Lord Walwyn further bade his

grandson remember that the arrangements respecting his inheritance

had been made in confidence that his heir was English in heart and

faith, and that neither the Queen nor his own conscience would

allow him to let his inheritance pass into French of Papist hands.

There was scarcely a direct reproach, but the shaken, altered

handwriting showed how stricken the aged man must be; and after his

signature was added one still more trembling line, 'An ye return

not speedily, ye will never see the old grandsire more.'

Berenger scarcely finished the letter through his burning tears of

agony, and then, casting it from him, began to pace the room in

fierce agitation, bursting out into incoherent exclamations,

grasping at his hair, even launching himself against the massive

window with such frenzied gestures and wild words that Philip, who

had read through all with his usual silent obtuseness, became

dismayed, and, laying hold of him, said, 'Prithee, brother, do not

thus! What serves such passion?'

Berenger burst into a strange loud laugh at the matter-of-fact

tone. 'What serves it! what serves anything!' he cried, 'but to

make me feel what a miserable wretch I am? But he will die,

Philip--he will die--not having believed me! How shall we keep

ourselves from the smooth-tongued villain's throat? That I should

be thus judged a traitor by my grandfather----'

And with a cry as of bodily anguish, he hid his face on the table,

and groaned as he felt the utter helplessness of his strong youth

in bonds.

'It can't be helped,' was the next of the unconsolatory platitudes

uttered by Philip, who always grew sullen and dogged when his

brother's French temperament broke forth under any sudden stroke.

'If they will believe such things, let them! You have not heard

what my father says to it.'

'It will be all the same,' groaned Berenger.

'Nay! now that's a foul slander, and you should be ashamed of doing

my father such wrong,' said Philip, 'Listen;' and he read: 'I

will believe no ill of the lad no more than of thee, Phil. It is

but a wild-goose chase, and the poor young woman is scarce like to

be above ground; but, as I daily tell them, 'tis hard a man should

forfeit his land for seeking his wife. My Lord North sends rumours

that he is under Papist guiding, and sworn brother with the Black

Ribaumonts; and my Lady, his grandmother, is like to break her

heart, and my Lord credits them more than he ought, and never a

line as a token comes from you. Then there's Dame Annora, as proud

of the babe as though neither she nor woman born ever had a son

before, and plains over him, that both his brothers should be

endowed, and he but a younger son. What will be the end on't I

cannot tell. I will stand up for the right as best man may do, and

never forget that Berry is her first-born, and that his child may

be living; but the matter is none of mine, and my Lord is very

aged, nor can a man meddle between his wife and her father. So

this I tell you that you may make your brother lay it to heart.

The sooner he is here the better, if he be still, as I verily

believe and maintain him to be, an honest English heart that snaps

his fingers at French papistry.' 'There,' conclude Philip

triumphantly, 'he knows an honest man! He's friend and good father

to you as much as ever. Heed none of the rest. He'll never let

this little rogue stand in your light.'

'as if I cared for that!' said Berenger, beginning his caged-tiger

walk again, and, though he tried to repress his anguish, breaking

out at times into fierce revilings of the cruel toils that beset

him, and despairing lamentations over those beloved ones at home,

with sobs, groans, and tears, such as Philip could not brook to

witness. Both because they were so violent and mourn-full, and

because he thought them womanish, though in effect no woman's grief

could have had half that despairing force. The fierte of the

French noble, however, came to his aid. At the first sound of the

great supper-bell he dashed away his tears, composed his features,

washed his face, and demanded haughtily of Philip, whether there

were any traces in his looks that the cruel hypocrite, their

jailer, could gloat over.

And with proud step and indifferent air he marched into the hall,

answered the Chevalier's polite inquiry whether the letter had

brought good tidings by coolly thanking him and saying that all at

home were well; and when he met the old man's inquiring glance out

of the little keen black bead in the puckered, withered eyelid, he

put a perfectly stony unmeaningness into his own gaze, till his

eyes looked like the blue porcelain from China so much prized by

the Abbess. He even played at chess all the evening with such

concentrated attention as to be uniformly victorious.

Yet half the night Philip heard suppressed moans and sobs--then

knew that he was on his knees--then, after long and comparatively

silent weeping, he lay down again, and from the hour when he awoke

in the morning, he returned no more to the letters; and though for

some little time more sad and dispirited, he seemed to have come to

regard the misjudgment at home as a part of the burthen he was

already bearing.

That burthen was, however, pressing more heavily. The temperaments

of the two brothers so differed that while the French one was

prostrated by the agony of a stroke, and then rallied patiently to

endure the effects, the English character opposed a passive

resistance to the blow, gave no sign of grief or pain, and from

that very determination suffered a sort of exhaustion that made the

effects of the evil more and more left. Thus, from the time

Philip's somewhat tardy imagination had been made to realize his

home, his father, and his sisters, the home-sickness, and weariness

of his captivity, which had already begun to undermine his health

and spirits, took increasing effect.

He made no complaint--he never expressed a wish--but, in the words

of the prophet, he seemed 'pining away on his feet.' He did not

sleep, and though, to avoid remark, he never failed to appear at

meals, he scarcely tasted food. He never willingly stirred from

cowering over the fire, and was so surly and ill-tempered that only

Berenger's unfailing good-humour could have endured it. Even a

wolf-hunt did not stir him. He only said he hated outlandish

beasts, and that it was not like chasing the hare in Dorset. His

calf-love for Madame de Selinville had entirely faded away in his

yearnings after home. She was only one of the tediously recurring

sights of his captivity, and was loathed like all the rest. The

regulation rides with the Chevalier were more detestable than ever,

and by and by they caused such fatigue that Berenger perceived that

his strength must be warning, and became so seriously alarmed that

one evening, when Philip had barely dragged himself to the hall,

tasted nothing but a few drops of wine, and then dropped into an

uneasy slumber in his chair, he could not but turn to the Chevalier

an appealing, indignant countenance, as he said, in a low but

quivering voice, 'You see, sir, how he is altered!'

'Alas! fair nephew, it is but too plain. He is just of the age

when such restraint tells severely upon the health.'

Then Berenger spoke out upon the foul iniquity of the boy's

detention. For himself, he observed, he had nothing to say; he

knew the term of his release, and had not accepted them; but

Philip, innocent of all damage to the Ribaumont interests, the heir

of an honourable family, what had he done to incur the cruel

imprisonment that was eating away his life?

'I tell you, sir,' said Berenger, with eyes filled with tears,'

that his liberty is more precious to me than my own. Were he but

restored to our home, full half the weight would be gone from my

spirit.'

'Fair nephew,' said the Chevalier, 'you speak as though I had any

power in the matter, and were not merely standing between you and

the King.'

'Then if so,' said Berenger, 'let the King do as he will with me,

but let Philip's case be known to our Ambassador.'

'My poor cousin,' said the Chevalier, 'you know not what you ask.

Did I grant your desire, you would only learn how implacable King

Henri is to those who have personally offended him--above all, to

heretics. Nor could the Ambassador do anything for one who

resisted by force of arms the King's justice. Leave it to me; put

yourself in my hands, and deliverance shall come for him first,

then for you.'

'How, sir?'

'One token of concession--one attendance at mass--one pledge that

the alliance shall take place when the formalities have been

complied with--then can I report you our own; give you almost

freedom at once; despatch our young friend to England without loss

of time; so will brotherly affection conquer those chivalrous

scruples, most honourable in you, but which, carried too far,

become cruel obstinacy.'

Berenger looked at Philip; saw how faded and wan was the ruddy sun-

burnt complexion, how lank and bony the sturdy form, how listless

and wasted the hands. Then arose, bursting within him, the devoted

generosity of the French nature, which would even accept sin and

ruin for self, that so the friend may be saved; and after all, had

he not gone to mass out of mere curiosity?--did he not believe that

there was salvation in the Gallican Church? Was it not possible

that, with Philip free to tell his story at home, his own

deliverance might come before he should be irrevocably committed to

Madame de Selinville? If Eustacie were living, her claims must

overthrow that which her rival was forcing upon him at her own

peril. Nay, how else could he obtain tidings of her? And for

those at home, did they deserve that he should sacrifice all,

Philip included, for their sake? The thoughts, long floating round

his brain, now surged upon him in one flood, and seemed to

overwhelm in those moments of confusion all his powers of calling

up the other side of the argument; he only had an instinct

remaining that it would be a lie to God and man alike. 'God help

me!' he sighed to himself; and there was sufficient consideration

and perplexity expressed in his countenance to cause the Chevalier

to feel his cause almost gained; and rising eagerly, with tears in

his eyes, he exclaimed, 'Embrace me, my dear, dear son! The thing

is done! Oh! what peace, what joy!'

The instinct of recoil came stronger now. He stepped back with

folded arms, saying again, 'God help me! God forbid that I should

be a traitor!'

'My son, hear me; these are but easily removed points of honour,'

began the Chevalier; but at that moment Philip suddenly started

from, or in his slumber, leapt on his feet, and called out,

'Avaunt, Satan!' then opened his eyes, and looked, as if barely

recalling where he was.

'Philip!' exclaimed Berenger, 'did you hear?'

'I--I don't know,' he said, half-bewildered. 'Was I dreaming that

the fiend was parleying with us in the voice of M. le Chevalier

there to sell our souls for one hour of home?'

He spoke English, but Berenger replied in French.

'You were not wrong, Philip. Sir, he dreamt that the devil was

tempting me in your voice while you were promising me his liberty

on my fulfilling your first condition.'

'What?' said Philip, now fully awake, and gathering the state of

things, as he remembered the words that had doubtless been the

cause of his dream. 'And if you did, Berenger, I give you warning

they should never see me at home. What! could I show my face there

with such tidings? No! I should go straight to La Noue, or to the

Low Countries, and kill every Papist I could for having debauched

you!'

'Hush! hush! Philip,' said Berenger; 'I could not break my faith

to Heaven or my wife even for your sake, and my cousin sees how

little beholden you would be to me for so doing. With your leave,

Monsieur, we will retire.'

The Chevalier detained Berenger for a moment to whisper, 'What I

see is so noble a heart that I know you cannot sacrifice him to

your punctilio.'

Philip was so angry with Berenger, so excited, and so determined to

show that nothing ailed him, that for a short time he was roused,

and seemed to be recovering; but in a few days he flagged again,

only, if possible with more gruffness, moodiness, and pertinacity

in not allowing that anything was amiss. It was the bitterest drop

of all in Berenger's cup, when in the end of January he looked back

at what Philip had been only a month before, and saw how he had

wasted away and lost strength; the impulse rather to ruin himself

that destroy his brother came with such force that he could

scarcely escape it by his ever-recurring cry for help to withstand

it. And then Diane, in her splendid beauty and withchery, would

rise before him, so that he knew how a relaxation of the lengthened

weary effort would make his whole self break its bonds and go out

to her. Dreams of felicity and liberty, and not with Eustacie,

would even come over him, and he would awaken to disappointment

before he came to a sense of relief and thankfulness that he was

still his own. The dislike, distaste, and dread that came so

easily in his time of pain and weakness were less easy to maintain

in his full health and forced inactivity. Occupation of mind and

hope seemed the only chance of enabling either of the two to

weather this most dreary desert period; and Berenger, setting his

thoughts resolutely to consider what would be the best means of

rousing Philip, decided at length that any endeavour to escape,

however arduous and desperate, would be better than his present

apathetic languor, even if it led to nothing. After the first

examination of their prison, Berenger had had no thought of escape;

he was then still weak and unenterprising. He had for many months

lived in hopes of interference from home; and, besides, the

likelihood that so English a party as his own would be quickly

pursued and recaptured, where they did not know their road and had

no passports, had deterred him lest should fall into still straiter

imprisonment. But he had since gained, in the course of his rides,

and by observation from the top of the tower, a much fuller

knowledge of the country. He knew the way to the grange du Temple,

and to the chief towns in the neighbourhood. Philip and Humfrey

had both lost something of their intensely national look and

speech, and, moreover, was having broken out again, there was hope

of falling in with Huguenot partisans even nearer that at La

Rochelle. But whether successful or not, some enterprise was

absolutely needed to save Philip from his despondent apathy; and

Berenger, who in these eighteen months had grown into the strength

and vigour of manhood, felt as if he had force and power for almost

any effort save this hopeless waiting.

He held council with Humfrey, who suggested that it might be well

to examine the vaults below the keep. He had a few days before,

while going after some of the firewood stored below the ground-

floor chamber, observed a door, locked, but with such rusty iron

hinges that they might possibly yield to vigorous efforts with a

stone; and who could tell where the underground passages might come

out?

Berenger eagerly seized the idea. Philip's mood of contradiction

prompted him to pronounce it useless folly, and he vouchsafed no

interest in the arrangements for securing light, by selecting all

the bits of firewood fittest for torches, and saving all the oil

possible from the two lamps they were allowed. The chief

difficulty was that Guibert was not trusted, so that all had to be

done out of his sight; and on the first day Berenger was obliged to

make the exploration alone, since Humfrey was forced to engross

Guibert in some occupation out of sight, and Philip had refused to

have anything to do with it, or be like a rat routing in the

corners of his trap.

However, Berenger had only just ascertained that the ironwork was

so entirely rusted away as to offer no impediment, when Philip came

languidly roaming into the cellar, saying, 'Here! I'll hold the

torch! You'll be losing yourself in this wolf's mouth of a place

if you go alone.'

The investigation justified Philip's predictions of its

uselessness. Nothing was detected but rats, and vaults, and

cobwebs; it was cold, earthy, and damp; and when they thought they

must have penetrated far beyond the precincts of the keep, they

heard Humfrey's voice close to them, warning them that it was

nearly dinner-time.

The next day brought them a more promising discovery, namely of a

long straight passage, with a gleam of light at the end of it; and

this for the first time excited Philip's interest or curiosity. He

would have hastened along it at once, but for the warning summons

from Humfrey; and in the excitement of even this grain of interest,

he ate more heartily at supper than he had done for weeks, and was

afterwards more eager to prove to Berenger that night was the best

time to pursue their researches.

And Berenger, when convinced that Guibert was sound asleep, thought

so too, and accompanied by Humfrey, they descended into the

passage. The light, of course, was no longer visible, but the form

of the crypt, through which they now passed, was less antique than

that under the keep, and it was plain they were beneath a later

portion of the Castle. The gallery concluded in a wall, with a

small barred, unglazed window, perfectly dark, so that Berenger,

who alone could reach to the bottom of it, could not uses where it

looked out.

'We must return by daylight; then, maybe, we may judge,' sighed

Philip.

'Hark!' exclaimed Berenger.

'Rats,' said Philip.

'No--listen--a voice! Take care!' he added, in a lower tone, 'we

may be close on some of the servants.'

But, much nearer than he expected, a voice on his right hand

demanded, 'Does any good Christian hear me?'

'Who is there?' exclaimed Philip.

'Ah! good sir, do I hear the voice of a companion in misery? Or,

if you be free, would you but send tidings to my poor father?'

'It is a Norman accent!' cried Berenger. 'Ah! ah! can it be poor

Landry Osbert?'

'I am--I am that wretch. Oh, would that M. le Baron could know!'

'My dear, faithful foster-brother! They deceived me,' cried

Berenger, in great agitation, as an absolute howl came from the

other side of the wall: 'M. le Baron come to this! Woe worth the

day!' and Berenger with difficulty mitigated his affectionate

servant's lamentations enough to learn from him how he had been

seized almost at the gates of Bellaise, closely interrogated,

deprived of the letter to Madame la Baronne, and thrown into this

dungeon. The Chevalier. Not an unmerciful man, according to the

time, had probably meant to release him as soon as the marriage

between his son and niece should have rendered it superfluous to

detain this witness to Berenger's existence. There, then, the poor

fellow had lain for three years, and his work during this weary

time had been the scraping with a potsherd at the stone of his

wall, and his pertinacious perseverance had succeeded in forming a

hole just large enough to enable him to see the light of the torch

carried by the gentlemen. On his side, he said, there was nothing

but a strong iron door, and a heavily-barred window, looking, like

that in the passage, into the fosse within the walled garden; but,

on the other hand, if he could enlarge his hole sufficiently to

creep through it, he could escape with them in case of their

finding a subterranean outlet. The opening within his cell was, of

course, much larger than the very small space he had made by

loosening a stone towards the passage, but he was obliged always to

build up each side of his burrow at the hours of his jailer's

visit, lest his work should be detected, and to stamp the rubbish

into his floor. But while they talked, Humfrey and Philip, with

their knives, scraped so diligently that two more stones could be

displaced; and, looking down the widening hole through the

prodigious mass of wall, they could see a ghastly, ragged, long-

bearded scarecrow, with an almost piteous expression of joy on his

face, at once again seeing familiar faces. And when, at his

earnest entreaty, Berenger stood so as to allow his countenance to

be as visible as the torch could make it through the 'wall's-hole,'

the vault echoed with the poor fellow's delighted cry. 'I am

happy! M. le Baron is himself again. The assassin's cruel work is

gone! Ah! thanks to the saints! Blessed be St. Lucie, it was not

in vain that I entreated her!'

The torches were, however, waxing so low that the sight could not

long be afforded poor Osbert; and, with a promise to return to him

next day, the party returned to the upper air, where they warmed

themselves over the fire, and held council over measures for the

present relief of the captive. Berenger grieved that he had given

him up so entirely for lost as to have made no exertions on his

behalf, and declared his resolution of entreating that he might be

allowed to enjoy comparative comfort with them in the keep. It was

a risk, but the Chevalier might fairly suppose that the knowledge

of Osbert's situation had oozed out through the servants, and

gratitude and humanity alike impelled Berenger to run some risk for

his foster-brother's sake. He was greatly touched at the poor

fellow's devotion, and somewhat amused, though with an almost

tearful smile at the joy with which he had proclaimed--what

Berenger was quite unaware of, since the keep furnished no mirrors-

-the disappearance of his scars. ''Tis even so,' said Philip,

'though I never heeded it. You are as white from crown to beard as

one of the statues at Paris; but the great red gash is a mere seam,

save when yon old Satan angers you, and then it blushes for all the

rest of your face.'

'And the cheek-wound is hidden, I suppose,' said Berenger, feeling

under the long fair moustache and the beard, which was developing

into respectable proportions.

'Hidden? ay, entirely. No one would think your bald crown had only

twenty-one years over it; but you are a personable fellow still,

quite enough to please Daphne,' said Philip.

'Pshaw!' replied Berenger, pleased nevertheless to hear the shadow

of a jest again from Philip.

It was quite true. These months of quiescence--enforced though

they were--had given his health and constitution time to rally

after the terrible shock they had sustained. The severe bleedings

had, indeed, rendered his complexion perfectly colourless; but

there was something in this, as well as in the height which the

loss of hair gave his brow, which, added to the depth and loftiness

of countenance that this long period of patience and resolution had

impressed on his naturally fine features, without taking away that

open candour that had first attracted Diane when he was a rosy lad.

His frame had strengthened at the same time, and assumed the

proportions of manhood; so that, instead of being the overgrown

maypole that Narcisse used to sneer at, he was now broad-shouldered

and robust, exceedingly powerful, and so well made that his height,

upwards of six feet, was scarcely observed, except by comparison

with the rest of the world.

And his character had not stood still. He had first come to Paris

a good, honest, docile, though high-spirited boy: and though manly

affections, cares, and sorrows had been thrust on him, he had met

them like the boy that he was, hardly conscious how deep they went.

Then had come the long dream of physical suffering, with only one

thought pertinaciously held throughout--that of constancy to his

lost wife; and from this he had only thoroughly wakened in his

captivity, the resolution still holding fast, but with more of

reflection and principle, less of mere instinct, than when his

powers were lost or distracted in the effort of constant endurance

of pain and weakness. The charge of Philip, the endeavour both of

educating him and keeping up his spirits, as well as the

controversy with Pere Bonami, had been no insignificant parts of

the discipline of these months; and, little as the Chevalier had

intended it, he had trained his young kinsman into a far more

substantial and perilous adversary, both in body and mind, than

when he had caged him in his castle of the Blackbird's Nest.




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