Flower o' the lily: A Romance of old Cambray by Baroness Emmuska Orczy - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXVII
 AND THIS IS THE END OF MY STORY

I

And into the silent desolation of Cambray's deserted streets, there penetrated once again the sounds of that life which was teeming outside her walls. From the north and the south, from the east and the west, rumour, like a wily sprite, flew over the crumbling walls and murmured into ears that scarcely heard, that the promise given long ago was being redeemed at last. Anxiety, sorrow and suffering were coming to an end, so the elf averred. The hero who fought and conquered once, had returned to conquer again.

Whereupon, those who had enough strength left in them to drag themselves along, found their way to the ramparts, from whence they could watch the approach of the man who would bring them liberty if he succeeded, or bequeath them an heroic death if he failed. There was no other issue possible. The sands of Cambray's endurance had run down; she had no more resistance left in her, scarcely the power to suffer any longer. If the relieving army failed to-day, the setting sun would see the Spanish soldiery, drunk with victory, swarming over the lonely streets, destroying all that famine and disease had left whole, all that a dying population had no longer the strength to defend.

Little could be seen of what went on in the distant plain, and hollow eyes, wearied with weeping and anxiety, scanned in vain the horizon far away. But those who had come to watch remained to pray, while their minds, rendered super-sensitive by bodily want, conjured up visions of that grim fight which was going on beyond their range of vision.

The history of this heroic people has no more poignant page than that which tells of this long watch by a crowd of miserable, half-starved people, the while, out there upon the plain, brave men fought and died for their sake.

Not only for their sake, but for the honour of France.

II

Once more the roar of artillery and of musketry fills the air with its awe-inspiring sound. It is early morning, and the sky heavily overcast. To the anxious watchers, that grim struggle out there is only a dimly-perceived confusion, a medley of sights and sounds, a clash of arms, the dull thunder of culverines and sharp report of musketry. And, as the grey light of day begins to pick out with crude precision the more distant objects, a kaleidoscope of colour vies in brilliancy with the flash of steel, and tears asunder the drab mist which lies upon the bosom of the plain.

The yellow and red of the Spaniards becomes easily distinguishable, then the white and blue and gold of the French, the green of the arquebusiers, the black of the archers, and even that tiny moving speck, more brilliant even than the gleam of metal, the white banner of France, sown with her Fleur de Lys.

But the watchers up on the ramparts vainly strain their hollow eyes to see the man who has come to save Cambray. They can only guess that he is there, where the fight is fiercest, where death stands most grim and most relentless. They have a knowledge of his presence keener than sight can give, and though voices at this hour are spent and hoarse with pain, yet to every roar of cannon, to every volley of musketry, there comes, like an answering murmur, the triumphant call, which now sounds like a prayer and which their hero taught them four months ago: 'Fleur de Lys and Liberty!'

The French lancers and halberdiers rush the Spanish forts. The arquebusiers are fighting foot by foot; the musketeers and archers stand firm—a living wall, which deals death and remains unmoved, despite furious onslaughts from a foe who appears to be desperate. The plain around is already strewn with dead.

The French have fought valiantly for close on six hours, have repelled nine assaults against their positions, and now, at one hour after noon, they still stand or crouch or kneel on one knee, crossbow in hand or musket, they fire, fall out, reform and fire again. Shaken, battered, decimated, they still shoot with coolness and precision, under the eye of one who never tires. Their ranks are still unbroken, but the Spaniards are giving ground at last.

'This time we are undone!' Parma cries in the excess of his rage.

He himself has been twice wounded; four of his young officers have been killed. The French musketeers, the finest the world has ever seen, work relentlessly upon his finest positions. And he feels—this great captain, who hitherto hath not known defeat—he feels that now at last he has met his match. Not a great leader like himself, perhaps, not the victorious general in an hundred fights; but a man whose stubbornness and daring, whose blind disregard of danger and sublime defiance of evil fortune, gives strength to the weakest and valour to the least bold.

'I thought you had rid me once of that pestilential rebel!' he exclaims to de Landas, pointing to where Gilles de Crohin's tall figure towers above the pressing mass of Spanish halberdiers.

De Landas murmurs an imprecation, crosses himself in an access of superstitious fear.

'My God!' he says under his breath. 'He hath risen from the dead!'

In truth, Gilles appears endowed at this hour with superhuman strength. His doublet and jerkin are torn, his breastplate riddled with arrow-shot, he bleeds profusely from the hand, his face is unrecognizable under a coating of smoke and grime. Enthusiasm and obstinacy have given him the power of giants; his hatred of the foe is supreme; his contempt of death sublime. De Landas sees in him the incarnation of his own retributive destiny. 'Oh, that God's thunder would smite him where he stands!' he mutters fervently.

''Tis too late now,' retorts Parma, with ferocious spite. 'Too late to call to God to help you. You should have bargained with the devil four months ago, when you missed your aim. Risen from the dead, forsooth!' he adds, purple with fury. 'Very much alive now, meseems, and with the strength of Satan in his arm.'

He strikes at de Landas with his sword, would have killed him with his own hand, so enraged is he with the man for his failure to murder an enemy whom he loathes and fears.

'Unless those cowards rally,' he calls savagely, and points to where, in the heart of the mêlée, confusion and disorder wield their grisly sceptres, 'we shall have to retreat.'

But de Landas does not stop to hear. The fear of the supernatural which had for the moment paralysed his thinking faculties, is soon merged in that boundless hatred which he feels for the rival whom he had thought dead long ago. In the heart of that confusion he has spied Gilles, fighting, pursuing; slashing, hitting—intrepid and superb, the centre and the life of the victorious army. De Landas sets spurs to his horse and, calling to his own troop of swordsmen to follow, dashes into the mêlée.

The battle now is at its fiercest. A proud army, superior in numbers, in arms, in knowledge, feels itself weakening before an enemy whose greatest power is his valour. The retreat has not yet sounded, but the Spanish captains all know that the humiliating end is in sight. Already their pikemen have thrown down their cumbersome weapons. Pursued by the French lancers, they turn and fight with hands and fists, some of them; whilst others scatter in every direction. The ranks of their archers are broken, and the fire of their musketeers has become intermittent and weak. Even the horsemen, the flower of Parma's army, gentlemen all, are breaking in the centre. With reins loose, stirrup-leathers flapping, swords cast away and mantles flying loose, they are making a stand which is obviously the last, and which within the next few minutes will with equal certainty turn into rout.

Here it is that Gilles is holding his own with a small troop of French horsemen. His steel bonnet has been knocked off, his wounded arm roughly bandaged, the sleeves of his jerkin fly behind him like a pair of wings, his invincible sword strikes and flashes and gleams in the grey afternoon light.

For a few seconds, while the distance between himself and his enemy grows rapidly less, de Landas sees and hears nothing. The blood is beating in his temples, with a weird thumping which drowns the din of battle. His eyes are blinded by a crimson veil; his hand, stiff and convulsed, can scarcely grasp the pistol. The next instant he is in the very thick of the turmoil.

'For Spain and Our Lady!' he cries, and empties his pistol into the seething mass of Spanish horsemen who bar the way twixt him and his enemy. The horsemen are scattered. Already on the verge of a stampede, they are scared by this unexpected onslaught from the rear. They fear to be taken between cross-fires, are seized with panic, turn and flee to right and left. Two of them fall, hit by that madman's pistol. All is now tumult and a whirling ferment. The air is thick with smoke and powder, horses, maddened with terror, snort and struggle and beat the air with their hoofs. De Landas' own troop join in the mêlée; the French horsemen dash in pursuit; there is a scrimmage, a stampede; men fight and tear and hit and slash, for dear life and for safety.

But de Landas does not care, is past caring now. Another disaster more or less, another scare, final humiliation, what matters? The day is lost anyhow, and all his own hopes finally dashed to the ground by the relief of Cambray and the irrevocable loss to him of Jacqueline and her fortune. Already he has thrown aside his smoking pistol, seized another from the hand of his nearest follower, and points it straight at Gilles.

'For Spain and Our Lady!'

'Fleur de Lys and Liberty!'

The two cries rang out simultaneously—then the report of de Landas' pistol, and Gilles' horse hit in the neck, suddenly swerves, rears and paws the air, and would have thrown its rider had not the latter jumped clean out of the saddle.

To de Landas' maddened gaze the smoke around appears to be the colour of blood. Blindly he gropes for another pistol. His henchman is near him, thrusts a weapon into the young Spaniard's trembling hand. For the fraction of a second, destiny, waiting, stays her hand. Gilles is free of his struggling horse, he has his sword in his hand; but de Landas once more points a pistol straight at him.

'Satan! guide thou my hand this time!' he calls out, in a passion of fury.

Then suddenly a raucous cry rises above the din; there is a double, sharp report, a loud curse, a final groan of despair and of rage, and de Landas, struck in the breast by an almost savage blow from a lance, throws up his arms, falls, first on his knees, then backwards on the soft earth, would have been buried then and there under a seething mass of struggling men and beasts, had not Gilles rushed to him with one bound, caught him by the shoulders and dragged his now lifeless body to comparative shelter a few paces away. Now Gilles picks up a fallen cloak from the ground and lays it reverently over his fallen foe.

'Because Jacqueline loved you once,' he murmurs under his breath.

Then he turns to his faithful Jehan. 'You were just in time,' he says simply.

Jehan has been glancing down with mingled rage and contempt on the man whom in his loyal heart he hated in life with a wellnigh ferocious intensity. Now he looks at his master—his friend whom he loves—sees him on one knee by the side of that abominable murderer, trying to struggle back to his feet, but evidently weak and dizzy.

With a cry like an enraged tiger, Jehan casts his still streaming lance away, is already kneeling beside Gilles, supporting him in his arms as gently as a mother would shelter her child.

'H-h-h-hurt?' he stammers laconically. 'That d-d-d-devil hit you?'

'Only in the thigh,' replies Gilles. 'You diverted his aim right enough, my dear Jehan! And once more I owe my life to you. Just help me to get up,' he adds with his wonted impatience. 'Do not let me miss another second of the glorious spectacle of our victory!’

III

Out in the western sky, a vivid band of blue and gold breaks the bosom of the clouds. The afternoon sun illumines with its glowing rays the final rout of the Spanish army. Le Carpentier's laconic words tell us more than any lengthy chronicle could do.

'The Duke of Parma,' he says curtly, 'abandoned his forts and retired in haste to Valenciennes.'

So much that was mighty and great and invincible has succumbed before the power which comes from a sense of justice, from valour and enthusiasm and the decrees of God. God has decided that Cambray has suffered enough; He has broken the might of Parma and set an end to the miseries of an heroic people. And when, like a tidal wave of steel, the Spanish troops begin to oscillate toward the north, where lies Valenciennes and safety, up on the ramparts of Cambray hundreds of men and women and children fall on their knees, and thank God with fervour for their freedom and for victory.

They are too weak to shout, too weak even to raise their arms. The pikemen lean upon their arms, the musketeers upon their muskets, the gunners lie half-exhausted upon their culverines. Of the twenty-five thousand citizens of Cambray, scarce fifteen thousand have remained to bid the returning hero welcome.

Up in the fort of Cantimpré, the city guard—what is left of it—wait for the entry of the victorious army. The bridge is lowered, the men stand as if on parade. The city fathers are there too, and amongst them stands Monseigneur the governor.

Gaunt and careworn they all look. Their ranks too have been rudely thinned. Monseigneur's hair is now snow-white; the hand with which he leans upon a stick is emaciated almost to the bone. His other arm rests on that of Jacqueline de Broyart, whose pale, wan face hath a curious air of mystery and of detachment.

'Here they come!' Monseigneur says at last, as on the horizon far away a glowing speck begins to move, to gather shape as it draws nearer, catching, reflecting and throwing back the roseate flashes of the setting sun.

The whole city now is watching; her very soul is in the eyes of her expectant children. A curious, nervous thrill has taken the place of bodily exhaustion. Only Jacqueline stands quite silent and impassive. Boundless gratitude fills her heart for the deliverance of the city; but the overwhelming joy which she feels is drowned in the immensity of her sorrow. For her, in truth, life is gone, happiness lies buried beneath the city walls. She can rejoice at the coming of the man whom the people believe to be their hero, but for her he is the stranger. The real defender of Cambray—her brave and spotless knight—gave his precious life for her city all these weary months ago.

People crowd more insistently round her. The speck on the horizon has become a moving multitude. Steel and gold flash in the evening light, banners wave in the gentle, summer breeze. The French army, glorious after victory, wends its way to the city which it has saved.

In the forefront march the halberdiers, with their blue hose and huge, unwieldy trunks, small bonnets on their heads and a cloak about their shoulders. Then the pikemen, in striped doublets, their enormous hats slung behind their backs, and the musketeers with tall boots which reach half-way up their thighs. Immediately behind them comes a long train of carts and waggons—the provisions collected together for the starving city. The Master of the Camp is in charge of these. He is mounted on a black charger, surrounded by his staff. The ends of his blue silk scarf are smothered in dust, as are his boots and his plumed hat. Some way behind the waggons, the archers come, marching three abreast, and then the foot-soldiers, with huge steel gauntlets covering their hands, their heavy lances borne upon their shoulders.

Nearer and nearer the procession comes, and as it approaches, a strange exultation born of weakness and of fever, rises in the hearts of the watchers. It seems as if an unendurable weight were lifted from their shoulders, as if they themselves had in a mysterious manner been dead for weeks and months, and now had risen again in order to gaze into the setting sun, from whence their liberator had come to them again.

The streets are no longer deserted now. Furtive forms, gaunt and haggard, stand under doorways or congregate upon the open places. Women in ragged kirtles with children clinging to their skirts, sick and maimed and halt from disease and want, crawl out of the squalid houses to watch the entry of the French troops. Many, at sight of those brave men all covered with smoke and powder and dust, fall down on their knees and a long-forgotten prayer rises to their lips.

Anon down the Bapaume road it is quite easy to perceive the white banner sown with the gold Fleur de Lys. It is borne by a herald who sits upon a cream charger, and immediately behind him a man rides alone. He is hatless; but he holds his head erect and looks straight out towards the city. He has the reins of his horse in one hand, the other is hidden under his cloak. Some little way behind him ride a number of cavaliers in brilliant multi-coloured doublets and hose, with drawn swords in their hands, which flash and gleam in the setting sun. They are still close on half a league away, but adown the long, flat road Monseigneur's keen eyes have already perceived them.

'It is His Highness the Duc d'Anjou!' he exclaims.

But, with a strange instinct which has for ever remained inexplicable, Messire de Balagny retorts:

'It is the saviour of Cambray!'

And while he goes at once to transmit the governor's orders that all the church bells in the city shall at once begin to ring, Jacqueline de Broyart's gaze is fixed upon the road which lies like a winding ribbon down below, stretching as far as the glowing horizon far away. The sky is suffused with a joy-blush of crimson and orange and gold, the sinking sun illumines with a roseate hue that distant group of cavaliers, in the forefront of whom rides the defender of Cambray.

After the turmoil of battle, an immense silence reigns over the bosom of the plain. Even the tramp of thousands of men, the clatter of horses' hoofs and of arms, seem like an integral part of that great and solemn silence, which has its birth in the stricken city. The victorious army has entered Cambray, not with music and with cheering, not with shouts of joy. Joy is in every heart, but an abundance of sorrow has stilled its outward expression. The plain itself is strewn with dead and wounded; hundreds of valiant lives have been freely given for the deliverance of Cambray. Those that remain—some five thousand of them—cross the bridge at the foot of Cantimpré, marching three abreast. It takes an hour for the first portion of the victorious army to enter the city. The service men bring provision waggons in plenty, together with news that more will follow as quickly as may be. By nightfall there would not be one hungry mouth left in Cambray.

Relief, content, the shadow of happiness, are too poignant to find expression in words—perhaps they have come just a little too late. But gratitude is immense. Soon the streets of Cambray are encumbered with train and equipment, with carts and waggons and barrows, horses loosely tethered, litters of straw for the wounded and the ailing. The distribution of the food is the most pressing need. Everywhere men in faded, ragged clothing, with gaunt faces and hollow eyes, hurry to the Grand' Place and to the Marche aux Bois, where the food waggons are set up under the eye of the Master of the Camp.

A pathetic procession of eager, half-starved shadows—women and children too—with the humble, deprecating air of the desperately indigent, crowd around the waggons. Fifteen thousand mouths gaping for food. There is only a very little for everybody at first. More will come to-night. More again to-morrow. France, who has saved, will also provide. Of order there is none. People push and scamper as the hungry are wont to do, but all are too feeble to do one another much harm. The soldiers, flushed with victory, are patient and good-natured. My God! the very aspect of the streets is enough to make any staunch heart quake with horror! Some of the men have wife and family in far-off Artois or Provence. They can hardly restrain their tears as wee, grimy hands, thin to the bone, are stretched out to them in pitiable eagerness. They are as lavish as they can be, giving up their own supper to feed these unfortunates: generous now as they were brave out there, when they fought under the eye of the staunchest man they had ever seen in battle.

''Tis a fine candle you folk of Cambray owe to Monseigneur de Froidmont!' the Master of the Camp says to a group of burghers who, self-restrained and stoical, are giving help in the distribution, waiting till all the poor and the ignorant are fed before they themselves receive their share.

'Monseigneur de Froidmont?' one of them exclaims. 'Why, who is he?'

'Who is he?' retorts the Master of the Camp. 'Nay, by the Mass! He is above all the most doughty knight who hath ever wielded a sword. He it is who has saved your city for you, my friends. If the Spanish soldiery is not inside your walls this night, 'tis to him that ye owe it, remember!'

Most of the burghers look gravely puzzled. Their spokesman ventures on the remark:

'To His Highness the Duc d'Anjou, surely!'

The Master of the Camp shrugs his shoulders.

'That is as it may be,' he says dryly. 'But you might all have rotted inside your walls but for the valour of Monseigneur de Froidmont.'

'But the Duc d'Anjou...' hazards some one timidly.

'A murrain on the Duc d'Anjou!' breaks in the Master of the Camp good-humouredly. ''Tis of the defender of your city you should think at this hour. Ah!' he exclaims, with a sigh of satisfaction, ''tis good to hear that your city fathers at the least are giving him a rousing welcome!'

He himself sets up a cheer, which is taken up by his soldiers; for just then the bells of Notre Dame have begun their joyous peal. Soon Ste. Croix follows suit and St. Géry from the heights toward the north. Peal after peal resounds, till the whole air vibrates with that most inspiriting sound, chasing away with its melody the very shadow of silence and desolation.

The last rays of the sun have now sunk in the west. Twilight is slowly fading into dusk. Out beyond Cantimpré, the herald upon his charger has halted at the foot of the bridge, the white banner of France, gay with its golden Fleur de Lys, is gently stirred by the evening breeze. The group of cavaliers has halted too, while the defender of Cambray rides slowly into the city.

IV

Monseigneur the governor awaited the victor in the courtyard of the citadel. He stood in the midst of his Sheriffs and his Provosts and the other dignitaries of the city, all of them still dignified and imposing, despite the faded appearance of their clothes and the gaunt, hungry look in their wan faces. All around the courtyard was lined with troops, the mere remnants of the garrison who had fought so valorously on that never-to-be-forgotten day in April, a little over four months ago, and of the small body of French troops who had come to their assistance then.

Gilles dismounted at the bridge-head, disdaining, despite his wounds, the aid of his faithful henchman's arm. Only limping very slightly, the bandage on his hand hidden in the folds of his cloak, he passed in on foot and alone under the gateway. For the space of one heart-beat he paused just inside the courtyard, when he saw before him this large concourse of people who, at his appearance, had slowly dropped on their knees. They were for the most part faces which had been familiar to him all those months ago—faces which even now wore an expression of deference and of awed respect.

A bitter sigh rose to Gilles' lips. For him, despite the grandeur of his victory, this was a bitter hour. Within the next few moments these proud and brave people would have to be told that a prince of the House of France had proved himself to be both fickle and base. Messire de Balagny was not there; and at first he did not see Jacqueline. She had retired into the guard-room at the desire of her guardians. 'It were seemly,' they had said, 'that we, your protectors, should first receive His Highness and pay him our respects. Then he will ask for his future bride, and ours shall be the honour of bringing you to him!'

So she was not there for the moment, and Gilles felt freer in her absence—even caught himself hoping that he would not be put to the torture of seeing her again. It were best for him and best for her that she should not hear that awful confession from his lips, that a Valois prince had broken his word to her, and in his wanton infamy had repudiated the perfect gift of God which had been offered to him.

'Do not tarry one moment, Messire,' Marguerite de Navarre had entreated of him at the last. 'Take advantage of the moment of boundless relief and gratitude when your victorious troops enter Cambray to release Monsieur of his promise to wed the Flemish heiress. Do not enter the city till you have made it clear to the Flemish lords that the Duc d'Anjou will accept the Sovereignty of the Netherlands, and in exchange will give the support of France, of her wealth and of her armies; but that he will not enter into personal alliance with one of his future subjects.'

So now, when at Gilles' approach the governor and the city fathers all bent the knee before him, he said at once, directly and simply:

'I entreat you, Messeigneurs, not to kneel to me. That honour belongs by right only to the puissant Prince whom I represent.'

'Your Highness——' began d'Inchy humbly.

'I am no Highness, Monseigneur,' he rejoined firmly. 'Only the servant of the Duc d'Anjou, who will be here as soon as may be, to claim from you that gratitude which you owe to him and not to me.'

D'Inchy and the others did not move. Their limbs were paralysed, their lips dumb. Their ears refused to convey to their over-tired brains that which they had just heard. It all seemed like a dream; the gathering dusk made everything appear unreal—the ringing of the joy-bells, the far-away crowd of soldiers and cavaliers, who filled the very air with clatter and jingle of spurs and accoutrements, with creaking of waggons, snorting of horses and snatches of songs and laughter. And in the centre of the courtyard, this tall figure of a man, with the tattered doublet and the bleeding hand, and the voice which seemed as if it rose straight out of a glorious grave.

'Do not look so puzzled, Messeigneurs,' Gilles went on with a smile, half-sad, wholly good-humoured. 'The Duc d'Anjou will not tarry, my word on it. He bids me say that he accepts the Sovereignty of the Netherlands, and will place at the disposal of her people the might and the armies of France, his own power, wealth and influence.'

Still as in a dream, d'Inchy and the Sheriffs and the Provosts staggered to their feet. The mystery, in truth, was greater than their enfeebled minds could grasp. They were for the most part chiefly conscious of a great feeling of disappointment.

Here stood before them, tall and magnificent even beneath rags and grime, the man whom they revered above all others, the hero whose personality was enshrined in the very hearts of the people of Cambray. What the mystery was which clung round him they did not know, nor did they care: he was the man of their choice, the saviour of Cambray now, as he had been their defender in the hour of their gravest peril. The victor of this glorious day was the hero of the ramparts on that memorable April day, the man who four months ago had defended them with heart and will and undaunted courage then, and to whom they owed their freedom, the honour of their wives and daughters and the future of their race.

To think of him as other than the Duc d'Anjou, their chosen Sovereign Lord, the husband of Jacqueline de Broyart, was positive pain. Most of them even now refused to believe, stared at Gilles as if he were a wraith set to mock them in their weakness and their dependence.

'Not the Duc d'Anjou?' the Chief Magistrate murmured. 'Impossible!'

Gilles could not help but smile at the farcical aspect of his own tragedy.

'It is not only possible, Messeigneurs,' he said, 'but is e'en a positive fact. Messire de Balagny would soon tell you so: and His Highness the Duc d'Anjou himself will be here on the morrow to prove to you that I am but an humble substitute, a representative of His Graciousness.'

'But,' stammered d'Inchy, still in a state of complete bewilderment, 'that day in April ... your—you, Monseigneur ... in the Town Hall ... Madame Jacqueline...'

With a quick gesture, Gilles put up his hand.

'I entreat you, Monseigneur,' he said earnestly, 'to wait awhile ere you probe further into His Highness' secrets. For the moment, will you not be content to rejoice with me at your deliverance? His Highness accepts from you the Sovereignty of the Netherlands. To-morrow he will be here, ready to receive the acclamations and the welcome of his people. He hath proved himself not only ready, but able, to defend you against all your enemies. He hath this day gained a signal victory over the powerful armies of the King of Spain. Henceforth the whole might of France will stand between you and the relentless foe who threatens your lives and your liberties. Join me, Messeigneurs,' he concluded earnestly, 'in acclaiming His Highness the Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, prince of the House of France, as your Sovereign Lord!'

His inspiring words were received in silence. Not one voice was raised in response to his loyal call. Gilles frowned, feeling that the supreme hour had come. A moment or two longer, and the inevitable question would be put 'And what of Madame Jacqueline, Monseigneur? What of the lady whom His Highness has sworn to wed?'

Already he had steeled himself to give answer, though the answer could only proclaim dishonour, both for himself and for the Valois prince whom he was trying so faithfully to serve unto the end. He saw the frown of puzzlement which gathered on d'Inchy's brow. The governor, in truth, was the first to recover his presence of mind. Leaning upon his stick, with back bent, but his whole attitude one of supreme dignity, he came nearer to Gilles and fixed a stern gaze upon his face.

'If you are not the Duc d'Anjou, Monseigneur,' he said slowly, 'will you tell us who it was who defended Cambray with such indomitable valour four months ago? Will you tell us who it is that saved Cambray to-day? For, of a truth, my friends and I are bewildered, and the mystery before us is one which we cannot fathom. Therefore I dare ask you once again in all respect—I may say in all affection: if you are not the Duc d'Anjou, who is it that stands before me now?'

'The saviour of Cambray!' came in a clear, ringing voice from the further end of the courtyard. 'My promised Lord and King!'

The sound of Jacqueline's voice sent a spark of living flame through those minds, atrophied by all this mystery. All eyes were at once turned to where she stood, dimly outlined in the gathering gloom. She was clad in a sombre gown and wore a dark veil over her fair hair. Her young, girlish figure, free from the hideous trammels of hoops or farthingale, appeared ethereal against the background of grim, frowning walls. Only the last lingering grey light in the west brought into bold relief her pale face and graceful shoulders, smooth like ivory. Just for a minute or two she stood quite still, like an exquisitely graven image, rigidly still yet pulsating with life. Then she advanced slowly towards Gilles. Her eyes held his and he scarcely dared to breathe, for fear that perfect vision should vanish into the skies, whence, of a truth, it must have descended. He could not have uttered a word then, if his very existence had depended on it. It seemed to him as if his very heart had stopped in its beating, as if life and time and the whole universe was stilled while Jacqueline's blue eyes sought his own, and she came, with hands extended as if in entreaty, to him.

Was it a minute or a cycle of years! He himself could not tell you. He saw nothing of what went on around; the city walls had fallen away, the men in their sombre clothes become mere shadows, the very sky overhead had receded into the realm of nothingness.

And through that state of semi-consciousness, her exquisite voice came to him as from another world.

'Nay! my dear Lord,' she said, with her enchanting smile, 'you'll not refuse me the joy of paying something of my country's eternal debt of gratitude to you.'

He still stood half-dazed and silent. Then suddenly he took her hands and slowly bent the knee, and buried his battle-stained face in her sweet-scented palms.

It had all occurred within half a dozen seconds. The governor, the Chief Magistrate, the city fathers, gazed on uncomprehending, silent and puzzled at what they saw. After awhile, d'Inchy murmured vaguely:

'Madame Jacqueline ... we ... that is...'

But quickly now she turned and faced them all, while Gilles still knelt and rested his hot forehead against her cool white hand. Through the gloom they could just discern her face, white and serene and withal defiant and firm, and irradiated with an enormous happiness.

'Messeigneurs,' she said with solemn earnestness, 'you heard, two sennights ago, the profession of faith which I made publicly before the assembled people of Cambray. There I swore by the living God Who made me that I would cherish and serve, loyally and faithfully, even until death, the noble and valorous hero who defended our city in the hour of her gravest peril. That dauntless hero is before you now. Once again he has saved our city from destruction, our sisters from dishonour, our men from shame. To him did I plight my troth, to him alone will I be true!'

Then, as all the men around her remained silent, moved to the depth of their hearts by the sublime note of passion which rang through her avowal, she continued, and this time with a note of unswerving defiance and magnificent challenge in her voice:

'Ask the people of Cambray, Messeigneurs! Let them be the arbiters of my fate and their own. Ask them to whom they would have me turn now—to the mighty Prince who would only use me and them and our valiant race as stepping stones to his own ambition, or to the hero who has offered his life for us all.'

A low murmur went round the assembly. Grave heads were shaken, toil-worn hands were raised to wipe a furtive tear. The evening gloom descended upon this strange scene, upon the reverend seigneurs and the stolid soldiers, upon the man who was kneeling and the woman—a mere girl—who stood there, commanding and defiant, secure in her love, proud of her surrender, ready to fight for her happiness.

'Ask the people of Cambray, Messeigneurs,' she reiterated boldly, 'if you have a doubt!'

She let her eyes wander slowly over the crowd. One by one, she looked these grave seigneurs in the face, these men who arrogated the right to rule over her destiny. They were her friends, had been her daily companions in the past four months of horror and of misery. They had trembled with her over Cambray's danger, had wept with her over Cambray's woes. With her they had acclaimed the hero who had defended them, had wept when they saw him fall; and to-day, again to-day, had been ready to deify him as their hero and her knight.

'Messeigneurs,' she pleaded, 'ask the people of Cambray.'

She knew what would be the people's answer. Now that the hour of their liberty had struck, now that the Spaniard no longer thundered at their gates, they were ready to carry their Liberator shoulder-high and give him the universe in their gratitude, if they had it to give. What cared they if their Liberator was a Duc d'Anjou or a nameless knight? He was the man whom they worshipped, the man who had made them free.

And now, when she still saw doubt, hesitation, embarrassment, upon the face of all these grave dignitaries, she frowned with wounded pride and with impatience.

'Messeigneurs,' she said boldly, 'Heaven forgive me, but ye seem to hesitate! The man to whom you owe your life, your future, the honour of your name, asks nothing more of your gratitude. But I, who am privileged to read in his heart, know that it is in my power to repay him in full for all that he hath done. And yet you hesitate! I am content to make appeal to the people of Cambray. But I know too what goes on in your minds. Ye think that ye are pledged to Monsieur Duc d'Anjou! that Jacqueline de Broyart, if she refuse to wed him, would sully your honour and, what were infinitely worse, would besmirch the fair fame of Flanders. Isn't that so, Messeigneurs?'

Their silence had become eloquent.

'The honour of Flanders——' Monseigneur began, then paused. A premonition of something which he could not put into words caused him to remain silent too, and to let the girl plead her cause without any interruption from him.

'The honour of Flanders, as you say, Monseigneur,' Jacqueline went on firmly, 'demands above all things that you and I and the guardians of our city do keep our word. Therefore, even before we make appeal to the people of Cambray, we will ask Monseigneur de Froidmont, who is here on behalf of His Highness, the Duc d'Anjou, to renew in His Highness' name the demand of my hand in marriage. On his answer should depend our future conduct. Is that not so, Messeigneurs?' she asked once again, and let her calm gaze wander from one solemn face to the other, search serenely every troubled eye.

D'Inchy this time realized that he must be the spokesman for all these representatives, his city and of his province. Vaguely troubled still by the mystery which surrounded the man to whom Cambray owed her deliverance, he thought once for all, by a straight question, to put an end to the many doubts and fears which assailed him and his friends. Jacqueline already had turned once more to Gilles; with a slight pressure of her hand she asked him to rise. This he did, feeling strangely elated, just as if Destiny, tired of buffeting him, was smiling encouragingly to him from afar. In the midst of the many confused impressions which had struck his wearied mind during the past quarter of an hour, one thought stood out with heavenly clearness: Jacqueline loved him! Her love had neither faltered nor tired through these weary months. She was as steadfast and true to him at this hour as she had been when in the clematis-covered arbour she had lain against his breast. Now her woman's quick wit had divined the truth and come to the aid of her love. Even when she challenged those grave seigneurs to ask him the straight and momentous question, she knew what his answer would be.

The task which lay before him no longer seemed irksome and humiliating. He still blushed for the shame which rested on the fickle Prince whom he served, but already in his heart he had registered the vow that, God helping as He had done hitherto, the honour of France should shine forth before these heroic people, in all its brightness and glory, through the glorious deeds of her sons.

'Monseigneur,' began d'Inchy tentatively, 'you have heard what Madame Jacqueline de Broyart hath said. We have all passed through much sorrow, have witnessed the miseries and the patience of our people. The hour of victory has come, but found us weak in body and tortured in mind. We place our faith with complete confidence in the honour and integrity of France. We are prepared to receive His Highness, the Duc d'Anjou with open hearts and to acclaim him as our Sovereign Lord. Will he in exchange keep faith with us, and wed our ward, Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, to whom he hath akeady plighted his troth?'

Even while the governor spoke, the city dignitaries all tried to read the expression on Gilles' face through the fast-gathering gloom, and anxious eyes scanned those war-worn features which they had learned to love. Even through the darkness they could see him, standing there in his rags and his battered breastplate, hatless and begrimed, splendid in his valour and his pride, and with Jacqueline's hand held tightly in his own—splendid still, now that he stood silent and shamed before them all.

To Monseigneur's peremptory question he had given no reply, remained almost motionless, while Jacqueline, proud in the face of the crying insult which a faithless Prince had put upon her, threw back her head and gave a deep sigh of content.

Monseigneur the governor had received his answer in Gilles de Crohin's obstinate silence. A bitter cry of unbridled anger rose to his lips, his emaciated hand trembled visibly upon the stick which he held.

Then, just as suddenly, his wrath gave way. It almost seemed as if an angel of reconciliation and of love had whispered into his ear, and had, with cool and gentle fingers, smoothed away the angry frown upon his brow. All that was fine and noble in the heroic race from which he sprang clamoured for the only possible solution of the present difficulty, a solution which would ensure the happiness of a brave and proud woman, and the dignity of the country which he represented.

One last second of hesitation, one final regretful sigh for the ambitious personal schemes which he saw crumbling into ashes at his feet, then Monseigneur d'Inchy, governor of Cambray, sank slowly down on his knees.

'Monseigneur,' he said slowly and impressively, 'Madame Jacqueline de Broyart has spoken and shown us the path of our duty. To-morrow we will acclaim His Highness the Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon as our Sovereign Lord; but to-day we welcome you as the saviour of our city. Whatever your wishes are, they are a law unto us. You have heard what Madame Jacqueline has said. Will you in your turn plight your troth to her? Will you love and cherish her and serve her faithfully and loyally as her liege lord, until death?'

'And beyond!' Gilles murmured softly.

The last streak of grey light was still lingering in the sky. Everything in the enclosure of the tall, grim walls became mysterious and shadowy; darkness drew her kindly mantle over the scene. She hid from prying eyes what went on under the immediate shadow of the great gate, where for one brief moment Jacqueline lay against her loved one's heart.

From the towers of the city's churches the bells were still sending their happy carillon through the evening air. A group of pikemen brought torches into the courtyard. A wild shout of delight—the first which Cambray had heard, for many months—sent its joyous sound through the evening air.

And in the homes which all these months of misery had devastated, the sick and the weary roused themselves for a moment, marvelling what these shouts of joy might mean. And those who had suffered for so long and who were now comforted, those who had been hungry and were now fed, ran into the houses of sickness and of sorrow, in order to bring the gladsome, the great, the wonderful news.

'The Duc d'Anjou, brother of the King of France, is to be Sovereign Lord of the Netherlands. He will enter Cambray to-morrow, with his great army. He will be proclaimed Protector of the Liberties of Cambray and Sovereign of the Cambrésis!'

'And he will wed Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, the great heiress?—our Jacqueline?'

'Oh, no! The Duc d'Anjou will be our Sovereign Lord. But Madame Jacqueline will wed the saviour of Cambray.’

END