The Lady of the Mount Part 14

"How long," said the Governor, "have you been there?"

"Ever since--he came in. I suppose," proudly turning to the man, "it is useless to say that I did not play this double role of which you accuse me, and that I did keep, in every particular, the promise I made--"

"Oh, yes; you could say it, my Lady!" with sneering emphasis.

"But you reserve to yourself the right not to believe me? That is what you mean?" The man's stubborn, vindictive look answered. "Then I will deny nothing to you; nothing! You may think what you will."

His face half-covered by his hand, the Governor gazed at them; the girl, straight, slender, inflexibly poised; the prisoner eying her with dark, unvarying glance.

"_Dieu!_" he muttered. "What is this?" and concern gave way to a new feeling. _Her_ concern for something--somebody--held him. A promise!

"You can step back a few moments, my man!" to Sanchez. "A little farther--to the parapet! I'll let you know when you're wanted." And the prisoner obeyed, moving slowly away to the wall, where he stood out of ear-shot, his back to them. "You spoke of a promise?" the Governor turned to his daughter. "To whom?"

A suggestion of color swept her face, though she answered at once without hesitation: "To the Black Seigneur."

The slight form of the Governor stirred as to the shock of a battery.

"There is no harm in telling now," hurriedly she went on. "He saved me from the 'grand' tide--for I was on Saladin's back when he bolted and ran. I had not dismounted, though I allowed you to infer so, and he had carried me almost to the island of Casque when we heard and saw the water coming in. The nearest place was the island--not the point of the mainland, as I felt obliged to lead you to think, and we started for it; we might have reached the cove, had not Saladin stumbled and thrown me. The last I remembered the water came rus.h.i.+ng around, and when I awoke, I was in a watch-tower, with him--the Black Seigneur!"

The Governor looked at her; did not speak.

"I--I at first did not know who he was--not until this man came--and the priest! And when he, the Black Seigneur, saw I had learned the truth, he asked me to promise--not for himself--but because of this man!--to say nothing of having met him there, or the others! And I did promise, and--he sent me back--and that is all--"

"All!" Did the Governor speak the word? He sat as if he had hardly comprehended; a deeper flush dyed her cheek.

"You--you can not blame me--after what he did. He saved me--saved my life. You are glad of that, mon pere, are you not? And it must have been hard doing it, for his clothes were torn, and his hands were bleeding--he can't be all bad, _mon pere_! He knew who I was, yet trusted me--trusted!"

The Governor looked at her; touched a bell; the full-toned note vibrated far and near.

"What are you going to do?" Something in his face held her.

Again the tones startled the stillness. "Remember, it is I who am responsible for--"

"Your Excellency?" Across the court appeared Beppo, moving quickly toward them. "Your Excellency?"

"One moment!" The servant stepped back; the Governor looked first at the girl; then toward the entrance of the cloister.

"You want me to go?" Her voice was low: strained; in it, too, was a hard, rebellious accent. "But I can't--can't--until--"

"What?"

"You promise to set him free! This man who brought me back! Don't you see you must, _mon pere_? Must!" she repeated.

His thin lips drew back disagreeably; he seemed about to speak; then reached among the papers and, turned them over absently. "Very well!"

he said at length without glancing up.

"You promise," her voice expressed relief and a little surprise, "to set him free?"

"Have I not said so?" His eyelids veiled a peculiar look. "Yes, he shall be liberated--very shortly."

"Thank you, _mon pere_." A moment she bent over him; the proud, sweet lips brushed his forehead. "I will go, then, at once." And she started toward the door. Near the threshold she paused; looked back to smile gratefully at the Governor, then quickly went out.

CHAPTER XII

AT THE c.o.c.kLES

A rugged ma.s.s of granite, rent by giant fissures, and surrounded by rocks and whirlpools, the Norman English isle, so-called "Key to the Channel," one hundred miles, or more, northwest of the Mount, had from time immemorial offered haven to s.h.i.+ps out of the pale of French ports.

Not only a haven, but a home, or that next-best accommodation, an excellent inn. Perched in the hollow of the mighty cliff and reached by a flight of somewhat perilous stone stairs, the c.o.c.kles, for so the ancient tavern was called, set squarely toward the sea, and opened wide its sh.e.l.l, as it were, to all waifs or stormy petrels blown in from the foamy deep.

Good men, bad men; Republicans, royalists; French-English, English-French, the landlord--old Pierre Laroche, retired sea-captain and owner of a number of craft employed in a dangerous, but profitable, occupation--received them willingly, and in his solicitude for their creature comforts and the subsequent reckoning, cared not a jot for their politics, morals, or social views. It was enough if the visitor had no lenten capacity; looked the fleshpots in the face and drank of his bottle freely.

The past few days the character of old Pierre's guests had left some room for complaint on that score. But a small number of the crew of the swift-looking vessel, well-known to the islanders, and now tossing in the sea-nook below, had, shortly after their arrival toward dusk of a stormy day, repaired to the inn, and then they had not called for their brandy or wine in the smart manner of seamen prepared for unstinted sacrifice to Bacchus. On the contrary, they drank quietly, talked soberly, and soon prepared to leave.

"Something has surely gone wrong," thought their host. "Why did not your captain come ash.o.r.e?" he asked. "Not see his old friend, Pierre Laroche, at once! It is most unlike him."

And on the morrow, the islanders, or English-French, more or less privateersmen themselves, were equally curious. Where had the s.h.i.+p come from? Where was it going? And how many tons of wine, bales of silk and packages of tobacco, or "ptum," as the weed was called, had it captured? Old Pierre would soon find out, for early that day, despite the inclemency of the weather, he came down to the beach, and, followed by a servitor, got into a small boat moored close to the sh.o.r.e.

"He is going aboard!"

"Who has a better right? His own vessel!"

"No; Andre Desaurac--the Black Seigneur's! They say he long ago paid for it from prizes wrested from the Governor of the Mount."

"At any rate, old Pierre entered into a bargain to build the boat for him--"

"And added to his wealth by the transaction."

Later that morning the old man came ash.o.r.e, but, according to habit, preserved a shrewd silence; in the afternoon a small number of the crew landed to take on stores and ammunition--of which there was ever a plentiful supply at this base; that night, however, all, including their master, betook themselves to the c.o.c.kles.

"Glad to see you ash.o.r.e, _mon capitaine_!" Pierre Laroche, standing at the door, just beyond reach of the fierce driving rain, welcomed the Black Seigneur warmly; but the young man, one of whose arms seemed bound and useless, cut short his greetings; tossed bruskly aside his dark heavy cloak, and called for a room where he might sit in private with a companion. This person the landlord eyed askance; nevertheless, with a show of bluff heartiness, he led the way to a small chamber, somewhat apart, but overlooking the long low apartment, the general eating and drinking place of the establishment, now filled by the crew and a number of the islanders.

"Your _capitaine_ has been hurt? How?" A strapping, handsome girl, clad in red and of a.s.sured mien, pa.s.sing across the room, paused to address a man of prodigious girth, who drank with much gusto from a huge vessel at his elbow.

"Did not your father, Pierre Laroche, tell you?"

"He? No; all he thinks of is the money."

"Then must _le capitaine_ speak for himself, Mistress Nanette."

"You are not very polite, Monsieur Gabarie," she returned, tossing her head; "but I suppose there is a reason; you have been beaten. In an encounter with the Governor's s.h.i.+ps? Did you sink any of them? It would be good news for us islanders."

"_You_ islanders!" derisively.

"Yes, islanders!" she answered defiantly. "But tell me; a number of you wear patches, which make you look very ugly. They were acquired--how?"

"In a little clerical argument!" growled the poet.