The Justice of the King

  CHAPTER XX

  THE LAST STAND

  Below the attack halted, but up the stairway came the noise of roughlaughter and rougher words, words which made Stephen La Mothe's bloodgrow hot and his nerves tingle as, gritting his teeth, he stamped hisfeet so that the girl might not hear them also. Resolute? Desperate?Yes, much more than resolute, much more than desperate, and with muchmore than a man's life to be lost. And all were of one mind. Follettehe was sure of, and at his right Blaise, the stable-lad, panted inshort breaths, swinging his unaccustomed weapon softly. "Damn them!"La Mothe heard him say. "Will they never come?" and when the nineminutes had crawled to twelve they came.

  But not with a rush, not as those above had reckoned. The siege hadgrown cautious. This time there was a system. Up, on the very edge ofthe steps, broad, wide, and shallow for the easier carrying of heavyloads upon the back, came the two with the palisades, up, until thepickets were a full yard through the well-hole, but with those who heldthem out of reach, and with a shout, the wood rasping the ancientflagging, each swept a quarter circle. It was the work of an instant.As the pickets crashed against the wall the voice from behind cried,"Now lads!" and the rush came. There was the clang of iron-shod feeton the stones, a glimmer in the half obscurity, and behind the picketsthe stairway bristled with steel.

  "Praises be!" cried Blaise, and crouched on his heels. Down he leaned,down, forward, and lunged clumsily. That, too, was the work of aninstant, an act concurrent with his cry, but when he straightenedhimself a picket had dropped into the gloom, and he who held it layupon it, coughing and choking. "Rats!" said Blaise, slashing viciouslyat the blade nearest him. "Dieu! but the rat bit the cur dog thattime! Come on, you curs."

  And the rats had need to bite. The well-hole was double-lined; thosein front fought upward, while those behind protected them and stole astep higher if the defence slackened. Nice play of fence there wasnone. In such a packed confusion the brute strength of Blaise thestableman counted for more than the finest skill of fence in the world.And with the brute's strength he seemed to have the brute'sindifference to pain. Twice, stooping low, he parried with his arm,taking the slash with a gasp but thrusting as he took it, and eachthrust struck home. But those behind filled the gaps, those belowpressed upward stair by stair, and La Mothe, breathless, but without ascratch, knew what it was to be blood-drunken as the din of steelfilled his ears and he saw the flushed and staring faces opposite riseminute by minute more level with his own. The three were doing all mencould dare or do, but the end was nearer and nearer with every breath.The end! God in heaven! No! not that--not that; and in hisdrunkenness he dashed a thrust aside as Blaise had done, stabbed asBlaise had stabbed, and laughed drunkenly that he had sent a soul toits Maker with all the passions of lust and murder hot upon it; buthappier than Blaise he took no hurt.

  "Mademoiselle," said La Follette without turning his head, and speakingsoftly to save his breath, "go you and Monseigneur to the corner behindme," and La Mothe knew that he too saw the coming of the end. There inthe corner, with Love and France behind them, they would make theirlast stand.

  "I have Monseigneur's dagger," she answered. Again La Mothe understoodthe inference left unspoken, understood that she as well as he hadheard the brutal jests which had set his blood boiling. That she hadthe dagger was a comfort; but what a splendid courage was hers. Marcelhad even ceased to pray.

  For very life's sake La Mothe dared abate the vigilance of neither eyenor hand, and yet by instinct--there was no sound--he knew they hadrisen to obey. By instinct, too, he knew that Ursula de Vesc had drawnnearer, and it was no surprise to hear her voice behind him. But itwas not to him she spoke.

  "Now, Blaise, thrust, thrust!"

  There was a rip of torn cloth, a flutter in the air--the flutter as ofa bird on the wing--an upturned point was caught in a tangle of whitelinen, and through the tangle Blaise rammed his sword-blade almost tothe hilt and laughed, panting.

  "Rats!" he cried, tugging his arm backwards with a horrible jerk. "Goto your hole, cur!" and more blood-drunken even than La Mothe he brokeinto a village song.

  "'Rosalie was soft and sweet; Sweet to kiss, sweet to kiss: Hair and month and cheek and feet, Sweet to kiss, sweet to kiss.'

  "Mademoiselle, fling in that praying lout from the corner and make someuse of him; it's all he's fit for."

  But the gap was filled; there were two on the top-most step, and LaFollette, not only wounded in the thigh but slashed across the ribs,was giving ground.

  "Be ready, La Mothe," he said. His teeth were clenched and his chestlaboured heavily. "Be ready, Blaise."

  "Ready," answered La Mothe, saving his breath. His heart was verybitter. The twelve minutes were seventeen, succour could not be faroff, but the end had come. "Do you hear, Blaise?"

  But Blaise was past hearing. While he fought with his right his maimedleft hand, cut to the bones, had torn his smock open from the throat,and the hairy chest, smeared with his blood, glistened in broad dropsfrom the sweat of his labours. In such a hilt-to-hilt struggle hisignorance was almost an advantage. He had nothing to unlearn, no rulesof fence to disregard, and his peasant's strength of arm whirled asidean attack with a paralyzing power impossible to any skill. Right,left, downward swept the blade, his knees and hips half bent as heleaned forward, crouching, his left arm swinging as he swayed. Right,left, downward, his blood-drunkenness growing in savage abandonmentwith every minute. Yes, he was ready--ready in his own way--but pasthearing.

  "Damn the English," was his answer to La Mothe, his mind back in thefifty-year-old tragedy. The play was no make-believe, and he wasMichel Calvet, son to Jean the sixth, the Michel whose elder brotherhad been coursed like a hare and killed in the open. Then his songrose afresh, but gaspingly, raucously, as if the notes tore his chest.

  "'Rosalie, I love you true; Kiss me, sweet, kiss me, sweet. Lov'st thou me as I love you? Kiss me, sweet, kiss me, sweet.'

  "Rats," said he! "Come up, y' cur dogs, come up."

  "La Mothe," breathed La Follette, "when I say Now!"

  Yes, the end had come.

  "Damn the English," cried Blaise hoarsely. With a mighty stroke heswept aside the opposing points, drew a choking breath, crouched lower,and, with the Dauphin's sword at the charge, he flung himself into thegap breast-forward, missed his thrust, splintered the blade against thewall, and with a wild clutch drew all within reach into his grip. Foran instant they hung upon a stair-edge, then, in a writhing,floundering mass, breast to breast, breathless, half dead or dying,they rolled to the floor. From behind La Mothe heard Ursula de Vesccry, "Oh God! pity him!" in a sob. But he dared not turn, his ownblood-drunkenness fired him to the finger-tips and he lunged furiously,getting home a stroke above a point lowered in the surprise. Againthere was a rush of iron-shod feet upon the stones, but a rushdownward, a moment's pause below, a crossing babel of passionate,clamouring voices, insistence, denial, and yet more denial, then asilence--or what seemed a silence--a few hoarse whispers and a cry ortwo of pain. Yes, the end had come. In the corner stood the Dauphinand, half in front, Ursula de Vesc, her arm stretched out across hisbreast in the old attitude of protection. Marcel lay beside them in afaint.

  "Hugues?" There was a question and a cry in the boy's one word.

  "Charles, Charles, have you nothing to say to the brave men who almostdied for you?"

  "Hugues loved me," he answered, and at the bitter pathos of the replyLa Mothe forgot the ingratitude. There were so few who loved him. Butthe girl could not forget.

  "Monsieur La Follette, Monsieur La Mothe," she began, but broke offwith a cry. "Oh, Monsieur La Follette, you are wounded? What can Ido? Words can come afterwards, and all my life I will remember, all mylife. Are you dreadfully hurt? Can I not do something?" But thoughshe spoke to La Follette her eyes, after the first glance, were busysearching Stephen La Mothe for just such an ominous stain as showed inbrown patches upon La Follette. But there was none.
Breathless,dishevelled, his clothing slashed, he was without a scratch, and thestrained anxiety faded from her face.

  "I can wait," answered La Follette, "we must get the Dauphin to theChateau. La Mothe, see if they are gone," and he glanced significantlydown the stairway. La Follette knew something of war, and there mustbe sights below it were better Ursula de Vesc should not see lest theyhaunt her all her life, sleeping or waking.

  But the Dauphin, his nerves strained and raw, had grown petulant.

  "It is safe enough. I heard them ride off. I want Hugues. I wantHugues."

  "And Blaise?"

  "Oh! Blaise!" He broke into a discordant laugh. "I told him to be aman and, my faith! he was one. Do you think, Ursula, that Father Johnwill ask my thoughts a second time?"