![Michel and Angele [A Ladder of Swords] — Complete - Gilbert Parker](/cover_906188.jpg "Michel and Angele [A Ladder of Swords] — Complete - Gilbert Parker")
quickly that he was ill prepared for it, and could do little but stare and pluck at the tassel of his sword; for he was embarrassed before this maiden, who changed as quickly as the currents change under the brow of the Couperon Cliff, behind which lay his manor-house of Rozel.
“I have visited at your manor, Monsieur of Rozel. I have seen the state in which you live, your retainers, your men-at-arms, your farming-folk, and your sailormen. I know how your Queen receives you; how your honour is as stable as your fief.”
He drew himself up again proudly. He could understand this speech.
“Your horses and your hounds I have seen,” she added, “your men-servants and your maid-servants, your fields of corn, your orchards, and your larder. I have sometimes broken the Commandment and coveted them and envied you.”
“Break the Commandment again, for the last time,” he cried, delighted and boisterous. “Let us not waste words, lady. Let’s kiss and have it over.”
Her eyes flashed. “I coveted them and envied you; but then, I am but a vain girl at times, and vanity is easier to me than humbleness.”
“Blood of man, but I cannot understand so various a creature!” he broke in, again puzzled.
“There is a little chapel in the dell beside your manor, Monsieur. If you will go there, and get upon your knees, and pray till the candles no more burn, and the Popish images crumble in their places, you will yet never understand myself or any woman.”
“There’s no question of Popish images between us,” he answered, vainly trying for foothold. “Pray as you please, and I’ll see no harm comes to the Mistress of Rozel.”
He was out of his bearings and impatient. Religion to him was a dull recreation invented chiefly for women. She became plain enough now. “ ’Tis no images nor religion that stands between us,” she answered, “though they might well do so. It is that I do not love you, Monsieur of Rozel.”
His face, which had slowly clouded, suddenly cleared. “Love! Love!” He laughed good-humouredly. “Love comes, I’m told, with marriage. But we can do well enough without fugling on that pipe. Come, come, dost think I’m not a proper man and a gentleman? Dost think I’ll not use thee well and ‘fend thee, Huguenot though thou art, ’gainst trouble or fret or any man’s persecutions—be he my Lord Bishop, my Lord Chancellor, or King of France, or any other?”
She came a step closer to him, even as though she would lay a hand upon his arm. “I believe that you would do all that in you lay,” she answered steadily. “Yours is a rough wooing, but it is honest—”
“Rough! Rough!” he protested, for he thought he had behaved like some Adonis. Was it not ten years only since he had been at Court!
“Be assured, Monsieur, that I know how to prize the man who speaks after the light given him. I know that you are a brave and valorous gentleman. I must thank you most truly and heartily, but, Monsieur, you and yours are not for me. Seek elsewhere, among your own people, in your own religion and language and position, the Mistress of Rozel.”
He was dumfounded. Now he comprehended the plain fact that he had been declined.
“You send me packing!” he blurted out, getting red in the face.
“Ah, no! Say it is my misfortune that I cannot give myself the great honour,” she said; in her tone a little disdainful dryness, a little pity, a little feeling that here was a good friend lost.
“It’s not because of the French soldier that was with Montgomery at Domfront?—I’ve heard that story. But he’s gone to heaven, and ’tis vain crying for last year’s breath,” he added, with proud philosophy.
“He is not dead. And if he were,” she added, “do you think, Monsieur, that we should find it easier to cross the gulf between us?”
“Tut, tut, that bugbear Love!” he said shortly. “And so you’d lose a good friend for a dead lover? I’ faith, I’d befriend thee well if thou wert my wife, Ma’m’selle.”
“It is hard for those who need friends to lose them,” she answered sadly.
The sorrow of her position crept in upon her and filled her eyes with tears. She turned them to the sea-instinctively towards that point on the shore where she thought it likely Michel might be; as though by looking she might find comfort and support in this hard hour.
Even as she gazed into the soft afternoon light she could see, far over, a little sail standing out towards the Ecrehos. Not once in six months might the coast of France be seen so clearly. One might almost have noted people walking on the beach. This was no good token, for when that coast may be seen with great distinctness a storm follows hard after. The girl knew this; and though she could not know that this was Michel de la Foret’s boat, the possibility fixed itself in her mind. She quickly scanned the horizon. Yes, there in the north-west was gathering a dark-blue haze, hanging like small filmy curtains in the sky.
The Seigneur of Rozel presently broke the silence so awkward for him. He had seen the tears in her eyes, and though he could not guess the cause, he vaguely thought it might be due to his announcement that she had lost a friend. He was magnanimous at once, and he meant what he said and would stand by it through thick and thin.
“Well, well, I’ll be thy everlasting friend if not thy husband,” he said with ornate generosity. “Cheer thy heart, lady.”
With a sudden impulse she seized his hand and kissed it, and, turning, ran swiftly down the rocks towards her home.
He stood and looked after her, then, dumfounded, at the hand she had kissed.
“Blood of my heart!” he said, and shook his head in utter amazement.
Then he turned and looked out upon the Channel. He saw the little boat Angele had descried making from France. Glancing at the sky, “What fools come there!” he said anxiously.
They were Michel de la Foret and Buonespoir the pirate, in a black-bellied cutter with red sails.
CHAPTER III
For weeks De la Foret and Buonespoir had lain in hiding at St. Brieuc. At last Buonespoir declared all was ready once again. He had secured for the Camisard the passport and clothes of a priest who had but just died at Granville. Once again they made the attempt to reach English soil.
Standing out from Carteret on the Belle Suzanne, they steered for the light upon the Marmotier Rocks of the Ecrehos, which Angele had paid a fisherman to keep going every night. This light had caused the French and English frigates some uneasiness, and they had patrolled the Channel from Cap de la Hague to the Bay of St. Brieuc with a vigilance worthy of a larger cause. One fine day an English frigate anchored off the Ecrehos, and the fisherman was seized. He, poor man, swore that he kept the light burning to guide his brother fishermen to and fro between Boulay Bay and the Ecrehos. The captain of the frigate tried severities; but the fisherman stuck to his tale, and the light burned on as before—a lantern stuck upon a pole. One day, with a telescope, Buonespoir had seen the exact position of the staff supporting the light, and had mapped out his course accordingly. He would
