For a long while Martin Valliant neither moved nor spoke, and Mellis watched him in silence. His rage had passed, and a kind of wondering horror dulled his eyes. He was afraid of his own handiwork, this death that he had brought into the world, these bloody things at his feet. And yet they fascinated him, for there were two men struggling in Martin Valliant—the poor monk and the soldier.
The monk in him, being the elder, stood shocked to the heart, and most tragically dismayed. Such a bloody deed as this seemed the end of everything, even though it had been done in generous wrath. Martin’s monastic soul shrank away, horrified, covering its face with its hands. He had spilled blood, he was a murderer, he had sinned against the God Who had given him life.
For a while the monk in him possessed his whole consciousness, but there was a man stronger and fiercer than the monk waiting to be heard. The soul of old Valliant lived more nobly in his son, old Valliant who had looked on dead men with the pity of a soldier, but who would have had no pity for such a fellow as Noble Vance.
“Martin—Martin Valliant!”
He heard her voice, at first very soft and faint, like a voice from a distance. He had not looked at her since he had struck Vance down.
Slowly he seemed to drag himself from staring at his own handiwork. He turned his head, and her eyes met his.
Once more the soul of that tragic day astonished him, for there was a strange, shining light in Mellis’s eyes. Her lips seemed to tremble; her throat showed proud and triumphant. Here was no shame, no horror, but a something that gloried, an exultation that was near to tears.
He stared at her as though he had been dead and she had called him back to life.
Mellis stretched out her hands as though to crown him.
“Martin Valliant—Martin Valliant.”
Again the note of exultation sounded. He beheld a new and human glory in her eyes.
“God forgive me.”
He dropped on his knees, and covered his face with his right arm.
The woman in her rushed instantly to comfort him.
“Martin—Martin Valliant, take it not to heart. God slays men sometimes; it is right and good that they should be slain.”
She bent over him with infinite compassion.
“How can I lift this burden from you, you who have striven to love men?”
He dropped his arm and stared at the grass.
“What has happened to me? I do not understand. Yet that man there was an evil beast, and I struck him in clean wrath. What does God wish? I have lost the light in my soul.”
He got up and began to walk to and fro with great strides, his forehead all knotted, his mouth awry. And Mellis watched him, keeping silent, but with a great pity in her eyes. He was like a blind man, groping his way, lost in the confusion of his own soul.
“Martin——”
He turned to her with dull anguish in his eyes.
“God will not speak to me. I hear no voice but yours. I will go and surrender myself.”
“To whom?”
“What does it matter? There is blood on my hands. Let them do with me as they please.”
A new light flashed in her eyes. She seemed to feel the struggle that was coming, the fight for the soul of this strong man. Either he would dash himself to ruin, or she would save him as he had saved her.
“Is there no other voice but mine?”
“None.”
“Perhaps God is in my voice, speaking to you, Martin Valliant.”
He looked at her strangely.
“Those men died by my hand.”
“Good—very good—I grant it. There’s death, lying at our feet. Let us look at it boldly, without shrinking, without shame. What were those men? One was an evil beast, you say, and I know it to be true. He was one of those who slew my father; I would charge him, too, with my brother’s death, and by your hand I am avenged. There were three, and you were alone. There was God’s good wrath in your heart. And I call you proudly Martin Valliant. Yes, the song of the sword is yours.”
The blood rose to his face.
“Is my sin the less?”
“What if there be no sin in the killing of such enemies? Think, why did you strike the man down?”
He avoided her eyes.
“To save me. Because your heart told you that these men brought me death—perhaps things that are worse than death. You killed them, but I live and am free.”
She smiled bravely.
“Free—to be grateful—free to swear to you from my heart that the deed was done nobly. And now—what of the morrow?”
He could not rise to her rebel mood as yet; the old life still hung to him, though he realized that it was a thing of rags and tatters.
“To-morrow? I cannot think of a to-morrow. Life seems to end for me in a great cliff.”
She made herself look at the dead man, pointed at him with her finger.
“You know whom you have killed?”
“Vance, the Forest Warden.”
“Roger Bland’s watchdog. And you will hang for it, Martin Valliant, in spite of twenty St. Benedicts. The Lord of Troy is not gentle with those who flout him.”
He answered sullenly, “If I hang—I hang.”
Mellis went closer, and looked steadily into his face.
“And I, Martin Valliant, I shall hang on the same gibbet.”
He threw his head back, with a tightening of the mouth and a hardening of the eyes.
“God forbid!”
“Roger Bland of Troy will not forbid it. We shall hang, Martin Valliant, unless——”
He opened and shut his hands as though blindly striving to grip the truth.
“I am a broken man—but you——”
“Broken, say you? And before God—why? What are we but rebels, outlaws, so long as Crookback rules and such hounds as Bland hunt at his bidding? My troth is pledged to another king. Broken?—never! What, shall I not fight for my life against my enemies—aye, and with a good heart? And you, Martin Valliant?”
“I—fight—to save myself?”
“Would you let them lead you off like an ox to be pole-axed?”
“I have vowed——”
“God have pity on you, Martin Valliant. Where are your vows now? Blown to the winds. No, I’ll not suffer you to go with meek madness to your death. Answer me—will you not fight for your own life?”
He thought awhile, and then answered stubbornly, “No.”
Mellis drew a deep breath.
“Before God, then, will you fight for mine?”
He faltered, looked at her, and his face flamed to her challenge.
“For you? To save you?”
He bowed his head.
“Yes—to the death, so that you may live.”
She held out her hands to him, her eyes shining.
“Martin Valliant, let us be comrades, let us swear troth to each other.”
But he looked at her hands as though he dared not touch them.
“I am a priest no more,” he said, “but an outlaw. So be it, though God has dealt strangely with me.”
He turned his head and looked at the great cross.
“The shape of a sword!”
“There is a noble spirit in it, Martin Valliant.”
“It shall be a cross—and a sword,” he answered her.