Marguerite De Roberval Part 16

But Marguerite had already seized it. She had learned to take aim and fire as well as any man, and she stood with the gun firmly held in her strong young arms, and pointed towards the door. For one breathless moment--which seemed a year--they waited. The growl sounded nearer, and a swift shuffling of clumsy feet told them that some ponderous animal was approaching. The next instant the object of their dread appeared.

It was an animal such as they had never seen before, or heard of. A she-bear, full six feet in length--gaunt and fierce. It had doubtless been prowling about in its Greenland home in search of food, when it found itself, and the cub which followed it, adrift on this vast berg.

The birds, the only other occupants of its habitation, were able to elude it, and so it spent hungry weeks on its slow, southern journey.

Scarcely had the berg come in sight of the island when the starving brute, followed by its cub, sprang into the ocean and swam for the sh.o.r.e. As it prowled about in search of seals or fish, it had caught sight of Marguerite. It scented food, and with a fierce growl came shuffling with the speed of a galloping horse towards her.

As she now looked upon it her heart never flinched. She waited calmly till it should be within sure range.

It was a beautiful creature, with a mantle of silvery white, tinged with yellow. As it drew nearer, its long, strong neck, its flattened, elongated head, and small ears and mouth gave it a cruel appearance, while its tongue, lolling out, seemed to be lapping in antic.i.p.ation the blood of its victims. When it was but twenty yards away Marguerite's arquebuse was raised, and with unflinching nerve she fired at the advancing brute. The bullet struck it, and with a growl it seized its breast with its teeth, as if trying to pull out the thing that had smitten it. The next instant it was at the very door, and its huge form shut out the light, as it was about to pounce upon its prey. But Claude had seized a second arquebuse, and, when the bear was within two yards, fired point-blank into its hairy breast. The bullet entered its heart, and it fell dead at their feet. The cub, which had followed close at its heels, with a pitiful cry threw itself upon its mother's body, and seeing the warm blood flowing in a great stream, began lapping it up with greedy tongue.

"Bravely done, my queen!" said Claude, as the bear fell dead in the hut. "I would La Pommeraye could have seen your nerve! What a buzz this adventure would cause in Paris!"

"O Claude, it is horrible! See that unhappy little creature drink its mother's life! Dear G.o.d, why is life created only to be destroyed?"

As she uttered the prayer, which has gone up a myriad times from a myriad hearts, she turned with a pitying hand to the motherless cub, but at her touch the terrified little creature rushed with ungainly shuffle away, and skulked among the rocks on the beach.

The dead bear was lying almost at the feet of Claude, a ghastly spectacle, and Marguerite felt that she must get it outside the hut. She seized its huge hairy paws, with their black, curved claws, and attempted to drag it to the door. But, gaunt and starved as it was, it was too heavy for her strength, and resisted all her efforts. Claude was in no condition to a.s.sist her, and she was compelled all day to move about, caring for him, with the shadow of death in her presence.

Night came, and still the bear lay stretched, cold and stiff, in the doorway. Again she struggled with it, but again her efforts were futile, and there was nothing for it but to let it remain there all night. But in its ghastly presence she could not sleep; and she lay awake listening to the crashing and roaring of the berg, as the waves rose about it, and hearing beside her the quiet breathing of Claude. Worn out by illness and the excitement of the day, he was sleeping like a tired child.

Several times, as she looked out on the darkness, she saw a white form moving stealthily back and forth. She knew it was the little cub, and her heart was moved with pity for its loneliness. She heard its step draw nearer and nearer to where she lay, and at last she saw it standing in the door. She moved not a muscle for fear of alarming it, or disturbing Claude; but when she heard it with an almost human wail throw itself against its mother, she could have risen and fondled it. All night it lay there, wondering, no doubt, why that once warm breast was now as cold as the icy home it had left.

When morning broke, Marguerite made a movement to rise, and the cub, in terror, sprang up, lumbered down to the beach, and plunged into the water.

"Poor beast!" she said, "we must try to win its confidence. It will dispel something of our own loneliness."

She left the hut to stir up the embers of the fire, and pondered how she might lure the little bear to her. But it would not come near her, and at her approach dived into the ocean, or skulked behind rocks.

The gentle sleep of the night had worked wonders for Claude. In the morning, when the crackle of the fire told him that Marguerite was up before him, he rose, and to his surprise found his limbs strong and his brain clear. He looked upon the dead bear, and all that had pa.s.sed came back to him. He stepped over its gaunt form, and stood before Marguerite.

"Oh, you wicked boy!" she exclaimed, when she saw him. "To get up without my permission! You will kill yourself."

"My darling, I am strong again! I never felt better in my life."

"You must obey me, dear," she said firmly. "You are indeed weak, and if you overtax your strength--think what will become of me! To please me, go back and rest till I have prepared your breakfast, and then, if you still feel strong, we will think about letting you stay up."

As she spoke, she laid her hand lovingly in his, and led him back as a mother would her child. He would not disobey; and when he was once more wrapped in his blankets, she kissed him on the lips and eyes, laughingly bade him be good, and went about her work with a lighter heart, feeling that he was indeed stronger, and hoping that the warm summer weather would restore him to perfect health.

By noon he was almost his old self, and even Marguerite's persuasion could not keep him within doors. His strength had not fully returned, but he was able, by resting frequently, and leaning on her arm, to go to the central part of the island, and get a good view of the wonderful berg.

As they looked upon it, the grinding ceased. A warm south wind had come up, and the great ma.s.s, catching its breath, slid from the sh.o.r.e, and almost imperceptibly began to move away. They watched it with a feeling akin to sorrow, as the blue water widened between it and their island.

It had been something to break the monotony of their existence; and even its loud roaring was a relief from the dreary sameness of their days.

For hours they sat there, watching it make its slow way northward; nor did they take their eyes from it till it was but a dim, misty fog-bank on the blue horizon.

They had not been alone. Beneath them, on the sh.o.r.e, squatted the cub, watching its northern home drift slowly away; once it made as if it would have plunged into the waves and followed it, but, seeming to change its mind, paused at the water's edge.

When Claude and Marguerite went back to their hut, they put forth their united strength, and succeeded in dragging the ponderous form of the bear out into the open air. Claude had watched the Indians skin wild beasts with no better implements than their rude flint knives, and had learned the process by which they cured the skins. On the following day he set to work to remove the strong white hide. It took him the whole day, but at night he and Marguerite had the satisfaction of seeing it spread to dry on the roof of their hut. All through that night they heard the piteous cries of the young bear, as it prowled helplessly about. Their own suffering made them sympathetic, and next day both made every effort to coax it to them.

At last the bear-skin was spread, broad, and white, and soft, on their floor. To their delight they found that their new comrade would steal in at night and rest upon the soft rug, creeping away in the early morning, just as the first robin announced that day was beginning to break.

Gradually it grew accustomed to them, and ere a month had pa.s.sed it would take food from their hands, although it would not allow them to touch it. But before the summer had pa.s.sed, and the September leaves began to turn, it would crouch at Marguerite's feet, and rest its snout in her lap as she petted and fondled it.

All through the summer Claude grew stronger and stronger. The G.o.ds were good to him, for a time was coming when all his man's strength would be needed.

CHAPTER XV

When Roberval returned to his castle, and the great iron gates flew back to admit him, he was amazed to see, standing in the courtyard, the stalwart form of La Pommeraye. He knew that the young man had gone to Canada, and he had hoped that the New World, which had swallowed up so many valiant Frenchmen, would have found him a grave. For a moment he could find no words to address his enemy--for as such he now saw from his defiant mien that La Pommeraye had come. But the old domineering self-confidence returned at once.

"Why loiters a son of France in the paths of peace when the foe, who presses down upon us, calls for every sword in the kingdom?" he exclaimed.

"My sword has never been found in the scabbard when the King had need of it," replied Charles, and he added, threateningly, "nor will it ever be allowed to rust when the weak call for help, or if they are beyond help, for revenge."

Roberval blanched. He saw that La Pommeraye had in some way become aware of his infamous treatment of his niece and De Pontbriand. He knew, too, that the young lion was roused, and that a false step on his part would cost him his life. He suddenly changed his tactics.

"Pardon an old soldier, M. de la Pommeraye," he said, "but I have just come from a hot field where a few such swords as yours would have turned the tide of battle in our favour. I forgot for the moment that you must have but lately arrived from the New World, whither King Francis told me he had sent you to recall me." With an a.s.sumed innocence he added: "I am weary from the fight, and the long ride through the mud; but when I have had a night's rest I have much to say to you, and shall expect you in my apartment in the morning. Perhaps you may be persuaded to accompany me back to camp."

"Never! I serve no tyrant!" said Charles bluntly. "My sword has other tasks before it."

"You are bold, M. de la Pommeraye, to stand single-handed in my court and use such language to me. Have you brought any attendants with you?"

"No. I came alone. I had no desire that others should know the cause of my journey to Picardy."

"It is well," said De Roberval, and to himself he muttered: "And no one shall see you go hence. M. de la Pommeraye," he said aloud, "does not wisely to believe all the old wives' tales he has heard. But these things are not for the ears of the world. To-morrow we shall meet, and, after our conference, I have no doubt we shall journey hence together.

Etienne will see to your wants. The north tower, Etienne; it is Monsieur's old room."

As he spoke, he leaped from his horse and entered the castle. When he was alone in his room he fell on a couch and groaned in spirit. His sin was finding him out. His fair young niece rose before him, and he seemed to hear her voice as she had bade him farewell. The vision would not down. At length he rose, and, draining a wine-cup, strode up and down the room, muttering defiance at his enemies. "I was but G.o.d's servant punishing vice," he said to himself, "and this fool who dares beard me in my stronghold shall feel the weight of my hand. He shall die, and the torture his existence inflicts on me shall end. We shall go hence together, indeed, but he shall be carried forth. I would not even let his body remain within my castle walls."

Kill La Pommeraye himself he knew he could not, but the old honour of the man had become so sapped that he felt little compunction when he resolved to have him murdered under his own roof. He knew that his own life was not safe a moment while La Pommeraye lived; and he knew, moreover, that should the truth of the story get abroad, his hopes of advancement and honour would be at an end. There was no help for it; he had gone too far to retreat. Charles must not be allowed to leave the castle alive.

In Etienne, De Roberval thought he had a faithful ally. Twice had the lad helped him to remove foes whom his rank would not allow him to meet, and yet whom he could not send to the gallows. But he had reckoned without his host this time. Etienne was a faithful henchman of the House of Roberval, and he had aided his master when he thought the honour of the family was at stake; but ever since the dim mists of the Isle of Demons had faded from his sight, he had, with difficulty, kept his strong, young hands from seizing his master by the throat, and choking his life out. If he honoured the name he served, he worshipped the memory of Marguerite; and now that La Pommeraye had come, as he gathered, to avenge her, he was ready to fall at his feet, to follow him to the ends of the earth, to the very Isle of Demons, if necessary.

Roberval guessed naught of all this. The heavy peasant face, the dull eyes, well concealed the workings of the man's soul when the n.o.bleman called him into his presence, and hinted that he would need his sword the next day. Etienne guessed his purpose at once, and, when the plan was revealed, would fain have run his master through the heart, but his face and eye had an ox-like lack of intelligence.

"Are you ready to risk your life in this enterprise?" said the n.o.bleman.

"It is for the honour of the House of Roberval."

"I am at your service, Sieur," said Etienne, quietly.

"You have seen the man to-day, and you know his strength?"

Etienne bowed.

"You must bring three daring fellows with you. Three of the soldiers who accompanied me here to-day will do. You can instruct them. Guide them through the armory, and by yonder pa.s.sage to this room. The curtain will conceal you. Make no noise; he is a wary foe. When I draw my sword upon him, strike him down ere he can turn. Give him no chance; he is not a man to be trifled with."

Again Etienne signified a stolid a.s.sent.

"Away now, and let not your fellows know my signal. A false step will cost them their lives at La Pommeraye's hand. And let not a word escape you, or I will string all four of you to the nearest tree. So, away! and see that you are punctual. Let the good work be well done."