Chapter XXII
The chamber in which Diane de Coray lay had grown light at last,—light, at least, as the grey dawn of a November day could make it as it crept through the narrow slits which served as windows. Yet there were shadows everywhere; she could see them as she moved her weary eyes to look through the opening where her brother’s hand had rudely torn aside the bed hangings. Half-fainting with suffocation and the strain on her over-burdened heart, she felt no throb of surprise or fear as she saw the feeble light swiftly blotted out by a dark-robed figure. Yet, as the figure moved, coming quickly to her side with a low exclamation of horror, her senses began to return to her, and her eyes looked up in joyful recognition to meet the stern but puzzled glance of Father Ambrose.
“Daughter,” said the old man gravely, “what meaneth this?”
He had severed her bonds and removed the gag, helping the poor girl, whose limbs at first were cramped and useless, to raise herself into a sitting posture.
For reply Diane stared vaguely into the troubled eyes bent upon her; her brain was cramped too with the long agony of those terrible hours, but at last comprehension slowly returned as the stinging blood began once more to circulate in her numbed members.
“How came you hither, father?” she questioned faintly, staring from her unexpected visitor to the closely barred door.
“Suffice that I am here,” was the enigmatical reply. “Yet time presses, daughter, and I must have an answer to my question. Alas! it may even now be too late!”
“Too late?” she echoed, a fresh fear striking its chill to her heart. “Nay, tell me, father—he lives?—he is better?—he will recover?”
“I spake not of Yvon de Mereac,” said the priest in a stifled tone, “but of the pure and innocent maid, his sister, who hath been condemned falsely by wicked men, to suffer death at noon; and yet,” he added slowly, fixing a piercing glance on Diane’s pale face,—“I can see already that there lieth much behind this. Speak, maiden, without delay—confess all thou knowest of this plot, and save thy soul from the blood of the innocent.”
“To die!” whispered Diane slowly; “to die!”
On the instant the whole picture of her guilt flared before her eyes, and the words of her brother rang in her ears: “Picture to yourself his rage, his despair, his agony, when he learns that his sister perished in innocence, and the woman who dragged her to the stake, the woman whose warm kisses were pressed to his lips, whose siren tongue whispered of faith and devotion, was also the one to pour into the betrothal cup the deadly drops that should send the proud bridegroom to keep festival with Death.”
“To die!” she cried again, flinging out her hands as if in supplication to the priest, who stood there stern, grave, and immovable. “To die!—and for my sin! Merciful Virgin, Mother of Help! save her!—save her!—for she is innocent!”
She had sunk on to the ground at the old man’s feet, at the last words, and, clinging to his robe, sobbed out her terrible confession. In the remorse and shame of her agony she hid nothing; and as he listened, Father Ambrose’s stern face relaxed into a softer expression of pity.
“Daughter,” he said gently, as he raised the weeping girl from the floor, “Daughter, be of good comfort; to one also who had greatly sinned were words of pardon spoken for love’s sake, and it may be that repentance hath not come too late. But,” he added, his face hardening, “we may not delay; come, child—see, I will trust thee to play thy part in the salvation, not only of the innocent, but of the man whom thou lovest. Come speedily, for it may be that that man of blood and treachery,—upon whose soul shall rest the curse of God and whose damnation shall be quick,—may come hither to bring thee food. But we shall yet escape the snare and pluck the innocent lamb in time from the cruel death prepared for her.”
As he spoke he was supporting the weeping Diane across the room, pressing back an unseen door, cunningly secreted from view in the shape of a sliding panel, through which he passed, still guiding her carefully as they descended a winding, spiral stair which led downwards to another part of the château.
“Child,” he said again softly, as they paused, close to the tapestry curtain which separated them from Yvon’s room—“child, the way of repentance is no easy one. Confession must be made, not only to God, the Judge of all, but to him whom thou hast so injured, and against whom thou plannedst this ill. I leave to thee this task, so terrible yet so necessary, weak and sick though he be, for the sake of one whose life I go to save, if the will of the Lord and our Lady permit it, as I well wot shall be, seeing that they ever guard the innocent from the snares of the evil-doers.”
“But it will kill him,” moaned Diane; “it will kill him, father! Oh! say that I may wait until he grows stronger,—then I will confess all—yes, all, even to the uttermost!”
But the priest shook his head.
“Confession must be made without delay,” he said gravely. “Thou thyself mayest well see the necessity, daughter; for, weak and sick though he be, Yvon de Mereac must know the truth of his sister’s innocence, and also the guilt and evil intentions of the man who hath thus plotted against his life and who hath but used thee, poor maid, as his tool. But delay not, for I may not linger with the sweet voice of Gwennola calling me to hasten to her deliverance.”
With a sob, Diane yielded to the old man’s will, and with trembling fingers raised the curtain and entered her lover’s room.
He was lying there, still, amongst his cushions; but even in those few, short hours the change in the emaciated face was marvellous. It was no longer the face of a dying man, drawn, blue-hued, and pinched with suffering. Haggard and gaunt still, yet the eyes which met Diane’s were bright with recognition.
“Diane! Diane!” he whispered; “fairest love, with what an aching heart I have awaited thy coming! She is condemned, Diane—the little Gwennola is condemned to death; and yet so fair a dream I had of her but yesternight, for methought she was a child again, lily-crowned and laughing, and that she ran to me, crying my name in joy, and, clinging to my neck, pressed her flowers upon me, saying she had gathered them for love’s sake; and her eyes looked into mine with so sweet a tenderness that I awoke sobbing, calling to remembrance that she was a witch who had striven for my death.”
“No witch!” cried Diane, as she knelt, weeping, at his side; “no witch, Yvon, but pure and innocent as the child of thy dreams. Alas! alas! that, for the sake of thy love for her, thy love for me must die; and yet I am unworthy of it, unworthy of aught but thy hatred, thy loathing, and thy scorn!”
“My hatred?” he whispered tenderly, whilst his feeble hands strayed fondly towards the tresses of her bowed head. “My hatred, little Diane? That could never be, wert thou—wert thou—ah! all that thou art not, my sweetest one!”
“Alas! alas! thou knowest not!” sobbed the girl. “Ah! the bitterness of telling thee, Yvon! Why may I not die the sooner, so that I shall not look into thine eyes and see the scorn and loathing which thou must needs feel towards a thing so foul?”
“Hush!” he whispered faintly, “thou shalt not say such words, Diane, my adored.”
The very tenderness of his speech, the quiver in his voice, made the task more terrible; yet it had to be essayed, and with bowed head and sobbing breath she faltered it forth.
When it was finished there was silence in the room. Outside the wind moaned and shrieked; reproachful voices, they sounded, calling to those within that that very day innocence was suffering for the guilty. The raindrops that splattered against the grey walls without seemed to be fingers knocking for admittance, ghostly fingers which mocked and gibed whilst the wind voices wept and lamented the louder. And as she listened, Diane de Coray crouched the lower in a very agony of self-abasement and remorse, not daring to look up and find the eyes she had learnt to love so passionately grow hard and cruel as love died within them.
“Diane!”
The voice roused her, and in spite of her forebodings she slowly raised her head. The face on the pillows was deathly pale, and the poor lips quivered piteously in their pain and horror; but the eyes—ah! those eyes! love was not dead there, but so mortally wounded that his agony was the more terrible to witness.
“Yvon! Yvon!” she moaned. “Ah! why may I not die? Why may I not die? I may not ask thee to forgive me, but oh! for the sake of our sweet Lady of Pity, curse me not!”
“Curse thee?” he muttered faintly, “nay, myself the rather, seeing I love thee still, and as truly as ever; and yet the little Gwennola——”
A smothered sob choked him, and Diane knew that though love stood there calling to her with outstretched arms of forgiveness, there lay between them the irrevocable shadow of a sister’s blood.
“Oh, merciful heavens!” she cried, clasping her hands, wringing them together in a paroxysm of grief and entreaty, “grant that they may be in time!”
“In time?” faintly whispered the sick man; “in time?”
“Ay,” she sobbed, “ay, Yvon, there is yet a hope, for Father Ambrose and Alain Fanchonic ride at full speed to Martigue to proclaim her innocence.”
“And—and thou hast told Father Ambrose all?” he murmured, and the thin hand on the coverlet strayed once more nearer to the bent figure at his side.
“All—all!” she cried passionately; “for thy sake, Yvon, for thy sake—and for love’s!”
“For love’s sake!” Yes, that was the goad which added wings to the good horse’s feet as Alain Fanchonic, with Father Ambrose, seated on a pillion behind him clasping the stalwart man-at-arm’s waist, rode forth into the tempest which shrieked raging through the forest. A wild ride, with the wind beating in their faces, and dead leaves whirling in a very hurricane around them; but neither of the two had thought for wind or weather, for ever before their eyes stood the slender figure of a young girl bound to a burning stake with arms outstretched in pleading, whilst her voice cried to them to hasten to her aid. It is true that Alain Fanchonic, grandson of the old dame upon whom Gwennola so often bestowed her bounty, had crossed himself in devout horror when he heard the story of the Brown Friar and the waxen image; but so severely had his grandmother upbraided him for his credulity in believing such slander against one of Heaven’s own angels, that he had lived in a state of doubt and horror during the few days which had elapsed since Gwennola’s arrest and condemnation. So that when Father Ambrose had come to him, telling him to saddle Barbe, the fleetest mare in the stables, and ride with him to Martigue to save his mistress and proclaim her innocence, he had lost little time in complying, muttering curses and prayers alike, whilst the tears ran down his brown cheeks as he sprang into the saddle, and, with the good priest clinging on for dear life behind, dashed out, across the drawbridge and away through the forest so madly that surely Providence only could have upheld the grey mare’s feet as she sped along the narrow, dangerous path. But not once did she stumble as she galloped swiftly along, and Father Ambrose felt his heart beat with joy and gladness as they gradually neared their goal. Yet not without interruption were they thus to journey, for, as they rode, they were startled suddenly by another horseman who leapt unexpectedly on to the path before them. It was Guillaume de Coray; and even as their glances met, the old priest felt a thrill of wonderment as he saw the traitor’s face. It was not indeed that of a man who hastens from the scene of his triumph, and the consummation of his hopes and plots, but rather that of baffled hatred and anger. His fierce gaze met the Benedictine’s for an instant only, as he reined back his horse, which trembled as it stood there, as if its master had spared it little in his ride. Then, even before either had time to speak, a blast of wind, sweeping through the forest, brought one of the mighty trees close by to the ground with a terrific crash. The noise so near and so unexpected startled de Coray’s horse; rearing on its hind legs, it pawed the ground in terror, then, with a snort of fear it leapt forward so wildly as to unseat its rider, who, flung heavily against one of the trees, lay senseless and bleeding on the ground.
In a moment Father Ambrose was beside him; yet, even before he stooped to examine the injured man’s hurts, he paused to address the man-at-arms.
“Ride on with speed, Alain Fanchonic,” he cried authoritatively; “spare not thy steed, but ride for thy life, or rather for hers whom thou lovest; save thy mistress, ere it be too late.”
Without hesitation, the man plunged his spurs into the good horse’s sides, quickly disappearing amongst the trees; and Father Ambrose was left alone beside his unconsious enemy, struck down in the hour of his vengeance by what, to the simple faith of the priest, was nothing less than the finger of the Eternal Judge.