Read Ebook: The path of honor: A tale of the war in the Bocage by Stevenson Burton Egbert Leach Ethel Pennewill Brown Illustrator Rush Olive Illustrator

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Ebook has 244 lines and 12158 words, and 5 pages

"You see," she added, still smiling, "you are weaker than you thought."

"But I cannot lie here," I cried half angrily. "I must get up. I have many things to do."

I shrank somehow from asking her outright where my love was waiting, why she did not come to me. Perhaps she was ill and could not come. That injury to the ankle....

"I must get up," I repeated doggedly; but again she held me back, her kindly eyes reading the trouble in my face.

"If you will lie still," she said, "I will bring you some one who will tell you all you wish to know--and whom, besides, I think you will be very glad to see."

"Thank you," I answered, my heart beating madly. "At once?"

She nodded, went to the door and spoke a word to some one in the room beyond.

Then my heart chilled, for it was not the dear face I had hoped to see which appeared in answer to the summons, but an ugly, bearded countenance, set on gigantic shoulders. And yet, at a second glance, I saw that the countenance, though ugly, was not repulsive, that the eyes were kindly, and that the lips could smile winningly.

"M. de Tavernay," said my nurse, bringing him to my bedside, "this is M. de Marigny."

He bent and pressed one of my hands in his great palm, then sat down beside me, while I gazed with interest at perhaps the most famous among the leaders of the Bocage.

"And very pleased I am to find you doing so well, monsieur," he said in a voice singularly rich. "In faith, I thought for a time that we had rescued you from the rope merely to condemn you to the bludgeon."

"Even that would have been a service, monsieur," I answered, smiling in response to him. "But it seems I am to get well again."

"Yes; you had youth and health to fight for you. Alas, they are not always on one's side!"

"But the rescue, monsieur?" I asked. "How came it so pat to the moment?"

"I must confess that that was an accident," he laughed. "My spies brought me word that this regiment was marching to Thouars. I determined to strike one more blow before Easter, so I called my men together and we waited behind our hedges. When night fell we turned our sheepskins and, mingling with the flock upon the hillside, gradually descended upon our enemy's pickets. It was then that a sudden commotion in the camp below attracted our attention. We saw a fracas, from which emerged that little procession of which you were the central figure. We saw them prepare for the execution and supposing them to be about to hang some cut-throat of their own waited until they should accomplish it. Then suddenly you gave our battle-cry, 'God and the King!' and brought us headlong to your rescue. In fact I had not even to give the word to fire."

"It was fortunate I chose to make a theatric exit," I commented, laughing.

"Permit me to say that it was the act of a brave man, monsieur. I trust that I shall meet my end as bravely."

Poor, gallant gentleman! He met it more bravely still--the victim of treacherous envy, he faced the muskets erect, with eyes unbandaged, and himself gave the word to fire.

"Tell me more," I urged. "You won?"

"Oh, yes; we cut them to pieces and seized a store of arms and ammunition which will stand us in good stead. But we captured something else a thousand times more welcome."

"What was that, monsieur?" I asked.

"Yes--I planted one good blow," I said, and told him the story. "What did you do with him?"

"We dragged him out, screaming with terror, begging for mercy, offering to divulge I know not what secrets, and hanged him with the rope which had been prepared for you. It was a pretty vengeance--even you could not desire a better."

"No," I murmured. "No."

His face softened into a smile.

"It has a resemblance to a certain Bible story, hasn't it?" he asked. "I did not then know the full tale of Goujon's iniquities, or I might have chosen a different death for him. It was Mademoiselle de Chambray who told me of the assault upon the ch?teau and the death of my dear friend, de Favras. Permit me to say that in that affair also, M. de Tavernay, you proved yourself a gallant man."

"Thank you, monsieur," I answered. "I but did what any gentleman would do. You found Mademoiselle de Chambray, then?"

I tried to ask it carelessly, but I fear my burning face betrayed me. At any rate, he smiled again as he looked at me.

"Yes," he said, "we found her lying senseless on the floor of Goujon's tent. At first we thought her dead, but she soon opened her eyes. Can you guess what her first word was? But perhaps I ought not to tell you!"

"Tell me," I murmured, striving to restrain the leaping of my heart.

"Well, you deserve some reward. Her first word was 'Tavernay!'"

"Yes," I said, my eyes suddenly misty; "she had just seen me dragged away to be hanged."

"Yes, but she had forgotten it. She ran to where you lay; she washed and dressed your wound; she had you borne hither on a litter; and she remained beside you until yesterday--until, in a word, it was certain that you would recover."

"Then she has gone?" I asked. "She has gone?" and my heart seemed to stop in my bosom.

"Yes, she has gone."

"But her ankle?" I protested. "Oh, how she must have suffered!"

"She did not suffer at all," said Marigny. "When she at last had time to remember her injury she found that it no longer existed. She attributed its cure to you."

I lay a moment silent, striving to appear composed. She had gone--she had been brave enough to go; she had sought to spare me the agony of that farewell which must in any event be spoken. She had been wise perhaps. She knew my weakness; but I felt that I would give my whole life to see her again, to hold her hand, to look into her eyes, to hear her say once more, "I love you!"

"She left no word for me?" I asked at last.

"She left a note; but I am not to give it to you until you are ready to set out for Poitiers."

"For Poitiers?" I repeated, trembling. "Did she herself name Poitiers?"

"Most assuredly. And why do you grow so pale, my friend? Is it not near Poitiers that her home is?"

"Yes, monsieur," I groaned; "but my journey ends two leagues this side of Chambray. Those two leagues I shall never cover."

"What nonsense! Take my advice, the advice of a man who knows more than you of women. Do not draw rein at Poitiers. Press on to the end of the journey. You will find a fair prize awaiting you."

I shook my head--he may have known other women, but not this one.

"Nevertheless I should like to have the note, M. de Marigny," I said. "It will comfort me somewhat. And besides, I am to start to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" he cried. "A week hence perhaps, if all goes well."

I smiled and continued to hold out my hand.

"Let me have the note, monsieur," I repeated.

He hesitated a moment, still looking at me, then went to the other room and brought the note back with him and placed it in my hands.

My fingers were trembling so I could scarcely break the seal; a mad hope possessed me that she had absolved me from my vow, that she summoned me to her. As I opened the paper a little heap of withered rose leaves fell upon my breast.

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