LITMIR.BIZ

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am bound to yield to Gloriande's wishes. There is no more stubborn head than hers. Besides, she loves me as I do her. Her wealth is considerable. I have dissipated a good part of my fortune at the court of King John. I cannot renounce the marriage. Whatever it may cost me, I must join the army with my men. Sad it is, but there is no choice!"

      "Be it so! But then fight … prudently and moderately."

      "I am anxious to live so that I may marry Gloriande … provided during my absence the prediction of that miserable vassal – "

      "Ho! Ho! Ho!" broke in the knight of Chaumontel, laughing out aloud. "You surely are not troubled with the fear that during your absence Jacques Bonhomme will violate your wife?"

      "These villeins, an unheard of thing, have dared to insult, to menace and to throw themselves upon us like the wild beasts that they are."

      "And you saw that rag-tag flee before our horses like a set of hares. The executions of this evening will complete the lesson, and Jacques Bonhomme will remain the Jacques Bonhomme of ever. Come! Make your mind easy! While I prefer a hundred times the hunt, the tourneys, wine, game and love to the stupid and dangerous feats of war, I shall accompany you to the army, so as to bring you back soon to the beautiful Gloriande. As to the English prisoners that you are to lead in chains to her feet as a pledge of your valor, we shall scrape together a few leagues from our lady's manor the first varlets that we can lay our hands on. We shall bind them and threaten them with hanging if they utter a single word; and they will do well enough for the ten English prisoners. Is not the idea a jolly one? But, Conrad, what are you brooding over?"

      "Perhaps I was wrong in exercising my right over that vassal's wife," replied the Sire of Nointel with a somber and pensive mien. "It was a mere libertine caprice, because I love Gloriande. But the resistance of the scamp, who, besides, charged you with theft, irritated me." And resuming after a moment of silence, the Sire of Nointel addressed his friend: "Tell me the truth; here among ourselves; did you really rob the villein? It would have been an amusing trick… I only would like to know if you really did it?"

      "Conrad, the suspicion is insulting – "

      "Oh, it is not in the interest of the dead serf that I put the question, but it is in my own."

      "How? Explain yourself more clearly."

      "If that vassal has been unjustly drowned … his prophecy would have more weight."

      "By heavens! Are you quite losing your wits, Conrad? Do you see me saddened because Jacques Bonhomme has predicted to me that I was to be drowned?.. The devil! It is I who mean to drown your sadness in a cup of good Burgundy wine… Come, Conrad, to horse … to horse!.. Supper waits, and after the feast pretty female serfs! Long live joy and love! Let's reach the manor in a canter – "

      "Perhaps I did wrong in forcing the serf's wife," the Sire of Nointel repeated to himself. "I know not why, but a tradition, handed down from the elder branch of my family, located at Auvergne, comes back to me at this moment. The tradition has it that the hatred of the serfs has often been fatal to the Nerowegs!"

      "Hallo, Conrad, to horse! Your valet has been holding your stirrup for the last hour," broke in the cheerful voice of Gerard. "What are you thinking about?"

      "I should not have violated the vassal's wife," the Sire of Nointel still mumbled while swinging himself on his horse's back, and taking the route to his manor accompanied by Gerard of Chaumontel.

      CHAPTER VII.

      WRECKED HEARTS

      The ground floor of the house of Alison the Huffy is closed. A lamp burns inside, but the door and windows are bolted within. Aveline-who-never-lied lies half stretched out upon a bench. Her hands lie across her breast, her head reclines on the knees of Alison. She would be thought asleep were it not for the tremors that periodically convulse her frame. Her discolored visage bears the traces of the tears, which, rarer now, still occasionally escape from her swollen eyelids. The tavern-keeper contemplates the unfortunate girl with an expression of profound pity. William Caillet, seated near by, with his elbows on his knees, his forehead in his hands, takes not his eyes from his daughter. He remembered Alison, and relying on her kind-heartedness, had taken Aveline to the tavern with the aid of Adam the Devil, who immediately had gone out again to the tourney to meet Jocelyn the Champion, by whom he was later snatched from the fray.

      Suddenly sitting up affrighted, Aveline cried semi-delirious: "They are drowning him… I see it… He is drowned!.. Did you not hear the splash of his body dropping into the water?.. My bridegroom is dead…"

      "Dear daughter," said Alison, breaking into tears, "calm yourself… Have confidence in God… They may have had mercy upon him – "

      "She is right… This is the hour," said William Caillet in a low hollow voice. "Mazurec was to be drowned at nightfall. Patience! Every night has its morn. The unfortunate man will be avenged."

      Hearing a rap at the door, Alison, who was holding Aveline in her arms, turned to William: "Who can it be at this hour?"

      The old peasant rose, approached the door and asked: "Who's that?"

      "I, Jocelyn the Champion," a voice answered.

      "Oh!" murmured Aveline's father, "he comes from the river"; saying which he opened.

      Jocelyn entered with quick steps. At the sight, however, of Mazurec's wife, held in a swooning condition in the arms of Alison, he stopped short, turned to Caillet, and whispered to him: "He is saved!"

      "He?" cried the serf stupefied. "Saved?"

      "Silence!" said Jocelyn, pointing to Aveline. "Such news may prove fatal if too suddenly conveyed."

      "Where is he? Where did he take refuge?"

      "Adam is bringing him hither… He can hardly stand… I came ahead of them… He is weeping incessantly… We came across the field… The curfew has sounded. We met nobody. Poor Mazurec is saved – "

      "I shall go out to meet him," said Caillet, panting with emotion. "Poor Mazurec! Dear son! Dear child!"

      Jocelyn approached Aveline, who, with her arms around Alison's neck was sobbing bitterly. "Aveline," said Jocelyn to her, "listen to me, please. Have courage and confidence – "

      "He is dead," murmured Aveline moaning and not heeding Jocelyn. "They have drowned him."

      "No … he is not dead," Jocelyn went on saying. "There is hope of saving him."

      "Good God!" cried Alison, now weeping with joy and embracing Aveline in a transport of happiness. "Do you hear, dear little one? He is not dead."

      Aveline joined her hands and essayed to speak, but the words died away on her lips that trembled convulsively.

      "This is what happened," explained Jocelyn. "Mazurec was put into a bag and he was thrown into the water. Fortunately, however," Jocelyn hastened to add, seeing Aveline utter a smothered cry, "Adam the Devil and myself, profiting by the darkness, had hidden ourselves among the reeds that border the bank of the river about a hundred paces from the bridge. The current was toward us. With the aid of a long pole we sought to drag towards us the bag in which Mazurec was tied up, and to pull him out in time."

      "Oh!" stammered the young girl. "Help came too late."

      "No, no! Calm yourself. We succeeded in drawing the bag to the bank. Adam cut it open with one rip of his knife, and we took Mazurec out of the canvas still breathing."

      "He lives!" exclaimed the girl in a delirium of joy. Her first movement was to precipitate herself towards the door, and there she fell in the arms of her father, who, having just returned, stood on the threshold.

      "Yes, he lives!" said Caillet to his daughter, closing her to his breast. "He lives … and he is here!"

      That same instant Mazurec appeared at the threshold, pale, faint, dripping water, his face unrecognizable, and supported by Adam the Devil. Instead of running to the encounter of her husband, Aveline staggered back frightened and cried: "It is not he!"

      She did not recognize Mazurec. His crushed eye, encircled with black and blue concussions, his crushed nose, his lips split and swollen,

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