CHAPTER XXIX
CHECK-MATE
For some time already there had been a certain amount of commotion inthe Palace. Mirrab's shouts when first she saw the combat, then herhigh-voiced altercation with Don Miguel, had roused the attention ofsome of the guard who were stationed in the cloister green court closeby. Some of the gentlemen too were astir.
Wessex himself soon after he had reached his own apartments heard thesound of angry voices proceeding from the room which he had justquitted. He could hear nothing distinctly, but it seemed to him as if awoman and a man were quarrelling violently. He tried to shut his ears tothe sound. He would hear nothing, know nothing more of the wanton whohad fooled and mocked him.
But there are certain instincts in every chivalrous man, which will notbe gainsaid; among these is the impulse to go at once to the assistanceof a woman if she be in trouble or difficulty.
It was that impulse and nothing more which caused Wessex to retrace hisfootsteps. He had some difficulty in finding his way, now that there wasno moonlight to guide him, but as soon as he re-entered the last room,which was next to the audience chamber, he heard the ominous "A moi!" ofhis dying opponent. Also all round him the obvious commotion of a numberof footsteps all tending towards the same direction.
An icy horror suddenly gripped his heart. Not daring to imagine what hadoccurred, he hurried on. By instinct, for he could see nothing, hecontrived to find and open the door, and still going forward hepresently stumbled against something which lay heavy and inert at hisfeet.
In a moment he was on his knees, touching the prostrate body with agentle hand; realizing that the unfortunate young man had fallen on hisface, he tried with infinite care to lift and turn him as tenderly as hecould.
Then suddenly he became conscious of another presence in the room.Nothing more than a ghostlike form of white, almost as rigid as themurdered man himself, whilst from the corridors close by the sound ofapproaching footsteps, still hesitating which way to go, became more andmore distinct. A murmur of distant voices too gradually took on adefinite sound.
"This way."
"No, that."
"In the court . . ."
"No! the audience chamber!"
The ghostly white-clad figure appeared as if turned to stone.
"Through the window," whispered Wessex with sudden vehemence, "it is nothigh!--quick! fly, in the name of God! while there's yet time!"
That was his only instinct now. He could not think of her as the womanhe had loved, he understood nothing, knew nothing; but in the intensegloom which surrounded him he had lost sight of the witchlike andhorrible vision which had dealt a death-blow to his love, he seemed onlyto see the green bosquets of the park, the pond, the marguerites, andanother white-clad figure, a girlish face crowned with the golden haloof purity and innocence.
The wild passion which he had felt for her changed to an agonizinghorror, not only of her deed, but at the thought of seeing hersurrounded, rough-handled by the guard, shamed and treated as a mad anddrunken wanton.
He despised himself for his own weakness, but at this awful and suprememoment, when he realized that the idol which he had set up andworshipped was nothing but defiled mud, he felt for her only tendernessand pity.
Love had touched him once, and he knew now that nothing would ever tearher image completely from out his heart. Love, great, ardent, immutable,was dead; but death is oft more powerful than life, and his dead lovepleaded for his chivalry, for his protection, with all the power ofsweet memories, and aided by the agonizing grip of cold, stiff handsclinging to his heartstrings.
He pointed once more to the open window.
"Quick! in God's name!"
The girl moved towards him.
"Ah no, no, for pity's sake. Go!"
There was not a second to be lost. Mirrab, realizing her danger, wassobered and alert. The next moment she was clinging to the window-silland measuring its height from the terrace below. It was but a few feet.As agile as a cat she flung herself over, and disappeared into the gloomjust as the door leading into the audience chamber was thrown violentlyopen, and a group of people--gentlemen, guard, servitors--bearingtorches came rushing into the room.
"Water! . . . a leech!--quick, some of you!" commanded Wessex, who heldDon Miguel's head propped against his knee.
"What is it? . . ." queried every one with unanimous breath.
Some pressed forward, snatching the flaming torches from the hands ofthe servitors. In a moment Wessex and the dead Marquis were surrounded,and the room flooded with weird, flickering light.
From the door of the apartments on the left a suave and urbane voice hadsounded softly--
"What is it?"
"The Spanish Marquis," murmured the foremost man in the crowd.
"Wounded?" queried another.
"Nay! I fear me dead," said Wessex quietly.
Then the groups parted instinctively, for the same urbane voice hadrepeated its query in tones of the gravest anxiety.
"I was at prayers, and heard this noise. . . . What is it?"
The Cardinal de Moreno now stood beside the dead body of his friend.
"Your Grace! and? . . ."
"Alas, Your Eminence!" replied Wessex, "Don Miguel de Suarez is dead."
"Alas, Your Eminence! Don Miguel de Suarez is dead."]
The Cardinal made no comment, and the next moment was seen to stoop andpick up something from the ground.
"But how?" queried one of the gentlemen.
"A duel?" added another.
"No, not a duel, seemingly," said His Eminence softly. "Don Miguel'ssword and dagger are both sheathed."
He turned to the captain of the guard, who was standing close besidehim.
"Will this dagger explain the mystery, think you, my son?" he asked,handing a small weapon to the soldier. "I picked it up just now."
The guard--he was but a young man--took the dagger from His Eminence'shand, and looked at it attentively. Those who were nearest to himnoticed that he suddenly started, and that the hand which held thenarrow pointed blade trembled visibly.
"Your Grace's dagger!" he said at last, handing the weapon to Wessex."It has Your Grace's arms upon the hilt."
Dead silence followed these simple words. The Duke seemed half dazed,and mechanically took the dagger from the captain's hand; the bladestill bore on it the marks of Don Miguel's blood.
"Yes! it is my dagger," he murmured mechanically.
"But no doubt Your Grace can explain . . ." suggested His Eminenceindulgently.
Wessex was about to reply when one of the guard suddenly interposed.
"I seemed to see a woman flying through the gardens just now, captain,"he said, addressing his officer.
"A woman?" asked His Eminence. "What woman?"
"Nay, my lord, I couldn't see distinctly," replied the soldier, "but shewas dressed all in white, and ran very quickly along the terrace not farfrom this window."
"Then Your Grace will perhaps be able to tell us . . ." suggested theCardinal with utmost benevolence.
"I can tell Your Eminence nothing," replied Wessex coldly. "I was inthis room all the time and saw no woman near."
"Your Grace was here?" said His Eminence in gentle tones of profoundastonishment, "alone with Don Miguel de Suarez? . . . The woman . . ."
"There was no woman here," rejoined the Duke of Wessex firmly, "and Iwas alone with Don Miguel de Suarez."
There was dead silence now, the moon, pale, inquisitive, brilliant,peeped in through the window to see what was amiss. She saw a number ofmen recoiling, awestruck, from a small group composed of a dead man andof the first gentleman in the land self-confessed as a murderer. No onedared to speak, the moment was too solemn, too terrible, for any speechsave a half-smothered sigh of horror.
The captain of the guard was the first to recollect his duty.
"Your Grace's sword . . ." he began, somewhat shamefacedly.
"Ah yes! I had forgot," said Wessex quietly, as he rose to his feet. Hedre
w his sword from its sheath, and with one quick, sudden wrench, brokethe blade across his knee. Then he threw the pieces of steel on theground.
"I am ready to follow you, friend captain," he said, with all thehauteur, all the light, easy graciousness so peculiar to himself.
The groups parted silently, almost respectfully, as His Grace of Wessexpassed out of the room--a prisoner.
PART IV
HIS GRACE OF WESSEX