CHAPTER II.
AN ENEMY IN THE CAMP.
At sunset Roussilac, the commandant of Quebec, after receivingreassuring reports from the sentries and thus closing his officialduties for the day, went aboard the man-of-war. Having personallysuperintended the shipping of the gangway, to satisfy himself thatimmediate communication with the shore was cut off, he withdrew to hiscabin, which he occupied in preference to his hut upon the slope.Before retiring to his hammock, he mentally reviewed his position, thedifficulties of which had not been lessened by the unexpected arrivalof the Dutch ship.
It had never been the way of Holland to go out of her course to befriendly. The commandant could not forget that she had colonised largetracts of country further south; he knew that, like England, sheaspired to extend her influence beyond the seas; and what more probablethan that, snatching at the opportunity afforded by this alliance, hergovernment should have commissioned Van Vuren to spy out the land andreport upon its possibilities?
Already sufficient dangers threatened the fortress. Disquietingrumours had reached Roussilac of late. The Indians, it was said, weregrowing more restless and bolder because they had discovered theweakness of the French. It was certain that a band of five Englishmenhad been seen in the district by Gaudriole, and these were probably theprecursors of more formidable numbers. The islanders, Roussilac knew,had a knack of appearing when least expected; and Agincourt had longsince shown the world that they were never so formidable as when few innumbers, short of supplies, and worn after heavy marching. It was thisfear which had induced the commandant to adopt the plan of retiring tothe ship each night, so that, whatever might befall his men upon themainland, he at least would be in a position of comparative safety.
By this it will be perceived that Roussilac was not altogether of thatstuff of which heroes are made. Nor was he a man of exceptionalability. He had fought his way up to his present post ofresponsibility with the aid of fortune and a natural capacity forobeying orders, although, while he had been ascending, he preferred toforget his Norman parents and connections, merely because they happenedto be poor and humble folk. His mother's brother and her husband, thelatter driven out of France for heresy, were living upon a smallholding, little more than a day's journey from the fortress; Jean-MarieLabroquerie, their only son, had lately joined the ranks of his smallarmy; but the commandant was too proud, or perhaps too cowardly, toacknowledge these kinsfolk, and in his heart he found the hope thatMadame Labroquerie, his aunt, a woman of bitter memories, with a sharptongue and a passionate nature, would never seek to reach the fortressand shame him before his men. The selfish spirit of Richelieu wasworking on in Arnaud de Roussilac, as indeed it worked through thecharacter of almost all the creatures of the Cardinal.
Still perplexed by the problems of his position, the commandant recitedthe prayers without which no soldier of the age could have deemedhimself safe from the perils of the night, placed his sword ready tohis hand, and retired to his hammock, although darkness had scarcelysettled over the land. In a few minutes he was asleep.
These early slumbers were rudely broken by a heavy hand which seizedand shook him by the shoulder. The glare of a torch hurt his eyes,when he opened them to discover the tanned features of D'Archand, themaster of the ship, between the folds of the netting spread to excludethe ever-hostile insects.
"An attack," muttered Roussilac, in the first moment of consciousness."A plague upon these English."
"Hasten!" cried D'Archand. "The fortress is in an uproar. La Sallehas insulted the Dutch master, and a duel is imminent."
At that Roussilac awoke fully, and, stretching out his arm, drew thesquare port-hole open, admitting the sound of the tidewater under theship's counter, and beyond, a sharp murmur of excited voices. Craninghis neck, he discovered an intermittent flashing of lights along thepathway under the cliff.
"Now may the saints help me!" the commandant exclaimed, as he felt forhis cloak. "I have no shadow of power over these priests. Morewillingly would I oppress a witch than cross a Churchman. Magic canonly rot a man's body, but excommunication touches his soul. What isthe cause of this quarrel?"
"I know not," answered D'Archand. "But duelling has been forbiddenaltogether----"
"By Church and State alike," the commandant interrupted testily. "TheCardinal might as well forbid the plague to strike his army. When theChurch itself breaks the law, how is the head of the army to act?"
The captains speedily left the ship, ascended the winding path, andentered the street of fishermen.
All the inhabitants appeared to be gathered together upon the lowground, to witness the by no means unprecedented spectacle of a duelbetween priest and layman. They stood six deep under the cliff, withas many more upon the side of the river; old and young, women in soiledstiff caps, ragged settlers, and soldiers in faded accoutrements sideby side. A ring of men, holding spluttering pine torches, or oillanterns, the flames of which smoked and flickered up and down the hornsides, enclosed an open space where two shadowy figures swayed almostnoiselessly, facing one another, each right arm directing a rapierwhich flashed continually in the confused lights.
"I would the challenger were any other than the Abbe La Salle,"muttered Roussilac. "He would cut off my hopes of Heaven as readily ashe shall presently run through yonder Dutchman."
"There is no finer swordsman in the new world than the abbe," whisperedD'Archand in his ear. "If Van Vuren be killed, the Cardinal shallaccount you responsible, and I too shall not escape blame. This newalliance may not hold if the deed be known in Paris."
Roussilac started forward, and scattered the people, who were tooexcited to recognise him.
"Put up your swords!" he shouted. "I charge you, sir priest, in theKing's name to cease fighting with this man, who is my guest and ourcommon ally."
"Corpus Domini!" cried Laroche, staggering towards the commandant, hisbig face flushed with excitement and liquor. "Order the wind to cease,commandant, or yon river to stop its flow. Attempt to restrain LaSalle when his blood is hot! Know you, sir, this is an affair ofhonour."
"It is not you who shall suffer from the breaking of the law, sirpriest," protested the representative. "By St. Gris! a master-stroke!"he exclaimed, unable altogether to suppress his soldierly instincts.
La Salle, foreseeing an interruption, had closed with his enemy in avigorous skirmish of rapid and clever feints, culminating in a strokethe admirable technique of which had wrung an involuntary testimonyfrom the commandant. Van Vuren escaped by a side movement, which tothe onlookers partook of the nature of a lucky accident. But there wasa smear of blood upon the priest's rapier when he pressed again to theattack.
"Yon Dutchman shall be the only sufferer," said Laroche. "Onlybloodshed can satisfy the Abbe La Salle. Nature must run her course.There stands a scar upon my brother's back, made by this Van Vuren'ssword four years ago at the corner of a dark turning in Avignon. Whatwas the cause? Well, commandant, a woman they say is always the cause;but my friend is, like myself, a priest, and therefore above suspicionso far as women are concerned. Dutchmen have hard heads and slowbrains. It is also said of them that if they can run from an enemywith honour they will run. My brother was one night returning homeafter administering at a sick bed; beside a corner he heard a step,and, before he could turn, a sword point went in his back. TheDutchman's honour was satisfied. He ran, but he was marked as heescaped. In Avignon during those days Van Vuren was known by another,and less honourable, name. But the devil may wear a halo and remainthe devil."
While the abbe spoke, some heavy clouds, which had gathered over theheights, darkening the night, began to discharge themselves in rain,which presently lashed in so heavy a torrent that the pine torches wereextinguished, and the men holding the lanterns had much difficulty tomaintain the feeble flames. La Salle, with his back to the storm,drove the Hollander before him through the hissing rain, the peoplefalling away as the duellists advanced, their blades gleaming andgrating throug
h the silvery lines of water. A muffled shout went up.Van Vuren had been palpably hit upon the shoulder. La Salle smiledgrimly and still pressed on, lunging repeatedly over the captain'sguard, taking every risk of a wound as he hastened to make his victorysure.
Roussilac cleared the road, the people only obeying when the soldiersprepared to enforce their officer's order.
"Gentlemen," cried the commandant, advancing, with an imprecation uponthe rain, "drop your swords, I pray of you."
"The devil seize you!" shouted La Salle, throwing out his left arm."His point was not an inch from me."
"Put up your swords," repeated Roussilac, boldly disregarding theremonstrance. "Sir priest, it is the will of the Cardinal."
These were potent words, and for one moment the abbe hesitated. Helowered his point with an angry side glance upon his interrupter, andthe affair would then have finished had not a dark figure stopped outfrom the shadow under the cliff, and thrown itself into position withthe muffled warning, "En garde!"
"Ah, dog!" cried La Salle, starting forward through the rain withscarcely a ray of light between him and his adversary.
When a line of lightning broke the sky, an exclamation burst from hislips and his bold cheek blanched. During that momentary illuminationLa Salle beheld his enemy clearly. He saw a mean man clad in a suit offaded red with torn and stained ruffles; his hair gathered behind andtied with a piece of grass; his hat broken out of shape and adornedsadly with half a plume. And when Laroche held up a lantern, thefighting priest saw further that what he had taken for a negroid skinwas merely a mask which covered the stranger's face, slit with holesfor the eyes and mouth.
"This," muttered La Salle, cold with terror as he warded off an attackwhich was far more aggressive than that of Van Vuren, "this is the workof Satan."
Roussilac touched D'Archand, pointing along the path which bent down tothe river, and whispered, "Wait for the lightning."
When the flash passed, the master saw the big figure of the Dutchmanhurrying to reach his ship, his sword still drawn in his hand.
"Then, who is this?" exclaimed D'Archand, with a frightened oath,indicating through the beating rain the man behind the mask.
Roussilac signed himself, and said nothing.
Laroche hurried up, his big face streaming, the lantern shaking in hishands like a will-o'-the-wisp, his attitude grotesque with terror.
"What witchcraft is here?" he shouted. "See you how this Dutchman haschanged body and appearance as well as name?"
"Van Vuren is not here," said Roussilac gravely. "He ran when the abbelowered his sword; and so soon as he had gone--nay, before--yonderfigure stepped out of the darkness under the cliff and challenged LaSalle. You see he has covered his face. It is the mad Englishman whofights for the love of fighting. And the English cover the earth likeflies."
"I shall stiffen his arm, be he heretic or devil," said the stoutpriest; and he went and stood near the duellists, and, boldly facingthe stranger, cursed him prolifically in the name of Holy Church andthe King of Rome.
The stranger did not turn, and only acknowledged the anathemas by aperfectly distinct laugh which issued weirdly from the mask.
No man had ever called La Salle's bravery in question. Facing anenemy, who had started as it were from the rocks before him in the rainand the lightning, he met the resolute attack and parried every lunge.In truth, the priest was a fine swordsman; but his resource in skirmishand detail was here taxed to the uttermost. All he could do at hisbest was to hold out the short sword, which flashed in and out of therain, controlled by a wrist of steel and an iron arm. The masked mangave forth no sound of hard breathing. He was a master of swordcraft,and La Salle knew that he had met his match. Here was no nervousDutchman to be trifled with; no hectoring soldier with a hearty oathand bluff swagger. La Salle sweated, and his breath came pricking inhot gasps, and a cold thrill trickled along his back when he allowedhimself to wonder who the enemy might be.
The stranger guarded against treachery, hugging the cliff lest anyonewith hostile intentions might pass behind and reach his back. Had hemoved out, he would assuredly have beaten down the abbe's defence; asit was, the latter was acting upon the defensive, and doing so withmuch difficulty.
The rain stopped on an instant. As suddenly the clouds fell back toadmit the light; and the rugged shadows of the rocks traced fantasticshapes along the Rue des Pecheurs.
The strained voice of Laroche broke the stillness.
"A touch!"
"Liar!" shouted back the hard-driven but proud priest, although he feltwarm blood oozing between his fingers.
The masked man feared the light which followed the sweeping away of thestorm clouds. He bestirred himself, feinted with amazing rapiditywithin and without the pass, then his limber wrist stiffened for thesecond, and his point darted in like a poisonous snake over the hiltand wounded La Salle upon the muscle of the sword-arm.
"A touch!" shouted the captains together, both too excited to have anythought for the law.
"An accident," gasped the proud priest. "A misfortune."
"Well, here's a touch!" called a deep English voice; and as thechallenger made his nationality known he lunged beneath the abbe'sblade, thrusting out until the blood spurted upward in a jet.
"Yes, yes. A touch--I confess," panted La Salle; and he staggeredback, crossed his legs, and fell heavily.
"By St. Michael!" shouted the fat Laroche, furiously pulling out hissword and reaching towards the shadow under the cliff. "You shall pay,assassin, for this."
The mysterious stranger chuckled, disarmed Laroche in a moment,scratching the stout abbe's wrist with his point, and before the twoofficers and the handful of soldiers could bestir themselves, he haddisappeared round the bend of the Rue des Pecheurs. Roussilac ran tothe ending of the way, but found no sign of the masked man, who hadvanished as mysteriously as he had arrived.