and forced his way through the crowd, roughly knocking from under them the feet of two or three ruffians who opposed him. He reproached the crowd, he berated them, he handled them fiercely. By a dexterous strength he caught the little gentleman up in his arms, and, driving straight on to the open door of the smithy, placed him inside, then blocked the passage with his own body.
It was a strange picture: the preacher in an ecstasy haranguing the foolish rabble, who now realised, with an unbecoming joy, that the Last Day was yet to face; the gaping, empty prison; the open windows crowded with excited faces; the church bell from the Vier Marchi ringing an alarm; Norman lethargy roused to froth and fury: one strong man holding two hundred back!
Above them all, at a hus in the gable of a thatched cottage, stood the girl whom the Chevalier had recognised, anxiously watching the affray. She was leaning across the lower closed half of the door, her hands in apprehensive excitement clasping her cheeks. The eyes were bewildered, and, though alive with pain, watched the scene below with unwavering intensity.
Like all mobs this one had no reason, no sense. They were baulked in their malign intentions, and this man, Maitre Ranulph Delagarde, was the cause of it—that was all they knew. A stone was thrown at Delagarde as he stood in the doorway, but it missed him.
“Oh-oh-oh!” the girl exclaimed, shrinking. “O shame! O you cowards!” she added, her hands now indignantly beating on the hus. Three or four men rushed forward on Ranulph. He hurled them back. Others came on with weapons. The girl fled for an instant, then reappeared with a musket, as the people were crowding in on Delagarde with threats and execrations.
“Stop! stop!” cried the girl from above, as Ranulph seized a black-smith’s hammer to meet the onset. “Stop, or I’ll fire!” she called again, and she aimed her musket at the foremost assailants.
Every face turned in her direction, for her voice had rung out clear as music. For an instant there was silence—the levelled musket had a deadly look, and the girl seemed determined. Her fingers, her whole body, trembled; but there was no mistaking the strong will, the indignant purpose.
All at once in the pause another sound was heard. It was a quick tramp, tramp, tramp! and suddenly under the prison archway came running an officer of the King’s navy with a company of sailors. The officer, with drawn sword, his men following with cutlasses, drove a way through the mob, who scattered before them like sheep.
Delagarde threw aside his hammer, and saluted the officer. The little Chevalier made a formal bow, and hastened to say that he was not at all hurt. With a droll composure he offered snuff to the officer, who declined politely. Turning to the window where the girl stood, the new-comer saluted with confident gallantry.
“Why, it’s little Guida Landresse!” he said under his breath—“I’d know her anywhere. Death and Beauty, what a face!” Then he turned to Ranulph in recognition.
“Ranulph Delagarde, eh?” said he good-humouredly. “You’ve forgotten me, I see. I’m Philip d’Avranche, of the Narcissus.”
Ranulph had forgotten. The slight lad Philip had grown bronzed, and stouter of frame. In the eleven years since they had been together at the Battle of Jersey, events, travel, and responsibility had altered him vastly. Ranulph had changed only in growing very tall and athletic and strong; the look of him was still that of the Norman lad of the isle, though the power and intelligence of his face were unusual.
The girl in the cottage doorway had not forgotten at all. The words that d’Avranche had said to her years before, when she was a child, came to her mind: “My name is Philip; call me Philip.”
The recollection of that day when she snatched off the Bailly’s hat brought a smile to her lips now, so quickly were her feelings moved one way or another. Then she grew suddenly serious, for the memory of the hour when he saved her from the scimitar of the Turk came to her, and her heart throbbed hotly. But she smiled again, though more gently and a little wistfully now.
Philip d’Avranche looked up towards her once more, and returned her smile. Then he addressed the awed crowd. He did not spare his language; he unconsciously used an oath or two. He ordered them off to their homes. When they hesitated (for they were slow to acknowledge any authority save their own sacred Royal Court) the sailors advanced on them with drawn cutlasses, and a moment later the Place du Vier Prison was clear. Leaving a half-dozen sailors on guard till the town corps should arrive, d’Avranche prepared to march, and turned to Delagarde.
“You’ve done me a good turn, Monsieur d’Avranche,” said Ranulph.
“There was a time you called me Philip,” said d’Avranche, smiling. “We were lads together.”
“It’s different now,” answered Delagarde.
“Nothing is different at all, of course,” returned d’Avranche carelessly, yet with the slightest touch of condescension, as he held out his hand. Turning to the Chevalier, he said: “Monsieur, I congratulate you on having such a champion”—with a motion towards Ranulph. “And you, monsieur, on your brave protector”—he again saluted the girl at the window above.
“I am the obliged and humble servant of monsieur, and monsieur,” responded the little gentleman, turning from one to the other with a courtly bow, the three-cornered hat under his arm, the right foot forward, the thin fingers making a graceful salutation. “But I—I think—I really think I must go back to prison. I was not formally set free. I was out last night beyond the hour set by the Court. I lost my way, and—”
“Not a bit of it,” d’Avranche interrupted. “The centeniers are too free with their jailing here. I’ll be guarantee for you, monsieur.” He turned to go.
The little man shook his head dubiously. “But, as a point of honour, I really think—”
D’Avranche laughed. “As a point of honour, I think you ought to breakfast. A la bonne heure, monsieur le chevalier!”
He turned again to the cottage window. The girl was still there. The darkness over the sun was withdrawn, and now the clear light began to spread itself abroad. It was like a second dawn after a painful night. It tinged the face of the girl; it burnished the wonderful red-brown hair falling loosely and lightly over her forehead; it gave her beauty a touch of luxuriance. D’Avranche thrilled at the sight of her.
“It’s a beautiful face,” he said to himself as their eyes met and he saluted once more.
Ranulph had seen the glances passing between the two, and he winced. He remembered how, eleven years ago, Philip d’Avranche had saved the girl from death. It galled him that then and now this young gallant should step in and take the game out of his hands—he was sure that himself alone could have mastered this crowd.
“Monsieur—monsieur le chevalier!” the girl called down from the window, “grandpethe says you must breakfast with us. Oh, but come you must, or we shall be offended!” she added, as Champsavoys shook his head in hesitation and glanced towards the prison.
“As a point of honour—” the little man still persisted, lightly touching his breast with the Louis Quinze cane, and taking a step towards the sombre prison archway. But Ranulph interfered, drew him gently inside the cottage, and, standing in the doorway, said to some one within:
“May I come in also, Sieur de Mauprat?”
Above the pleasant welcome of a quavering voice came another, soft and clear, in pure French:
“Thou
