[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.

Previous section

Next section