CHAPTER XIX.
The sight of pain and suffering, to which man's heart--even if it donot become totally hard and obtuse by his own dealings with the roughthings of the world--grows less sensible every day as he advances inlife, is always matter of painful interest to woman. There issomething in her bosom that tells her it is her own destiny to suffer.There are fine links of sympathy that bind her affections to thesufferer, and not alone the general tenderness of her nature, to whichsuch feelings are commonly altogether ascribed. The words of a woman'scompassion are always different from those of a man's; they show thatshe brings the pain she witnesses more home to her own heart. Man maygrieve for another's anguish; she sympathises with it; man feels forthe man, she actually shares his pain.
Helen de la Tremblade remained in the lower story of the house, evenafter the shutters had been put up and the door closed by the farmer,when the first party of fugitive Leaguers passed by. She took littlenote of anything that followed, but sat meditating over her own fate,with her head leaning on her hand, till the sound of a groan struckher; but then starting up at once, she advanced towards the door ofthe room, which led into a wide, long passage. There she found fourstout soldiers bearing in a wounded man; and though she could not seehis face, from his visor being down, the languid attitude in which helay, as his men carried him in their arms, showed her clearly that hehad received some terrible injuries. Self was forgotten in a moment;her own sorrows, her own wrongs, the bitter regrets of the past, thedesolate despair of the future, were all swept away for the time,and, clasping her hands, she exclaimed, "Alas! alas! he is dying, Ifear.--Bring him hither, bring him hither," she continued: "there is abed in this room," and she led the way through the hall to thechamber, where she and Rose d'Albret had passed the preceding night.
Carrying him slowly forward, the soldiers laid the wounded man, stillin his dinted and dusty arms, upon the couch, and instantly began tounfasten his cuirass, through, which a small hole, as if pierced bythe shot of an arquebuse, might be seen, stained at the edge withblood; but he waved his hand saying, in a faint voice, "The casque,the casque! take off the casque! Where is my nephew?--Where isLouis?--He should be here."
"Ah," cried Helen de la Tremblade, "he went out to the battle not anhour ago. Perhaps he too is wounded or dead."
"Mad-headed boy!" cried the old Commander as they removed his casque,"he had no arms! Why did they let him go? Ha! Is not that Helen, thepriest's niece?"
"Yes," replied Helen approaching timidly and taking his hand, "it ispoor Helen de la Tremblade."
"Ay, I remember," said the old Commander; "but where is Rose? Where isRose d'Albret? She was with my nephew Louis."
"Oh, she is without, here," cried Helen; "I will call her directly,"and away she ran, through the hall, into the passage, and to the door.But she found it barred and bolted, and the Farmer bending down, withhis ear to the key-hole, striving to catch the sounds without.
"Where is Mademoiselle d'Albret?" asked Helen.
"Hush," he cried sternly, waving her back with his hand, and stilllistening to the door. Helen listened too, but she could hear nothingbut the indistinct murmur of several voices speaking, mixed with thesound of horses' feet trampling and stamping, as if brought to anunwilling halt; but a moment or two after, some one spoke in a stilllouder tone, crying, "To Chartres!" and then came the noise of a partymoving off, and the plashing sound of cavalry marching through theford.
"Where is Mademoiselle d'Albret?" repeated Helen, as the farmer raisedhis head from the key-hole.
"Good faith, I cannot tell," replied he; "run up wife, run up to theroom above! and see what is going on without."
The farmer's wife did as he bade her, and the next instant her feetwere heard over head coming back from the window to the top of thestairs. "Ah, heaven!" she cried in a loud voice, "they have carriedoff the young lady, and Monsieur de Montigni, and his servant, andall. You should not have shut the door, Jean. You are a cruel,hard-hearted man. I heard them push it myself to get in; and now theyare prisoners; and no one can tell what will happen."
"Hold your tongue! You are a fool, wife," answered the farmer angrily."Do you think I was going to leave the house open for the Leaguers tocome in! We should have had the place pillaged, and all our throatscut."
But the woman's tongue, as is sometimes the case with that peculiarorgan in the female head, was not to be silenced easily, and shecontinued to abuse her husband, for excluding poor Rose d'Albret andher lover, in no very measured terms, while Helen de la Tremblade, sadand sorrowful, returned to the bed-side of the old commander tocommunicate the painful intelligence she had just received.
"Where is Rose?" demanded the old officer as soon as he saw her; "whydoes she not come?"
"Alas!" replied Helen, "a party of the League, just now sweeping by,have taken her away with them."
The old man, who by this time had been stripped of his arms, and laidin the bed, raised himself suddenly, and gazed in her face with a lookof grief and consternation. Then sinking back upon the pillow again,he closed his eyes, but said not a word for several minutes. At lengthone of his attendants coming forward inquired, if he had not betterride away to St. Andr? and seek for a surgeon.
"No," replied the old Commander abruptly, "'tis no use. This is mylast field, Marlot, and, the sooner I go, the better. I am fit fornothing now. I could scarce sit my horse in the battle, though I diddrive my sword through that fellow on Aumale's right hand. But it'sall over; and I shall soon go, too. No use of being tortured by thesurgeons. I've had enough of them.--No; but I will tell you what youshall do. Go and seek for Louis; though that is most likely vain,also.--Why the fiend did he go to the field without arms? Yet, VentreSaint Gris! I love the boy for it too. But he never can have escapedfrom that _m?l?e_.--He is dead, so there is nothing worth living for."
Helen had refrained hitherto from telling him that his nephew was incaptivity, as well as Rose d'Albret, for fear of weighing him down, inhis weak state, under the load of misfortune; but now, seeing that hisapprehensions for his nephew's fate, had a more terrible effect, thaneven the reality could produce, she said, "No, Sir, he is not dead.They have carried him away too, with Mademoiselle d'Albret!"
"Ha! girl, ha! Are you not lying?" demanded the wounded man.
"No, indeed," replied Helen, "it is the truth. The farmer's wife sawthem a moment ago."
"Well, then, seek a surgeon," said the old man; "I will try to live,though it is idle, I think.--Look for Estoc, too. Where saw you himlast?"
"He was in full pursuit with the Grand Prior, Sir," answered one ofthe men.
"I saw him take the red standard of the Count of Mansveldt," repliedanother.
"That's well, that's well," said the old commander, "take means to lethim know where I lie. Then bring a surgeon if you will. They shall dowith me what they like. Will you be my nurse, little Helen?" hecontinued, extending his hand towards her.
"That I will, if I may," replied Helen kneeling by the bedside andkissing the large bony hand he had held out.
"Well, get me a cloak or something," said the old man, "to cast overmy feet, for I feel very cold. Then come, sit down and talk to me; andyou fellows go away and get your dinner. It must be noon by thistime."
"'Tis one o'clock, Sir," answered one of the men.
"Get your dinner, get your dinner," cried the Commander.
"I have no heart to eat, Sir," said the one nearest to him, "seeingyou lying there."
"Poo!" exclaimed his master, "did you never see an old man die before?I have seen many; and they will die, whether you eat your dinner ornot. Leave this young lady to tend me; dine, and, if you will, say apaternoster for my sake. That's the best you can do to help me, thoughyou are good creatures, too, and love me well, I know,--as I love you.But we must all part, and my march is laid out."
The men departed one by one, and Helen remained alone with the oldCommander de Liancourt, doing the best she could to tend and servehim. He suffered her to examine his wound, for
the good old chivalrouscustom which required that ladies should know something of leech-crafthad not yet passed away; but it was one beyond her skill. The ball ofan arquebuse or pistol, fired point blank at a short distance, hadpierced his chest on the right side, a little more than a hand'sbreadth below the arm. Some blood had followed the wound, but notmuch; and all hemorrhage had ceased. He declared that the only pain hefelt was, a burning sensation near the back.
"That's where the ball lies, Helen," he said; "I wish it had gonethrough; for these things taking up their lodging in the body, oftenmake the house too hot to hold the proper tenant. However, God's willbe done. I never valued life a straw; and now, after having known itsixty years, I certainly do not prize it more for the acquaintance.'Tis an idle and a bitter world, fair lady, as I fear you have foundout by this time."
Helen shrunk and turned pale, as the old man seemed to allude to hersituation and his eye rested upon her face, she thought, with a lookof meaning. He said no more, however; and in a moment after the farmerentered to offer his services to the wounded man, with whose rank hewas now acquainted, and to give him farther tidings which had justarrived from the field--how the Swiss and French infantry hadsurrendered without resistance, and all the standards and cannon hadfallen into the hands of the King.
The Commander cut him short, however, asking after his nephew, whichway they had taken him, how many the party numbered, and many anotherquestions, all of which the man might have answered without betrayingthe fact that, to his own fears, was in some degree owing the captureof Rose d'Albret and the young Baron de Montigni. We put our armourwhere we are weak, however; and the first words of the farmer were inhis own defence, betraying at once all that had taken place. As thewounded man heard him, and began to comprehend what had passed, hischeek turned fiery red, and raising himself partly in bed, he bent hiseyes sternly upon him, and cursed him bitterly, calling him coward,and knave, and telling him he knew not what he had done.
"Fool!" cried the Commander; "do you think they would have stayed toplunder your pitiful house with the sword of the King at their heels?Curses upon you, Sir! you have delivered a fair sweet lady to thehands of her persecutors, as gallant a gentleman as any in France tohis knavish enemies. By the Lord that lives, I have a mind to make mymen take thee and drown thee in the river, poltroon!"
The farmer was irritated, as perhaps he might well be; and, but littleinclined to bear from another reproaches which he had endured quietlyfrom his wife, he was about to reply in angry terms, when Heleninterposed; and, with gentle firmness, which might perhaps not havebeen expected from the tender and yielding disposition which she hadhitherto displayed, she led him from the room, and insisted upon hismaking no reply.
She then turned all her efforts to calm and soothe the old Commander;and so tenderly, so kindly, did she busy herself about him, that theheart of the rough old soldier was moved, and he exclaimed, "Blessthee, my child, thou art a sweet good girl; and I wish I could butlive to do thee some service. But it is in vain, Helen, it is all invain; not that I mind this burning pain; for that more or less followsevery wound, but 'tis the sudden failing of my strength. All powerseems gone; and, in an instant, I have become as if I were a childagain. I was lame and well nigh crippled with old wounds before;for I never was in battle or combat but I was sure to receive someinjury--such was my ill-luck; but still in my hands and arms I was asstrong as ever, could bend a double crown between my thumbs, or breakthe staff of a lance over my knee. Now it is a labour to me to lift myhand to my head; and that has come all in a moment. This means death;Helen, this means death!"
"Nay, perhaps not," replied Helen de la Tremblade. "The body isstrangely composed; and the ball may rest upon some sinew or somenerve that gives strength; yet all may be well again."
The old man shook his head, but still he remained cheerful, oftentalking of death, yet never seeming to look upon it with dread orhorror. In about an hour a surgeon arrived, examined and probed thewound, and descanted learnedly upon its nature. But with him, the goodold Commander showed himself irritable and impatient, writhed underhis hand, declared he tortured him, and seemed to shrink more frompain, than from death itself. The man of healing soon saw that hecould do but little. To Helen's anxious inquiries, however, he did notgive the most sincere answers, leaving her to hope, that the woundmight be cured, and saying, that he would come again at night. Hecalculated indeed, that his patient would live over the next day, andthat there would be time enough for a priest to be summoned. That wasall that his conscience required; and he judged--perhaps kindly--thatit was useless to torment a sick man with the thoughts of death, formany hours before the event took place.
During the whole of the rest of the day, Helen seldom, if ever,quitted the bed-side of the Commander de Liancourt. Though careless oflife, inured by long habit to suffering, and even somewhat impatientof anything that seemed like forced attention to his state, the oldwarrior was not at all insensible to real kindness. He saw that shesympathised with him, that she really felt for all he endured, thatshe did her best to soothe and to allay, to comfort and support him.He could not but see it; for though, ever and anon, the shadow of herown fate would fall upon her again, and she would sit, for a moment ortwo, in gloom and darkness, yet at his lightest word, at his leastmovement, she was up and by his bed-side. The cup was always ready forhis lips, the pillow was constantly smoothed for his head, his wishesseemed anticipated, his very thoughts answered, and even the burningimpatience of growing fever could not run before her promptitude. Whenhe obtained a moment of repose, she was calm and silent. When hewished to speak, she was ready to answer, in sweet and quiet tonesthat sounded pleasant to his ear; when his breathing became oppressed,she was there to raise his head upon her soft arm, to open the windowfor the air of spring to enter, and to bathe his fiery brow. Toanother young and inexperienced being, the scene might have beenterrible, the task hard; but to her, it was all a relief. A share inany sorrow, was lighter than the full burden of her own; and aughtthat took her thoughts from herself, delivered her from a portion ofher anguish.
More than once, the old man gazed upon her fixedly for two or threeminutes, as if there was something that he wished to say, and yet didnot; more than once, he sent away his followers, who came and wentduring the afternoon between his room and the next, as if he wereabout to speak of something that lay at his heart; but still herefrained, till, just as the light was beginning to fade, he turnedpainfully in the bed, and murmured, "Helen."
The poor girl was by his side in a moment; and putting forth his nowburning hand, he took hers, continuing, "Helen, I wish to talk to youabout yourself before I go."
Helen trembled like an aspen leaf. Four-and-twenty hours before, inthe first agony of desolation and despair, she would have poured forthher whole soul to any one who offered her a word of kindness andsympathy; but a change had come over her since then; the power ofthought had returned, conscience and shame and remorse had madethemselves heard, over even the tumultuous voices of grief andindignation and hopeless agony. The still, but all-pervading words ofself-reproach, filled her ear continually; and, in the blankwilderness of existence, she saw but her own folly. She shrank then,and trembled when he spoke of herself. There was no name but one thathe could have pronounced, which would have sounded more horrible toher ears than her own.
"Oh not now, not now!" she cried, drawing back.
But the old man still held her hand in his, which seemed to scorchher; and he went on, "Why not now, Helen? It will soon be too late.The minutes are numbered, my poor girl. The hand upon the dial seemsto go slow, but it will soon point to the hour when this fire shallhave burned itself out, and nothing but the ashes will remain.--I havelearned something of your story, Helen, from the people who came withmy keen, harsh sister, Jacqueline.--Old Estoc heard it, and told it tome; but I would know more,--I would know all--"
"Oh not now, not now!" cried Helen again; and, by a sudden movement ofanguish and terror, she drew her hand from him, and, with a gasp
ingsob, ran out of the room.
There was no one in the hall, and when she reached the middle, shepaused. "Shall I leave him?" she asked herself, "Leave him because hemeans and speaks kindly--leave him because I cannot bear to hear myown folly breathed,--leave him?--Oh no!" and with a movement assudden, but with a downcast eye and burning cheek, she returned, andseated herself near in silence, gazing upon the ground.
"Helen," said the old Commander, "I have grieved you. Come hither, andforgive me."
She sprang towards him, and, casting herself on her knees by thebed-side, covered her aching eyes with her hands, exclaiming, "Oh, no,no! It is I who need forgiveness; not you. Do not speak so kindly,Sir, do not speak so gently; for it goes farther to break my heart,than all your sister's harshness."
"Hush, hush!" said the old soldier, "Do not move me, there's a goodgirl. But listen to me, Helen, for I wish you well, and you have beentender and affectionate to me this day, when I have much needed it.--Iam a rough old man, Helen, and know not how to speak gently. But Iwould fain talk to you about yourself, before I depart from thisplace. Listen to me then, and do not think I mean anything butkindness. I hear that my sister has been hard upon you,--driven youout of her house,--given you harsh names.--Nay never shake so.--She isa bitter woman, Helen, to all faults but her own; and I am sure if youhave any, they have been but too much gentleness.--Why, I remember youas a little child in your good father's time.--There now, you weep! Iknow not how to speak to you.--But never mind, I'll talk no more aboutyourself. But whatever be your faults, Helen, take my advice. Go toyour uncle, tell him all. He will forgive you; for he is a good man atheart, and loves you; and besides,--"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Helen, "I cannot go to him, for his look wouldkill me.--Rose, so kind and good, so gentle to the faults of others,she too, persuaded me to go to him: but you do not know him. He isgood and kind, and loves me well, it is true; but he is notforgiving.--Besides, how can I go there? How can I see him withoutmeeting,--" and she gave a quick shudder, without concluding thesentence.
"Ay," said the wounded man, "that must be thought of. But all this ispartly your uncle's own fault, Helen. I warned him when he put youwith my sister, that he was giving his dove to a vulture. I told himit would be your ruin; but none of those people heeded the oldsoldier. They followed their own plans, and thought plain truth,foolishness.--Hark! do you not hear horses? It is good old Estoc, cometo see his dying leader."
The next moment, there was a knock at the chamber door, and before anyone could say, "Come in," it opened, and the tall bony figure ofEstoc, clothed in armour, such as was worn in that day, but with thehead-piece laid aside, appeared striding up with his wide steps to thebed-side of the wounded Commander.
"How goes it, Sir?" he cried, "how goes it?"
"Fast, Estoc, fast!" answered the old knight. "I am glad you havecome, for there is much to talk about before I go. Helen, dear child,run away for a while; and take some repose and refreshment, for youhave scarcely tasted aught since I have been here. She has been anangel to me, Estoc,--like my own child."
"Thank you, Mademoiselle, thank you," cried Estoc, taking her hand andkissing it, while she turned away her head, "God will bless you forit!"
The tears rolled over Helen's cheeks; and, saying "Call me when youwant me, Sir," she left the room.
For more than an hour the old Commander de Liancourt and Estocremained together, while Helen, at the window of a room above, sat andgazed out upon the sky, seeing the last rays of light fade away, andthe stars look forth one by one. "Ah!" she said to herself, as shewatched them, "other lights come in the heavens when the sun sets; butthere is none so bright as that which is gone. The moon, too, may risewith her pale beams; but it is still night, shine she ever sobrightly."
At length the surgeon arrived and went in again. The next moment hesent for Helen to aid him; but when she entered the old Commander'sroom, she found that he would not suffer his wound to be meddled with.
"It is of no avail, master surgeon," he said; "I know I am dying. Youcan do no good, and you do but torture me. Let the ball alone; it hasperformed its work right well; you only make it angry with yourprobes. Put on a cool cataplasm if you will, and tell me about whathour will be the end; for I see in your face that you know what I sayis true. I would not go out of the world like a heathen; but thechurch is the only surgeon for me."
The man of healing answered in a vague and doubtful manner, butassured the old soldier that there was no immediate danger; and, aftersome vain persuasions, to the end that he might once more examine thewound minutely, he took his leave, after having applied what hethought fit externally.
Helen was about to follow, and leave the Commander and his friendtogether, once more; but the wounded man called her to him and badeher stay. "Here is Estoc will be a friend to you, Helen, when I amgone;" he said, "but listen to me, poor child, and do that which isfor your own good, and for that of others. I pressed you, a littlewhile ago, to go to your uncle for your own sake; but now I ask it forthe sake of those who were once dear to you. You used to love Rosed'Albret--I think you do so still--"
"Oh! that I do," cried Helen, clasping her hand.
"Well, then," said the Commander, "her whole happiness, her futurewelfare and peace may altogether depend upon your going to Marzay, andwith your own lips telling Walter de la Tremblade, all that hashappened to you."
"Then I will go directly," cried Helen, eagerly, though sadly, "I willgo directly, if I die the next moment. But does he not know the wholealready?"
"I think not," replied Estoc, who stood near. "I don't think Madame deChazeul has told him anything, for the good man, who spoke to me aboutit, said she would kill him if she knew that he had mentionedanything. But he thought you hardly treated, Mademoiselle, and wishedme to speak to the Commander about it, that the matter might beinquired into."
Helen covered her face and sat and mused, till, at length, the woundedman woke her from her painful dreams, whatever they were, by saying,in a compassionate tone, "Ah! my poor girl, you suffer worse than Ido, for your pains are of the heart."
"I will go, Sir, I will go!" cried Helen; "though it is very bitter soto do, yet I will go, if it can serve Mademoiselle d'Albret, even inthe very least."
"It may serve her much, young lady," said Estoc. "As this sad affairhas happened, and she has fallen into the hands of the Leaguers,beyond all doubt they will send her to Marzay; and then the old storywill begin again, and no devilish scheme will be too bad, to drive herto marry Monsieur de Chazeul."
"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Helen, vehemently; "he will betray her--hewill make her miserable, as he has made me. What right has he to marryher?" she continued, with her brow contracted and a wild look cominginto her eyes. "Is he not married already? is he not contracted byoaths that he cannot break?"
"Ay, but he will break them," replied Estoc.
"I rave, I rave!" said Helen, after a moment's pause; "he has brokenthem already--every vow he made--every pledge he gave--every oath hetook! and at what should he hesitate? But how can I prevent this? Whatcan I do to avert it?"
"Much," answered the Commander. "Your uncle, Helen, has been one ofthe prime movers in all this. Without him they could do little; for heis a skilful and a scheming man, not moved by the same passions thatboth prompt and embarrass them. What are his motives or his views, Iknow not; but, _pardie_, right sure am I, when once he hears how youhave been treated, he will find means to frustrate all their plots,and to save our dear Rose, by one means or another."
"Yes, yes, he will--he will," cried Helen; "I know he will, if it bebut in revenge. Oh! he never wants means to work his own will. My poorfather used to say, he had ruled all his family from infancy. But Iwill go at all risks, at any cost.--Yet," she added, hanging her head,"yet I could wish that it were possible for me to avoid that cruel andhard-hearted man, whom I must see if I go there openly."
"Oh! that will be easily managed," said Estoc; "I will answer forthat, Mademoiselle; for I took care to ensure myself
and my goodCommander here, the means of entering the Ch?teau of Marzay when weliked. God forbid that I should use it wrongly! But I foresaw the timemight come, when, in justice to ourselves or others, we might need tostand face to face with those who have been plotting so darkly againstpeople whose rights they should have protected."
"You are right, Estoc, you are right," said the old Commander, whosevoice was growing feeble, with the fatigue of speaking so much. "Youare right, my good friend. I thought not of that precaution, but itwas a wise one. Have you the key of the postern, then?"
"No," answered Estoc; "that would be missed; but I have a key to thechapel, which, as no one uses that way in or out, will never be wantedby any one but ourselves."
Helen raised her eyes and smiled, with the first look of satisfactionthat her countenance had borne, since she had been driven from theCh?teau of Chazeul. "That makes all easy," she said; "for, not onlycan I enter by that means, but dear Rose d'Albret can come out; andoh! what would I give to guide her back again to liberty and him sheloves?"
But Estoc shook his head. "That may not be so easy," he answered; "nowthey are once upon their guard, they will watch her closely. She willbe henceforth a prisoner, indeed. Her only hope is in the priest,Mademoiselle. Gain his aid for us, and we are secure."
"I will try," answered Helen, "I will try--But look," she continued,touching Estoc's arm and speaking in a low voice, "Monsieur deLiancourt seems weary, and asleep, I think."
Estoc bent down his head, and gazed in the sick man's face, by thepale light of a lamp that stood upon the table. He almost feared, fromall that he had seen, that what Helen imagined slumber, was the reposeof death; but, as he leaned over him, he saw a red spot upon thecheek, and heard the quick low breath come and go; and, turning to heragain, he whispered, "He sleeps; that is a good sign. I will sit withhim till he wakes."
"No, no," answered Helen; "leave me to watch him. You take somerepose; I neither want it, nor could obtain it."
Estoc accordingly left her, gaining the door as noiselessly as hecould. Then, clearing the hall of all the persons by whom it was nowcrowded, he seated himself on a bench, ate some bread and drank somewine; and leaning his head upon his hand, soon fell into slumber, withthat easy command over the drowsy god, which is often acquired bythose habituated to the labours and the dangers of the camp.
It was past one o'clock; and all the noises of the house were still.The farmer and his family had retired to rest, the soldiers andattendants were seeking slumber in the kitchen and the barn, whenHelen de la Tremblade opened the door between the sick man's chamberand the hall, and called "Estoc! Estoc!"--"Monsieur de Liancourt isawake," she added, as he started up, and then continued, in a lowertone, "he is very ill--There is a terrible change--Come quick, comequick!"
Estoc followed in haste; and, approaching the wounded man's side, hesaw too clearly the change she spoke of, that awful change whichprecedes dissolution; that inexpressible dim shade, that coldunearthly look, never, never to be mistaken. Fever may banish the rosefrom the cheek; the eye may grow pale and glassy; the lip may lose itsred; and sickness, heavy sickness may take away all that is beautifulin life; but yet, while there is a hope remaining, the countenance ofman never assumes that hue which death sends before him as his heraldon the way;--and there it was. To the eyes of Helen, it was strangeand terrible, and made her heart sink though she knew not all itmeant; but Estoc had seen it often, and knew it well; and whisperingto her, "This is death!" he took his old friend's hand in his.
"Ah, Estoc!" said Monsieur de Liancourt, "where is Helen?--Comenearer, my kind nurse, let me see your face, for my eyes grow dim."
"Shall I send for a priest, Sir?" asked Helen.
"Not yet," said Monsieur de Liancourt, "for I have much to say. Bringme my cross of St. John. Lay it on my breast, that I may die under thestandard of my salvation." Helen hurried to get it, where it lay withthe armour and clothes in which he had been dressed, and placed itgently on his bosom a he told her. The old man gazed wistfully in herface for an instant, and then said, "I am going, Helen--fast. If I hadlived, I would have been a father to you. Estoc, will you protecther--defend her?--Do you promise me?"
"I do from my heart," replied Estoc. "As long as I live she shallnever want a home to receive her, or an arm to do her right."
"Kiss the cross!" said the old Commander; and, bending down, the goodsoldier pressed his lips upon it, as it lay upon his dying leader'sbosom.
"So much for that," said the Commander. "When I am gone, Estoc, giveher all that I have brought with me.--You, I have provided for, longago.--See me buried as a soldier should be. Lay me before the altar atMarzay, and bid the priest say masses for my soul.--Now give me thepapers that I may explain them well."
Estoc proceeded to the corner of the room in which the old commander'sgarments had been laid down in a heap; and searched for some minutesbefore he could discover the packet of papers for which he waslooking. He found it at length, and, turning round, approached thebed-side where Helen de la Tremblade sat watching the wounded man. Sheheld his hand in hers, she gazed upon him eagerly with her beautifullips slightly open, showing the fine pearly teeth within; and, as thelight of the lamp fell upon her, she was certainly as fair a creatureas ever man beheld; but there was a look of anxious fear in her eyesthat startled Estoc, and made him hurry his pace. The eyes of the oldcommander were closed, and Helen whispered, "He has had a terribleshudder."
"Here are the papers, Sir," said Estoc.
The old man made no answer, but by a heavy sigh.
"Send for a priest, quick," cried Estoc; and Helen running hastilyfrom the room, woke one of the soldiers in the kitchen, and dispatchedhim to the village in haste. When she returned to the chamber,however, all was still: and, approaching with her light foot thebed-side, she saw Estoc with his arms folded across his chest, and hiseyes, glistening with an unwonted tear, fixed upon the countenance ofhis old friend and leader, from which all expression seemed to havepassed away. She listened, but could hear no breath. The lips weremotionless; the breast had ceased to heave; the hand, which he hadlately held in her own, had fallen languidly on the bed; the other, bya last movement, had been brought to rest upon the cross which layupon his bosom. Life had passed away, apparently in an instant, andthe sufferings of the stout old soldier were at an end.
The moment after several of the men, who had been awakened by a voicecalling to one of them to seek a priest, crept into the room to seetheir good leader once more before he died; and Estoc, brushing awaythe moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand, turned towardsthem, saying, "You may come forward.--You cannot disturb him now. Heis gone; and a better heart, a stouter hand, a kinder spirit, neverlived, my friends. Few there are like him left; and we at least nevershall see such another. God have mercy on his soul, and on ours too."
Thus saying, he knelt down, murmured a prayer, and kissed the hand,still warm with the life that was departed. The soldiers did the sameone by one, and then carried the tidings to their fellows who wherestill asleep. Starting up as they had lain down, they all ran hastilyinto the room; and, of course, amongst the number, there were manydifferent ways of expressing their grief. Most of them, however, hadtears in their eyes, and one man wished aloud, that he knew the handthat fired the shot.
"Fie," said Estoc, "it was the chance of battle. No soldier bearsrevenge for anything done in fair fight. He has sent many to theiraccount, and now is sent himself; but by the grace of God his is noheavy one, and he will find mercy for that."
There was a momentary pause, and then two or three of the soldierswhispered together; after which one of them stepping forward, said,"Will you lead us, Monsieur Estoc?"
"I am not a rich man, my friends," said the old soldier, "and cannotpay you as the good commander did. What I have, however, you shallfreely share; and if you are willing to serve the King as you havedone this day, I will lead you willingly, in that cause.
"We will fight in none other," replied the man who spoke for the
rest;"and as for pay, we will take our chance, so that we have food andarms."
"That we will always find," replied Estoc, "but we have a duty here toperform before anything else. We must carry the corpse to Marzay, andfulfil our dead leader's last commands; then we will seek the King;and, if he cannot entertain us himself, we shall easily find somebanner under which to fight upon his side."