Under the Rose Part 32

She gazed half-dubiously into that woody depth. "Why not rest by the wayside--in the moonlight?"

"I like not the open road," he answered. "But if you fear the darkness--"

For answer she guided her horse to the verge of the forest and lightly sprang to the ground. Upon a gra.s.sy knoll, but a little way within, he spread his cloak.

"There, Jacqueline, is your couch," he said.

"But you?" she asked. "To rob you thus of your cloak seems ill-comradeship."

"The cloak is yours," he returned. "As it is, you will find it but a hard bed."

"It will seem soft as down," she replied, and seated herself on the hillock. In the gloom he could just distinguish the outline of her figure, with her elbow on her knee, and her hair blacker than the shadows themselves. A long-drawn, moaning sound, coming without warning behind her, caused the girl to turn.

"What is that?" she said, quickly.

"The wind, Jacqueline. It is rising."

As he spoke, like a monster it entered the forest; about them branches waved and tossed: a friendly star seen through the boughs lost itself behind a cloud. Yet no rain fell and the air seemed hot and dry, despite the mists which clung to the ground. A crash of thunder or a flash of lightning would have relieved that sighing dolor which filled the little patch of timber with its melancholy sounds.

Suddenly, above the plaint and murmur of wind and forest, the low, clear voice of the girl arose; the melody was no ballad, arietta or pastoral, such as he had before heard from her lips, but a simple hymn, the setting by Calvin. The jester started. How came she to know that forbidden music? Not only to know, but to sing it as he had never heard it sung before. Sweetly it vibrated, her waywardness sunk in its swelling rhythm; its melody freighted with the treasure of her trust.

As he listened he felt she was betraying to him the hidden well of her faith; the secret of her religion; that she, his companion, was proclaiming herself a heretic, and, therefore, doubly an outcast.

A stanza, and the melody died away on the wings of the tempest. His heart was beating violently; he looked expectantly toward her. Even more gently, like a lullaby to the turbulent night, the full-measured cadence of the majestic psalm was again heard. Then another voice, deeper, fuller, blended with that of the first singer. Unwavering, she continued the song, as though it had been the most natural matter he should join his voice with hers. Fainter fell the harmony; then ceased altogether--a hymn destined to become interwoven with terrible memories, the tragic ma.s.sacre of the Huguenots on the ill-fated night of St. Bartholomew. Again prevailed the tristful dirge of the pines.

"You sing well, mistress," said the jester, softly. "Is it true you are one of a hated sect?"

"As true as that you did not deny the heretic volume found in your room," she replied.

A silence ensued between them. "It was Marot placed the horses there for us," she said, at length. "He, too, is a heretic, and would have saved you."

Thereafter the silence remained unbroken for some moments, and then--

"G.o.d keep you, mistress," he said.

"G.o.d keep you," she answered, softly.

Soon her deep breathing told him she was sleeping, and, as he listened, in fancy he could hear the faint echoes of her voice, accompanied by the sighing wind. How intrepid had she seemed; how helpless was she now; and, as he bent over her, divining yet not seeing, he asked himself whence had come this faith in him, that like a child she slumbered amid the unrest of nature? What had her life been, who her friends, that she should thus have chosen a jester as comrade? What had driven her forth from the court to nameless hazards? Had he surmised correctly? Was it--

"The king," she murmured, with sudden restlessness in her sleep.

"The king," she repeated, with aversion.

In the jester's breast upleaped a fierce anger. This was the art-loving monarch who burned the fathers and brothers of the new faith; this, the righteous ruler who condemned men to death for psalm-singing or for listening to grave discourse; this the Christian king, the brilliant patron of science and learning.

The storm had sighed itself to rest, the stars had come out, but leaning with his back against a tree, the fool still kept vigil.

CHAPTER XIX

A FIGURE IN THE MOONLIGHT

Experiencing no further inconvenience than the ordinary vicissitudes of traveling without litter or cavalcade, several days of wandering slowly pa.s.sed. Few people they met, and those, for the most part, various types of vagabonds and nomads; some wild and savage, roaming like beasts from place to place; others, harmless, mere bedraggled birds of pa.s.sage. In this latter cla.s.s were the vagrant-entertainers, with dancing rooster or singing dog, who stopped at every peasant's door.

To the shrill piping of the flageolet, these merry stragglers added a step of their own, and won a crust for themselves, a bone for the dog or a handful of grain for the performing fowl.

In those days when court ladies rode in carved and gilded coaches, and their escorts on horses covered with silken, jeweled nets, the modest appearance of the jestress and her companion was not calculated to attract especial attention from the yokels and honest peasantry; although their steeds, notwithstanding their unpretentious housings, might still excite the cupidity of highway rogues. As it minimized their risk from this latter cla.s.s, the young girl was content to wear the cap of the jestress, piquantly perched upon her dark curls, thereby suggesting an indefinable affinity with vagrancy and the itinerant fraternity.

Not only had she donned the symbol of her office, but she endeavored to act up to it, accepting the sweet with the sour, with ever a jest at discomfort and concealing weariness with a smile. Often the fool wondered at her endurance and her calm courage in the face of peril, for although they met with no misadventures, each day seemed fraught with jeopardy. Perhaps it was fortunate their attire, somewhat travel-stained, appeared better suited to the character of poor, migratory wearers of the cap and bells than to the more magnificent roles of _fou du roi_ or _folle de la reine_. But although they had gone far, the jester knew they had not yet traveled beyond the reach of Francis' arm, and that, while the king might reconcile himself to the escape of the _plaisant_, he would not so easily tire in seeking the maid.

Once they slept in the fields; again, beside an old ruined shrine, in the shadow of an ancient cross; the third night, on the bank of a stream, when it rained, and she shivered until dawn with no word of complaint. Fortunately the sun arose, bright and warm, drying the garments that clung to her slender figure, At the peasants' houses they paused no longer than necessary to procure food and drink, and, not to awaken suspicion, she preferred paying them with a song of the people rather than from the well-filled purse she had brought with her.

And as the fool listened to a sprightly, contagious carol and noted its effect on clod and hind, he wondered if this could be the same voice he had heard, uplifted in one of Master Calvin's psalms in the solitude of the forest. She had the gift of music, and, sometimes on the journey, would break out with a catch or madrigal by Marot, Caillette, or herself. It appeared a brave effort to bear up under continued hardship--insufficient rest and sharp riding--and the jester reproached himself for thus taxing her strength; but often, when he suggested a pause, she would shake her head wilfully, a.s.sert she was not tired, and ride but the faster.

"No, no!" she would say; "if we would escape, we must keep on. We can rest afterward."

"Where do you wish to go?" he asked her once.

"There is time enough yet to speak of that," she returned, evasively.

"You have some plan, mistress?"

"Perhaps."

This answer forbade his further questioning; offended, possibly, his sense of that confidence which is due comrade to comrade, but she became immediately so propitiative and sweetly dependent--the ant.i.thesis to that self-reliance her response implied--he thought no more of it, but remained content with her reticence. Half-shyly, she looked at him beneath her dark lashes, as if to read how deeply he was annoyed, and, seeing his face clear, laughed lightly.

"What are you laughing at, mistress?" he said.

"If I knew I could tell," she replied.

Toward sundown on the fourth day they came to a lonely inn, set in a clearing on the verge of a forest. They had ridden late in the moonlight the night before, and all that morning and afternoon almost without resting, and the first sight of the solitary hostelry was not unwelcome to the weary fugitives. A second inspection of the place, however, awakened misgivings. The building seemed the better adapted for a fortress than a tavern, being heavily constructed with ma.s.sive doors and blinds, and loopholes above. A brightly painted sign, The Rooks' Haunt, waved cheerily, it is true, above the door, as though to disarm suspicion, but the isolated situation of the inn, and the depressing sense of the surrounding wilderness, might well cause the wayfarer to hesitate whether to tarry there or continue his journey.

A glance at the pale face and unnaturally bright eyes of the girl brought the jester, however, to a quick decision. Springing from his horse, he held out his hand to a.s.sist her, but, overcome by weakness, or fatigue, she would have fallen had he not sustained her. Quickly she recovered, and with a faint flush mantling her white cheek, withdrew from his grasp, while at the same time the landlord of the tavern came forward to welcome his guests.

In appearance mine host was round and jovial; his bulk bespoke hearty living; his rosy face reflected good cheer; his stentorian voice, free-and-easy hospitality. His eyes const.i.tuted the only setback to this general impression of friendliness and fellow-feeling; they were small, twinkling, gla.s.sy.

"Good even to you, gentle folk," he said. "You tarry for the night, I take it?"

"If you have suitable accommodations," answered the jester, rea.s.sured by the man's aspect and manner.

"The Rooks' Haunt never yet turned away a weary traveler," answered the landlord. "You come from the palace?"

"Yes," briefly, as a lad led away their horses.

"And have done well? Reaped a harvest from the merry lords and ladies?"

"There were many others there for that purpose," returned the jester, following the proprietor to the door of the hostelry.

"True. Still I'll warrant your fair companion cozened the silver pieces from the pockets of the gentry." And, smiling knowingly, he ushered them into the princ.i.p.al living room of the tavern.