Sir Patrick, as Achanna learned, had left his hostelry in sufficient time to be at the false rendezvous; but being without an order from the Dyck Graf to pass the gates, (a document with which he had not provided himself, lest a knowledge of the application for it might lead to his discovery by the Douglases) he had been refused egress by the guards; and after spending an hour in attempting every gate of Bommel – an hour of impatience and fury – during which he strove in vain to corrupt by gold the trusty Walloons who watched them, he swam his horse at last through the Waal, and having thus to make a great detour, arrived at a most critical time for the fate of Achanna, who gazed at him, speechlessly and helplessly, afraid to utter a word lest Gray might recognise his voice, and pass through his body the sword which had just saved him.
Sir Patrick, however, did recognise him as he cut his cords, but not immediately; though there was no mistaking his hideous visage and green cat-like eyes, or the red hair and beard that mingled together.
"So it is thee, James Achanna," said he; "dog and son of a dog, had I met you mounted and armed as I now am I would have slain you without remorse or mercy. As it is, go, and remember that you receive your miserable life at the hand of one who spares it rather from profound disdain, than that you may have time for repentance – a time that may never come to you!"
With these words Gray smote him on the cheek, sheathed his sword, remounted his horse, and, bewildered by the whole affair, rode rapidly off, leaving Achanna to find his way back to Bommel as he best could.
Sir Patrick was filled with rage, but he knew not against whom to direct it. He half suspected that a snare had been laid for him, and then dismissed the idea, believing that the circumstance of his being in Bommel, or even in Flanders, was unknown to all save the abbot and Murielle, the mission on which Crichton had sent him being almost a secret one: for these reasons he did not make himself known to Achanna by name.
It was not until dawn, when the gates were open to admit the boors and peasantry to the markets, that the rescuer and the rescued made their way, but by different routes, into Bommel; and a scurvy figure the latter made when he presented himself at the residence of the Douglases, minus horse, arms, and clothing, with an ill-devised tale of his having been assaulted by Brabanciones, while the fierce jibes of the earl, and the narrow escape from a dreadful death, inspired him with more hatred than ever against Gray and Murielle, for he had learned to combine them in one idea.
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE THIRD EVENING
Good fortune and the favour of the king
Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony
Shall seem expedient on the new-born brief,
And be performed to-night.
After what had occurred at Duke Reinald's cross, and being bewildered by the whole affair of the ring – an affair which seemed so inexplicable, Gray armed himself with more than usual care, and covering his fine, flexible chain shirt, gorget and sleeves of tempered Milan plate, by the ample brown and red-braided Muscovite gown, he repaired punctually at seven o'clock to the church of St. Genevieve. He entered with an anxious heart, and kept a hand on his sword, as he knew not by whom, or in what fashion he might be greeted; but, to his joy found Murielle and the abbot awaiting him in the appointed place.
Murielle was smiling and happy; but the abbot was sombre, gloomy, and abstracted.
A recent conversation which had passed between him and the earl of Douglas had revealed more of the latter's terrible political, or rather insurrectionary projects, than the abbot conceived to be possible. The poor old man was dismayed; his very soul shrank within him at the contemplation of his lawful and anointed king dethroned, and his native country plunged in civil strife, to gratify the proud ambition and guilty vengeance of a turbulent and predatory noble. A wholesome fear of that ugly architectural feature, the gallows knob of Thrave, might have prevented him from daring to think of circumventing the plans of the earl had he been in Galloway; for Douglas, though slavish in superstition and in ritual observances, was sternly severe to all who marred his purposes, or crossed the path of his ambition, or even of his most simple wish: thus he who hanged the good lord of Teregles in his armour, might not hesitate to hang an abbot in his cassock. But here in Flanders, far from local feudal influences, the superior of Tongland felt himself more free to act, and he had been all day revolving in his mind the means of putting the lord chancellor and other ministers of James II. in possession of facts which would enable them to guard the interests of the throne and of the people from confusion, from invasion, and an anarchy like that which followed the demise of the good king Alexander III., and in the person of Gray he had the means of immediate communication.
Anxious to solve a mystery, Gray said hurriedly, "You have lost a ring Murielle?"
"My ring – ah, yes, and an omen of evil I deemed that loss to be; for it was the betrothal ring you gave me at the Thorns of the Carlinwark. It was lost two nights ago – or abstracted from me – "
"The latter most likely – but permit me to restore it," said he, tenderly kissing her pretty hand; "it nearly lured me to my death, for now I verily believe that a deadly snare was set for me."
"Oh, what is this you tell me?" she asked with alarm.
"Sad, sad truth, my own love."
"A snare? Oh, it is impossible, since none know that you are here, but our lord the abbot and I."
"But others, Murielle, do know," replied Gray, and he briefly related the affair of the preceding evening; the visit of Carl Langfanger with the ring and the message as from herself; the delays which had happily occurred, and how he had reached the Wayside Cross too late for the purpose of his secret enemies, but strangely enough in time to save Achanna from a mutilation and death, which were no doubt intended for another. Murielle was stupefied.
"Achanna – say you this man was James Achanna?" sobbed Murielle, becoming very pale and trembling.
"Certainly 'twas he; oh, there is no mistaking that hateful visage of his."
"Then you are indeed lost!" said she, clasping her hands; but the abbot who had hitherto remained silent and gloomy, patted her head kindly, and said – "My own good daughter, hearken to me; trust in Heaven and hope – hope, the friend of happiness."
"But hope, Father Abbot, will desert us, unless – " said Gray, hesitating, as he turned imploringly to Murielle.
"Unless what?" said the abbot.
"Murielle becomes my bride – my wife!"
"Sir Patrick Gray – "
"Her ring is here; a betrothal ring it is, and a wedding-ring it shall be," continued Gray with increasing vehemence, as his voice with his emotion became deeper. "Good father abbot, my kinsman and my friend, you who knew and loved my father and mother well, you who were the guide and mentor of both, even as you are of me, will not hear me now in vain! The dangerous schemes of this ambitious earl – "
"Enough, enough," interrupted the abbot gloomily, as he waved his hand; "to my sorrow and fear I know them all, and own they terrify me."
"Then, to save our young king from many deadly perils, and our country from civil war – to save this miserable Duke Robert from the block on which his father perished – to save the house of Douglas from destruction, and, more than all, to save herself from misery, Murielle must wed me!"
Murielle opened her tremulous lips to speak, but Gray added impetuously, – "To-day – to-night – now, instantly!"
"Now?" reiterated the abbot.
"Now, or it may be never!"
"Oh, what is this you say?" said Murielle, shrinking closer to the abbot.
"The solemn, the sad, the earnest, but the loving truth, dear Murielle," urged Gray, his eyes and heart filling as he spoke with passion and tenderness.