having my dismissal and reprieve i was remanded to the custody of that young lieutenant tybee whom you have met and known as falconnet's second in the duel. interpreting his orders liberally, he suffered me to keep my own room for the night. i had expected manacles and a roommate guard at the least, but my gentlemanly jailer spared me both. when he had me safe above-stairs, he barred the door upon me, set a sentry pacing back and forth in the corridor without, and another to keep an eye upon the window from below, and so left me.
there was no great need for either sentry, or for bolts and bars. what with the night's adventures and my scarce-healed wound, i was far sped on that road which ends against the blind wall of exhaustion, as you may well suppose. for while a man may borrow strength of wine or rage or passion, these lenders are but pitiless usurers and will demand their pound of flesh; aye, and have it, too, when all the principal is spent.
so, when tybee barred the door and left me with a single candle to my lighting, i was fain to fall upon the bed in utter weariness, thinking that the respite bought by my sweet lady's humbling was more dearly bought than ever, and that the truest mercy would have been the rope and tree without this interval of waiting.
to me in this grim doubting castle of despair the priest came. he was a good man and a true, this low-voiced missioner to the savages, and he would be a curster man than i who failed to give him his due meed of praise and love. for in this dismal interval of waiting, with death so sure and near that all the air was growing chill and lifeless at its presence, he was a ready help in time of need. if i were "heretic" to him, i swear i knew it not for aught he said or did; and though i trusted that when my time was come i should stand forth with some small simple-hearted show of courage, yet when he went away i felt i was the stronger for his coming. and this, mark you, though i was still unshriven, and he had never named the churchly rite to me.
when he was gone i fell to wearing out the time afoot; and, lest you think me harder than i was, it may be said that while i did not make confession to the kindly priest, i hope i tried to make my peace with god in some such simpler fashion as our forebears did. 'twas none so great a matter, for one who lives a soldier's life must needs be ripe for plucking hastily.
but in the final casting of accounts there was an item written down in red, and one in black, and these would not be scored across for all the travail of a soul departing. the one in black was bitter sorrow for the fate from which i might not live to save my loved one; the one in red was this; that i should die and carry hence the knowledge that might else nip the indian onfall in the bud.
no sooner was the priest away than i began to upbraid myself because i had not told him of this british-indian murder plan. and yet on second thought 'twas clear that it had been but a poor shifting of the burden to weaker shoulders; and thankless, too, for tarleton would be sure to put him on the question-rack to make him tell of all that passed between us.
as i had let him go, he would have naught to tell, and so was safe, where otherwise he might be hanged or buried in the hulks for knowing what i knew. no, it were best he knew it not; but how was i to rid me of this burden?—of this and of that other laid upon me for my love?
the question asked itself a many a time, and was as often answerless, before there came a stir without and voices in the corridor. it was the changing of the guard, i guessed, and so it proved, since presently i heard the clanking of the officer's sword, and double footfalls minishing into silence.
the sentry newly come paced back and forth to a low-hummed quick-step of his own, bestirring himself as one who, roused but now from sleep, would wake himself and be alert. he made more noise than did the other, and that is why i marked it when the footfalls ceased abruptly. a moment afterward the bar was lifted cautiously from its socket, the latch clicked gently, and the door swung open. i looked, and must needs look again to make assurance sure. for on the threshold stood my lady margery, and just behind her some broad figure of a woman whom i knew for her stout norman tiring-maid.
she gave me little time for any word of welcome or of deprecation. while still i stood amazed she dragged the woman in with her and closed the door. at that i found my tongue.
"margery! why have you come?" i spoke in french, and she was quick to lay a finger on her lip.
"speak to me in english, if you please," she whispered. "jeanne knows nothing, and she need not know. but you ask why i come: could i do less than come, dear friend?"
i had always marveled that she could be so mocking hard at times, and at other times—as now—so soft and gentle. and though i thought it cruel that i should have to fight my battle for the losing of her over again, i had not the heart to chide her.
"you could have done much less, dear lady," i said, taking her hands in mine; "much less, and still be blameless. you have done too much for me already. i would you had not done so much, i would to god i had been hanged before you went upon your knees to that—"
she freed one hand and laid a finger on my lip—nay, it was her palm, and if i took a dying man's fair leave and kissed it softly, i think she knew it not.
"hush!" she commanded. "is this a time to harbor bitter thoughts? i thought you might have other things to say to me, monsieur john."
"there is no other thing that i may say."
"not anything at all?"
"naught but a parting hope for you. i hope you will be true and loyal to yourself, margery mia."
"to myself? i do not understand."
"i think you do—i think you must."
"but i do not."
i turned it over more than once in my mind if i should tell her all i had feared; should tell her how i came to kill a man and was fair set to kill another had i found a wedding afoot in the great fore-room. i could not bring myself to do it, and yet i thought it would go hard with me if i should leave her still unwarned.
"if i should try to make you understand, you will be angry, as you were before."
the wicker chair was close beside the table and she sat down. and when she spoke she had her hands tight-clasped across her knee and would not look at me.
"is it—about—sir francis?"
"it is," said i, pausing once more upon the brink of full confession.
she waited patiently for me to speak further; waited and let me fight it out in slow pacings up and down before her chair. without, the night was calm and still, and through the opened casement came the measured beat of footfalls on the gravel where the outer sentry kept his watch beneath the window. within, the single candle battled feebly with the gloom and lighted naught for me save my dear lady's face, pensive now and saintly sweet as it had been that morning when i had dwelt upon it the while she knew it not. and in the background stood the sleepy tire-woman, giving no sign of life save now and then a tortured yawn behind her hand.
i think my lady must have known how hard it was for me to speak, for, when the silence had grown overlong, she said, gently: "i bought these flying minutes of the sentry, monsieur john. will you not use them?"
"if i should say the thing i ought to say, you'll think the minutes dearly bought, i fear."
"no, that i shall not, if it will ease your mind."
"then tell me why you sent for father matthieu."
the light was dim, as i have said, yet i could see the faint flush spread from neck to cheek.
"you are not of the church, monsieur john. you would not understand if i should tell you."
"i think i understand without your telling. you said sir francis falconnet had asked for you."
"'twas you who drove me to say it."
"because i tried to warn you?"
"because you would be vengeful when you should have been forgiving."
"'twas not revenge, just then, though while i live i shall have ample cause to hate this man."
"what was it, then?"
"it was love; love for you, and—and richard jennifer."
she rose, and i could see her eyes ashine for all the half-gloom of the candle-light.
"you are a loyal friend!" she said, and there was that within the words to make me glad, whatever fate the dawn should have in store for me. "you always think of others first; you think of others now, when—when death—oh, monsieur john! what can i do for you? say quick! the man is coming to the door!"
"now i have told you this, there is but one other thing, margery dear; one little thing that will not let me die in peace. if i might have ten words with richard jennifer—"
she left me in a fever-flutter of excitement, whipped to the door, and had a word with him who stood without. i heard the chink of coin, and then she hastened back to me, all eagerness and tremulous impatience.
"tell me—tell me instantly what i must do. i am not afraid. shall i ride down to jennifer house and fetch dick here?"
"he is a prisoner, and if he were not, they would not let him see me. besides, i would not let you go on such an errand. and yet—god help me, margery! there is many an innocent life hanging on this; the lives of helpless women and little children. have you ever a messenger to send, a man who will risk his life and can be trusted fully?"
"yes, yes!" she cried. "write it down for me and dick shall have it. quick; for our lady's sake, be quick about it! o sancta maria, mater. dei—"
the low impassioned chant of the roman litany was ringing in my ears as i sat down to the table to write my message to richard jennifer. there were quills and an ink-pot at hand, but no paper. i felt mechanically in my pocket and found, not some old letter, as i hoped, but the crumpled parchment map snatched and hidden when captain stuart had winced and dropped it at the bidding of the whistling sword about his ears.
how it was they had not searched me for it, i know not; though haply the captain did not guess how he had lost it. be that as it might, i had it safe, and dick should have it safe, and use it, too, to some good purpose, as i fondly hoped.
you'd hardly think from the slow and clumsy spinning of this tale that i could crowd the narrative of all that i had seen and heard into a niggard three-score words or less. but this i did, writing them upon the margin of the captain's map, and noting in an added line the pricking out of the powder convoy's route. and while my pen was looping on the flourish to my name, my eager little lady seized the pounce-box, sanded me the heavy trailings of the quill, snatched and hid the parchment in her bosom, and was gone.
and but for this; that i heard the door-latch click behind her, and then the heavy wooden bar fall into place, i might have thought the happenings of the hour the unsubstantial fancies of a dream.
