"I shall see the king at sunset," he said.
She shuddered.
"And shall carry him your message," he went on.
"And then?"
"Ah! God knows; but in my thoughts I shall be here."
His despondency reminded her again of his danger. She began to tremble for him, telling herself that she had asked the sacrifice.
"You do not fear for yourself?" she asked.
"When I have your friendship."
"But that cannot protect you; and the king may yet carry me to the château."
It was his turn now to anticipate the shadow upon their path.
"He will never carry you there while I live," said he.
"Then you have little confidence. Indeed, mon ami, it seems to me that I shall carry myself to his Majesty to save you."
"God forbid that such a day should be!"
She was about to answer him when the leaves above them rustled, and a dark figure stood out against the foliage. Twilight had now come down into the glen, and darkness almost hid the brook at their feet. So startling was the apparition—which was gone in an instant—that the girl cried out, and instinctively clung to her companion, who encircled her in a moment with both his arms, and so held her close to him. He himself had seen nothing; he had heard only the breaking of the boughs. But to her the interruption seemed almost a warning.
"Look," said she, "how late it grows. They will be missing us."
"What matter," he cried, "since I have you in my arms."
"I was frightened," she murmured.
"But shall be frightened no more."
She resisted him no longer, and he covered her lips with burning kisses, dismantling her pretty hair so that it was spread about in gold-brown curls upon her shoulders, and holding her so close to him that he could feel the beating of her heart.
"God make me worthy of you," he said and so he sealed a vow upon her lips.
* * * * *
The vesper bell was ringing when they came into the park again, and the masquerade was done. But a group of wise men and chattering hags stood beneath a great gnarled oak, discussing a question of grave import.
"God defend us from all evil!" said one of the oracles, "for the spectre monk is abroad in the forest this night."
CHAPTER IX
PEPIN MAKES A BARGAIN.
DeGuyon rode away from the Château aux Loups at dawn on the morning of the Saturday. It was not until High Mass was done on the Sunday that Gabrielle de Vernet had news of him. At that hour, Pepin the guide came galloping into the courtyard of the château, crying loudly to have audience of its mistress, and of the venerable Abbé who counselled her.
"Mass or no mass," said he to the stableman, "I have a word for them which will not wait, even though I cry it from the pulpit. And hark ye, friend, had'st thou a stoop of wine I would love thee the better. Body of Bacchus, I could drink a river."
The words had scarce left his lips when the door of the chapel was thrown open, and the deep trumpet-like notes of the great organ filled the courtyard. One by one, the men and women of Gabrielle de Vernet's household passed out to the park, there to greet their neighbours, or to form members of the little groups which discussed this sudden coming of the guide. A few of the older servants waited for their mistress at the door of the church; but she remained some minutes engaged in silent prayer; and when at length she appeared among them, the Abbé Gondy was at her side—a Sabbath smile of generous benevolence upon his face, a great hunger for the coming dinner to be read in his watery eyes.
"Bon jour, Monsieur Pepin," said the Abbé cheerily when he observed the still-mounted guide, "we did not look for you to-day."
"Nor I for myself, Monsieur l'Abbé," said Pepin, coming down clumsily from his horse; "but what is must be—and that's logic any day. I have letters for you, my father and for my lady here."
The countess had said no word as yet, but her face had lost the smile it wore when she had quitted the chapel, and she answered the buffoon with a very stately but chilling inclination of her pretty head.
"You left Monsieur de Guyon well?" asked the Abbé, looking wearily at the sealed packet which had come between him and his dinner.
"Corbleu! you jest, monsieur—I left him in a dungeon, as yonder letter will tell."
Gabrielle uttered a little cry, but smothered it on her lips; the Abbé raised his hands to heaven and rolled his eyes as though a sharp pain had cut him.
"God keep us all from harm," said he, "what a thing to hear!"
"Aye, a sorry tale to come chattering to any house with," added Pepin apologetically, "and like to be sorrier before the week's out. By the toe of Peter, my poor lieutenant may hear Mass in the Bastille next Sunday."
The girl's heart was beating very fast while she listened to the news; tears strove for mastery with her, but were conquered. She was not one to wear her heart upon her sleeve; and it was with complete self-possession that she spoke to the guide.
"I thank you for your service in this matter," said she, "it was good of you to hasten here. You must now think of dinner and of rest."
"While we find a way of helping our poor friend," murmured the priest.
Leaving Pepin and the Abbé in the court, Gabrielle entered her room, and opened her letter with trembling fingers. When she had read it, she fell upon her knees before the little altar in her oratory, and the tears which she had erstwhile controlled forced themselves through her fingers. She began to reproach herself that she had permitted de Guyon to leave her; she seemed to feel again his burning kisses, but now they stung her lips; she prayed with wild, unchosen words that he might come to her again; she recalled that moment in the park when she lay in his arms it stood out as the sweetest moment of her life. In spirit she had given herself wholly to the man since that night in the glen. Why, then, she asked bitterly, had she suffered him to go?
Meanwhile the Abbé had taken Pepin to his apartments, and when they were alone, had begun to plague him with a hundred questions.
"You gave the king the packet?" he asked in a low voice.
"Am I then a knave?" pleaded Pepin.
"And his Majesty said——?"
"Ah, it was good to hear. He said, 'If that is the face of the little Huguenot, I will ride a hundred leagues to find her.'"
"Merciful God!" cried the Abbé, "he will come here to fetch her."
"It is very possible, my father. That will be a good day for you."
"How—for me?"
"Why, did not I mention it?"
"You said nothing—that's what I complain of, you are a dull fellow."
"Patience, Monsieur l'Abbé," said Pepin, anxious to plan out his tale, "let us first talk about those ten pieces."
"To the devil—that is, you are a greedy rascal."
The Abbé counted the money out upon the table, and then continued impatiently
"Well—and what now?"
"A cup of the wine of Burgundy, my father."
The Abbé stamped his foot savagely, but sent for the wine.
"Now," said he, with sarcastic deliberation, "if you do not speak plainly, Monsieur Pepin, I will lay my cudgel on your back."
"The