CHAPTER XXI

HOW SOME OF THESE SUCCEEDED

I

Jacqueline was sitting in the self-same deep window-embrasure from whence she had listened—oh, so long ago!—to that song, which would for ever remain for her the sweetest song on earth:

'Mignonne, allons voir si la rose——'

Only a few hours had gone by since she had reached the sublimal height of ecstatic happiness—only a few hours since she had tasted the bitter fruit of renunciation. Since then she had had a good cry, and felt better for it; but since then also she had encountered a venomous reptile on her way, and had been polluted by its touch.

Even to suggest that Jacqueline's pure faith in the man she loved had been troubled by de Landas' insidious suggestions, would be to wrong her fine and steadfast character. She did not mistrust her knight; for her he still stood far above the base calumnies hurled at him by a spiteful rival; but, somehow, de Landas' venom had succeeded in making her sorrow more acute, less endurable. Oh! if only she could have shared with her beloved all his secrets and his difficulties, if only he had thought her worthy of his entire trust!

Words which he had spoken ere he finally went away rang portentously in her ear—ominous words, which she had not heeded at the moment, for her heart was then over-full with the misery of that farewell, but which now took on, despite herself, a menacing and awesome significance.

With frowning brows and hands tightly clasped together, Jacqueline sat there, motionless, the while memory called back those words which in very truth did fill her heart with dread.

'If within the future,' Messire had said, 'aught should occur to render me odious in your sight, will you at least remember that, whatever else I may have done that was unworthy and base, my love for you has been as pure and sacred as is the love of the lark for the sun.'

He had gone after that—gone before she could ask him for an explanation of these ununderstandable words, before she could affirm her perfect faith and trust in him. Then the memory of them had faded from her ken, merged as it was in her great, all-embracing sorrow, until the wand of a devilish magician had brought them forth from out the ashes of forgetfulness, and she was left more forlorn than she had been before.

II

Monseigneur the governor found her in the late afternoon, still sitting in the window embrasure, the large, lofty room in darkness, save for the fitful glow of the fire which was burning low in the monumental hearth. The patter of the rain against the window panes made a weird, melancholy sound, which alone broke the silence that hung upon the place with an eerie sense of desolation. Monseigneur shuddered as he entered.

'B-r-r-r!' he exclaimed. 'My dear Jacqueline! I had no thought that you were moping here all alone—and in the dark, too!—or I would have been here sooner to cheer your spirits with my good news.'

'You and your good news are right welcome, Monseigneur,' responded Jacqueline with a pathetic effort at gaiety. 'I was out in the garden most of the day,' she continued composedly, 'and was resting for awhile in the gathering dusk, as this awful weather hath made it impossible to go out again.'

'Gathering dusk, forsooth!' he retorted. 'Send for your women, Madame, and order them to bring in the candles. Light! We want more light, laughter and joy at this hour! I would I could light a bonfire, to turn the night into day!'

He was obviously nervy and excited, paced up and down the room in a state of nerve-tension, very unlike his usual dignified self. Jacqueline, a little puzzled, obeyed him promptly. She rang the bell and ordered Nicolle to send in the candles, and while the women busied themselves about the room, disposing candelabra upon the tables and consols, she watched her guardian keenly. He certainly appeared strangely excited, and now and then he darted quick, inquiring glances upon her, and when she met those glances, he smiled as if in triumph.

'Let us sit by the fire, my dear,' he said genially, after he had dismissed Nicolle and the women with an impatient gesture. 'I came to see you alone and without ceremony, because I wished for the selfish pleasure of imparting my good news to you myself.'

She sat down in the tall chair beside the fire, and Monseigneur sat opposite to her. She had on a dress of dark-coloured satin, upon the shiny surface of which the flickering firelight drew quaint and glowing arabesques. She rested her elbow on the arm of her chair and leaned her head against her hand, thus keeping her delicate face in shadow, lest Monseigneur should note the pallor of her cheeks and the tear-stains around her eyes. But otherwise she was quite composed, was able to smile too at his eagerness and obvious embarrassment.

It was his turn to study her keenly now, and he did so with evident pleasure. Not so very many years ago he, too, had been a young gallant, favoured by fortune and not flint-hearted either where women were concerned. He had buried two wives, and felt none the worse for that, and still ready to turn a compliment to a pretty woman, and to give her the full measure of his admiration. He would have been less than a man now, if he had withstood the charm of the pretty picture which his ward presented, in the harmonious setting of her high-backed chair, and with the crimson glow of the fire-light turning her fair hair to living gold.

'Put down your hand, Jacqueline,' he said, 'so that I may see your pretty face.'

'My head aches sadly, Monseigneur,' she rejoined with a pathetic little sigh, 'and mine eyes are heavy. 'Tis but vanity that causes me to hold my hand before my face.'

'Neither headaches nor heavy eyes could mar the beauty of the fairest lily of Flanders,' he went on with elaborate gallantry. 'So I pray you humour me, and let me see you eye to eye.'

She did as he asked, and dropped her hand. Monseigneur made no remark on her pallor, was obviously too deeply absorbed in his joyful news to notice her swollen eyes. She tried to smile, and said lightly:

'And why should Monseigneur desire to see a face, every line of which he knows by heart?'

He leaned forward in his chair and said slowly, keeping his eyes fixed upon her:

'Because I wish to behold the future Duchesse d'Anjou and d'Alençon, the future sister of the King of France!'

She made no reply, but sat quite still, her face turned toward the fire, presenting the outline of her dainty profile to the admiring gaze of her guardian. Monseigneur was silent for a moment or two, was leaning back in his chair once more, and regarding her with an air of complacency, which he took no pains to disguise.

'It means the salvation of the Netherlands!' he said with a deep sigh of satisfaction. 'We can now count on the whole might of France to rid us of our enemies, and after that to a long era of prosperity and of religious liberty, when Madame Jacqueline de Broyart shares with her lord the Sovereignty of the Netherlands.'

Jacqueline remained silent, her aching eyes fixed in the hot embers of the fire. So the blow had fallen sooner than she thought. When, in the arbour, she had made her profession of faith before her knight, and told him that she belonged not to herself but to her country, she did not think that her country would claim her quite so soon. Vaguely she knew that some day her guardian would dispose of her hand and fortune, and that she would have to ratify a bargain made for her person, for the sake of that fair land of Flanders which was so dear to her. But awhile ago, all that had seemed so remote; limitless time seemed to stretch out before her, wherein she could pursue her dreams of the might-have-been.

Monseigneur's announcement—for it was that—came as a hammer-blow upon her hopes of peace. She had only just wakened from her dream, and already the bitter-sweet boon of memory would be denied to her. Stunned under the blow, she made no attempt at defiance. With her heart dead within her, what cared she in the future what became of her body? Since love was denied her, there was always the altruistic sentiment of patriotism to comfort her in her loneliness; and the thought of self-sacrifice on the altar of her stricken country would, perhaps, compensate her for that life-long sorrow which was destined to mar her life.

'No wonder you are silent, Jacqueline,' Monseigneur was saying, and she heard him speaking as if through a thick veil which smothered the sound of his voice; 'for to you this happy news comes as a surprise. Confess that you never thought your old guardian was capable of negotiating so brilliant an alliance for you!'

'I knew,' she rejoined quietly, 'that my guardian would do everything in his power to further the good of our country.'

'And incidentally to promote your happiness, my dear.'

'Oh!' she said, with an indifferent shrug of the shoulders, 'my happiness is not in question, is it? Else you would not propose that I should wed a Prince of the House of Valois.'

'I am not so sure,' he replied, with a humorous twinkle in his old eyes. 'Monsieur Duc d'Anjou, is not—or I am much mistaken—quite the rogue that mischievous rumour hath painted.'

'Let us hope, for my sake,' she retorted dryly, 'that rumour hath wronged him in all particulars.'

'In one, at any rate, I'll vouch for that. Monsieur is more than commonly well-favoured—a handsome figure of a man, with the air and the voice of a soldier.'

'You know him well?'

'I have seen much of him,' said Monseigneur with an enigmatic smile, 'these past four weeks.'

'These past four weeks?' she exclaimed. 'But you have not been out of Cambray.'

'Nor has he,' put in Monseigneur quietly.

She frowned, deeply puzzled.

'Monsieur Duc d'Anjou hath been in Cambray?' she asked, 'these past four weeks?'

He nodded.

'And I have never seen him?'

'Indeed you have, my dear Jacqueline; on more than one occasion.'

'Not to my knowledge, then.'

'No. Not to your knowledge.'

'I don't understand,' she murmured. 'Why should so exalted a prince as the Duc d'Anjou be in Cambray all this while?'

'Because he desired to woo Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, duchesse et princesse de Ramèse.'

'Without my knowledge?'

'Without your knowledge—outwardly.'

'What do you mean?'

'Oh! nothing very obscure, my dear; nothing very remarkable. Monsieur Duc d'Anjou is young—he hath a romantic turn of mind. He admired you and desired you in marriage, but chose to woo you—have I not said that he is romantic?—chose to woo you under a mask.'

She gave a gasp, and quickly put her hand to her mouth to smother a cry. She sat bolt upright now, her two hands clutching the arms of her chair, her eyes—wide open, glowing, scared—fixed upon her guardian. He, obtuse and matter-of-fact, mistook the gasp and the tense expression of her face.

'No wonder you are aghast, my dear,' he said cheerily. 'Not unpleasantly, I hope. More than once it seemed to your old guardian that Monsieur's martial presence was not altogether distasteful to you. He hath sharper eyes, hath the old man, than you gave him credit for—what? Ah, well! I was young too, once, and I still like to bask in the sunshine of romance. 'Twas a pretty conceit on Monsieur's part, methinks, to pay his court to you under a disguise—to win your love by the charm of his personality, ere you realized the great honour that a Prince of the Royal House of France was doing to our poor country, by wooing her fairest maid.'

Monseigneur continued to ramble on in the same strain. Jacqueline hardly heard what he said. She was striving with all her might to appear composed, to understand what the old man was saying, and to reply to him with some semblance of coherence. Above all, she was striving to get the mastery over her voice, for presently she would have to speak, to say something which would shake her guardian's complacency, open his eyes to the truth, the whole hideous, abominable truth; without ... without ... Heavens above, this must be a hideous dream!

'It was all arranged with de Montigny, you remember?' Monseigneur continued, still engrossed in his own rhetoric, too blind to see that Jacqueline was on the verge of a collapse. 'Monsieur was so fanciful, and we had to give in to him. We all desired the alliance with our whole hearts, and Madame la Reyne de Navarre did approve of our schemes. I must say that de Lalain and I were against the masquerade at first, but Monsieur's soldierlike personality soon won our approval. And imagine our joy when we realized that our dear Jacqueline was not wholly indifferent to him either. He came to us this afternoon and made formal demand for your hand in marriage.... So de Lalain and I have taken measures that our poor people do have a holiday to-morrow, when Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, duchesse et princesse de Ramèse, will solemnly plight her troth to Monsieur Duc d'Anjou. So, my dear Jacqueline, I entreat you to wear your loveliest gown. Flanders is proud of her fairest flower. Monsieur desired to rejoin his armies to-day and leave the ceremony of betrothal waiting for happier times; but de Lalain and I would not hear of it. Everything is prepared for a festive holiday. Of a truth, to-morrow's forenoon will see the happiest hour which our sadly-afflicted province hath seen these many years.'

He paused; I think, for want of breath: he certainly had been talking uninterruptedly for the past ten minutes, going over the whole ground of de Montigny's mission, Monsieur's romantic desire and the final demand in marriage, till Jacqueline could have screamed to him to cease torturing her. The hideousness of the mystery appalled her: some dark treachery lurked here somewhere and she was caught in a net of odious intrigues, out of which for the moment she could see no issue. A feeling of indescribable horror came over her—a nameless, unspeakable terror, as in the face of a yawning, bottomless abyss, on the brink of which she stood and into which an unseen and mighty hand would presently hurl her.

Something of that appalling state of mind must have been reflected in her face, despite the almost superhuman effort which she made not to allow Monseigneur to guess at what was going on in her mind; for presently he looked at her more keenly, and then said gently:

'Jacqueline, my dear, you look so strange. What is it? Hath my news so gravely startled you?'

She shook her head, and when he reiterated his question, and leaned forward in order to take her hand, she contrived to say, moderately calmly, even though every word came with an effort from her parched throat:

'The man with the mask? ... The Prince de Froidmont? ... You are sure?'

'Sure of what, my dear?' he riposted.

'That he is the Duc d'Anjou?'

Monseigneur laughed loudly and long, apparently much relieved.

'Oh! is that what troubles you, my child?' he said gaily. 'Well then, let me assure you that I am as sure of that as that I am alive. Why!' he added, evidently much surprised, 'how could you ask such a funny thing?'

'I did not know,' she murmured vaguely. 'Sometimes an exalted prince will woo a maid by proxy ... so I thought...'

But evidently the idea of Jacqueline's doubts greatly tickled Monseigneur's fancy.

'What a strange conceit, my child!' he said with condescending indulgence. 'By proxy, forsooth! His Highness came himself, not more than three days after Messire de Montigny completed negotiations with him at La Fère. He desired to remain incognito and chose to lodge in a poor hostelry; but Madame la Reyne de Navarre begged us in a letter writ by her own august hand, to make Monsieur Duc d'Anjou, her dear brother, right welcome in Cambray. By proxy!' and Monseigneur laughed again, highly amused. 'Why, His Highness was in my study but two hours ago, and made formal proposal for your hand in marriage!'

Then, as the door behind him was thrown open and old Nicolle, shuffling in, announced M. le Comte de Lalain, d'Inchy turned to his old friend and said, highly delighted with what he regarded as a good joke:

'Ah, my good de Lalain! You could not have come at a more opportune moment. Here is our ward, so bewildered at the news that she asks me whether I am sure that it is truly Monsieur Duc d'Anjou who has been masquerading as the Prince de Froidmont. Do reassure the child's mind, I pray you; for in truth she seems quite scared.'

De Lalain, always a great stickler for etiquette, had in the meanwhile advanced into the room, and was even now greeting Jacqueline with all the ceremonial prescribed by Maître Calviac. Then only did he reply soberly:

'Sure, Madame? Of course we are sure! Why, 'tis not two hours since he was standing before us and asking for the hand of Madame Jacqueline de Broyart in marriage. We knelt before him and kissed his hand, and to-morrow we'll present him to the people as the future Sovereign Lord of the Netherlands.'

'And so, my dear Jacqueline——' concluded d'Inchy. But he got no further, gave a loud call to Nicolle and the women; for Madame had uttered a pitiful moan, slid out of her chair, and was now lying on the floor in a swoon.

CHAPTER XXII

WHILE OTHERS FAILED

I

Of a truth, Monseigneur the governor was not gravely perturbed by his ward's sudden attack of faintness. He knew that women were subject to megrims and sundry other fancies, and he was willing to admit that in his excitement he had, perhaps, been too abrupt with her and too brusque. She had been scared, bewildered, no doubt, and lost consciousness in her agitation. But old Nicolle had quickly come to the rescue with restoratives; and with the prerogative of an old and trusted servant, she had bundled Monseigneur and Monsieur de Lalain incontinently out of the room. Madame would soon be well, she said, only needed rest. She was overwrought and over fatigued with so many banquets and public functions—such late hours, too; and Madame not twenty! Young people needed plenty of sleep, and Madame, after a good and peaceful night, would be quite well on the morrow.

So Monseigneur, fully reassured, went back to his apartments and to his own business. There was still a great deal to be done, a great deal to see to—many people to interview and many more orders to give, to ensure that to-morrow's ceremony should be conducted not only with perfect smoothness, but also that the preparations for it be concluded with perfect secrecy.

M. de Lalain, d'Inchy's old friend, was an invaluable helpmate, and de Landas too had for the occasion thrown off that supercilious manner which he had adopted of late, and had entered fully into the spirit of the affair. There was no fear that the wily Valois fox would slip from out the trap which was being so skilfully laid for him.

Already messengers, dressed in Monseigneur the governor's livery, were flying all over the town, carrying letters and sign-manuals. Directly these were delivered, extraordinary bustle and activity came at once into being in the official and municipal centres of the city. The Provosts could be seen, wearing their chain of office and hurrying to the Town Hall, where they were received by the Chief Magistrate. Orders and counter-orders flew from one end of the town to the other, from the Citadel to the Palace and from Cantimpré to the Château, while, by special command of M. le Marquis de Landas, the entire garrison, which manned the forts, was under arms during the whole of that night.

The humbler folk, scared by this unwonted turmoil, shut themselves up with their families inside their houses, until a persistent rumour reassured them that no fresh assault on the part of the besieging army was expected, but rather that a happy, joyful and hopeful proclamation would be made by Monseigneur the governor on the morrow, from the balcony of the Town Hall. Whereupon fear and trouble were for the moment put resolutely away. The people were beginning to suffer so acutely, that they were abjectly thankful for any ray of hope, which gleamed through the darkness of their ever-present misery. With the Duke of Parma's armies at their gates, they were still clinging to the thought that some mighty Power would take compassion on them, and come to their rescue with a force strong enough to inflict a severe defeat upon the Spaniard. They had not yet reached the final stages of despair. They were still ready to seize every opportunity for forgetfulness, for enjoyment even, whenever it was offered or allowed them. Rumour had been persistent about the help which was to come from France. Messire de Balagny's presence in the city had confirmed the hopes which had rested upon those rumours. Now, with the knowledge that Monseigneur had a joyful announcement to make, mercurial temperaments rose for awhile—especially among the young. The older people had been too often deluded with flowery promises to believe in any good fortune for their unfortunate city. They had seen the fate of others—of Mons and of Mechlin and of Gand. The might of the Spanish armies always conquered in the end, and the rebellious cities had been made to suffer untold brutalities, as a punishment for their heroic resistance.

Fortunately for the morale of Cambray, these older people, these wiseacres, were still in the minority, and hope is of all human attributes the strongest and the most persistent. So, despite the prognostications and fear of pessimists, people rose early on the following morning, in order betimes to decorate their houses. Soon after dawn, activities began; flags were dragged out of old, disused coffers and hung out of windows and balconies; the women sought, in their worm-eaten dower chests, for any scraps of finery that may have survived from the happy olden days, before their Spanish tyrants had made of this prosperous land a forlorn wilderness.

By eight o'clock the beleaguered city looked almost gay. The shops were closed; soldiers paraded the streets; the city guilds, their masters and their 'prentices, came out with banners flying, to stand in groups upon the Grand' Place. If a stranger could have dropped into Cambray from the skies on that fine April morning, he would of a truth have doubted if any Spanish army was encamped around these walls.

II

Even Gilles de Crohin, absorbed as he was in his own affairs, could not fail to notice the generally festive air which hung about the place. In the quarter where he lodged, it is true that very little of that holiday mood had found its way down the narrow streets and into the interior of squalid houses, where the pinch of cold and hunger had already made itself insistently felt. But as soon as he was past the Place aux Bois, he began to wonder what was in the wind. The populace had been at obvious pains to put aside for the moment every outward sign of the misery which it endured. The women had donned their best clothes, the men no longer hung about at street corners, looking hungry and gaunt. They did not even scowl in the wake of the masked stranger, so lately the object of their ire, as the latter hurried along on his way to the Palace.

And then there were the flags, and the open windows, the draped balconies and pots of bright-coloured early tulips—all so different to the dreary, drab appearance which Cambray had worn of late.

But, nevertheless, Gilles himself would have told you afterwards that no suspicion of Monseigneur d'Inchy's intentions crossed his mind. Vaguely he thought that Messire de Balagny's arrival had been announced to the townfolk, and that the promise of help from France had been made the occasion of a public holiday. And he himself was in too much of a fume to pay serious heed to anything but his own affairs—to anything, in fact, but his own departure, which had been so provokingly delayed until this morning.

And this veracious chronicle has all along put it on record that Messire Gilles de Crohin was not a man of patience. Imagine his choler, his fretting rage when, fully prepared for his journey, mounted upon the same horse which had brought him into Cambray a month ago, and duly accompanied by Maître Jehan, who had a pack-horse on the lead, he had presented himself on the previous afternoon at the Porte Notre Dame with his original safe-conduct, and was incontinently refused exit from the city, owing to strict orders issued by the commandant of the garrison that no one should be allowed to pass out of the gates under any pretext whatsoever.

Gilles had argued, persuaded, demanded; but he himself was too thorough a soldier not to have realized from the first that every argument would be futile. The captain of the guard assured him that he could do nothing in the face of the strict and uncompromising orders which he had received. Gilles was of course quite certain that some one had blundered—a mere matter of formality, which Monseigneur the governor could put right with a stroke of the pen—but it was obviously not for a subordinate officer to question his orders, or to take any revision thereto upon himself; and Gilles, after receiving the captain's courteous regrets, had no option but to ride away.

It was then six o'clock of the afternoon, and the brilliance of the early spring day was quickly fading into dusk. A boisterous wind had sprung up, which brought heavy banks of cloud along, threatening rain. But, rain or shine, Gilles had no thought as yet of giving up his purpose. There were other gates within the city walls, and wrapping his mantle closely round his shoulders, he gave spur to his horse and started on a new quest, closely followed by Maître Jehan. It is on record that he went the round of every gate, armed with his safe-conduct and with as much patience as he could muster. Alternately he tried bribery, persuasion, stealth; but nothing availed. The town garrison was everywhere under arms; orders had been given, and no one, be he the highest in the land, was allowed to leave.

Had the matter been vital or the adventure worth the trial, I doubt not but what Messire would have endeavoured to get through at all costs—have scaled the city walls, swam the river, challenged the Spanish lines and run the gauntlet of archers and gunners, in order to accomplish what he wanted, if he had wanted it badly. But a few hours' delay in his journey could make no matter, and truth to tell he was in no mood for senseless adventure.

In the meanwhile, however, several hours had been wasted on fruitless errands. It was late evening. The heavy gale had brought along its due complement of rain. It were certainly not seemly to disturb Monseigneur the governor in the Palace at this hour, so Gilles and Jehan returned, sorely disappointed, to their lodgings, there to spend a sleepless night, waiting for the first reasonable hour in the morning wherein Monseigneur the governor might be expected to transact business. And I can confidently affirm that no suspicion of what was in contemplation for the confusion of the fickle Prince, crossed Gilles' mind, as he lay half the night, staring into the darkness, with the image of Jacqueline haunting his tortured brain.

III

At eight o'clock the next morning, he was once more at the Archiepiscopal Palace, demanding to see Monseigneur. Not wishing to challenge any comparison at this eleventh hour between his two entities, he had elected to present himself under his disguise and his mask, and to send in a greeting to Monseigneur with the message that Messire le Prince de Froidmont desired to speak with him immediately.

But it seems that Monseigneur had been very ill all night and had not yet risen. A leech was in attendance, who, ignorant of the true rank of this early visitor, strictly forbade that the sick man should be disturbed. No doubt if Messire le Prince de Froidmont would present himself a couple of hours later—the leech added suavely—Monseigneur would be prepared to see him.

It was in very truth a trial of patience, and I marvel how Gilles' temper stood the strain. The fact that he was a stranger in the city, without a friend, surrounded too by a goodly number of enemies, may be accountable for his exemplary patience. Certain it is that he did once again return to his lodgings, anathematizing in his heart all these stodgy and procrastinating Flemings, but otherwise calm and, I repeat, wholly unsuspecting.

At ten o'clock, a runner came to him with a message that Monseigneur had been unexpectedly summoned to the Town Hall, but, not wishing to disappoint M. le Prince de Froidmont, he begged the latter to go forthwith to see him there. So Gilles left horses and baggage in Maître Julien's charge and, accompanied by Jehan, he proceeded on foot to the Town Hall. He had much difficulty in forcing his way through the crowd, which had become very dense, especially in and about the Grand' Place.

Gilles, indeed, could not help but notice the festive appearance of the town, the flags, the flowers, the banners of the guilds. Above all, the good-humour of the crowd was in such strange contrast to their habitual surliness. Instead of uttering insults against the masked stranger, as he jostled them with his elbows and a rapid 'By your leave!' they chaffed and teased him, laughed and joked among themselves in perfect good-humour.

In and about the Town Hall there was a large concourse of people, city fathers and high dignitaries in official attire. The perron steps were decorated with huge pots of Dutch earthenware, placed at intervals all the way up as far as the entrance doors and filled with sheaves of white Madonna lilies, produced at great cost at this season of the year in the hothouses of the Archiepiscopal Palace. Pots containing the same priceless flowers could also be seen up on the huge balcony above the entrance, and showing through the interstices of the stonework of the splendid balustrade. There was also a guard of honour—halbardiers in their gorgeous attire—who lined the hall and the grand staircase as far as the upper floor.

When Gilles appeared outside the huge entrance gates, an usher in sober black came forward from some hidden corner of the hall, and approached him with marked deference. Monseigneur the governor had given orders that directly M. le Prince de Froidmont presented himself at the Town Hall he was to be shown up to the Council Room.

Gilles, having ordered Jehan to wait for him below, followed the usher up the grand staircase, noting with the first gleam of suspicious surprise that the guard presented arms as he went by.

But even then he did not guess.

IV

The Council Room was crowded when Gilles entered. At first he felt quite dazed. The whole scene was so ununderstandable, so different to what he had expected. He had thought of finding Monseigneur the governor alone in a small apartment; and here he was ushered into a magnificent hall, harmoniously ornamented with priceless Flemish tapestry above the rich carving of the wainscoting. The hall was crowded with men, some of whom he had vaguely seen on the night of the banquet at the Archiepiscopal Palace. There was the Chief Magistrate, a venerable old man, gorgeously decorated with a massive gold chain and other insignia of authority; there were the Mayors of the City guilds, each recognizable by their robes of state and the emblems of their trades; there were the Provosts and the Captains of the guard and the Chiefs of the Guild of Archers, with their crimson sashes, and there was also Monseigneur the governor, looking more pompous and solemn than he had ever done before.

Gilles was once more deeply thankful for the mask which covered his face, together with its expression of boundless astonishment, amounting to consternation, which must inevitably have betrayed him. Already he would have retreated if he could; but even as the swift thought crossed his mind, the ushers closed the doors behind him, the guard fell in, and he was—there was no mistaking it—a virtual prisoner.

Dressed for the journey, booted and spurred, with leather jerkin and heavy belt, he stood for a moment, isolated, at the end of the room, a magnificent and picturesque figure, mysterious and defiant—yes, defiant! For he knew in one instant that he had been trapped and that he, the gambler, had been set to play a losing game.

His quick, keen glance swept over the dignified assembly. Monseigneur, in the centre, was advancing to greet him, bowing almost to the ground in the excess of his deference. Every head was bared, the captains of the guard had drawn their swords and held them up to the salute. Through the wide-open, monumental windows, the pale April sun came peeping in, throwing a glint of gold upon the rich robes of the Provosts and the Mayors. A murmur of respectful greeting went round the room, followed immediately by loud and prolonged cheering; and Gilles—suddenly alive to the whole situation—took his plumed hat from off his head and, with a splendidly insolent gesture, made a sweeping bow to the assembled dignitaries. His life, his honour, his safety, were hanging by a thread. He stood like a trapped beast before a number of men who anon would be clamouring perhaps for his blood; but the whole situation suddenly struck him as so boundlessly humorous, the solemnity of all these worthy Flemings would presently be so completely ruffled, that Gilles forgot the danger he was in, the precariousness of the position in which he stood, only to remember its entirely ludicrous aspect.

'Long live His Highness le Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon!' came in rousing cheers, which woke the echoes of the old Town Hall.

And outside, on the Grand' Place, the people heard the cheering. They did not know yet what it was about, but they had come out on this fine April morning to enjoy themselves, to forget their troubles, their danger, their miseries; and when they heard the cheering, they responded with full throat and heart, and acclaimed not what they knew but what they hoped.

'You have beaten me, Messire,' Gilles said in a good-humoured whisper to Monseigneur the governor, as the latter bent one knee to the ground and kissed the gracious hand of the Valois Prince. 'Never was game so skilfully trapped! All my compliments, Messire. You are a born——' 'liar' he would have said, but checked himself just in time and used the smoother word—'diplomatist.'

'Your Highness will not grudge us our little ruse,' d'Inchy riposted under his breath with a suave smile. 'It is all for your glorification and the exaltation of our promised union with France.'

'Take care, Messire!' retorted Gilles, 'that your want of trust in me doth not receive the punishment it deserves.'

He had still the thought that he might run away. The only time in the whole course of his life that Gilles de Crohin had the desire to show a clean pair of heels to the enemy! If he could only have seen the slightest chance of getting away, he would have taken it—through door or window, up the chimney or the side of a house—any way, in fact, out of this abominable trap which these astute Flemings had so skilfully laid for him. And this, despite the fact that he had spied his arch-enemy, de Landas, at the far end of the room—de Landas, who was gazing on him, not only in mockery but also in triumph.

Nevertheless, Gilles was ready to turn his back even on de Landas—anything, anything, in fact, to get away; for the situation, besides being ludicrous, was tragic too, and desperate. One false move on his part, one unconsidered word, and the whole fabric of Madame la Reyne's schemes would totter to the ground. He seemed to see her now, with her gracious hand extended towards him and the tears streaming down her cheeks, while she said with solemn earnestness: 'When a prince of the house of Valois breaks his word, the shame of it bears upon us all!' He seemed to see himself with his hand upon the crosshilt of his sword, swearing by all that he held most sacred and most dear that he would see this business through to the end. Indeed, the end was in sight, and he felt like a soldier who has been left all alone to defend a citadel and ordered to hold it at all costs.

That citadel was the honour of France.

And the soldier-nature in him not only refused to give in, but at this supreme hour rejoiced in the task. He would hold on at all costs for the honour of Monsieur, his master; but, above all, for the honour of France. If contumely, disgrace or shame was to fall, in consequence of this gigantic hoax, then it must fall entirely on him—Gilles de Crohin, the penniless adventurer—not upon a Prince of the Royal House of France. Either he would be able to extricate himself from this desperate position with the mask still upon his face and Monsieur's secret still inviolate before these assembled Flemings, or the whole burden of knavery and imposture must fall upon him alone—the shameless rogue who had impersonated his master for some unavowable purpose, and perpetrated this impudent fraud for the sake of some paltry gain.

It only took him a few seconds thus to pass the whole situation, present and future, in a brief review before his mind. Having done it, he felt stronger and keener for the fight and ready for any eventuality. The honour of France!—and he left here to guard it! ... Ye gods! but he felt prouder than any king! Contumely, disgrace, exposure, an ignominious flight—mayhap a shameful death. Bah! what mattered anything so long as the honour of France and of her Royal House remained untarnished before the world?

Fortunately Jacqueline was not here! Perhaps she would not come! Perhaps these wily fools, when they had set their trap, had left her out of their reckoning. In which case, all might be well; the chances of exposure remained remote. A little more impudence, a brief half-hour still of this abominable rôle, and the curtain must fall at last upon the farcical tragedy and he, Gilles, would be free to become an honest man once more.

A little luck!! And, remember that he was a gambler, and staking his all upon the last throw!

And as, one by one, the city dignitaries came up to be presented by the governor to His Highness, and as the minutes sped away, hope once more knocked at the gateway of the adventurer's heart. One by one they came, these solemn Flemings. They bent the knee and kissed the hand of the Prince who was to be their Sovereign Lord. And some of them were old and others very rheumatic; most of them appeared to Gilles highly ridiculous in this homage rendered to an impostor. The desire to laugh aloud became positive torture after awhile, and yet nothing but self-possession could carry the day, now that every second rendered Gilles' position more hopeful.

For still Jacqueline did not come! Jacqueline! the only person inside this city who could betray him, and she the one being in the entire world before whom he would have wished to remain deserving and unimpeached. She of a truth would know him amongst a thousand; her loving, searching eyes would laugh at masks and disguises! Her finger alone could, at sight of him, point at him with scorn; her voice, like that of an avenging angel, could be raised against him, saying:

'That man is a liar and a cheat! He is not the Duc d'Anjou!'

V

Monseigneur the governor acted throughout as the Master of Ceremonies. Obsequious and suave, he seemed to have no wish save to please His Highness in all things, and to make him forget the want of trust that the present ceremony implied. He hovered round Gilles, executing a manoeuvre which the latter was certainly too guileless to notice. It was a case of: 'On this side, I entreat Your Highness!' and 'Here is Messire de Haynin, who craves the honour...' or 'If Your Highness would deign to speak with Messire d'Anthoin.' All very subtle and unnoticeable, but it meant that every time a city father came to kiss hands, Gilles, in order to greet him, had to take a step or two forward, and that each step brought him a trifle nearer to the open window. That window gave directly on La Bretèque, the vast terrace-like balcony which overlooked the Grand' Place and which had so often been the scene of historic proclamations. Suddenly Gilles found himself there, in the open, with a huge concourse of people down below at his feet.

He had Monseigneur the governor on his left, and the company of city fathers and dignitaries had followed him out on La Bretèque. They were standing in a compact group around him; and all down the length of the balcony, at the foot of the balustrade, there were huge pots filled with those Madonna lilies, which seemed like the very emblem of Jacqueline.

Time had gone on; the crowd had cheered at sight of him, and Gilles had gradually been lulled into a semblance of security. Then suddenly, from the far end of the balcony, some fifty paces away, there came the sound of an usher's voice calling in stentorian tones:

'Make room for Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, Duchesse et Princesse de Ramèse, d'Espienne et de Wargny! Make room!'

And down the vista of the long terrace, he caught sight of Jacqueline advancing towards him between the avenue of lilies. She was dressed in a white satin gown, and she had pearls round her neck and in her hair. The April sun fell full upon her, and the soft breeze blew the tendrils of her hair, like strands of gold, about her face. With a sinking of the heart, Gilles saw that she walked with a weary and listless step; but she held herself very erect, with head slightly thrown back, looking straight out before her as she came. A mask of black satin hid her face, but even though he could not see those heavenly blue eyes of hers, Gilles had realized in a moment that his beloved knew everything.

An access of wellnigh savage rage sent the hot blood up to his head. For the space of one second everything around him took on a blood-red hue, and he turned on d'Inchy with convulsed fingers, prepared to grip him by the throat. Already the cry 'You miserable scoundrel!' hovered on his lips.... Then he checked himself. What was the good? D'Inchy had acted rightly, in accordance with his own lights. He wished to make sure that the Valois Prince, who had broken so many promises in his life, should at least on this one occasion be irrevocably fettered. The assembled dignitaries, the crowd down below, the whole city of Cambray should witness the solemn plighting of his troth. And Jacqueline—the unfortunate, innocent pawn in all these intrigues—should be the one whose weak, small hands would hold him indissolubly to his bond.

There was a moment of tense silence. Gilles could hear his own heart beating in his breast. He had of a truth ceased to feel and to think. The situation was so hopeless now, so stupendous, that it was beyond human power to grapple with. He hardly felt that he was alive; a kind of greyish veil had interposed itself between his eyes and that group of solemn Flemish worthies around him. And through that veil he could see their podgy faces, red and round, and grinning at him with great cavern-like mouths, and eyes that darted fierce flames upon him. Of a truth, he thought that he was going mad, had a wild desire to throw back his head and to laugh—laugh loudly and long; laugh for ever at the discomfiture of some fool who was standing there in his—Gilles de Crohin's—shoes; at that fool who had thought to carry through a long farce unchecked, and who presently would be unmasked by the very woman whom he loved, and driven forth under opprobrium and ignominy into an outer world, where he could never look an honest man in the face again.

Perhaps he would have laughed—for the muscles round his mouth were itching till they ached—only that, just then, in the very midst of the crowd below, he caught sight of de Landas' mocking glance—de Landas, who had been in the Council Room awhile ago, and who apparently had since mixed with the crowd for the sole purpose of witnessing his successful rival's discomfiture. This seemed to stiffen him suddenly, to drag him back from out that whirlpool of wild sensations wherein he was floundering, and which was bowling him along, straight to dementia.

'No, my friend Gilles!' he said to himself. 'Since you are to die dishonoured, at least die like a man. Not before all these people; not before that man who hates you, not before that woman who loves you, shall you flinch in the face of Destiny. You have played many ignoble parts these days; do not now play that of a coward!'

And he stood quietly there, still picturesque and magnificent, still defying Fate which had played him this last, desperate trick, while Monseigneur advanced to Jacqueline, took her hand and said aloud in measured tones of ceremony, so that every one there might hear:

'My dear Jacqueline, it is with inexpressible joy that mine old eyes behold this happy hour. Monsieur Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, Prince of the House of France, hath asked your hand in marriage. We, your guardians, do but await your consent to this union which we had planned for the great good of our beloved country. Say the word, my dear Jacqueline, and I myself will proclaim to our poor, sorrowing people the joyful news that a Liberator hath come to them at last, and that the United Provinces of the Netherlands may look to him as their Sovereign Lord and King.'

Jacqueline had listened to Monseigneur's peroration with perfect composure. She stood then not ten paces away from Gilles—the only woman in the midst of all these men who were gambling with her destiny. Through her mask she was looking on Gilles, and on him only, feeling that the whole abyss of loathing, which filled her soul for him, would be conveyed to him through her look.

She had believed in him so completely, trusted him so implicitly, that now that she knew him to be both a liar and a cheat, she felt that the very well-spring of her love had turned to bitter hate. And hate in a strong and sensitive nature is at least as potent as love. What the mystery was wherewith he chose to surround himself, she did not know. What the object of the hideous comedy which he had played could be, she hardly cared. All that she knew was that he had cheated her and played her false, stolen her love from her to suit some political intrigue of which he held the threads—helped in any case in a hideous and clumsy deception which would leave her for ever shamed.

But now she knew just what she had to do. She might have unmasked the deception last night, told Monseigneur the truth and opened his eyes to the stupid fraud that was perpetrated upon him. What stopped her from doing that she did not know. Perhaps she still hoped that something would occur that would give a simple explanation of the difficult puzzle. Perhaps she thought that when she would be brought face to face with the man who was impersonating the Duc d'Anjou, that man would prove to be some low impostor, but not her knight—not the man who had held her in his arms and sworn that his love for her was as pure as that of the lark for the sun. And if, indeed, she had been so hideously deceived, if her idol prove to have not only feet of clay but heart of stone and soul of darkness, then she would unmask him, publicly, daringly, before the entire people of Cambray, humiliate him so utterly that his very name would become a by-word for all that was ignominious and base, and find some solace for her misery in the satisfaction of seeing him brought to shame.

Therefore Jacqueline had said nothing last night to Monseigneur—nothing this morning. When requested by her guardian to prepare for this day's ceremony, she had obeyed without a word. Now she listened to his speech until the end. After which, she said calmly:

'Like yourself, Monseigneur, I am covered with confusion at thought of the great honour which a Prince of the House of France will do to our poor country. I would wish, with your permission, to express my deep respect for him ere I place my hand in his.'

Whereupon Monseigneur stood a little to one side, so that Jacqueline and Gilles remained directly facing one another. Every one was watching the young pair, and kindly murmurs of approval at the beauty of the girl, and the martial bearing of the man, flew from mouth to mouth.

Jacqueline, stately and dignified as was her wont, advanced a step or two. Then she said slowly:

'And is it of a truth Monsieur Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon who stands before me now?'

She looked straight at him, and he in imagination saw beneath the mask which hid the expression of her face—saw those blue eyes which had looked on him yesterday with such ineffable tenderness; saw those exquisite lips which had murmured words of infinite love. An utter loathing overcame him of the part which he had to play, of the fraud which was to deliver his beloved into the keeping of a worthless reprobate. He was conscious only of a wild desire to throw himself at her feet in an agony of remorse and repentance, to kiss her gown, the tips of her velvet shoes; and then to proclaim the truth, to put it for ever out of that profligate Prince's power to claim this exquisite woman as his bride—to proclaim the truth, and then to run away like a second Cain, from the scene of an unforgivable crime; to flee like the treacherous soldier who hath deserted the citadel; to flee, leaving behind him the tattered rag of France's honour lying for ever soiled in the dust, beneath the feet of a duped and credulous nation.

Just then she put out her hand—that perfect hand, which he had held in his and which to his touch had seemed like the petal of a flower, and she said, with the same solemn deliberation:

'Is it in truth to the Duc d'Anjou himself that I herewith plight my troth?'

The avowal was on Gilles' lips.

'Madame——' he began, and looked unflinchingly, straightforwardly at her.

But before he could speak another word, a cry suddenly rang out—shrill and terrifying—out of the crowd.

'Do not touch him, Madame! Do not touch him! He is not the Duc d'Anjou! He is an impostor and a liar! A Spanish spy! Beware!!'

Monseigneur, the city fathers, the Mayor—every one on La Bretèque, in fact—gasped with horror. How dared these abominable agitators mar the beauty of this affecting ceremony? Monseigneur went forward, leaned over the balustrade in order to try and ascertain who it was who was trying to create a disturbance. He saw de Landas down below in the midst of the throng, vaguely wondered what the young commandant was doing there, when his place was up on La Bretèque amongst those of his own rank. Anyway, he spoke to de Landas, shouted himself hoarse to make the young man hear, for an unpleasant turmoil had followed that first cry of 'Spanish spy'—people were shouting and gesticulating and the call 'Down with him!' came repeatedly from several points in the rear of the crowd.

De Landas looked up, but he pretended not to hear, laughed and shrugged his shoulders, as if the matter did not concern him. And yet there was no mistaking the persistence with which that ominous cry 'Spanish spy!' was taken up again and again, nor the disturbing effect which it had upon the crowd.

Monseigneur then tried to harangue the mob, to point out to them the evil of their ways. Had they forgotten that they were out to enjoy themselves, to forget their troubles, to forget the very fact that the words 'Spaniard' and 'Spanish' existed in their lexicon. But Messire de Landas' paid agents would not let him speak. They had been paid to create a disturbance, not to let the people stand about placidly, listening to windy harangues.

So, the moment Monseigneur opened his mouth, the whole gang of them took up the provocative cry: 'A Spanish spy! Take care, Madame Jacqueline!' until it was repeated over and over again by numberless voices, hoarse with excitement and with spite. The crowd oscillated as if driven by a sudden blast; ominous murmurs came from those points where women and men stood in compact and sullen groups.

'Spanish spy! Beware!' rang out again and again.

Monseigneur the governor was in a wild state of agitation. He could not understand what it was that had set some rowdy malcontents to disturb the peaceful serenity of this eventful morning. Unable to make himself heard, he turned in helpless bewilderment to Gilles.

'Monseigneur,' he began, in a voice quivering with consternation. 'I do entreat you...'

But he got no further. Above this peroration, above the shuffling and the mutterings of his friends on the balcony, above the cries and murmurs down below, there had suddenly resounded the dull boom of distant cannon. The crowd gave one terrific, full-throated roar of terror:

'The Spaniards! They are on us!'

And in the seething mass of humanity on the Grand' Place could be seen just that awful, ominous swaying which precedes a stampede. Already the women screamed and some men shouted: 'Sauve qui peut!'

'The Spanish spy!' cried a voice. 'What did I tell you, citizens? He hath taken advantage of this holiday to bring the Spaniards about your ears!'

Now the swaying of the crowd became like a tidal wave upon the bosom of the ocean. Hundreds of men and women and little children started to move, not in one direction but in several, like frightened sheep who know not whither to go. Yells and screams, some of rage others of terror, rose in a wild tumult from below. And through it all a few persistent voices—recognizable by the well-known guttural tone peculiar to those of Spanish blood—shouted themselves hoarse with the persistent cry: 'The Spaniards are on us! We are betrayed!'

VI

Monseigneur the governor, unable to make himself heard, helpless and gravely perturbed, hurried into the Council Room, and after him trooped the city fathers like a flock of scared hens. Confusion at once reigned inside the Town Hall as much as out on the Place—a confusion that could be felt rather than heard, a dull murmur of voices, a scurrying and pattering of feet.

Once more the cannon roared, and the weird sound was followed by a prolonged volley of musket shot.

'They are on us! Sauve qui peut!'

Then, suddenly, far away in the direction of Cantimpré, a huge column of smoke rose to the sky. It was immediately followed by a stupendous report which literally shook the ground beneath the feet of this terror-stricken mass of humanity. A shower of broken glass fell at several points with a loud clatter on to the pavements below, and in absolutely wild and unreasoning terror, the crowd began to push and to jostle, to drive, and shove, and batter anything or any one that came in the way. Men and women in their terror had become like a herd of stampeding beasts, tearing at every obstacle, hurling maledictions and missiles, fighting, pushing, to get back to their homes, hammering at doors that had already been hastily barred and bolted, by those who happened to have found shelter inside the houses close by.

'They are on us! Sauve qui peut!'

This time it was a company of the city guard, who came running helter-skelter from the direction of the Citadel, halbertmen and pikemen, most of them unarmed, others with their steel bonnets set awry upon their heads, not a few leaving a trail of blood behind them as they ran.

'Sauve qui peut!' The deathly call of the runaway soldier, the most awesome sound the ear of man can hear. And over from St. Géry came others running too, the archers from Notre Dame, and on the right there were the gunners from Seille. They were running; like hunted deer, swiftly, panting, their jerkins torn, the slashings of their doublets hanging on them in strips.

They added the final horrible note of hopelessness to the terror and the confusion. From every corner of the city there rose cries of distress, shrill screams from women and children, loud curses from the men. The very air was filled with these dismal sounds, whilst the Unseen which was happening somewhere upon the ramparts of the city, appeared vastly more terrifying than the Seen.

And, far away, the cannon still roared and columns of fire and smoke rose with lurid significance to the sky.

VII

And yet it had all occurred within a very few minutes. Gilles and Jacqueline were left alone now on La Bretèque, and neither of them had thought of fleeing. For each of them the awesome moment was just a pause wherein their minds faced the only important problem—how to help and what to do, singly, against that terrible tide.

It was just a moment—the space, perhaps, of a dozen heart-beats. All around them the turbulent passions of men—fear, enmity, greed—were raging in all their unbridled frenzy. The cannons roared, the walls of the ancient city tottered; but they stood in a world apart, he—the man who unknowingly had played so ignominious a part—and she, the woman whom he had so heinously wronged. He tried to read her innermost thoughts behind that forbidding mask, and a mad appeal to her for forgiveness rose, even at this supreme instant, to his lips.

But the appeal was never made. The man's feelings, his grief, his shame were all swept aside by the stirring of the soldier's soul. It was the moment when first the cannon roared and the runaway guard came running through the streets, Gilles saw them long before they had reached the Grand' Place. He realized what it all meant, saw the unutterable confusion and panic which would inevitably render the city an easy prey to the invader. He gave a cry of horror and dismay.

'My God! but 'tis black treachery that has been at work this day!' he exclaimed involuntarily.

She had not yet seen the runaway guard, did not perhaps for the moment realize the utter imminence of the peril. Her mind was still busy with the difficult problem—how to help, what to do. But his involuntary cry suddenly roused her ire and her bitter disillusionment.

'You should know Messire,' she retorted. 'You are well versed in the art.'

'God forgive me, I am!' he ejaculated ruefully. 'But this!' he added with a smothered oath, and pointed down to the panic-stricken soldiers. 'This! ... Oh, my God! Your safety, your precious life at stake! You'll not believe, Jacqueline,' he pleaded, 'that I had a hand in selling your city to your enemies?'

'In selling the city!' The words appeared to have whipped up her spirit as with a lash. She looked at him, wrathfully, boldly, with a still unspoken challenge lurking in her eyes. 'You do not believe that——'

'That traitors have engineered her perdition?' he broke in rapidly. 'I do!'

'But——'

'The disturbance in the crowd ... the panic ... the deserters ... those abominable agitators! In a few hours the Spaniards will be inside the city—and Cambray lost!'

'Cambray lost! Impossible!'

'With no discipline, no leaders.... She cannot resist——'

'Then you must lead her,' she said firmly.

'I?'

'Yes! You!'

She had taken the mask from off her face and confronted him now with a glowing challenge in her eyes.

'You!' she reiterated, speaking very rapidly. 'Whoever you are, save Cambray ... defend her ... save her! I know that you can.'

In the look which she gave him he read something which filled his very soul with rapture. He gave her back glance for glance, worship for this trust.

'I can at any rate die for her,' he said quietly. 'If you, ma donna, will forgive.'

'Save Cambray,' she reiterated with superb confidence, 'and I'll forgive everything!'

'Then may God have you in His keeping,' he called to her. And, before she could realize what was in his purpose, he had climbed to the top of the tall balustrade, stood for one moment there high above her, silhouetted against the clear blue of the sky, like a living statue of youth and enthusiasm and springtide, animated by that faith which moveth mountains and sets out to conquer the world in order to lay it at the loved one's feet.

'Jehan!' he called. 'À moi!'

Then, swinging himself with the easy grace of perfect strength, he jumped down on to the perron below.

CHAPTER XXIII

WHILE TRAITORS ARE AT WORK

I

And now, I pray you think of Jacqueline running to the balustrade and, with glowing eyes looking over the stonework upon the perron beneath her. Jehan has caught his master as the latter touches the ground, and for the space of two or three seconds the two men stand at the top of the steps, locked in each other's arms, steadying one another. During those few seconds Messire whispers hurriedly in his faithful henchman's ears:

'De Balagny's troops from La Fère ... at all costs.... Understand?'

Jehan nods.

'Tell them to attack from the Bapaume Road, with as much clatter and shouting as may be. We'll hold on till they come. Go!'

He waits another few seconds until he sees Jehan's burly form disappear through the throng, then with a loud call, 'À moi! all you citizens of Cambray who are not cowards and traitors!' he draws his sword and faces the crowd.

He has a clear and resonant voice, which rises above the tumult. The panic-stricken throng of men and women pause mechanically in their unconsidered flight, to look on that strange apparition on the perron steps—strange, in truth; for towering up there, he looks preternaturally tall, and the black mask on his face gives him an air of mystery.

'Citizens of Cambray,' he continues lustily. 'The Spaniard is at your gate! Are you going to let the traitors have their day?'

The crowd sways towards him. Frightened as every one is, there is a momentary lull in the wild stampede, while scared, wide-eyed, pallid faces are turned towards the stranger. The runaway soldiers, too, pause, in their headlong rush. A company of pikemen stand in a compact group on the edge of the crowd, some fifty paces away from Gilles. Their captain, bonnetless, with tattered jerkin and face streaming with sweat, is in their midst. Messire sees him, and shouts to him with all his might.

'Captain of the guard, Cambray is in peril! What are you doing here?'

The man evidently wavers; he looks shamed and overcome, tries to hide himself behind his subordinates. But some one close at his elbow—Jacqueline cannot see who it is—appears to egg him on, and after an instant's hesitation he says sullenly:

'The Spaniards are on us, and——'

'Then why are you not on the Spaniards?' retorts Gilles.

'They have made a breach at Cantimpré.'

'Then where are your counter-mines?'

'Under the bastion.'

'Did you fire them?'

'No. The whole fort is crumbling already. It would tumble about our ears.'

'Then why are you not at the breach to make a rampart of your body?'

Again the man wavers. He is a soldier and a tried one, appears bewildered at his own act of treachery. It seemed at the time as if some one—some devil—had put cowardice into his heart at the very moment when courage and presence of mind were most urgently needed. The men, too, had faltered, broken most unexpectedly at the first assault, throwing down their arms. Even the gunners.... But it wouldn't bear thinking of. In truth, some devil had been at work, is at work now; for when the men and the captain, already stirred by Gilles' enthusiasm, looking ashamed and crestfallen, are on the point of cheering, a peremptory voice, laden with spite, rises from somewhere in the rear.

'Captain of the guard! I forbid you to listen to this man! He is a cheat and an impostor!'

It is de Landas, who, hidden at the back of the crowd, has seen Gilles jump down from the balcony, and scenting danger to his infamous scheme, has been at pains to force his way to the forefront of the mob. It has taken him some time and vigorous play of the elbows, for the crowd has become interested in the masked stranger—in the man whom they had nearly murdered twenty-four hours ago, but whose appearance and words to-day are distinctly inspiriting and reassuring.

De Landas has one of his favourite familiars with him—the Fleming, Maarege—and together the two men stand now, commanding and arrogant, in front of the soldiers and their captain. And they, recognizing the chief commandant of the garrison, are once more panic-stricken and dumb. Vague ideas of discipline and punishment, to which the young Spaniard had accustomed them, check their enthusiasm for the stranger.

Now de Landas has taken a step or two nearer to the captain of the guard. His eyes are aflame with fury, and his whole attitude is one of authority and of menace.

'If you dare parley with this man,' he says savagely, 'you will answer for it with your life. The Spanish armies are at your gates; in a few hours they will be in this city. Your only hope of pardon for yourself, for your wife, your children and your kindred, lies in complete and immediate surrender to the will of His Majesty the King of Spain, my master and yours!'

'To hell with the King of Spain, your master!' Gilles' stentorian voice breaks in from above. 'Soldiers of Cambray!' he continues lustily, 'You have nothing to fear from the King of Spain, or from any of his minions! 'Tis you who will punish them for all their past insolence! You who will dictate to them the terms of victory!'

'You miserable varlet!' exclaims de Landas, and turns on Gilles with unbridled savagery. 'How dare you raise your voice when the King of Spain speaks through my lips? How dare you speak to all these besotted fools of victory, when in submission lies their only chance of safety? Fools!' he goes on, and turns once more to the crowd. 'Self-deluded dupes! Do you not feel the might of Spain closing in upon you? Surrender, I say! Submit! You are wretched and starved and weak. You cannot defend yourselves, and no one will come to your aid.'

'Then do I proclaim you a liar, M. de Landas!' is Gilles' firm retort. 'The armies of France are on their way for the relief of Cambray, even at this hour.'

'It is false!'

'True as I live. True as that you are a miserable traitor! True as there is a Heaven above us and as there are angels who visit this earth. Citizens of Cambray, I swear to you that the army of the King of France will be outside your city before the April sun that smiles upon your valour has sunk down to rest. So give a cheer for France, citizens of Cambray! France, your deliverer and friend!'

His sally is greeted with a gigantic outburst of cheering.

'France! France!'

The crowd has listened spellbound while the masked stranger bandied words with that bastard Spaniard, whom they had all learned to loathe long ago. His cheery voice, his confident bearing, his exultation, have already warmed their hearts. Something of their terror has vanished; they are no longer like a herd of awestruck beasts, driven aimlessly along by senseless terror. There is nothing in the world so infectious as fear, except courage and enthusiasm: and Gilles' martial figure, the proud carriage of his head, his vibrant voice and flashing sword, are there to infuse valour even in the most abject.