"I, child—what a thought!"
She followed him into the hut, which contained little but his bed of moss, his books of devotion, and his crucifix. She knew nothing of the devils tearing at the man's heart, of the hours when her face had stood between him and his prayers, when he had wrestled with her haunting image until the sweat stood upon his brow. To her, he was one of God's messengers—a man between whose soul and sin a great gulf was fixed. And while she offered him this whole worship of her trust, voices were crying in his ears and telling him that he loved her.
But while all this was passing in his mind he had found a log for her to sit upon, and setting the lantern between them, he fixed his questioning eyes upon her.
"My child," he said, "you are in trouble?"
She answered him very simply, telling him of the coming of the king's messenger, and of his arrest. But of her love, she had not as yet the courage to speak. Nor did the priest read her heart, as she looked for him to do.
"Well," said he, when he had thought long upon the matter, "and what is all this to you? The man came here with lies upon his lips. Why should you stand between him and his intrigues?"
"What he suffers, he suffers for me," she pleaded.
"Nay; what he suffers, he suffers for his ambition."
"But he carried my message."
"Which you have no proof that he delivered."
"I have his promise and I ask no more. Oh, you do not know him as I do!"
The priest raised his eyes quickly.
"You come here as his friend, then——"
"I come here to save him."
"But why?—what is he to you?"
"He—he is my lover."
She had not thought that it would be so difficult to tell him, but now when the word was spoken her heart-strings were unloosed, and she continued passionately—
"Judge me not hastily, my father—only pray for me. I am a woman and I have a woman's heart. If I love, it is because my heart bids me to love. Indeed, it is not given us to say yes or no. A week ago, I believed that I should live alone always for Christ and His glory, but this has come into my life as a gift of God. Oh, I cannot turn from it, I cannot make myself other than I am."
The priest's hands were clenched, there was a strange buzzing in his ears, his brain seemed to burn while he listened to her words. He had been in some way the master of himself so long as she lived the virgin's life at the château; but now that she talked of love for another man, a fierce, passionate envy came upon him, and there was a moment when his strength seemed to ebb so that he could scarce wrestle longer with temptation.
"You forsake, then," he said sternly, "the faith to which Christ has called you; you thrust from you the companionship of the saints; you close your ears to the heavenly voices——"
She fell upon her knees before him sobbing.
"No, no!" she exclaimed; "I forsake nothing as God is my witness—I only love."
He raised her up with a gentle hand. The generosity of his soul was prevailing over his humanity.
"My child," he said, "who am I to be your judge—or to say this is or this is not the will of God. May His Holy Spirit guide you!"
With this word, he knelt at his faldstool; and while she believed that he was offering a prayer for her, he warred anew with the impulses which possessed him, suffered all the agony of a soul in bondage. When he rose up at last, his eyes were full of kindness for her, and the touch of her hand no longer thrilled him.
"Come," said he, "you have not yet told me how I am to help you."
She looked up into his face and answered him frankly—
"Bring my lover to me."
She believed that he was all-powerful, a man above men, whose word was a command, whose will might work miracles. And he, knowing his weakness, was yet vain of her confidence.
"I—child," said he, "for whose body there is a ransom; I, whom the king would tear limb from limb; how shall I bring your lover back to you?"
"I cannot answer you. I have no other friend—I trust you. You will not let me suffer."
He was standing at the door of his hut now, and before he spoke again, he paced the grassy knoll which was his garden. The moon had risen above the forest while they talked, and all the woods were lit with the silver beams. There was exhilaration in the night-air; a breath of courage and of strength.
"Gabrielle," said the priest, waking suddenly from the spell which the beauties of the night had cast upon him, "is the king at his château?"
"He was there at dawn."
"Who brought the news?"
"Pepin, the guide."
"He carried a letter for the Abbé?"
"Yes."
"Ah!"
He stood for a moment erect, the moon shining upon his black hair, his eyes looking fondly upon the girl at his side.
"Child," said he, "there is but one way out of your difficulty—you must see the king."
"See him!"
"As I say, you must leave here at dawn and go straight to the château of Francis."
"But—oh my father—you know that he has sent for me."
"I know all; that is why I wish you to see him."
"And when I am there?"
"When you are there, I shall be there too."
"You—but they would kill you."
The Jesuit laughed a little bitterly.
"They have long asked my death," said he, "and yet I live. Fear nothing for me."
Selfishness is often the dominating note of love. Gabrielle heard in the priest's words only the promise that he would save de Guyon. And so great was her trust in this man's strength, that all her trouble seemed over when he bade her follow him to her home. She did not know, as she watched him striding along with the lantern's light dancing on their path, that he was thinking of Damiens, who had been torn limb from limb by wild horses. So also would they do to him when the king's men laid hands upon him.
CHAPTER XI
THE ABBÉ AND THE TREE.
While the Jesuit was guiding Gabrielle through the labyrinthine way of the woods, Pepin was reckoning with himself on a hill-top in that part of the forest known as the desert.
"God deliver me from all abbés!" said he ruefully; and then with unction in his voice he began to cry loudly—
"This way, Monsieur l'Abbé, this way. Guardian angels keep your holy feet out of yonder bog. Dieu! I thought that I had lost you."
Now the Abbé's feet were not holy; they were only swollen with the gout; Pepin knew well enough that the venerable man was not lost. The truth was that the artful guide found himself in such a pretty net, that he had led the priest three good leagues out of his way, while he himself reconsidered his position. "For," said he, "if I carry this Abbé to the palace, the king will learn that I have been lying; or again, if I carry him back to the château, he will want his ten crowns of me. Corbleu! I must think of it."
The Abbé's mule came labouring up the hill, and presently the corpulent body of the Churchman was to be observed in the moonlight. His face was scarlet with passion, and with the wounds which the thorns had cut in his skin.
"Fool