excellently. If
that may save us, we are safe now; but I do not see what good it
can do.”

“Nor do I see, or understand, or even guess,” replied Isabel;
“but I trust; and so, perhaps, will you, when I have told you that
I act in obedience to your friend, Martin Guerne, whom you seem
to know all about.”

“Oh! Martin Guerne! that is a different matter altogether; if
Martin Guerne directed you, it is all right; he is a wonderful man,
is Martin. So, think no more about that, lady, except that it is
done. Now, I am going to disturb the whole house; to rouse up
all the maids, and that old tabby, the housekeeper; and it shall go
hard with me if I do not give her ladyship of Roudun some trouble
in this matter also. I shall sup with them in the servants'
hall, and go out directly afterward. As soon as you miss me, make
as much noise about it as you can, and send everybody to look
after me, so that they will not suspect anything. Now, then, we
must pack up for our journey; and pray remember, mademoiselle,
it may, perhaps, be a very long one; and neither of us knows
where it may end, exactly.”

Having said this, she did not wait for a reply, but, throwing the

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

door open, began to call for Cecile, and Louise, and Marguerette,
and half-a-dozen other girls; and speedily had half the women of
the household busy in Isabel's chamber, which she contrived to
litter in five minutes, with every article of dress that can be known
or fancied.

Boxes were brought, and trunks and mails beyond all number;
and what, between packing up, and figetting herself, and scolding
all the rest, Justine had soon got the whole house in just such a
state of confusion as she desired. First, the old housekeeper came
up to demand the reason of this strange racket; but her the soubrette
speedily got rid of by some impudent speech which sent her
off fuming; and when Madame de Roudun arrived a few minutes
afterward, and saw that they were engaged in making preparations
for to-morrow's journey, which Isabel appeared to be superintending,
she made no remark, but wished her niece a good night's rest,
and retired to her chamber.

“Now, mademoiselle, the supper in the saloon is finished, and
madam has gone to pack up her own things; and she will keep the
rest of the girls going. Now then, if you will only make as much
stir as possible, and hurry them about in all directions never fear
but I will deliver the message. I only dread the eyes of the
women; the men I can manage very well!”

A few moments after this the supper-bell rang, and crying
“Come, girls, come, we must make haste and get our suppers, for
we have plenty of work to do afterward,” Justine ran down
stairs, and was at the table before any of the others reached the
hall.

When they came in, she was half-rallying, half-scolding two or
three of the younger men, about some large travelling case or other
which she insisted on it, had been given to them to put into the
store-room, when they returned last year from Paris.

The men denied that they knew anything about the matter;
and a good deal of noisy repartee followed—Justine declaring that
they must and should find it, as soon as the meal was over. When
the table was cleared, she was still talking about the case, while
the rest of the girls went up to Isabel's chamber, and continued,
for above an hour, bustling among the various packages.

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

Still the business of packing went on but slowly; and Isabel
had asked several times for Justine, sending one or other of
the maids to call her, but in vain—when at last she made herself
heard, scolding and vociferating loudly, before she came into
sight, with a candle in her hand, all flushed and rosy-red, with
three of the grooms following her, carrying an immense packing-case,
all studded with brass nails, and bound with plates of the
same metal.

Not waiting to be asked where she had been, she burst out with
a long tirade of invective against the stupidity of the men, who
had put the case away, and forgotten where it was—till one of
them, apparently provoked, cried out:

“Well, well, Justine, it is not worth while to say any more
about it—if you had told us, at first, it was in the granary,
we could have fetched it without more ado!”

“And how should I have known it was in the granary, ganache?”
she answered, angrily, “until I found that it was nowhere
else? And how—”

“There, there, that will do!” said Isabel, having caught a
glance from the bright eye of the soubrette, which told her that
all was right. “You stun me with your noise. You had no business
to go away, Justine, without my sending you. Do not
speak! do not speak! I will hear nothing more. Now begone
all of you, except Justine, I can arrange the rest with her
help.”

Her orders were immediately obeyed; and as soon as they were
alone, she drew a deep long breath, and said: “Well—well, Justine,
have you done it?”

“I have—I have, mademoiselle. As soon as the girls had
come up stairs from supper, I began to rate all the men about
that box. I knew that none of them could tell where it was, for
I put it away myself—with the two valets who were dismissed in
the spring—and I set them to look after it, wherever I knew it
was not; and at first, I pretended to search with them, till they
were all well engaged, and then I stole away, and slipped out of the
pantry window into the laurel thicket, and lay there till the sentinel
had passed; and then I hurried through the shrubbery,

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

keeping myself in the shadow carefully, till I reached the root-house—
and I stood just within it, and clapped my hands three times, as
you told me. At the first blow I heard something rustling in the
bushes, but no one came out till the third; and then the branches
opened, and out came a man! and who do you think it was, but
old Matthieu, the gardener here at Roudun!”

“Indeed! indeed!” cried Isabel, “that is exceeding strange.
Can it be that he too is one of our people?”

“I do not know that lady,” answered Justine, “but I am pretty
sure that he is the right person; for he came out from the bushes instantly,
just opposite the fountain, and stood there without saying
anything, as if he expected me to speak; and when I had told
him everything that you desired me, he nodded his head, so; and
did not answer me a word, but went back into the thicket; and
before I had come twenty yards on my way home, I heard a horse
set off at a full gallop, nearly—as the sounds came—from the
place where I left him. And then I got back into the window,
and I am quite sure no one saw me; and I rejoined the men who
were searching, just as they were beginning to wonder where I
was! so I told them that I had found the chest in the granary,
and made them bring it hither; and so there's an end of it. And
now let us get done with this packing, and then you had better go
to bed and try to get some rest, for you will have a trying day of
it to-morrow.”

Isabel saw the truth of what the girl said; and, making no reply,
addressed herself to her task. This was soon ended; and
then, after praying fervently, she laid herself down to gain some
repose—fearing, yet hoping all things; but so great was the perturbation
of her mind, that hours elapsed, and the sun was already
in the sky, before she closed her eyes in tranquil sleep.

CHAPTER VI.

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

It was a dark, thick, foggy morning---not a mere summer mist,
produced by the heat acting on the moist earth---but a dense rainy
vapor, covering the whole face of nature with a veil so thick that
the sharpest eye could not discern an object at above twenty paces
distance; the foliage of the trees was hung with innumerable dewdrops;
the grass was soaked with moisture; and therewithal, the
heat was sickly and oppressive.

Nothing passed worthy of remark at the chateau Roudun,
though everything was haste, and bustle, and confusion. The
morning meal was served, and at it Isabel was obliged to meet her.
aunt, and Achille; but it was with a cold brow, and the most formal
greeting, that she received their salutations.

Although she sat at table, she neither partook of anything, nor
mingled in the conversation, beyond answering in mere monosyllables
such questions as were put to her; anger she displayed none,
nor indignation, nor even scorn; but seemed to be plunged in a
sort of passive melancholy stupor. Nor was this acting—for she
was, indeed, almost in despair. Though she had been persuaded,
on the previous night, that she should yet be saved, the more she
pondered on it, the less sanguine was she of receiving any aid—
and once at Rennes, she well knew that aid was hopeless.

In truth, her situation did appear almost desperate; for Charles
de Martigne had told her all his plans; except that he had not
confided to her his intention of seizing on the person of her cousin;

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

not that he doubted her, but-that he did not choose she should be
privy to aught which it could be deemed treacherous to conceal
from the inmates of the house which sheltered her.

She, therefore, was apprised of the force which Charles had prepared;
and of his determination to take arms on the following
morning, in order to act at once against the royal horse.

Her cousin had, however, so far outstripped him in his preparations,
that he would be in the saddle a full day before her lover;
and though the miller had assured her of his aid, she felt little
confidence in his ability to succor her, though she had every certainty
of his good disposition.

Martin Guerne had been, in truth, not a little troubled and uncertain
how he should best dispose of his men; for he dared not
expose himself to any risk of capture, knowing that in case of
such an accident, all would be lost—no other person being possessed
of his secret information, and there being no one to whom
he could venture to intrust it.

For the same reason he could send no message to De Martigne,
to warn him of his peril—the certainty that there was a traitor
somewhere, rendering it perilous to confide in any one. Nor, indeed,
could he have warned him, would it have been possible to
act so quickly as to anticipate De Roudun, without setting everything
upon the cast of an attack, made by a body of undisciplined
peasantry upon a regiment of horse, in broad daylight—and with
no vantage of ground or position. This, of course, was not to be
thought of; and all that was now left to him was to watch closely
the course of events, trusting to his sagacity and ready wit to turn
things to his own advantage, as they happened.

It was two hours past midnight, when Matthieu brought the
message delivered to him by Justine, at a hard gallop to the bivouac
of the smugglers, in the wood by the stone cross. The men
were sleeping on their arms, wrapped in their boat-cloaks, with no
light or fire to indicate the situation of their post. But Martin
Guerne and Baptiste, too anxious to feel sleepy, were walking to
and fro, conversing, and looking from time to time at the heavens,
which were beginning to be overcast already.

“We shall have a thick fog to-morrow, Martin,” the smuggler

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

had just said; “see how the clouds are driving in from the sea-ward,
and how low they hang. They almost look as if they would
touch the tree-tops. The air will be so thick at daybreak, that
you will almost be able to cut it with a knife.”

“I am glad of it—” Martin had begun to answer, when the
sound of a horse, at the gallop, was heard; and the next moment
Matthieu pulled up his panting steed by the cross—and then, the
leaders stepping out from the covert, he delivered the message as
he had received it.

“Ha! that is excellent!” cried the miller, as he heard it. “Fortune
has not deserted us! By Tourie! that is excellent! We are
on the right side of the stream, too! At eleven o'clock—they will
be here by half-past—and we can do it all, and be safe back at
the mill before the horse leave the castle. We need not move,
then—we need not move at all. How will they come, Matthieu?
They must go all the way to the highroad, and cross the stream
at the bridge—the ford is not passable, I fancy.”

“Not it!—not it! It would swim the tallest horse in the
count's stable,” answered the gardener. “There has been much
rain in the hills, though we have had none here these three days
past.”

“We shall have enough of it,” said the smuggler, looking up
to the sky, “before this time to-morrow—and thunder, I think,
also.”

“Shall we?” said Martin. “I do not pretend to be knowing
in these matters; but I suppose you are—seeing that it is a part
of your trade. Well! our work is clear before us now, Baptiste;
and so we may as well betake us to our cloaks. Give us a pull at
that leathern bottle of yours, man. Matthieu, you will stay with
us now, till all is over.”

And having taken a long draught from the leathern flask of the
smuggler, he composed himself to sleep for an hour or two. Just
before the day broke, however, he aroused himself—and seeing
that the prophecy of his companion had come to pass, and that
the fog was so extremely dense that the stone cross itself was
scarcely visible at ten yards distance, amid the dank woodlands,
he spoke a few words to his comrade in a whisper, and then started

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

off at a great pace toward the mill, saying, “Never fear—never
fear, Baptiste; I will be back in time; but I must see my fellows
first, and get my own tools ready.”

Had Isabel been aware of all this that had passed, her mind
would have been relieved from great part of its terrors; but, as it
was, when hour after hour rolled away, and no rescue came—no
interruption took place—her hopes began to fade; and she waxed
faint and sick at heart, although she could perceive that Justine
kept up her courage, and was gay as usual, and joyous.

At last the fatal moment came. The castle clock struck—and
the carriages came round to the door, punctually—each with six
horses, driven three abreast, by two armed postillions, with a
courier on the box, and ten mounted servants, well armed with
swords and pistols. No delay now took place; and although
Isabel refused to shake hands with him, or even to say adieu! her
cousin handed her formally to the carriage. Justine stepped in
to her side—the heavy door was closed—a word of command was
given—and, instantly, the cumbrous vehicle was put in rapid
motion.

They drove very fast, followed by the coach of Madame de
Roudun—between whom and Isabel there had passed cold and
formal courtesies, strangely at variance with their wonted cordiality—
until they reached the park gates; and thence at a pace
little inferior, along the highroad to the bridge of Martigne, and
up the hill beyond it.

There the cortege divided—Madame de Roudun, with her
train, keeping the great post-road running northward through La
Guerche to Paris—and Isabel turning westward through a wood
track that intersected the highroad to Rennes at Tourie. A little
pause occurred at the angle of the road, when the trains parted
company—the men stopping to take leave of each other—a delay
for which the postillions of Isabel, at least, appeared inclined to
make up, by galloping along the narrow lane as fast as the six
powerful Flanders' stallions could drag the lumbering carriage.

It was now verging toward noon; yet the mist had not begun,
in the least degree, to melt—if anything, it seemed to grow thicker;
and the air certainly was every moment more sultry and

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

oppressive. The horses were speedily in a lather of white foam; but still
the drivers did not relax their furious speed, till they were suddenly
brought to a dead stand by a large pine-tree, which had either fallen
or been purposely felled across the road; and which the darkness
of the weather prevented them from seeing till they were close
upon it.

Then the rider of the leaders pulled them up with a check so
sudden, that the postillion on the wheelers, not perceiving it, came
full upon him; and four out of the six horses were down in an instant.
All was confusion and dismay; one of the men seriously
hurt, and shouting vigorously for assistance, and the vicious stallions
kicking, screaming and biting at everything that came in their
way, as they lay pell-mell on the ground, entangled with their broken
harness, and encumbered in the branches of the fallen tree.

The courier leaped from the box to the ground, exclaiming:
“Halloo! halloo! what in the fiend's name is the matter?”

The horsemen in attendance galloped up, and dismounting,
rushed in to give their assistance; and the whole party, horses
and men, were collected in a small group of a few yard's circumference.

While this was doing, and all were engaged about the fallen
horses—shouting, and struggling and vociferating—a loud whistle
was heard from the road, just beyond the tree; in an instant it was
repeated on all sides, and at the signal fifty or sixty men advanced
from the wood which had concealed them—not violently, or with
a rush of impetuosity, but in deliberate order, and forming in a
hollow square, inclosed the carriage together with all the persons
belonging to it, in their centre.

Not a word was spoken—but at a wave of the hand from one
who seemed a leader, every man brought the heavy musketoon
which he carried to the present; and appeared only to wait another
motion of that hand, to fire. The whole was done in less
time than it has required to relate it. It was scarce half a minute
from the falling of the first horse to the complete capture of the
party.

“Lay down your arms!” cried a deep voice; “down with them
instantly, and you shall be well treated! stir hand or feet, and you

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

are all dead men!” And with these words, Martin Guerne sprang
upon the trunk of the tree, towering with his head and shoulders
above all the circle. Most of the men threw down their arms at
once; but one or two, bolder than the rest, drew their swords; and
the courier, snatching a pistol from his belt, fired it full at Martin's
head, but without effect.

“Keep your ranks--keep your ranks!” shouted the miller; “for
the Lord's sake, let not one of them escape!” And while he was
yet speaking, he dealt the man who had fired at him a blow with
the butt of his carbine, that stretched him lifeless on the ground;
although it did not seem that he put forth a tithe of his gigantic
strength into the effort. That was the only life lost—the only
blow given!—for, panic-stricken and out-numbered, the rest surrendered
instantly.

“Well done! well done!” cried Martin; “now tie them—tie them
quick! gag them, and fasten them to the trees a little way in the wood!
See to it, Baptiste; make them secure, and be sure that they cannot
shout, but do not hurt them; take care, take care—do'nt let
that charger break away, or it will spoil all. So, be handy, men—
be handy; we have no time to lose. I will look to the ladies.
Well, mademoiselle,” he continued, opening the carriage-door as
he spoke; “I have given you a little fright, I believe, but I have
been as good as my word—you are quite safe for the present; but
as I said just now, we have no time to lose. But you look pale,
you are faint; will you have wine?—we must have no weakness
now, for we must hurry; the danger is not quite over yet.”

“It is joy! only joy, good friend,” answered Isabel. “I was
not frightened in the least; I knew that it was you the moment
the carriage stopped—but how admirably it was managed!”

“Pretty well—pretty well, for that,” answered the sturdy miller;
“but come, lady; those fellows are all made fast, and we are
ready. You and Justine must mount a couple of those chargers,
for we have need to travel faster than your little feet can bear you;
and over difficult paths too. If you will permit me, I will take
you en croupe behind me; and Matthieu, who is an old acquaintance,
will do as much for Justine!”

The arrangements were made in a moment; for at such a time

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

no one objected. A dozen of the smugglers mounted the other
horses, while the rest, though on foot, easily kept up with the riders,
so rugged and abrupt were the paths which they traversed. For
Martin Guerne, who led the cavalcade, struck instantly into the
woods, and made as fast as he could ride for the stream, which lay
at a short half-mile to the south; intending to gain the narrow
pass by the ravine, and hoping to pass under the bridge before
Achille de Roudou—who, he doubted not, meant to march toward
Martigne at noon, should cross it.

The road was soon gained, and they advanced along it as fast as
it was possible to go, keeping the party altogether; and they were
now within a half-mile of the bridge, when the sound of a trumpet
was heard coming down the hill, from the direction of Roudun;
and immediately afterward the clash and clang of the squadrons
pouring on at a rapid trot, was distinctly audible.

Martin Guerne checked his horse for a minute, so as to suffer
Baptiste, who was on foot, to come abreast with him, and as he
did so—

“There are the cavalry,” he said, “above us! But we may advance
safely; the mist will cover us, I think; and their own noise
will drown the sounds we make. We might almost pass under,
while they are going over our heads—let us advance, but be
silent.”

“You are wrong, miller—you are all wrong,” exclaimed the
smuggler; “there will be no mist in five minutes hence. The
storm I told you of is coming! we shall be discovered in five
minutes!”

“Then the more need to hurry forward; they must come this
way for three hundred yards, before they can get down the hill to
this road; and we shall be going one way as they go the other—
so every step will be doubled: we can make good the mill, if we
can only get to it.”

“But they will sweep the road with their fire from above,”
replied the smuggler; “we shall be within point blank carbine
shot!”

“We must take our chance,” answered the miller, “there is no
hope for it. Besides, they may not dare to fire for fear of injuring

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

the women! Pass the word to keep silence—advance! Ha! here
comes the storm, indeed!”

And as he said it, the murky air was severed by a blue livid
glare, not followed but accompanied by a sharp sudden crash, like
the explosion of ten thousand cannon. Reverberating through the
rocky chasm, the din of the rolling echoes was appalling; yet such
was the excitement of their situation, and so far greater was the peril
threatened from man's persecution, that Heaven's thunder passed
almost unheeded, as lashing their horses to their utmost speed, they
drove madly up the defile.

Scarce had the echoes of the thunder clap subsided into stillness,
before there came a keen, cool, fluttering breath, as if from the motion
of a huge unseen pinion. A moment followed of almost unnatural
stillness; and then a strong wind arose, as if by magic, and the mist
wreath was whirled away, and the whole scene disclosed as if by
the uplifting of a curtain. They had just passed the zigzag road,
descending from the bridge, when the fog cleared off; and they
were perhaps three hundred yards from the bridge itself; which
was already crowded with the magnificent array of De Roudun's
troopers, filing across it, with their standards waving, and their
arms flashing in the sun-light, which broke out in fitful gleams
from rents in the huge storm-cloud, outspread like a vast pall above
them.

It was clear instantly to Martin Guerne, that they were seen
and recognized; orders were shouted on the bridge above, messengers
gallopped to the front of the column; and, while the main
body with Achille at their head, pursued the road up the hill toward
the chateau De Martigne, two troops wheeled off to the left, and
dashed down the steep declivity at a pace positively frightful to behold—
the sparks flying from the rocks at every spurn of their mettled
chargers.

“Speed, speed! for our lives,” shouted the miller, and, with the
mounted men, he drove forward up the ravine: so that, out tripping
his pursuers, he speedily turned the sharp angle that led
to the mill, and in a moment was in the little amphitheatre, with
the romantic cataract, and all the lovely scene lying before him,
peaceful, and calm and solitary, with not a sign or sound of

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

human beings within its peaceful precincts. Matthieu was close
behind him. Both sprang to the ground, and as they lifted
the now terrified, trembling girls from the chargers, Martin cried:

“Hurry them up, Matthieu! hurry them up! you know the
way—into the cave, quick! quick! I must stay here and bring off
the rest. You, my men,” he added, turning to the mounted smugglers,
who had come up with him, “down, every one of you—unsling
your carbines! look to your flints, they will be on us in a
second!”

While he was speaking, Matthieu had carried Isabel in his arms,
Justine following close behind him, up to the staircase, which ascended
the rocks; and when Martin Guerne looked round, just
ere he plunged into the fray, they had reached the first landing.

After the first tremendous clap, there was no thunder more, nor
did the rain begin to fall; but the wind wailed, and howled
furiously among the rocks and chasms. Amid this uproar now
came the furious clang of horses at full gallop, and angry shouts,
and now the ringing sound of a carbine shot, and now a volley.
Firm in the narrow path stood Martin Guerne, the foremost, holding
his charger by the rein, and the musketoon, the only weapon
which he bore, cocked and ready.

Nearer and nearer came the din; and now, in a confused and
struggling crowd, the flying smugglers rushed into the scene;
Baptiste the hindmost, with the horse, firing their pistols and
almost cutting at the fugitives with their long broadswords, close
on their heels!

“Steady, men! not a shot till our friends have passed us: then
let them have it. Bravo! bravo!” cried Martin, as one by one
the footmen came in, and rallied in his rear—“bravo, Baptiste!
now give it to them; scatter them—fire!”

And such a volley was poured in, as emptied a score of saddles,
and staggered the charge of the horsemen.

“Never stop! never stop to load,” shouted the deep voice of
the miller; “back every one of you! up the steps to the platform!
get axes and break down the staircase!”

He saw that his words were obeyed; and that the women had
already disappeared behind the sheet of falling water.

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

“Now, Baptiste,” he cried, “let these horses loose; nay, lash
them—lash them forward.”

And, as the troopers rallied, and came on three abreast, wherever
the narrowness of the path would permit; they cast loose
the reins of the chargers, which they had ridden, already maddened
by the long blasts of the trumpet and the firing; and striking
them heavy blows on the croupe with the butts of their guns,
drove them against the cavaliers.

The shock and the confusion were tremendous; two or three of
the troopers were precipitated, man and horse, into the roaring
whirlpool; and before the rest could extricate themselves, all the
smugglers had reached the platform above the mill, and were plying
axe and crow with desperate energy to break down the staircase.

The Catholics had lost, already, between killed and wounded,
above twenty men; but so enraged were their officers at the check,
and so full of high and chivalric courage, that they commanded their
men to dismount; and confident in their better discipline, and in
their arms of proof—for all wore headpieces, and gorgets, and cuirasses—
charged fiercely up the steps, in spite of the tremendous fire
which was kept up from above upon them.

Twice had they forced their way as far as the first landing; and
twice they had been beaten back, in hand to hand encounter;
Martin Guerne striking down three men with the huge axe, which,
the instant the enemy retreated, might be heard ringing on the
massive timbers of the staircase.

A third time they were rallying below; and so strong was the
wood-work, that not one half of the steps were broken, and the defence
seemed hopeless. But Martin was as undismayed as ever.

“Baptiste,” he said quietly, “draw off the men, one by one, as
fast as they empty their carbines—get them all under cover, as
speedily as possible. Stop! lend me your pistol!” and as he took
it, he added: “Now, begone, all of you—you too, Baptiste.”

And, as he spoke, he stooped down to a leathern tube, or pipe,
which was led up the rocks from the foot of the staircase to the
ledge, on which he stood, and removed a plug that stopped its
mouth. Then he looked round, and seeing that his own men were
all under cover, while the troopers, thinking they had abandoned

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

the defence, were again formed and rushing forward, he lifted up
his hand with an impressive air, and cried in his deep accents:

“Back! back! for your lives! I give you time; back, I say,
or your souls are with your Maker, in the twinkling of an eye!”

The answer was a fierce shout: “On! forward! down with
the maheutre!” and two or three soldiers sprang upon the steps,
although the main-body hung back, daunted by the determined
air of that one man.

“The Lord have mercy on your souls!” he said, very gravely,
and instantly discharged his pistol into the leathern tube—there
was a whizzing flash; the men cried out: “A mine! a mine!” and
one of them leaped down; but the next instant there came a broad
and circling glare, blinding the pale daylight; a sharp stunning
roar, succeeded by an awful rushing sound—and the rocks reeled
like drunken men!

The huge timbers sprang into the air, and fragments of the
shattered cliffs; and a great cloud of snow-white smoke surged up.
Two of the troopers were upon the steps, when the explosion took
place, and of them never mortal eye beheld a relic! The rest rushed
back in terror to shun the falling masses; and, even so, not a
few of their number suffered.

But Martin Guerne stirred not; but stood, where he had drawn
that fatal trigger, immovable as the black rocks beside him. The
quick flame burst around him, and scorched his leathern garment
and singed his very beard; yet he moved not—rocks, beams, and
massy timbers, rushed up about him, and one by one came crashing
to the earth—some fell within a yard of him, and the dust,
caused from their fragments, covered him.

It seemed a miracle that he escaped, yet he stirred not, nor
shook, until all was over. Then he took off his cap reverently,
and turning his eyes upward—

“Our lives,” he said, “are in His hands always. Praised be
the name of the Lord!”

And waving his hand to the astonished troopers, he disappeared
behind the arch of the cataract—and, save the continuous roar
of the fall, and the groans of the wounded, all was now utter
silence, where a short time before all had been rage and uproar.

CHAPTER VII.

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

In the Chateau de Martigne there was a large and noble room,
opening immediately from the great hall, which was of itself one
of the stateliest in France, fitted up as a library. It was the taste
of the owner of this magnificent pile, to keep up everything in the
antique state, which suited the time in which it had been built,
and which had descended through a long line of ancestors, unimpaired;
to the present day.

Thus, the hall, a vast oblong space, supported by sixteen columns
with a superb double staircase at the farther end, and a gallery
running round it, and adorned with emblazoned shields and banners,
suits of complete steel-armor, and weapons of all kinds, from
the battle-axe and bow of the Merovingian kings, to the musket
and bandoleers of the seventeenth century.

The library, however, with which we have more especially to
do, was finished in the elaborate and sumptuous manner of the
era known to architects as that of Francis the First—the walls,
the mantel-pieces, and the ceiling, all being composed of black
walnut wood, worked into carvings of the most exquisite device,
standing out from the level surface, in bold and clear relief.

Strange arabesques and scroll-work, commencing with the
heads and busts of nymphs or satyrs, and ending in long wreaths
of fruit and flowers, enriched the cornices and anæ which divided
the walls into separate recesses, each occupied by a bookcase
adorned in the same taste, and surmounted by the bust of some
philosopher or bard of the olden time.

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

The roof was deeply arched, and covered with dark fret-work, terminating
in long pendants, from each of which swung a bronze lamp.

The chimney-pieces, of which there were two, were wrought into
groups and friezes, representing scenes from the Odyssey and the
Iliad; and the floor, where it was not covered by soft Persian carpet,
was of the same material with the walls, polished till you
could see your features in it as if in a Venetian mirror.

There were two or three fine pictures on the walls, most of
them family portraits; but the chief portion of all the four sides of
the room, where not pierced by doors or windows, was covered
with a proud array of books—not less, certainly, than twenty-five
or thirty thousand volumes, the treasured store of intellectual
ages.

Beyond these, there was little furniture in the large room; three
or four massive tables covered with dark green leather, supporting
each a set of writing materials and port folios, and each flanked
by two large arm-chairs, being all that it contained, with the
exception of an old-fashioned clock, and two flights of library steps.

It was, however, notwithstanding its dark wooden wainscoating
and the antique air of its furniture, a singularly pleasant and even
cheerful room; overlooking from, six lofty windows, a broad flagged
terrace, and a fine stretch of turfy lawn sloping down to the
margin of the stream, where it flowed clear and tranquil above the
cataract; whose roar, mellowed by distance into a musical and
sleepy murmur, could be heard plainly through the whisper of the
winds in the old elm-trees. For this and other reasons, the library
was a favorite resort of the young lord of the chateau; here he was
wont to spend many hours of every morning, in that species of
literary idleness, which is so wondrously attractive to the man of
elegant acquirements and easy leisure.

Here he was sitting on the morning when events so strange
were going on, unheard of and unsuspected, within a few miles of
his door. He was dressed in his ordinary garb; and, as he sat by
a table, turning over the leaves of a large folio volume, with many
papers scattered upon the board before him, and a pen in his fingers,
no one would have imagined that he was steeped to the lips
in conspiracy, and what was then termed rebellion—or that he

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

was on the verge, and about to plunge into the midst, of actual
hostilities.

There lay, however, on one of the other tables, an old-fashioned
casque with a vizor, such as was still worn by men of rank, and
leaders---recently burnished, and provided with a new red plume—
a cuirass, splendidly embossed with arabesques and gilded scroll
work—a pair of steel gloves, and a long straight cross-handled
broadsword. The day without was gray and dark, and though
the hands of the old clock showed that it was already some
time after noon, the sun had not yet shown itself, nor did there seem
to be much prospect of the weather clearing.

Once or twice Charles looked up from the page he was reading,
and turned his eyes to the lofty casements, as if wondering at the
darkness of the day; but he again applied himself to his reading,
or his musings, rather—for his fingers scarcely turned a leaf, and
his eyes dwelt for the most part on one spot. At length there
came a sharp bright glare, which was reflected from the paper so
vividly that it almost dazzled him; and, at the same instant, a
loud, stunning crash, that seemed to make the whole house reel
and shudder. The young lord started up, exclaiming:

“Good Heaven! what a clap of thunder! The lightning must
have struck somewhere near!” and he was going out to make inquiries,
when an old gray-headed servant entered. “What is the
matter, Jerome?” cried Charles de Martigne, connecting his appearance
with the thunder; “has the lightning done any mischief?
has it struck the house?”

“No! my lord, no!” the old man answered; “but there is a
very strange old woman here. I thought, at first, it was a man in
woman's clothes; but I believe I was wrong, after all. She has
been here an hour or better, insisting that she must see your lordship;
but to say the truth, when I was convinced that she was a
woman, I thought that she was crazy—and so I denied her; but
she will not go away.”

“You should not have denied her, Jerome. You know that I
always see everybody, particularly the old and poor. But why
do you think her crazy?”

“Why, my lord, she has been plaguing me and all the other

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

men to come in and tell you some strange nonsense---I do not
know well what---about mill-wheels, and hawks at midnight!”

M. de Martigne understood, instantly; but gave no sign of intelligence,
simply desiring him to show the woman in. She was
indeed a singular looking person, extremely tall, and so gaunt and
bony that she looked rather like a man than one of the softer sex.
Her complexion was almost as dark as copper, but her eye was
as bright and lustrous as a diamond---and the softness of her
voice, when she spoke, indisputably proved that she was a female.

Her dress, though plain and of rude materials, was whole, and
scrupulously clean; and there was nothing very peculiar in it,
except that she wore a sort of turban on her head of scarlet
woollen, and that she had a long sheathed knife at her girdle.

Charles de Martigne looked at her fixedly as she entered the
room, but could not remember that he had ever seen her before,
and he was quite convinced that she did not belong to that part
of the country. “Well! my good woman,” he said, nodding to
Jerome to withdraw, “my servants tell me that you desire to
speak with me; what is it you have got to say?” and seeing that
she made no answer, and that the old steward had left the room,
he added: “and what is this that you have been telling them
about the mill-wheel standing still. When rests it, I beseech
you?”

“When the hawk flies at midnight!” answered the woman,
quietly, giving the miller's countersign; and Charles cried, instantly:

“Well! what from him? speak quickly!”

“I must, indeed, if I would speak at all,” she replied, “He
sent you word two hours since---but your fool servants would not
let me in---that Achille de Roudun will be here with three hundred
horse to make you prisoner, before one of the clock. He bids
you on no account resist, or ring the ban cloche, or make any sign
of preparation. Yield yourself quietly, and all will go well; and
if Achille should tarry here to-night, which he, for aught you know
of, fancies he will do, you are to be quite sure you leave your
celler-doors unlocked; and you are not to be surprised, whatever
happens!”

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

“My cellar doors unlocked! Psha! he could never have sent
me such a message. I shall do nothing of the kind!”

“As you will, my lord,” said the woman. “You will do as
you judge best—and you will judge, I suppose, of the truth of
this, according as the rest that I have told you shall turn out true
or false. Further, he bade me say that they have sent Isabel of
Issengeaunt o a nunnery at Rennes, but that she would not arrive
there this day, nor to-morrow either—and that, if you are wise
and wary, you will see her, most likely, at two hours, or thereabout,
past midnight!”

Just as she had done speaking, old Jerome entered, in great
haste.

“My lord!” he said, in a trembling voice, “a regiment of horse,
two or three hundred strong, are coming up the avenue from the
park-gates, with the colors of Roudun displayed, and, I believe,
the young count at their head.”

“There! there!” cried the old woman; “did I not tell you?
will you not believe? But I must be going; it will not do that
they should see me:” and she ran hastily out of the room; and,
passing through the servants, who were all crowding into the great
hall, made her exit by the door in the rear of the chateau.

“What is it your pleasure that we do?” asked the old man.
“Shall we barricade the doors, and take up arms? Shall I ring
the ban cloche?”

“No! no! by no means! not for the world!” exclaimed Charles
de Martigne; “I dare say it is nothing but a courteous visit from the
count. What are the servants crowding into the hall for? Send
them away—quick! quick!—send them away to their business!
And here! take these arms,” pointing to the weapons on the
table, “and lay them on the board in the armory! And listen!
in case I do not get an opportunity to speak with you again in
private, leave all the cellar doors unlocked when you go to bed
to-night; but tell no one anything about it. Now, go; and make
haste. Let all the men be at their ordinary business when the
soldiers come. Tell them that it is all right—that I expected it:
that will satisfy them.”

There was just time to execute his orders, and the house had

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

returned to its customary order, when one troop of horse came up
to the door at a slow trot, while two or three more spread themselves
out to the right and left, commanding every side of the
house, and rendering it impossible for any one to escape from the
building. An orderly officer dismounted, and rang the bell at the
hall door loudly; while Achille de Roudun sat on his horse before
the steps leading down from the terrace, talking quite unconcernedly,
as it appeared, with two or three young men who accompanied
them, dressed in rich uniforms, and whom Charles
recognized at once as Paul D'Armençon, Henri de la Roche, and
the other Catholic nobles of whom Martin Guerne had told him.
Before the servants had answered the sound of the door-bell,
Charles de Martigne arose and walked to the window, as if to see
who were his visitors; and, catching the eye of M. de Roudun, he
waved his hand courteously, and went forth to the terrace to
meet him.

“Good morrow!” he said, with grave courtesy; “you had better
dismount quick, my good lord, and take the shelter of my poor
roof, for we are going to have a thunder-storm. Here, Jerome,
call the grooms to attend to these gentlemen's horses!”

“Such is our purpose, my lord,” answered de Roudun, springing
to the ground, and coming up the steps; “although I regret
much so say, that the duty which calls us hither is of a most
unpleasant nature!”

“Walk in, count—walk in; and bring these gentlemen with
you---Monsieur d'Armençon, I believe, and Count Henri de la
Roche,” replied Charles. “We will talk of these matters in the
library. Call in as many of your troopers as you please. They
can wait in the hall.”

And as he finished speaking, he led the way quietly into the
library, which he had just quitted, followed by Achille de Roudun,
and three or four of the other gentlemen; some twenty of the
troopers leaping down from their chargers, and clanking into the
hall with their huge boots and heavy broadswords. As soon as
Charles entered the room, he unbuckled the broad shoulder-belt,
from which his rapier was suspended, and laid it on the table;
then taking up his hat, and drawing himself up proudly in the

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

presence of his unwelcome guests—“I presume,” he said, sternly,
“M. de Roudun, that I am to consider myself your prisoner?”

“I fear it must be so,” replied Achille. “As a neighbor and a
friend, I would have much wished to avoid this task, which has been
put upon me; but his majesty's orders are imperative!”

“As such, my lord, I shall bow to them,” answered Charles. “In
the meantime, I must beg leave to see your commission!”

“You will find it most ample, sir,” replied Roudun, handing
him several parchments. “This is a warrant, sir, regularly endorsed
by his majesty and the cardinal, for the arrest of such gentlemen
and nobles of the Huguenot faith, as may be supposed capable
of resisting in arms the legitimate authority of the realm.
This, a separate mandate for the arrest of yourself in particular;
and this last, my commission to levy a regiment of horse, and to cooperate
in arms with the regular forces, under the Baron of St.
Pierre, now marching hitherward to put down this rebellion.”

“Rebellion! my lord,” replied Charles de Martigne. “I have
seen nothing that looks like rebellion. Where do you find it?”

“It is not my word, sir,” answered De Roudun: “it is the term
employed in his majesty's commission; and in the proclamation
which you may chance to have seen, prohibiting irregular assemblages
of persons, not of the true faith; whether under pretence of
prayer, or for other causes. But it is time that I should ask—Do
you admit our authority? Do you confess the legality of this
arrest, and submit yourself our prisoner? or do you intend to
resist?”

“Resist!” cried Charles; “resist a royal mandate, backed by a
regiment of horse? With what, I pray you, should I resist, if I
would? With a score of old serving-men, and the armor which
my ancestors wore at Poictiers and Cressy? No! count; you have
taken good care to render resistance unavailing!”

“Then you surrender yourself, sir?” inquired De Roudun; “in
that case, I must demand your sword!”

“There it lies, count,” replied De Martigne, “upon the table.
You can take it yourself, if you will; or ring the bell, if you prefer
it, for a servant to reach it to you. I believe I shall not think it
necessary to wait on you myself.”

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

Achille de Roudun's face flushed fiery red; and his eye blazed
fiercely for a moment, and his lip quivered; but he suppressed his
rage, and turning, with a sneering smile to one of his subordinates—
“Reach me his sword,” he said, “Captain d'Armençon,
unless you are too proud to touch it!”

“There is no disgrace, sir,” answered Paul d'Armençon, as he
obeyed his superior, “in touching the sword of a brave man. Nor,”
he continued, bowing politely to the master of the house, “in surrendering
it to the order of the king.”

“I never thought there was, sir,” replied Charles. “But tell me,
Count Achille, what do you propose to do with me. Am I to be
placed au secret?”

“By no means, sir! by no means!” De Roudun answered him.
“Had his eminence's orders been of that nature, I should have
begged him to select some one else to execute them. No! Monsieur
de Martigne; we propose, if you will afford us the hospitality
of your house, to tarry here until to-morrow morning; while I
send parties to enforce similar warrants against the Lords of Landavran,
of St. Aignan, and St. Erblon; and if you choose to give
us your parole of honor, you shall remain as much at liberty as you
are now. At dawn of day to-morrow, we shall march to Rennes,
whither you will accompany us with such servants as you may select;
and, if you please, with your own horses. The royal commissioners
will be there by the time we arrive; and before them, I
have no doubt, you will at once be enabled to establish your innocence
of all the charges which have, I am perfectly convinced, been
most calumniously brought against you.”

“My parole of honor to what, sir?” asked the young nobleman;
“I am your prisoner—for what do you wish more? I do not suppose
you intend to lock me up in the dungeon of my own house!”

“That you will not leave the house until to-morrow morning—
give me your word of that, my lord; and I shall ask for nothing
more.”

“I do, Monsieur de Roudun---I give you my word of honor
that I will not leave my house, without your permission, before
daybreak to-morrow. And now that we have settled these unpleasant
matters, let us forget that there are such things in the world

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

as wars and rebellions, and be good friends and companions for the
rest of the day. You have not dined yet, I presume, gentlemen:
let me request you to make yourselves perfectly at home. Your
troopers had better be quartered in the house—there is abundance
of room for them, and stalls enough in my stable!”

“Thanks! thanks!” exclaimed Achille. “So far as it is in my
power, we will avail ourselves of your kind offer; but I have got
a detachment to send off. I shall keep two troops here, so that
you will have to make room for a hundred. Monsieur d'Armen
çon, oblige me by stepping out, and requesting Captain de St.
Etienne to proceed instantly with one troop to Landavran. He
will have to sleep at La Guerche, and to proceed and execute his
orders at daybreak. Messieurs of Dol and Pontorson will also set
forth instantly for their destinations: they must be here before
dawn to-morrow. That done, we shall be at your service.”

“Pardon me, then, until dinner time,” said Charles; “you have
my word that I will hold no communication with any one abroad,
nor leave the chateau until to-morrow morning. I have many
things to do previous to leaving my house for an indefinite time.
We will defer the dinner until three o'clock; and then, I believe, I
can offer you both boar and venison. My major-domo will show
you your apartments.”

He had just turned to leave the room when a loud explosion,
followed by a long rolling crash, rose heavily upon the air, making
the whole house rock, as it seemed, and every window shake
and clatter in its casements.

“What can that be?” he exclaimed, starting. “What a strange
noise!---surely it was not thunder! It came from the south, too, I
think; and the storm has been passing to the northward. Step out
with me, I pray you, to the terrace, that we may all see together
what it can be.”

Achille de Roudun and his officers had been no less startled
than De Martigne, and followed him out readily to the terrace;
where they found many of the servants, and all the troopers,
standing in eager and excited groups, speculting on the causes of
the sound. The moment they had reached the door, a large cloud
of dark and murky smoke was clearly seen, distinguishable, by

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

its dun color, from the white mist of the cataract, soaring up
slowly from the chasm of the mill.

“What was that, Jerome?” asked his master. “Did you hear
that strange noise?”

“I cannot think, my lord!” the old man answered. “We
have heard firing down there this last half-hour and now—”

“It was an explosion of gunpowder, beyond all doubt, my lord of
Martigne!” said the lancepesade of the Catholic regiment, touching
the peak of his helmet; “and of a very large quantity, I should
think, too; as for the firing—”

“As for the firing!” interrupted De Roudun, “I know all
about that quite well. As we were crossing the bridge, over the
brook, we saw a large force of armed peasants and smugglers
passing up the ravine toward the mill, and I detached two troops
to follow and arrest them; and I presume the rebellious dogs
have had the impudence to fire upon his majesty's horse; in which
case—”

“We will retire to the house, monsieur!” said De Martigne; “it
can be pleasant to me neither to hear denunciations against my tenantry
and people, nor to look on the devastation of their property.
I think, moreover, it would be better that you should post sentinels
at the doors, and appoint a corps-de-guard; as I do not wish to be
answerable for the conduct of my servants.”

As he spoke, he retired with a grave face, and passing through
his attendants without saying a word to them, sought his own
chamber, where he remained in deep meditation, until old Jerome
came to ask his commands respecting dinner.

Just at this moment the trumpets sounded boot and saddle;
and reminded thereby, the old man told his lord how sentinels had
been placed on foot at every door of the house; patrols sent out
to ride round the grounds; and two parties, of twenty men each,
detached to keep guard---one in the lodge on the high road, and
the other at the stables.

“The old knights' hall, as we call it,” he continued, “has
been designated as the guard-room for the others. But, God
bless your lordship! if you will only say the word, any one of us
can get out of the windows as soon as it is dark, and carry word

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

down to the village, where we can get men enough in half an hour
to drive these scoundrels home again, not half so gayly as they
came!”

“No! Jerome, no! replied Charles, “only do as I have bid you. I
have given them my word and honor that I will not leave the house
till to-morrow morning, nor hold communication with any one
without. And, indeed, I much fear,” he added, with a longdrawn
sigh, “that the only person with whom I could have communicated
has perished in that terrible explosion. See that all
things are prepared handsomely in the crimson saloon for dinner;
and let the private troopers be provided with all reasonable comforts—
above all things, forget not, that when you shut the doors
for the night, you leave the cellars all unlocked and open—
though heaven knows why?” he continued, after the old man
had left his presence—“for I do not; nor can conjecture even.
But he has never failed me yet, and, if he be in life, I will not fail
him.”

In a little while after this, the dinner was announced, and both
the venison and the wild-boar proved excellent—at least, to judge
from the appetites of the Count de Roudun and his friends; nor
did the wines of the count appear to give less satisfaction. His
old Auxerre, famed in song as “the drink of kings,” was again
and again replenished; and from the courtesy, and even mirth,
which prevailed at the board, no one would have suspected that
the entertainer and the entertained might have stood with more
propriety on the terms of mortal enmity, than in that false position
of friendly guest and unreluctant host. The meal was not ended
when the trumpets without again sounded the well-known
cadences of “horse and away!” and almost immediately afterward,
the three troops, dispatched to secure the other Huguenot
lords, set off at a sharp trot, and the clang of their accoutrements
was soon lost in the distance; but before it had yet died quite away,
the sound of a horse at a hard gallop was heard coming up the avenue
and in a moment afterward, an orderly pulled his charger at the
door, and asked vehemently for the colonel.

The man, who was admitted instantly, was one of those who
had been dispatched in pursuit of Martin Guerne; he showed, by

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

his whole appearance, that he had been recently in action. There
was blood on his face, and on many parts of his accoutrements;
and a scarf bound hastily on his left arm, showed that he had not
escaped unwounded. As soon as the eye of Charles de Martigue
fell on him, he perceived at once that he came from the scene of
strife between the miller's men and the followers of De Roudun;
and the look of anxiety and eagerness which all his features wore,
betrayed to his guest the keen interest he felt in the matter. But
Achille had his own reasons for not desiring his entertainer to be
acquainted with the other events of the day; he left the room,
therefore, with the orderly, and it was some short space before he
returned. When he did so, his face was very grave, and there
were traces of anxiety, too manifest to be mistaken, written upon
his lineaments, which were but rarely so affected.

“You will pardon me,” he said, on his return, “Monsieur de
Martigne---in the first place, for leaving your hospitable board so
abruptly; and, in the second, for taking the liberty now of asking
you a few questions. It was thought best by myself and Madame
de Roudun, that she and my cousin should be removed for a time
from this country, which seemed likely to become the scene of civil
contention, and perhaps even bloodshed. They set off, therefore,
at eleven o'clock this morning, from the chateau de Roudun, in
two carriages, by the great road for Paris. To my extreme astonishment,
however, in crossing the bridge on my way hither,
we discovered in the ravine below us, hastening toward the mill,
sixty or more armed men; some mounted, some on foot, with
the notorious miller, Martin Guerne, at their head, escorting, or
carrying off I should say, my cousin Isabel of Issengeaux, and her
maid-servant. My duty not permitting me to leave my men in
person, I sent off two troops to pursue the rebels, and secure the
ladies. Now, sir, I learn from the orderly just arrived, that there
has been a desperate conflict, in which many of the peasants and
some fifteen or twenty of our men have fallen, with several officers;
and that in the end the ruffians—for I can call them nothing
else—retreated up a staircase to the platform or ledge whereupon
the first shoot of the cataract pitches, and blew up the steps by
means of a mine previously contrived, in order to insure their

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

safety. Now, Monsieur le Comte, as a gentleman and cavalier of
honor, I conclude that you know nothing of this matter; and that,
setting all questions of religion and policy aside for the moment,
you will be willing to assist me in rescuing my cousin, who must
be suffering terribly in such rude captors' hands.”

“You do me no more than justice,” answered Charles; “I
did not even hear that the lady was about to leave De Roudun. But
you are mistaken about this man, Martin Guerne; he is not the
rude and brutal ruffian you imagine him.”

“Well! well! we will not discuss that now—will you give me
some information? That is what I want to know.”

“I will not promise, sir,” replied De Martigne; “I will make
no promises before-hand; but ask your questions—I will answer
them if possible.”

“Tell me, then—tell me,” cried De Roudun, eagerly, “where
can these men have concealed themselves? The orderly says they
passed in between the rocks and the falling water. Is there a
cavern there? and, above all, is there any way to escape thence,
besides the steps in front?”

“Upon my word! I do not know,” answered Charles, earnestly.
“I think I have heard that there is a cave; but I was
never up there, and in truth I know not. But there cannot by
any possibility, be any outlet to it but that in front—the river is
above their heads and on their left hand; and sure I am there is
no outlet or opening on my grounds, that I have heard of.”

“You will not tell me!” cried Achille; “I have no right to expect
you will, but—”

“Upon my life! upon my honor!” exclaimed Charles; “upon
my soul! you wrong me—I do not know, indeed; I have
told you truly and frankly to the best of my ability. But ask my
servants—some of the elder men may be able to inform you.”

The servants were called in, and two or three of them at once
declared that there was a cavern, which they had often seen and
examined—but they all declared that it was a small place, not
above ten or twelve yards deep, very dark and damp, and immediately
behind the cataract; and, further still, all were unanimous in
asserting, although privately and separately questioned, that there

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

was not any other mouth or outlet whatever, except that opening
on the platform. There was an air, too, of sincerity and truth in
their manner, which went farther than all their protestations in
convincing those who heard them; and they indeed spoke that
which they believed to be correct, and the sincere manner was
neither assumed nor deceptive.

“Good God! but this is very shocking!” exclaimed Charles de
Martigne, “that she should pass the night in so terrible a place!
What can be done?”

“Nothing, I fear to-night,” said De Roudun; “I hear that they
have summoned them three or four times by sound of trumpet,
but elicited no answer. You have got no ladders here, I suppose
count?”

“None long enough, I am sure,” said Charles; “the lower
fall is above a hundred feet in perpendicular height. But my
men, the carpenters and wheelwrights, can go to work on some
directly!”

“I will ride down myself, and see,” answered Achille, speaking
quite cordially; for, in truth, in his anxiety for Isabel's safety, he
had forgotten his hostility to De Martigne. “I must post a strong
guard at the rock's foot to prevent their escape. I must trespass
yet further on your hospitality for food and liquor for the men;
and if you will let your people make the ladders, at the worst, we
can scale the place to-morrow.”

“Certainly, certainly,” replied the Lord of Martigne; “they
shall be set to work immediately, and shall work all night. Order
whatever things you please to be carried down—my house is at
your service.” And then he shook his head and muttered to himself:
“I suppose he intended it for the best—but Martin has done
very wrongly.”

Meanwhile, De Roudun mounted his horse, and rode away
rapidly with the dragoon, leaving his subalterns still at table with
their prisoner. The wine was good and abundant; and they
drank deep, and scarcely noticed that the count ever passed the
bottle without filling, and sat in dark and melancholy silence.
An hour passed; and the Lord of Roudun returned, gloomy and
dissatisfied.

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

“I summoned them,” he said, “three times again, and offered
them full pardon and reward, if they would restore the lady;
yet I received no answer, nor heard any sound of living thing.
You would swear that, except my troopers, there was not a human
being within a mile of the spot—yet there must be! They cannot
escape: I have a hundred men there, and a watch-fire that
makes the whole place as light as day. We must assault the place
as soon as the ladders are prepared.”

“They will be ready by daybreak,” answered Charles, coldly;
“and now, I will pray you excuse me, for I am somewhat fatigued
and would retire to my chamber. I beg, however, that my departure
may not affect your stay; and that you will not spare the wine.
I wish you good rest, gentlemen.”

“One moment, count,” interposed De Roudun; “you must
forgive me, if I place a sentry at your chamber door—he will
allow your valet to pass to and fro.”

“I have pledged you my parole of honor, sir,” replied the master
of the house---a glow of indignation rising to his brow, “and I
am not accustomed—but as you will,” he interrupted himself—
“as you will. I dare say you are quite right: duty is
duty!”

And with a cold stiff bow, he left the saloon, and returned to
his bed-chamber, which he had hardly reached, before he heard
a soldier take post beside the doorway. For several hours longer,
the noise of revelry and loud talking was heard from the saloon,
and from the guard-room of the troopers; but long before midnight,
all the unwelcome guests had sought their couches; and,
save the sentinels, who were already nodding at their posts, and
the lord of the castle, who had not put his clothes off, or so much
as think of sleeping, there was not when the clock struck twelve, a
soul afoot or stirring in the chateau.

CHAPTER VIII.

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

When Martin Guerne disappeared from the view of the soldiery
beneath, passing immediately behind the sheet of falling water, he
stood in a position as romantic as any that can be conceived by the
mind of man. The platform of rock upon which the water fell,
was about ten yards in width by three times that length; the
front of it; formed by the abrupt precipice, at the foot of which
the mill was placed, being, as it were, the cord of an arc,
the circumference of which was framed by the beetling craggs of
the upper fall.

It was on the extreme point, to the right hand of this ledge,
that the cataract thundered; while from the other extreme, the
stairs had descended. These, broken as they were, and in fact
utterly demolished, all access to that narrow ledge seemed
totally cut off, for the rocks so completely overhung it, in the rear
and to the left, that a stone, dropped from the upper level, would
have almost fallen clear of its face; while the cataract prevented
all egress to the right hand, and the descent did the like in front.

The vast force, however, with which the river was launched, as
it were, from above, and the singular projection of the rocks, combined
to produce a perfect gothic arch; one side of which was the
transparent, and as yet unbroken stream, and the other, the black
lime-stone; and it was into this strange arch that he retreated—
but, within this, the mouth exactly facing the descending torrent
was the narrow doorlike aperture of a deep cavern; and at this

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

aperture, when Martin entered it, Baptiste, alone, was keeping
watch, the others were already out of sight.

The cavern, immediately within the aperture, opened out to a
considerable width and height, and was, perhaps, ten yards in
length; but nothing can be imagined more miserably cold, and
dark, and gloomy; for the spray from the cataract drove almost
constantly into the mouth, so that the atmosphere within was
little better than a watery mist; the effects of which were readily
perceived in the constant drip from every angle of the rock to the
slates whence the moisture trickied out in small rills; and in the
growth of noisome fungi and rank mosses, wherever there was a
particle of vegetable soil to be found in the rifts and crevices of
the dark shaly limestone.

Within this wretched shelter, those of the smugglers who had
escaped the conflict,—and only three or four had fallen, though
few had escaped unwounded—were collected, binding their hurts
up, as they best were able, or making ready their weapons for a
last and most desperate struggle; for none of them, not even Baptiste,
had been aware of the means which Martin was about to use;
and all had imagined, that nothing was left for them but to sell
their lives as dearly as they could. So quick of thought and expedient,
however, were these bold and reckless men, that the first
whizzing of the fuse had scarcely reached their ears, before they
understood the whole; and their only admiration was the skill
with which all had been managed, and the strange intrepidity of
the miller, who seemed, in truth, to bear a charmed life, proof
against all perils of steel, or flood, or fire.

Everything had passed so quickly, and there had been so much
confusion, that no one had, up to this time, thought anything
about the ladies; but now, one or two of the smugglers began to
look about them somewhat anxiously, and to inquire what had
become of the females, and what were their own prospects of
escape from this miserable hiding-place.

“Oh! they are all safe by this time, I warrant me; and so shall
you be within ten minutes,” replied the miller; and walking deliberately
to the farther end of the recess, which was as dark as
midnight, he uttered a low whistle of a peculiar tremulous note,

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

and instantly received an answer of the same kind. “Who is
it?” he asked in his natural voice—there was no fear of any conversation
that passed there being overheard without, through the
continuous roar of the torrent—“Jacques Monistrol?”

“No—Dupont—it is Dupont,” answered a voice; “is all safe?”

“Ay, ay; show a light, and let down the ladder.”

Immediately, a twinkling ray shot from a narrow crevice at the
top of the cavern; which, seen from below, even had there been
fifty torches blazing there, would never have been deemed capable
of admitting the body of a man; and a jointed ladder of stout
iron-work was lowered.

“Up with you now, my men—show them the way, Baptiste,”
exclaimed Martin Guerne; and after they had all ascended, one
by one, and disappeared, he too sprang up, and reached a ledge
of rock so near the roof of the natural vault, that it was necessary
to crawl in, for the first two or three yards, on the hands and knees.

Beyond this, where the roof rose in a loftier arch, stood his
comrade Monistrol, waiting him, torch in hand; a friendly grasp
was interchanged between them; two or three brief inquiries were
made and answered; and then, the ladder having been raised up
and made fast, they hastened onward through a long narrow passage,
with many abrupt corners, ascending all the way at a steep
angle, but high enough everywhere to permit a tall man to stand
erect.

Unlike the lower cave, the atmosphere was here completely free
from humidity, a considerable draught of wind sweeping down it,
apparently from some unseen communication with the exterior
air; the floor was composed of dry white sand, and neither on the
walls nor ceiling was there the slightest trace of moisture, or of
any fungous vegetation. Through this extraordinary chasm—
which turned from its aperture to the left hand continually, having
no lateral galleries or branches, and so kept clear of the course
of the stream—they advanced, having overtaken the smugglers, in
single file, nearly a hundred yards; and had, perhaps, ascended
about as many feet, when they came to another spot, where the
roof sunk abruptly to the level of the floor, leaving an aperture of
little more than two feet in diameter. Through this, however,

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

there streamed a strong beam of ruddy light, and a loud din of
noisy conversation issued. Through it they crept, as they had
come thus far, in regular order; and when the last man entered, a
huge block of rough stone, which was suspended by strong iron
chains from a complicated crane and windlass, was lowered against
the aperture, and all entrance from without rendered impossible.

They now stood in a vast and roomy chamber of oblong form,
considerably more than a hundred feet in breadth from the entrance
inward, and nearly as many yards long, in the opposite
direction. The roof was lofty, the air dry and pure—owing, it is
most likely, to some of those unseen and unsuspected spiracles,
which are so common to all those caves and labyrinths, that are
found everywhere in the limestone formation. This vast space
was illuminated by many scores of flambeaus, made rudely of
tarred rope; shedding, it is true, but a smoky radiance, yet sufficing
to render objects clearly visible, and to discover the uses to
which this great natural storehouse had been applied, as it would
seem, for many a year.

Hundreds and hundreds of small runlets were piled everywhere
along the walls; and from the contents of four or five which had
been broached, and were circulating freely among the armed Huguenots—
who, to the number of at least six hundred, were stretched
or seated round several fires kindled upon the rocky floor—it
might be judged that they contained contraband liquors from the
coast of Holland, since a strong flavor of the best Schiedam pervaded
the whole place, clearly perceptible, even above the smoke
of the fires, and the fumes of the tarry torches.

But this was not all; for there were bales and cases of English
cutlery, and goods of all kinds, foreign or domestic, which were
prohibited by the oppressive regulations of the day. It was, in
fact, a vast smuggling depot, whither the goods were brought up
from the coast, and whence they were distributed at fitting seasons,
throughout the inland country.

It had, however, for the present, lost its specific character; and
was converted, as it seemed, into the guard-house and citadel of
the stern insurrectionists, who had resolved to maintain their religious
creed at the pike's point, against their cruel persecutors.

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

For this, as far as secrecy and safety were concerned, it indeed
seemed admirably calculated; but in one point of view it had
struck many of its bold tenants that it was singularly faulty: that
it appeared, namely, to have but one outlet; and to none did this
peculiarity appear so striking, and indeed alarming, as to those
who were aware that the staircase without had been demolished.

Scarcely had their leader entered before—with the exception of
Baptiste, who stood calmly looking on, with a peculiar smile upon
his features—the whole body of smugglers flocked about him, crying
out:

“What is all this?—what have you brought us here for? Is it
to be starved, or smothered, or to be smoked out like rats in a
granary? Explain, explain, Martin Guerne!”

And at the same moment, a great number of peasants came up,
and joined in the same half-turbulent inquiries, which became
more and more vehement, when they learned that their only retreat
was cut off.

“We will talk about them presently,” he answered, quite unmoved,
“and in the meantime you need not crowd so closely! Tell
them, Baptiste; tell those who do not know; but do not show them
the place, or tell them where it leads to. I must go and speak
with the young lady. Whither have they taken her?”

The men fell back a little, reassured by the confident manner of
one, in whom they had been accustomed to place implicit trust;
and one of the peasants advancing in front of the others, cried
“This way—this way; I will show you, Martin—I will show you
where she is; good father Andre is with her, and Matthieu, the
gardener!”

And saying this, he led the miller to the farther end of the great
cave, where a large piece of sail-cloth had been hastily hung up,
as a sort of extemporaneous curtain, across the mouth of a recess,
wherein some rude attempts had been made to provide a semblance,
at least, of comfort. A pile of sacks, covered with a
watch-cloak or two, afforded a seat for poor Isabel, which, after
all that she had gone through in that eventful day, was more acceptable
to her than a couch of down, covered with the richest
damask, would have proved at another time.

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

The little waiting-maid who sat beside her, shrunk, it seemed,
into one-half her natural size, had lost all her bold joyousness and
ready wit; the color had deserted her bright cheek; and, as is not
unfrequently the case, she, who had been so brave and fearless,
and, above all, so confident of success, while danger was yet at a
distance, was now disturbed, and tremulous, and indeed almost
helpless, from the excess of her terror; while her young mistress,
in the press of actual peril, was as calm and collected as a veteran
on the battle-field. A cask inverted, served as a table, and on it
was placed some wine of a superior quality, although it was contained
in a rude vessel; two or three drinking-cups of tin and
horn; an earthen jug of water; and one wax-candle stuck into the
neck of a broken bottle.

The good priest was employing all his powers, to convince her
that she was now in perfect safety; and had succeeded partially in
reassuring her, as it seemed; for when Martin drew back the curtain,
and introduced his bulky person into the little conclave, he
said:

“See, my daughter! is not my confidence now justified? You
see him here; and here you may be sure you would not see him,
if all the danger were not over. Is it not as I say, Martin?”

“What! were you frightened, lady?” inquired the miller kindly,
but without answering directly; “but I need not ask that, though
you are a brave girl as ever was; for in truth, these are scenes to
make any woman tremble; and this is a wild and fearful place,
and a rude company for one nurtured as you have been. At all
events, it is better than the nunnery of the Ursulines, and easier to
get out of, too, though perhaps not quite so smooth of access!”

“I never shall be able to repay you!—never, never!” exclaimed
Isabel, jumping up, and grasping his hard hand. “And are we
indeed safe?—cannot they follow us up hither?—can they not?”

“No! lady,” he interrupted her; “nothing that has not wings
can now reach the platform of the fall. But if they could reach
it, they might search the cave for a month, ere they found the
outlet; and if they did find it, which I think is not possible, they
could not move that rock, from without, with all the engines human
ingenuity has framed. You are safe here, from anything

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

except an earthquake. I dare say, now, you did not even feel or
hear the shock of the explosion?”

“No! what explosion?” she replied simply.

“There now—I thought as much,” said Martin, laughing; “I
was obliged to spring a mine just now, and my poor staircase
went up to heaven, on the wings of two barrels of the best gunpowder
that ever did good service at hard need. I warrant me, it
was heard six miles off; and yet you never felt it here, or dreamed
of it.”

“She did not, miller,” said the priest, smiling; “but I felt the
dull shock, and heard the rumbling; yet, till I knew that you
were safe, I could not speak of it, knowing that it would but the
more alarm her.”

“Ah! father!—you, indeed!” retorted Martin; “but then you
know a few more things than you have ever read in the Bible;
and heard a sound or two more than the church-bell and the
organ! But tell me now, my dear young lady,” he continued,
turning to Isabel; “have you the least idea where you are?—but
no, I know you have not. Well, I will tell you—you are within
two hundred yards of the chateau Martigne; and, if you please,
you may be under its roof within a few hours. Now, you must
pardon me for what I am about to say, even if I make you blush;
but after what I have done for you—I do not mean that it is anything
to speak of, only enough to show that I mean you well—
after what I have done, I think I have a right to say a word or
two; and if the words be blunt, the will is honest! I hope you
have thought of what I said to you last evening! If you had then
done as he and I would have had you, much trouble would have
been saved; and four or five stout fellows, who are now as cold as
that rock, would have been alive and merry!”

“Hush! hush!” cried the old clergyman; “you are too rough—
you frighten her!” And, in truth, at his words she did turn as
pale as marble; but Martin still persisted.

“No!” he said; “no! I do not mean to blame her; how should
I?—but it is true; and she ought to know it, so we shall avoid
more mistakes. So now, dear lady, I would have you to understand,
that after we have rescued Charles de Martigne from your

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

good cousin of Roudun, to whom he is at this time a prisoner—
which we shall do, please God! before this night is many hours
older—there is much heavy work before us; much grave and solemn
duty. Nay, it is almost certain that we shall have to quit
this part of the country:—and it is not unlikely, even, that those
who love a good God more than a persecuting king, may have to
leave France too. I hope, therefore, that you have made up your
mind fully to do that to-night, which it had been better for us all
you had consented to do yesterday. If you do not—we shall
have brought you hither to no purpose. I wish to see my way
clear—that is all. Pray do not fancy me rude, lady, for I do not
intend to be so!”

“Indeed! I do not,” answered Isabel; “and this is no time for
false delicacy! I understand all that you would say, Martin; and
I believe you are altogether right. At all events, the circumstances
which have occurred to-day, leave me no choice; and if
he still desire it, I shall make no more opposition. That ought to
satisfy you.”

“It does! it does satisfy me! Do you hear, father? We shall
have work for you to-night,” cried the good miller, joyously.
“Now, I will go and talk to my men! Now, I have heart to do
so! Keep up your spirits—adieu! I will soon be back again:”
and, lifting up the small canvass screen, he passed out of the recess,
and once more joined his comrades.

“Now, old companions,” he began, with a rude sort of eloquence,
both in tone, words, and manner: “now, brother soldiers,
and fellow Christians—some of your number asked me, a while
since, some silly questions about our escaping! Escaping? Did
we, then, take up arms in order to escape? I thought it was to
meet our persecutors man to man!—to let them know, and to let
all France, and the whole world know, that we will worship God
according to our Bibles and our consciences; and not according
to the will of either cardinals or kings! Escaping? Do you suppose
I brought you hither to escape?—to hide? No! men and
Hugueuots—if men ye be; I brought you hither to strike home at
your foes, and conquer them—when they the least expect it!
Now, mark me, one and all. Our bitterest enemy, De Roudun, has,

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

before this, made Charles de Martigne his prisoner! Now, he has
either marched hence with him, straight to Rennes, or he tarries
here in the chateau, upon the hill above us. If he have done the
first, we will go out at midnight—the lords of Landavran, of St.
Aignan, and St. Erblon, will meet us in the park above our heads,
within two hours; and we will give the priest ridden persecutors a
touch yet, ere they reach Rennes. If he have tarried here, then
hath the Lord, whom we serve, delivered him into our hands!
Now will ye trust me with the rest?”

A loud, wild cheer was the only answer his words met; but
franker, more free, or sufficient answer, came never from the lips
of mortals! Again it rang, and again; all hearts and tongues
uniting in the cry, till the old rocks echoed with the din; and the
red torches flared, as if a gust of sudden wind had waved them!

“It is well—tarry here till I return—be patient, for I may be
gone an hour. Give me your pistols, Baptiste, and the dark lantern;
and four or five of you come with him hither—the rest stay
where you now are; and, hark ye, it were as well ye cooked and ate
your suppers: you will fight better—all men do—upon full bellies!”

He turned upon his heel, and so completely was their confidence
restored—if, indeed, it could be said to have been shaken—that
not a man asked whither, or wherefore he was going forth; and not
a man, except Baptiste and four smugglers, whom he called out
by name, so much, even, as looked after him. The six, however,
took their way to the end of the vault, the farthest from that at
which Isabel was placed; and then, under the direction of the
miller, the men displaced four tiers of runlets which were piled
up, one tier in front of the other, from the floor to the roof of the
cavern; and which the oldest smuggler there, saving the chief,
alone, never remembered to have seen removed before.

These moved, a small, low door of iron was discovered in the
rocky wall, fastened by two immense cross-bars of the same metal;
secured to the door and to each other by a strong hook and
heavy padlock. To this Martin applied a key; and, after some
time and trouble—for, both the lock and hinges were sore rusted—
the door yielded, and disclosed a passage, made through the
bowels of the living rock; but not made as the other, by the hand

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

of nature—for marks of the pick-axe and chisel could be distinguished
in the dusky torch-light.

“Lock it behind me, Baptiste,” he said, shaking his hand;
“and do not open it for your lives, but at my signal—three knocks
and three low whistles! Leave a man to keep watch. If I return
at all, I shall return within the hour!”

No more words passed between them. The door was closed,
and locked behind him; and Baptiste himself stood on the watch—
impatient, and alert, to catch the faintest and most distant
sound. No sound, however, reached his ear, till just as the hour
elapsed, and he was growing somewhat anxious, three light taps
rang upon the iron door, and Martin Guerne's peculiar whistle
followed it, thrice repeated.

There needed but one glance at the miller's face, to see that all
had gone well. “I thank Heaven!” he said—“thank Heaven!
it is all just as I would have it! The fools! the fools! we will
catch every one of them, like larks in a net, before morning. De
Roudun is up there at the chateau—with seventy men! Ha! ha!
it makes me laugh—seventy men! and twenty at the stables,
and twenty at the lodges; and ten more patrolling! There are a
hundred, or what is left of them, keeping watch down there by the
mill! They have sent fifty off to Landavran, to arrest the seigneur;
pray the Lord he may meet them in the great wood of
Erbreé; and if he do not give a good account of them, then my
name is not Martin Guerne!—and fifty to St. Aiguan!—and fifty
to St. Erblon! A proper blockhead to detach his men so. Why,
he could not have done it better, if he had wished to place them
so that we could cut them all off in detail. And now, my men, are
all your arms in order? your powder dry, and your flints clean
and sharp? Now light your lanterns—one to each tenth man.
Are they ready, Baptiste?—and cast your sabots off, every man
of you—their clatter would betray us else! One word more—let
each man follow his leader; and do as he does in all things.
Jacques Monistrol will follow me; and Baptiste close the line!
Be steady, and be silent; and, with God's blessing, all will prosper.
Now, father,” he continued, as the old priest came forth at the
sound of his well-known voice, “we are about to march. You

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will stay here, and console the women; ten of Baptiste's best men,
who have been slightly wounded, will wait with you. An hour
will finish it, whether for good or evil! Now, father, give us
your blessing. Attention, men! and silence! Let us pray!”

And in an instant, every man of that stern and lawless concourse
knelt, with bare heads, and contrite hearts, upon the rocky
floor of that wild vault; the red light of their lurid torches streaming
upon their coarse attire, and glittering war-weapons—upon
their tangled hair and bearded faces, and hard, grave, earnest features,
with an effect that would have riveted the eye, and claimed
the pencil of Salvator.

Alone, the old priest stood erect, and spread his arms abroad
with an air of grand and solemn majesty; and in a few strong
simple words, and noble in their calm simplicity, humbly besought
aid of Him, who has styled himself the God of Battles, and the
Lord of Hosts! His blessing on his persecuted servants!

He ended, and a deep “Amen!” rose solemnly from every lip;
and then, with one accord, unbidden, and unanimous, they burst
into a strain of holy song—one of the glorious Psalms of David!
Most wonderful was the effect of those sublime—those more than
mortal words—chanted, at that dead hour of the night, in that lone
vault of nature's hewing, by that armed congregation.

The mighty echoes lingered long in that unwonted chapel—long
after those who sang had bowed their heads to the earth in silence!
They arose, strong of heart---invincible---heroic! Each peasant
grasped his gun, with a hand firm as that which slung the pebble
from the brook against the giant Philistine! Each eye was fraught
with a collected fire; each breast was confident in God! They
filed out, one by one, slowly and silently, through the low door;
not a foot sounded on the rocky pavement; not a weapon clashed
as they glided out like phantoms!—they were here, they were gone—
the great cave was voiceless—vacant!

CHAPTER IX.

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It was now about an hour after midnight, while Charles de
Martigne was yet awake, and writing in his bedchamber, that a
slight, distant sound met his ear—like the sudden closing of a
door in the lower part of the house, followed by a low, continuous
rustling, as if of a large body of men moving cautiously.

He paused for a moment, and listened intently--but nothing
more did he hear; and he began to think that the noise which
had disturbed him, had its origin in his own excited fancy. After
a few moments, thought, he became the more convinced of this;
since he perceived that the sentinel at his door was on the alert,
and moving to and fro; and he concluded that he must have heard
the sound in question, if there had been anything real in them.

He shook his head, and heaved a deep sigh, as he came to this
conclusion; for he thought that assuredly the gallant miller and
his stout adherents had either perished in the terrible explosion,
by which they had endeavored to secure their temporary safety, or
were immured, without hope of escape, in that narrow cavern, until
their enemies should take means to capture them.

At this moment, however, there came a sudden clang of the huge
castle bell—another, and another—a peal of loud and continuous
alarums! The next instant the sentinel at his door shouted, in
tones of vehement surprise and fear:

“Treason!—ho! treason! To arms! to arms! Ho! treason!”
A minute of deep silence followed, and then the rush of many

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feet passed through the corridors; and a slight clash of arms, as
the troopers fell into their ranks at the door of the guard-room,
was clearly audible.

Immediately he heard the high voice of M. de Roudun, exclaiming:
“What is this? what is this? where is the prisoner?”

And then his own room door was opened, and several of the
Catholic officers rushed in, half-dressed, but with their swords
drawn and their pistols in their hands.

“What does this mean, Monsieur de Martigne,” exclaimed
Achille, angrily. “I thought you pledged me your parole of honor
to hold no communication with any one without! What
means, then, this alarm?”

“Nay!” answered Charles, smiling scornfully; “I know nothing
about it. Your own sentinel can tell you, that I have never
left this chamber. I am sure none of my people have done it;
or, if they have, it is contrary to my orders!”

“Let us go see, then,” said M. de Roudun, having learned from
the soldier at the door that Charles indeed had not quitted the
room, nor seen any servant since he retired from the dinner-table
early in the evening. “Go with me, sir! keep close beside me!
and you, sirrah,” he continued, turning to the sentinel, “follow
Monsieur de Martigne with your carbine ready, and shoot him
through the head, if there be the least attempt at a rescue!
Your being fully dressed is against your innocence, my lord,” he
added.

“I have not lain down at all,” said Charles, pointing to his
bed, which was undisturbed. “These will vouch for my occupation:”
and he laid his hands upon the letters he had been employed
in writing. “It is not, methinks, very strange that a man
should wish to arrange his affairs, before he is carried off a prisoner
in this arbitrary manner.”

As he spoke thus, the alarum-bell, which had for a few moments
ceased to ring, and broke forth again with a rapid and impatient
clangor.

“That bell! that bell!” exclaimed M. de Roudun. “Look to
your arms, men! follow me close—there is treason here!”

And passing his arm through that of M. de Martigne's, he hurried

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him to the head of the great stairs, and rushed down the flight of
steps to the first landing, followed by his officers and seventy men,
completely armed and drawn up in close column; but as he
reached the landing of the grand marble staircase, with his troopers
close at his heels, and gained a view of the great hall, he started
back aghast; for, though the doors facing him were shut and
barred as usual on the inside, the whole of that magnificent apartment
was lined, on three sides, by a dense orderly array of well-armed
peasantry, drawn up four deep—the first rank kneeling, the
second stooping, the third and fourth erect—all with their muskets
levelled, awaiting but the word to fire.

Then, to complete his surprise, just as he started back, a door
was thrown open on each side of the corridor, by which he had
reached the stairs; and a strong party occupied the head of the
flight above him, covering his men with their levelled firearms;
and continuing to file off, right and left, until the whole of the
gallery was in like manner lined with a long range of glittering
barrels, each with a keen eye glancing over it on the devoted
troopers.

In the midst of the hall stood the gigantic form of Martin
Guerne, holding the rope of the alarum-bell in his left hand, by
which he had awakened that wild summons; but when he saw
that the garrison had been thus brought together, he stepped forward
and cried, in a jeering tone: “Good morrow! good morrow
to you, most noble Count de Roudun! It is my time to dictate the
terms now!”

But Achille, enraged at the frustration of his schemes, and
boiling with fury against his detested rival, shouted:

“You, at least—you, at least, maheutre—shall not profit by it.
Shoot me this rebel here! Level your arms—”

But louder than his voice, the deep ringing accents of the miller
filled the whole spacious hall.

“Observe the count,” he cried, “my merry men! When he
shall give the word, above and below, give your fire; and cease not
while one man of them is living! And you, sirs,” he added,
waving his hand toward the astonished troopers, “ground your
arms!”

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As if upon parade, the men obeyed his word; and simultaneously
the butts of their carbines clashed on the marble pavement.

“Dogs!” shouted M. de Roudun; “cowardly dogs! Yet think
not you shall laugh over your treason, Huguenot rebel!” and, as
he spoke, he snatched a pistol from Paul d'Armençon, and, levelling
it at M. de Martigne's head, drew the trigger.

The deadly tube was but too truly aimed; and as the flash was
seen, not one person in that crowded hall—no, not even Charles
himself—but was sure that his hour had arrived; but, at that very
point of time, M. d'Armençon perceiving what his leader was
about, took one quick step in advance, and struck the barrel up
just as Achille fired. The weapon was discharged, and fatally—
though he for whom the ball was intended stood unharmed and
unterrified; although the flame, so near to his head was the pistol
fired, actually singed the feather in his hat.

One of the peasants in the gallery, raised his hand with a quick
motion toward his head, and uttering a strange sound between a
cry and a groan, fell back into the arms of the man next behind him,
and was dead in a minute. But quick as light, quicker even than
the movement of D'Armençon, before he saw the result of the shot
or knew that Charles was saved, Martin Guerne tossed his heavy
carbine up to the level of his eye, and, without dwelling on his
aim the tenth part of a second, fired! Before almost the bullet
had departed on its mission, his loud voice was heard, commanding
his men to keep their places, and offering good quarters to all such
as should yield them quietly. Not one tone of that voice, however,
reached the ears of De Roudun: for as the sharp flash leaped from
the muzzle of the miller's piece, he fell to the pavement as a dead
man.

“So perish all,” cried Martin Guerne, “who point a weapon
against an unarmed captive! My lord of Martigne, you are at
liberty; and if you please to accompany Baptiste, here, he will
show you the way to one whom you love dearly, and who is anxiously
awaiting you. I will deal with these gentry in the meanwhile;
but waste no time, count—our work is not half done yet.
There! there! why do you not go with him?”

“I cannot think of moving, Martin,” replied the young

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nobleman, “until I have heard you assure these gentlemen of kind and
honorable treatment—nor then, even, unless they think fit to absolve
me from a promise, which I voluntarily gave them—that I
would not absent myself from the house until daybreak; it wants
some hours of that yet.”

“Why, do you think that I am going to eat them?” said the
miller. “No! no! we will treat them well—nay, more, we will
let them go about their business, if they will give their sacred
words of honor, as gentlemen, and soldiers, to bear arms no more
in this cause; but we will talk of that afterward. What is this,
now, about the promise?”

“Oh! that is nothing,” cried De la Roche and Paul d'Armen
çon, both in one breath. “In the first place, it was made to him
who now lies there, slain through his own perverseness—and,
therefore, has no obligation; and in the next place, it was void the
very moment he attempted your life, sir—the failure of the attempt
in no wise altering the consequence.”

“For which failure I have no one to thank but you, sir; for my
good friend, the miller's shot, would have come all too late to save
me,” answered De Martigne; “and I am sorry that he fired at all.
But you must pardon me; I understand the meaning of his words
and must begone. I will, however, return quickly; and, until
then, you have my word of honor for your safety.”

And joining Baptiste, with whom he whispered eagerly, as he
departed, he hurried down a lower flight of steps, conducting to
the offices and cellars. But Martin Guerne replied aloud, to his
regret that the shot had been fired, without noticing the latter part
of his speech at all:

“I am not, then—I am not sorry that I fired: he was a cursed
rascal! and had he been ten times the Count de Roudun, he should
have been put to death for shooting Antoine, yonder, after terms
had been offered him. I am not sorry, but the contrary; for it
was better done in the heat of anger, than in cold blood! Now,
gentlemen, I need not ask if you surrender, I fancy. Make your
men pile their arms, there where they stand, and march down
hither. For yourselves, give me your honor to be true prisoners,
rescue or no rescue, until Count Charles returns; and you may

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go back to bed, if you please, and finish your night's rest—which,
I think, would be the wisest way.”

“All this was speedily arranged—the officers plighting their
word, as they were called upon to do, but declining to accept the
miller's proposition, of going back to bed---D'Armençon saying
merrily, that the night's work had been commenced so cleverly,
that he should like to see the end of it.

“Well said---well said,” exclaimed the miller; “and now I
think of it you may be of some use too, and spare bloodshed. You
have got two outposts of twenty men each, one at the stables, the
other at the lodges, on the highroad. I am just going to send out
a hundred men against each; but if you and Count Henri de la
Roche will go out, with a couple of my men each, and order them
to lay down their arms; it will save trouble; and you know as well
as I do, that resistance is in vain.” And now, my men, some of
you take up that fellow's body and lay it on a bed, and let one or
two keep watch until there be time to bury it.”

A dozen of his followers ran forward to execute his bidding,
but, on raising the body of the count from the pavement, it was
found that he was yet living, the force of the miller's bullet having
been so far deadened by the frontlet of the young officer's steel
morion, that it had failed to penetrate the skull—on which it had,
however, inflicted a severe contusion, stunning him completely,
and depriving him for the time of all sense and motion.

This discovery produced, of course, an alteration in the mode
of his treatment; and, before Charles de Martigne's return, a chirurgeon
had examined the sufferer and pronounced that his life
was in no danger, although his recovery would be slow and tedious—
a result which was far more satisfactory to his rival than
would have been the death of one so closely connected with his
fair Isabel.

After a moment's conversation between themselves, the Catholie
nobles agreed to the miller's proposal, and were just setting
forth on their mission, when the clatter of a heavy squadron was
heard rapidly approaching, and a loud fanfare of trumpets.

“More friends! more friends!” shouted the miller. “Throw the
gates open; it is the Lord of Landavran, I fancy.”

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And so indeed it proved; and not he only, but the officers and
thirty-five dragoons of the Catholic troop, which had been dispatched
to take him prisoner, the others having been killed, or badly
wounded in the affair, which had resulted in the capture of the
party. Within half an hour, the other Huguenot lords came up
from Saint Aignan and Saint Erblon, each with a little squad of
horsemen; and the tenants of Charles De Martigne, pouring in
rapidly to the sound of the ban cloche, riders were soon found for
the horses, and wearers for the arms of De Roudun's cavalry—
one half of whom had been already taken with the loss of but two
lives, for D'Armençon and De la Roehe did honorably what they
had undertaken fairly; and before daybreak the two troops, who
had been posted at the mill, their egress from the glen being cut
off by a strong body of both foot and horse, and the cliffs lined
above their heads with musketry, laid down their arms upon terms
of fair rendition. Before De Martigne returned from the cavern
with his fair prize, the miller had evacuated the chateau, leaving a
guard of picked men only with the prisoners; and quartered his
men in the stables and out-buildings.

Words could not paint the ecstacy of Isabel, or the calm, peaceful
happiness of Charles de Martigne, at this so favorable termination
of what they deemed all their cares and trials. He did
not deem it wise, for the present, to speak of De Roudun's wound;
so that there was not a cloud to dim the happiness of the fair
bride, on that eventful might. The bride! yes; ere the sun rose,
justified in the eyes of all, both loving friends and honorable foes,
by the emergencies and perils of the time, Isabel of Issengeaux gave
her hand unto him, to whom her heart had been given long before.

And, although enemies and friends, captors and captives, were
mingled at the wedding feast; though Huguenot and Catholic sat
side by side at the well-furnished board, and a maheutre priest
asked a blessing on the meat; the wine-cup went round gayly,
and wit flashed fast from fluent lips, and not one guest refused the
pledge, when Charles de Martigne arose, and quaffed a brimming
cup to the good health of Martin Guerne---the Miller of Martigne!