"Peter," I said abruptly, "have you any water handy?"
"To be sure," he replied, starting up. "Are you thirsty?"
I nodded, and he went to get it, blaming himself for his thoughtlessness. He need not have reproached himself, however. I was not thirsty; but I could not bear that he should sit and look at me at that moment. The story he had told had touched me--and I was still weak; and I could not answer for it, I should not burst into tears like a woman. The thought of this girl"s persistence, who in everything else was so weak, of her boldness who in her own defence was a hare, of her strange instinct on our behalf who seemed made only to be herself protected--the thought of these things touched me to the heart and filled me with an odd mixture of pity and grat.i.tude! I had gone to save her, and she had saved me! I had gone to shield her from harm, and heaven had led me to her door, not in strength but in weakness. She had fled from me who came to help her; that when I needed help, she might be at hand to give it!
"Where is she?" I muttered, when he came back and I had drunk.
"Who? Marie?" he asked.
"Yes, if that is her name," I said, drinking again.
"She is lying down upstairs," he answered. "She is worn out, poor child. Not that in one sense, Master Martin," he continued, dropping his voice and nodding with a mysterious air, "she _is_ poor. Though you might think it."
"How do you mean?" I said, raising my head and meeting his eyes. He nodded.
"It is between ourselves," he said; "but I am afraid there is a good deal in what our rascals here say. I am afraid, to be plain, Master Martin, that the father was like all his kind: plundered many an honest citizen, and roasted many a poor farmer before his own fire. It is the way of soldiers in that army; and G.o.d help the country they march in, be it friend"s or foe"s!"
"Well?" I said impatiently; "but what of that now?" The mention of these things fretted me. I wanted to hear nothing about the father.
"The man is dead," I said.
"Ay, he is," Peter answered slowly and impressively. "But the daughter? She has got a necklace round her neck now, worth--worth I dare say two hundred men at arms."
"What, ducats?"
"Ay, ducats! Gold ducats. It is worth all that."
"How do you know?" I said, staring at him. "I have never seen such a thing on her. And I have seen the girl two or three times."
"Well, I will tell you," he answered, glancing first at the window and then at Steve to be sure that we were not overheard. "I"ll tell you.
When we had carried you into the house the other night she took off her kerchief, to tear a piece from it to bind up your head. That uncovered the necklace. She was quick to cover it up, when she remembered herself, but not quick enough."
"Is it of gold?" I asked.
He nodded. "Fifteen or sixteen links I should say, and each as big as a small walnut. Carved and shaped like a walnut too."
"It may be silver-gilt."
He laughed. "I am a smith, though only a locksmith," he said. "Trust me for knowing gold. I doubt it came from Magdeburg; I doubt it did.
Magdeburg, or Halle, which my Lord Tilly ravaged about that time. And if so there is blood upon it. It will bring the girl no luck, depend upon it."
"If we talk about it, I"ll be sworn it will not!" I answered savagely.
"There are plenty here who would twist her neck for so much as a link of it."
"You are right, Master Martin," he answered meekly. "Perhaps I should not have mentioned it; but I know that you are safe. And after all the girl has done nothing."
That was true, but it did not content me. I wished he had not seen what he had, or that he had not told me the tale. A minute before I had been able to think of the girl with pure satisfaction; to picture with a pleasant warmth about my heart her gentleness, her courage, her dark mild beauty that belonged as much to childhood as womanhood, the thought for others that made her flight a perpetual saving. But this spoiled all. The mere possession of this necklace, much more the use of it, seemed to sully her in my eyes, to taint her freshness, to steal the perfume from her youth.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ... she came presently to me with a bowl of broth in her hands and a timid smile on her lips....]
For I am peasant born, of those on whom the free-companions have battened from the beginning; and spoil won in such a way seemed to me to be accursed. Whether I would or no, horrid tales of the storming of Magdeburg came into my mind: tales of streets awash with blood, of churches blocked with slain, of women lying dead with living babes in their arms. And I shuddered. I felt the necklace a blot on all. I shrank from one, who, with the face of a saint, wore under her kerchief gold dyed in such a fashion!
That was while I lay alone, tossing from side to side, and troubling myself unreasonably about the matter; since the girl was nothing to me, and a Papist. But when she came presently to me with a bowl of broth in her hands and a timid smile on her lips--a smile which gave the lie to the sadness of her eyes and the red rims that surrounded them--I forgot all, necklace and creed. I took the bowl silently, as she gave it. I gave it back with only one "Thank you," which sounded hoa.r.s.e and rustic in my ears; but I suppose my eyes were more eloquent, for she blushed and trembled. And in the evening she did not come. Instead one of the children brought my supper, and sitting down on the straw beside me, twittered of Marie and "Go" and other things.
"Who is Go?" I said.
"Go is Marie"s brother," the child answered, open-eyed at my ignorance. "You not know Go?"
"It is a strange name," I said, striving to excuse myself.
"_He_ is a strange man," the little one retorted, pointing to Steve.
"He does not speak. Now you speak. Marie says--"
"What does Marie say?" I asked.
"Marie says you saved his life."
"Well, you can tell her it was the other way," I exclaimed roughly.
Twice that night when I awoke I heard a light footstep, and turned to see the girl, moving to and fro among the rusty locks and ancient chests in attendance on Steve. He mended but slowly. She did not come near me at these times, and after a glance I pretended to fall asleep that I might listen unnoticed to her movements, and she be more free to do her will. But whenever I heard her and opened my eyes to see her slender figure moving in that dingy place, I felt the warmth about my heart again. I forgot the gold necklace; I thought no more of the rosary, only of the girl. For what is there which so well becomes a woman as tending the sick; an office which in a lover"s eyes should set off his mistress beyond velvet and Flanders lace.
CHAPTER VI.
RUPERT THE GREAT.
I have known a man very strong and very confident, whom the muzzle of a loaded pistol, set fairly against his head, has reduced to reason marvellously. So it fared with Heritzburg on this occasion. My lady"s cannon, which I went up to the roof at daybreak to see--and did see, to my great astonishment, trained one on the Market Square, and one down the High Street--formed the pistol, under the cooling influence of which the town had so far come to its senses, that the game was now in my lady"s hands. Peter a.s.sured me that the place was in a panic, that the Countess could hardly ask any amends that would not be made, and that as a preliminary the Burgomaster and Minister were to go to the castle before noon to sue for pardon. He suggested that I and the girl should accompany them.
"But does Hofman know that we are here?" I asked.
"Since yesterday morning," the locksmith answered, with a grin. "And no one more pleased to hear it! If he had not you to present as a peace-offering, I doubt he would have fled the town before he would have gone up. As it is, they had fine work with him at the town-council yesterday."
"He is in a panic? Serve him right!" I said.
"I am told that his cheeks shake like jelly," Peter answered.
"Two of the Waldgrave"s men are dead, you know, and some say that the Countess will hang him out of hand. But you will go up with him?"
"Yes," I said. "I see no objection."
Some one else objected, however. When the plan was broached to the girl, she looked troubled. For a moment she did not speak, but stood before us silent and confused. Then she pointed to Steve.
"When is he going, if you please?" she asked, in a troubled voice.
"He must go in a litter by the road," I answered. "Peter here will see to it this morning."