1. Gruntings at Aeaea
It was on a clear September day that the Marquis of Falmouth set out for France. John of Bedford had summoned him posthaste when Henry V was stricken at Senlis with what bid fair to prove a mortal distemper; for the marquis was Bedford's comrade-in-arms, veteran of Shrewsbury, Agincourt and other martial1 disputations, and the Duke-Regent suspected that, to hold France in case of the King's death, he would presently need all the help he could muster2.
"And I, too, look for warm work," the marquis conceded to Mistress Adelais Vernon, at parting. "But, God willing, my sweet, we shall be wed4 at Christmas for all that. The Channel is not very wide. At a pinch I might swim it, I think, to come to you."
He kissed her and rode away with his men. Adelais stared after them, striving to picture her betrothed5 rivalling Leander in this fashion, and subsequently laughed. The marquis was a great lord and a brave captain, but long past his first youth; his actions went somewhat too deliberately6 ever to be roused to the high lunacies of the Sestian amorist. So Adelais laughed, but a moment later, recollecting7 the man's cold desire of her, his iron fervors, Adelais shuddered8.
This was in the court-yard at Winstead. Roger Darke of Yaxham, the girl's cousin, standing9 beside her, noted10 the gesture, and snarled11.
"Think twice of it, Adelais," said he.
Whereupon Mistress Vernon flushed like a peony. "I honor him," she said, with some irrelevance12, "and he loves me."
Roger scoffed13. "Love, love! O you piece of ice! You gray-stone saint! What do you know of love?" Master Darke caught both her hands in his. "Now, by Almighty14 God, our Saviour15 and Redeemer, Jesus Christ!" he said, between his teeth, his eyes flaming; "I, Roger Darke, have offered you undefiled love and you have mocked at it. Ha, Tears of Mary! how I love you! And you mean to marry this man for his title! Do you not believe that I love you, Adelais?" he whimpered.
Gently she disengaged herself. This was of a pattern with Roger's behavior any time during the past two years. "I suppose you do," Adelais conceded, with the tiniest possible shrug16. "Perhaps that is why I find you so insufferable."
Afterward17 Mistress Vernon turned on her heel and left Master Darke. In his fluent invocation of Mahound and Termagaunt and other overseers of the damned he presently touched upon eloquence18.
2. Comes One with Moly
Adelais came into the walled garden of Winstead, aflame now with autumnal scarlet19 and gold. She seated herself upon a semicircular marble bench, and laughed for no apparent reason, and contentedly20 waited what Dame21 Luck might send.
She was a comely22 maid, past argument or (as her lovers habitually23 complained) any adequate description. Circe, Colchian Medea, Viviane du Lac, were their favorite analogues24; and what old romancers had fabled25 concerning these ladies they took to be the shadow of which Adelais Vernon was the substance. At times these rhapsodists might have supported their contention26 with a certain speciousness27, such as was apparent to-day, for example, when against the garden's hurly-burly of color, the prodigal28 blazes of scarlet and saffron and wine-yellow, the girl's green gown glowed like an emerald, and her eyes, too, seemed emeralds, vivid, inscrutable, of a clear verdancy29 that was quite untinged with either blue or gray. Very black lashes30 shaded them. The long oval of her face (you might have objected), was of an absolute pallor, rarely quickening to a flush; but her petulant31 lips burned crimson32, and her hair mimicked33 the dwindling34 radiance of the autumn sunlight and shamed it. All in all, the aspect of Adelais Vernon was, beyond any questioning, spiced with a sorcerous tang; say, the look of a young witch shrewd at love-potions, but ignorant of their flavor; yet before this the girl's comeliness35 had stirred men's hearts to madness, and the county boasted of it.
Presently Adelais lifted her small imperious head, and then again she smiled, for out of the depths of the garden, with an embellishment of divers36 trills and roulades, came a man's voice that carolled blithely37.
Sang the voice:
_"Had you lived when earth was new
Save to sing in praise of you?
"Had you lived in ancient days,
Adelais, sweet Adelais,
You had all the ancients' praise,—
You whose beauty would have won
Canticles of Solomon,
Gazed upon this goodliest thing
Earth of Heaven's grace hath got.
"Had you gladdened Greece, were not
All the nymphs of Greece forgot?
"Had you trod Sicilian ways,
Adelais, sweet Adelais_,
Bion and Theocritus
Had transmitted unto us
Honeyed harmonies to tell
Of your beauty's miracle,
Delicate, desirable,
You-ward tenderly,—content,
While the world slipped by, to gaze
On the grace of you, and praise
Sweet Adelais_."
Here the song ended, and a man, wheeling about the hedge, paused to regard her with adoring eyes. Adelais looked up at him, incredibly surprised by his coming.
This was the young Sieur d'Arnaye, Hugh Vernon's prisoner, taken at Agincourt seven years earlier and held since then, by the King's command, without ransom42; for it was Henry's policy to release none of the important French prisoners. Even on his death-bed he found time to admonish43 his brother, John of Bedford, that four of these,—Charles d'Orleans and Jehan de Bourbon and Arthur de Rougemont and Fulke d'Arnaye,—should never be set at liberty. "Lest," as the King said, with a savor44 of prophecy, "more fire be kindled45 in one day than all your endeavors can quench46 in three."
Presently the Sieur d'Arnaye sighed, rather ostentatiously; and Adelais laughed, and demanded the cause of his grief.
"Mademoiselle," he said,—his English had but a trace of accent,—"I am afflicted47 with a very grave malady48."
"What is the name of this malady?" said she.
"They call it love, mademoiselle."
Adelais laughed yet again and doubted if the disease were incurable49. But Fulke d'Arnaye seated himself beside her and demonstrated that, in his case, it might not ever be healed.
"For it is true," he observed, "that the ancient Scythians, who lived before the moon was made, were wont50 to cure this distemper by blood-letting under the ears; but your brother, mademoiselle, denies me access to all knives. And the leech51 Aelian avers52 that it may be cured by the herb agnea; but your brother, mademoiselle, will not permit that I go into the fields in search of this herb. And in Greece—he, mademoiselle, I might easily be healed of my malady in Greece! For in Greece is the rock, Leucata Petra, from which a lover may leap and be cured; and the well of the Cyziceni, from which a lover may drink and be cured; and the river Selemnus, in which a lover may bathe and be cured: but your brother will not permit that I go to Greece. You have a very cruel brother, mademoiselle; seven long years, no less, he has penned me here like a starling in a cage."
And Fulke d'Arnaye shook his head at her reproachfully.
Afterward he laughed. Always this Frenchman found something at which to laugh; Adelais could not remember in all the seven years a time when she had seen him downcast. But while his lips jested of his imprisonment53, his eyes stared at her mirthlessly, like a dog at his master, and her gaze fell before the candor54 of the passion she saw in them.
"My lord," said Adelais, "why will you not give your parole? Then you would be free to come and go as you elected." A little she bent toward him, a covert55 red showing in her cheeks. "To-night at Halvergate the Earl of Brudenel holds the feast of Saint Michael. Give your parole, my lord, and come with us. There will be in our company fair ladies who may perhaps heal your malady."
But the Sieur d'Arnaye only laughed. "I cannot give my parole," he said, "since I mean to escape for all your brother's care." Then he fell to pacing up and down before her. "Now, by Monseigneur Saint Médard and the Eagle that sheltered him!" he cried, in half-humorous self-mockery; "however thickly troubles rain upon me, I think that I shall never give up hoping!" After a pause, "Listen, mademoiselle," he went on, more gravely, and gave a nervous gesture toward the east, "yonder is France, sacked, pillaged56, ruinous, prostrate57, naked to her enemy. But at Vincennes, men say, the butcher of Agincourt is dying. With him dies the English power in France. Can his son hold that dear realm? Are those tiny hands with which this child may not yet feed himself capable to wield58 a sceptre? Can he who is yet beholden to nurses for milk distribute sustenance60 to the law and justice of a nation? He, I think not, mademoiselle! France will have need of me shortly. Therefore, I cannot give my parole."
"Then must my brother still lose his sleep, lord, for always your safe-keeping is in his mind. To-day at cock-crow he set out for the coast to examine those Frenchmen who landed yesterday."
At this he wheeled about. "Frenchmen!"
"Only Norman fishermen, lord, whom the storm drove to seek shelter in
England. But he feared they had come to rescue you."
Fulke d'Arnaye shrugged61 his shoulders. "That was my thought, too," he admitted, with a laugh. "Always I dream of escape, mademoiselle. Have a care of me, sweet enemy! I shall escape yet, it may be."
"But I will not have you escape," said Adelais. She tossed her glittering little head. "Winstead would not be Winstead without you. Why, I was but a child, my lord, when you came. Have you forgotten, then, the lank62, awkward child who used to stare at you so gravely?"
"Mademoiselle," he returned, and now his voice trembled and still the hunger in his eyes grew more great, "I think that in all these years I have forgotten nothing—not even the most trivial happening, mademoiselle,—wherein you had a part. You were a very beautiful child. Look you, I remember as if it were yesterday that you never wept when your good lady mother—whose soul may Christ have in his keeping!—was forced to punish you for some little misdeed. No, you never wept; but your eyes would grow wistful, and you would come to me here in the garden, and sit with me for a long time in silence. 'Fulke,' you would say, quite suddenly, 'I love you better than my mother.' And I told you that it was wrong to make such observations, did I not, mademoiselle? My faith, yes! but I may confess now that I liked it," Fulke d'Arnaye ended, with a faint chuckle63.
Adelais sat motionless. Certainly it was strange, she thought, how the sound of this man's voice had power to move her. Certainly, too, this man was very foolish.
"And now the child is a woman,—a woman who will presently be Marchioness of Falmouth. Look you, when I get free of my prison—and I shall get free, never fear, mademoiselle,—I shall often think of that great lady. For only God can curb64 a man's dreams, and God is compassionate65. So I hope to dream nightly of a gracious lady whose hair is gold and whose eyes are colored like the summer sea and whose voice is clear and low and very wonderfully sweet. Nightly, I think, the vision of that dear enemy will hearten me to fight for France by day. In effect, mademoiselle, your traitor66 beauty will yet aid me to destroy your country."
The Sieur d'Arnaye laughed, somewhat cheerlessly, as he lifted her hand to his lips.
And certainly also (she concluded her reflections) it was absurd how this man's touch seemed an alarm to her pulses. Adelais drew away from him.
"No!" she said: "remember, lord, I, too, am not free."
"Indeed, we tread on dangerous ground," the Frenchman assented67, with a sad little smile. "Pardon me, mademoiselle. Even were you free of your trothplight—even were I free of my prison, most beautiful lady, I have naught68 to offer you yonder in that fair land of France. They tell me that the owl69 and the wolf hunt undisturbed where Arnaye once stood. My château is carpeted with furze and roofed with God's Heaven. That gives me a large estate—does it not?—but I may not reasonably ask a woman to share it. So I pray you pardon me for my nonsense, mademoiselle, and I pray that the Marchioness of Falmouth may be very happy."
And with that he vanished into the autumn-fired recesses70 of the garden, singing, his head borne stiff. Oh, the brave man who esteemed71 misfortune so slightly! thought Adelais. She remembered that the Marquis of Falmouth rarely smiled; and once only—at a bull-baiting—had she heard him laugh. It needed bloodshed, then, to amuse him, Adelais deduced, with that self-certainty in logic73 which is proper to youth; and the girl shuddered.
But through the scarlet coppices of the garden, growing fainter and yet more faint, rang the singing of Fulke d'Arnaye.
Sang the Frenchman:
"Had you lived in Roman times
No Catullus in his rhymes
He had praised your forehead, narrow
As the newly-crescent moon,
White as apple-trees in June;
Of the laughing light Eros
By your beauty,—by your slim,
White, perfect beauty.
"After him
Horace, finding in your eyes
Would have made you melodies
Sweet Adelais."
Into the midst of the Michaelmas festivities at Halvergate that night, burst a mud-splattered fellow in search of Sir Hugh Vernon. Roger Darke brought him to the knight81. The fellow then related that he came from Simeon de Beck, the master of Castle Rising, with tidings that a strange boat, French-rigged, was hovering82 about the north coast. Let Sir Hugh have a care of his prisoner.
Vernon swore roundly. "I must look into this," he said. "But what shall I do with Adelais?"
"Will you not trust her to me?" Roger asked. "If so, cousin, I will very gladly be her escort to Winstead. Let the girl dance her fill while she may, Hugh. She will have little heart for dancing after a month or so of Falmouth's company."
"That is true," Vernon assented; "but the match is a good one, and she is bent upon it."
So presently he rode with his men to the north coast. An hour later Roger
Darke and Adelais set out for Winstead, in spite of all Lady Brudenel's
protestations that Mistress Vernon had best lie with her that night at
Halvergate.
It was a clear night of restless winds, neither warm nor chill, but fine September weather. About them the air was heavy with the damp odors of decaying leaves, for the road they followed was shut in by the autumn woods, that now arched the way with sere83 foliage84, rustling85 and whirring and thinly complaining overhead, and now left it open to broad splashes of moonlight, where fallen leaves scuttled86 about in the wind vortices. Adelais, elate with dancing, chattered87 of this and that as her gray mare88 ambled89 homeward, but Roger was moody90.
Past Upton the road branched in three directions; here Master Darke caught the gray mare's bridle91 and turned both horses to the left.
"Why, of whatever are you thinking!" the girl derided92 him. "Roger, this is not the road to Winstead!"
He grinned evilly over his shoulder. "It is the road to Yaxham, Adelais, where my chaplain expects us."
"Will I not?" said Roger. "Faith, for my part, I think you have mocked me for the last time, Adelais, since it is the wife's duty, as Paul very justly says, to obey."
Swiftly she slipped from the mare. But he followed her. "Oh, infamy94!" the girl cried. "You have planned this, you coward!"
"Yes, I planned it," said Roger Darke. "Yet I take no great credit therefor, for it was simple enough. I had but to send a feigned95 message to your block-head brother. Ha, yes, I planned it, Adelais, and I planned it well. But I deal honorably. To-morrow you will be Mistress Darke, never fear."
He grasped at her cloak as she shrank from him. The garment fell, leaving the girl momentarily free, her festival jewels shimmering96 in the moonlight, her bared shoulders glistening97 like silver. Darke, staring at her, giggled98 horribly. An instant later Adelais fell upon her knees.
"Sweet Christ, have pity upon Thy handmaiden! Do not forsake99 me, sweet Christ, in my extremity100! Save me from this man!" she prayed, with entire faith.
"My lady wife," said Darke, and his hot, wet hand sank heavily upon her shoulder, "you had best finish your prayer before my chaplain, I think, since by ordinary Holy Church is skilled to comfort the sorrowing."
"Faith of God!" said Roger, in a flattish tone; "what was that?"
For faintly there came the sound of one singing.
Sang the distant voice:
_"Had your father's household been
Guelfic-born or Ghibelline,
Beatrice were unknown
On her star-encompassed throne.
"For, had Dante viewed your grace,
Adelais, sweet Adelais,
Had for candles, Hyades,
Rastaben, and Betelguese,—
And had heard Zachariel
Chaunt of you, and, chaunting, tell
All the grace of you, and praise
Sweet Adelais."_
4. Honor Brings a Padlock
Adelais sprang to her feet. "A miracle!" she cried, her voice shaking.
"Fulke, Fulke! to me, Fulke!"
Master Darke hurried her struggling toward his horse. Darke was muttering curses, for there was now a beat of hoofs103 in the road yonder that led to Winstead. "Fulke, Fulke!" the girl shrieked104.
Then presently, as Roger put foot to stirrup, two horsemen wheeled about the bend in the road, and one of them leapt to the ground.
"Mademoiselle," said Fulke d'Arnaye, "am I, indeed, so fortunate as to be of any service to you?"
"Ho!" cried Roger, with a gulp105 of relief, "it is only the French dancing-master taking French leave of poor cousin Hugh! Man, but you startled me!"
Now Adelais ran to the Frenchman, clinging to him the while that she told of Roger's tricks. And d'Arnaye's face set mask-like.
"Monsieur," he said, when she had ended, "you have wronged a sweet and innocent lady. As God lives, you shall answer to me for this."
"Look you," Roger pointed106 out, "this is none of your affair, Monsieur Jackanapes. You are bound for the coast, I take it. Very well,—ka me, and I ka thee. Do you go your way in peace, and let us do the same."
Fulke d'Arnaye put the girl aside and spoke107 rapidly in French to his companion. Then with mincing108 agility109 he stepped toward Master Darke.
"Chastisement111!" said the Frenchman, and struck him in the face.
"Very well!" said Master Darke, strangely quiet. And with that they both drew.
The Frenchman laughed, high and shrill112, as they closed, and afterward he began to pour forth113 a voluble flow of discourse114. Battle was wine to the man.
"Not since Agincourt, Master Coward—he, no!—have I held sword in hand. It is a good sword, this,—a sharp sword, is it not? Ah, the poor arm—but see, your blood is quite black-looking in this moonlight, and I had thought cowards yielded a paler blood than brave men possess. We live and learn, is it not? Observe, I play with you like a child,—as I played with your tall King at Agincourt when I cut away the coronet from his helmet. I did not kill him—no!—but I wounded him, you conceive? Presently, I shall wound you, too. My compliments—you have grazed my hand. But I shall not kill you, because you are the kinsman115 of the fairest lady earth may boast, and I would not willingly shed the least drop of any blood that is partly hers. Ohé, no! Yet since I needs must do this ungallant thing—why, see, monsieur, how easy it is!"
Thereupon he cut Roger down at a blow and composedly set to wiping his sword on the grass. The Englishman lay like a log where he had fallen.
"Lord," Adelais quavered, "lord, have you killed him?"
Fulke d'Arnaye sighed. "Hélas, no!" said he, "since I knew that you did not wish it. See, mademoiselle,—I have but made a healthful and blood-letting small hole in him here. He will return himself to survive to it long time—Fie, but my English fails me, after these so many years—"
D'Arnaye stood for a moment as if in thought, concluding his meditations116 with a grimace117. After that he began again to speak in French to his companion. The debate seemed vital. The stranger gesticulated, pleaded, swore, implored118, summoned all inventions between the starry119 spheres and the mud of Cocytus to judge of the affair; but Fulke d'Arnaye was resolute120.
"Behold59, mademoiselle," he said, at length, "how my poor Olivier excites himself over a little matter. Olivier is my brother, most beautiful lady, but he speaks no English, so that I cannot present him to you. He came to rescue me, this poor Olivier, you conceive. Those Norman fishermen of whom you spoke to-day—but you English are blinded, I think, by the fogs of your cold island. Eight of the bravest gentlemen in France, mademoiselle, were those same fishermen, come to bribe121 my gaoler,—the incorruptible Tompkins, no less. Hé, yes, they came to tell me that Henry of Monmouth, by the wrath122 of God King of France, is dead at Vincennes yonder, mademoiselle, and that France will soon be free of you English. France rises in her might—" His nostrils123 dilated124, he seemed taller; then he shrugged. "And poor Olivier grieves that I may not strike a blow for her,—grieves that I must go back to Winstead."
D'Arnaye laughed as he caught the bridle of the gray mare and turned her so that Adelais might mount. But the girl, with a faint, wondering cry, drew away from him.
"You will go back! You have escaped, lord, and you will go back!"
"Why, look you," said the Frenchman, "what else may I conceivably do? We are some miles from your home, most beautiful lady,—can you ride those four long miles alone? in this night so dangerous? Can I leave you here alone in this so tall forest? Hé, surely not. I am desolated125, mademoiselle, but I needs must burden you with my company homeward."
Adelais drew a choking breath. He had fretted126 out seven years of captivity127. Now he was free; and lest she be harmed or her name be smutched, however faintly, he would go back to his prison, jesting. "No, no!" she cried aloud.
But he raised a deprecating hand. "You cannot go alone. Olivier here would go with you gladly. Not one of those brave gentlemen who await me at the coast yonder but would go with you very, very gladly, for they love France, these brave gentlemen, and they think that I can serve her better than most other men. That is very flattering, is it not? But all the world conspires128 to flatter me, mademoiselle. Your good brother, by example, prizes my company so highly that he would infallibly hang the gentleman who rode back with you. So, you conceive, I cannot avail myself of their services. But with me it is different, hein? Ah, yes, Sir Hugh will merely lock me up again and for the future guard me more vigilantly129. Will you not mount, mademoiselle?"
His voice was quiet, and his smile never failed him. It was this steady smile which set her heart to aching. Adelais knew that no natural power could dissuade130 him; he would go back with her; but she knew how constantly he had hoped for liberty, with what fortitude131 he had awaited his chance of liberty; and that he should return to captivity, smiling, thrilled her to impotent, heart-shaking rage. It maddened her that he dared love her thus infinitely132.
"But, mademoiselle," Fulke d'Arnaye went on, when she had mounted, "let us proceed, if it so please you, by way of Filby. For then we may ride a little distance with this rogue133 Olivier. I may not hope to see Olivier again in this life, you comprehend, and Olivier is, I think, the one person who loves me in all this great wide world. Me, I am not very popular, you conceive. But you do not object, mademoiselle?"
Afterward they rode on the way to Filby, leaving Roger Darke to regain135 at discretion136 the mastership of his faculties137. The two Frenchmen as they went talked vehemently138; and Adelais, following them, brooded on the powerful Marquis of Falmouth and the great lady she would shortly be; but her eyes strained after Fulke d'Arnaye.
Presently he fell a-singing; and still his singing praised her in a desirous song, yearning139 but very sweet, as they rode through the autumn woods; and his voice quickened her pulses as always it had the power to quicken them, and in her soul an interminable battling dragged on.
Sang Fulke d'Arnaye:
_"Had you lived when earth was new
What had bards of old to do
Save to sing in praise of you?
"They had sung of you always,
Adelais, sweet Adelais,
Nor had undying melodies,
Wailed soft as love may sing of these
Dream-hallowed names,—of Héloïse,
Ysoude, Salomê, Semelê,
Morgaine, Lucrece, Antiopê,
Brunhilda, Helen, Mélusine,
Penelope, and Magdalene:
—But you alone had all men's praise,
Sweet Adelais"_
5. "Thalatta!"
When they had crossed the Bure, they had come into the open country,—a great plain, gray in the moonlight, that descended141, hillock by hillock, toward the shores of the North Sea. On the right the dimpling lustre142 of tumbling waters stretched to a dubious143 sky-line, unbroken save for the sail of the French boat, moored144 near the ruins of the old Roman station, Garianonum, and showing white against the unresting sea, like a naked arm; to the left the lights of Filby flashed their unblinking, cordial radiance.
Here the brothers parted. Vainly Olivier wept and stormed before Fulke's unwavering smile; the Sieur d'Arnaye was adamantean: and presently the younger man kissed him on both cheeks and rode slowly away toward the sea.
D'Arnaye stared after him. "Ah, the brave lad!" said Fulke d'Arnaye. "And yet how foolish! Look you, mademoiselle, that rogue is worth ten of me, and he does not even suspect it."
His composure stung her to madness.
"Now, by the passion of our Lord and Saviour!" Adelais cried, wringing145 her hands in impotence; "I conjure146 you to hear me, Fulke! You must not do this thing. Oh, you are cruel, cruel! Listen, my lord," she went on with more restraint, when she had reined147 up her horse by the side of his, "yonder in France the world lies at your feet. Our great King is dead. France rises now, and France needs a brave captain. You, you! it is you that she needs. She has sent for you, my lord, that mother France whom you love. And you will go back to sleep in the sun at Winstead when France has need of you. Oh, it is foul148!"
But he shook his head. "France is very dear to me," he said, "yet there are other men who can serve France. And there is no man save me who may to-night serve you, most beautiful lady."
"You shame me!" she cried, in a gust149 of passion. "You shame my worthlessness with this mad honor of yours that drags you jesting to your death! For you must die a prisoner now, without any hope. You and Orleans and Bourbon are England's only hold on France, and Bedford dare not let you go. Fetters150, chains, dungeons151, death, torture perhaps—that is what you must look for now. And you will no longer be held at Winstead, but in the strong Tower at London."
"Hélas, you speak more truly than an oracle," he gayly assented.
And hers was the ageless thought of women. "This man is rather foolish and peculiarly dear to me. What shall I do with him? and how much must I humor him in his foolishness?"
D'Arnaye stayed motionless: but still his eyes strained after Olivier.
Well, she would humor him. There was no alternative save that of perhaps never seeing Fulke again.
Adelais laid her hand upon his arm. "You love me. God knows, I am not worthy152 of it, but you love me. Ever since I was a child you have loved me,—always, always it was you who indulged me, shielded me, protected me with this fond constancy that I have not merited. Very well,"—she paused, for a single heartbeat,—"go! and take me with you."
The hand he raised shook as though palsied. "O most beautiful!" the Frenchman cried, in an extreme of adoration153; "you would do that! You would do that in pity to save me—unworthy me! And it is I whom you call brave—me, who annoy you with my woes154 so petty!" Fulke d'Arnaye slipped from his horse, and presently stood beside the gray mare, holding a small, slim hand in his. "I thank you," he said, simply. "You know that it is impossible. But yes, I have loved you these long years. And now—Ah, my heart shakes, my words tumble, I cannot speak! You know that I may not—may not let you do this thing. Why, but even if, of your prodigal graciousness, mademoiselle, you were so foolish as to waste a little liking155 upon my so many demerits—" He gave a hopeless gesture. "Why, there is always our brave marquis to be considered, who will so soon make you a powerful, rich lady. And I?—I have nothing."
But Adelais had rested either hand upon a stalwart shoulder, bending down to him till her hair brushed his. Yes, this man was peculiarly dear to her: she could not bear to have him murdered when in equity156 he deserved only to have his jaws157 boxed for his toplofty nonsense about her; and, after all, she did not much mind humoring him in his foolishness.
"Do you not understand?" she whispered. "Ah, my paladin, do you think I speak in pity? I wished to be a great lady,—yes. Yet always, I think, I loved you, Fulke, but until to-night I had believed that love was only the man's folly158, the woman's diversion. See, here is Falmouth's ring." She drew it from her finger, and flung it awkwardly, as every woman throws. Through the moonlight it fell glistening. "Yes, I hungered for Falmouth's power, but you have shown me that which is above any temporal power. Ever I must crave159 the highest, Fulke—Ah, fair sweet friend, do not deny me!" Adelais cried, piteously. "Take me with you, Fulke! I will ride with you to the wars, my lord, as your page; I will be your wife, your slave, your scullion. I will do anything save leave you. Lord, it is not the maid's part to plead thus!"
Fulke d'Arnaye drew her warm, yielding body toward him and stood in silence. Then he raised his eyes to heaven. "Dear Lord God," he cried, in a great voice, "I entreat160 of Thee that if through my fault this woman ever know regret or sorrow I be cast into the nethermost161 pit of Hell for all eternity162!" Afterward he kissed her.
And presently Adelais lifted her head, with a mocking little laugh.
"Sorrow!" she echoed. "I think there is no sorrow in all the world.
Mount, my lord, mount! See where brother Olivier waits for us yonder."
* * * * *
JUNE 5, 1455—AUGUST 4, 1462
_So it came about that Adelais went into France with the great-grandson of Tiburce d'Arnaye: and Fulke, they say, made her a very fair husband. But he had not, of course, much time for love-making.
For in France there was sterner work awaiting Fulke d'Arnaye, and he set about it: through seven dreary163 years he and Rougemont and Dunois managed, somehow, to bolster164 up the cause of the fat-witted King of Bourges (as the English then called him), who afterward became King Charles VII of France. But in the February of 1429—four days before the Maid of Domremy set forth from her voice-haunted Bois Chenu to bring about a certain coronation in Rheims Church and in Rouen Square a flamy martyrdom—four days before the coming of the good Lorrainer, Fulke d'Arnaye was slain165 at Rouvray-en-Beausse in that encounter between the French and the English which history has commemorated166 as the Battle of the Herrings.
Adelais was wooed by, and betrothed to, the powerful old Comte de Vaudremont; but died just before the date set for this second marriage, in October, 1429. She left two sons: Noël, born in 1425, and Raymond, born in 1426; who were reared by their uncle, Olivier d'Arnaye. It was said of them that Noel was the handsomest man of his times, and Raymond the most shrewd; concerning that you will judge hereafter. Both of these d'Arnayes, on reaching manhood, were identified with the Dauphin's party in the unending squabbles between Charles VII and the future Louis XI.
Now you may learn how Noël d'Arnaye came to be immortalized by a legacy167 of two hundred and twenty blows from an osierwhip—since (as the testator piously168 affirms), "chastoy est une belle169 aulmosne."
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1
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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2
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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3
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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4
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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5
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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6
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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7
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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8
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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9
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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10
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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11
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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12
irrelevance
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| n.无关紧要；不相关；不相关的事物 | |
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13
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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15
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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16
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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17
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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18
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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19
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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20
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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21
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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22
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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23
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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24
analogues
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| 相似物( analogue的名词复数 )； 类似物； 类比； 同源词 | |
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fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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speciousness
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| n.似是而非 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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29
verdancy
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| n.幼稚；嫩绿 | |
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30
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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31
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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32
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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33
mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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34
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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35
comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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36
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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37
blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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38
bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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39
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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40
pilfered
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| v.偷窃（小东西），小偷( pilfer的过去式和过去分词 )；偷窃（一般指小偷小摸） | |
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41
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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42
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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43
admonish
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| v.训戒；警告；劝告 | |
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44
savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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45
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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46
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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47
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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49
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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50
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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51
leech
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| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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52
avers
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| v.断言( aver的第三人称单数 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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53
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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54
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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55
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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56
pillaged
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| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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58
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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59
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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60
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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61
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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62
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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63
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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64
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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65
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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66
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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67
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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69
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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70
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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71
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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72
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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73
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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74
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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76
snared
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| v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
limned
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| v.画( limn的过去式和过去分词 )；勾画；描写；描述 | |
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78
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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79
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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80
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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81
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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82
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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83
sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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84
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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85
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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86
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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87
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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88
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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89
ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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90
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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91
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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92
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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94
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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95
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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96
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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97
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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98
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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100
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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101
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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103
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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106
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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107
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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108
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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109
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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110
blustered
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| v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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111
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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112
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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113
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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114
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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115
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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116
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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117
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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118
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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120
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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121
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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122
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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123
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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124
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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126
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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127
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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128
conspires
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| 密谋( conspire的第三人称单数 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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129
vigilantly
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| adv.警觉地，警惕地 | |
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130
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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131
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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132
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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133
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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134
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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135
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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136
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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137
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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138
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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139
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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140
worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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141
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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142
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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143
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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145
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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147
reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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148
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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149
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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150
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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151
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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152
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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153
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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154
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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156
equity
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| n.公正，公平，（无固定利息的）股票 | |
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157
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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158
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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159
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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160
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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161
nethermost
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| adj.最下面的 | |
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162
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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163
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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164
bolster
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| n.枕垫；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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165
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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166
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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168
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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169
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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