"Now," he said, "now, De Roquemaure!" and as he spoke the other felt the iron muscles in the man's wrist forcing his blade down and down; the point was level to his adversary's thigh; an instant more, and St.

Georges's sword would release his, would suddenly spring up and--a moment later--be through his breast.

In his agony he shrieked, "_Au secours, au secours!_" and in a last desperate effort leaped aside, the weapon that at that moment sought his heart with a tremendous lunge piercing his arm alone.

Another moment and St. Georges had disengaged it, drawn it forth, and was about to plunge it through the craven's heart--this time he would not fail!--when he heard the rustle of the woman's riding robe behind him, he felt a shock, and his arm instantly drop nerveless by his side; the weapon fell from his hand, and he sank back heavily on the stone floor, the room swimming before his eyes and all becoming rapidly dark.

Roused by her lover's cry and frenzied by the immediate death which she saw threatening him; driven almost mad also by the look of terror and mortal apprehension on his face, she had sprung up the room, reached St. Georges, and buried her dagger in his back. She had aimed under his left shoulder, where she knew the region of the heart was--it seemed her aim was true! As he fell to the ground she knew that she had saved De Roquemaure. Yet her frenzy was not calmed; in an instant she had seized the sword that still was grasped in her lover's nerveless right hand, placed it in his left, and muttered swiftly in a voice he did not recognise:

"Through his heart!--his heart, Raoul! That way. Otherwise it will seem murder and confound us."

"I--I dare not," the scared man muttered, shaking all over. "I cannot, I----"

"_Lache!_" and as she hurled the epithet at him she seized the weapon herself in her own white jewelled hand and drew it back to plunge it through his breast so that it should meet the wound behind.

Yet that was not to be. Even as she raised the sword the door was burst violently open, and the innkeeper, with two other men and a waiting woman rushed into the room.

"_Grand Dieu!_" the landlord cried, shivering and shaking all over, as he saw the terrible spectacle which the place afforded--St. Georges stretched on the floor, the stones covered with blood, the other wounded man leaning against the wall, the maddened woman with the sword, which she had dropped at their entrance, lying at her feet, and the candles out--"_Grand Dieu!_ what has been done in my house?

Murder?"

At first neither De Roquemaure nor the panting creature by his side could answer; then the former found his tongue, while still the landlord and the other two men stared at them and the waiting woman hid her face in her ap.r.o.n, not to see the ghastly form on the floor, and said: "Not murder, but attempted murder. This man drew on me--with a lady present--would have a.s.sa.s.sinated me. You see my wound," and he held up his pierced arm.

"Attempted murder!" exclaimed one of the men, he looking of a very superior cla.s.s to that of the landlord. "A strange attempt; you are young and strong as he; armed, too, your weapon drawn. Yet it seems it needed this also to aid you," and he stooped and picked up the woman's toy dagger. "This demands explanation----"

"And shall be given to those ent.i.tled to ask. I am the Marquis de Roquemaure, set upon and forced to defend myself by this fellow who entrapped us here.--You," turning to the landlord, "saw how he caused us to enter this house, though I told you we wanted nothing. He it was who gave all the orders. For the rest, he was a disgraced and ruined soldier, a common bravo and bully, who deemed me the cause of his punishment. I answer nothing further but to the king whom I serve, or his representative."

"He looks not like a bravo or bully," said the man who had spoken last, as he knelt down by St. Georges and took his wrist between his fingers. "He scarce seems that."

"Is he dead?" the woman asked hoa.r.s.ely now, as she bent down over her victim.

"Not yet. There is still some pulse."

And even as he spoke, St. Georges opened his eyes, looked up at him, and muttered once, "Dorine!"

Then the eyes closed again and his head fell back on the other's arm.

THE SECOND PERIOD.

CHAPTER XVIII.

LA GALeRE GRANDE ReALE.

The July sun blazed down upon the sea which lay beneath it as unruffled as an artificial lake inland; there was no ripple on the water as far as the eye could see; above the water to the northwest there rose the chalky cliffs between Whitby and Scarborough--a white, hazy line over which a few fleecy clouds were ma.s.sed together. Upon the water, three miles out from those cliffs, a dark blot, which grew larger and clearer moment by moment, and proved to be--when seen through the perspective gla.s.ses of the officers on board a French galley which was further out to sea and rapidly retreating from the English coast--one of King William's men-of-war.

A French galley rapidly retreating from the English coast, of the style known as La Grande Reale, and named L'Idole. On board of her six hundred and seventy souls, comprising a first and second captain, a lieutenant and sub-lieutenant, an ensign, also a major general, some standard bearers, a commissary general, one or two volunteer officers, over one hundred soldiers and seventy sailors, a number of subaltern officers and ship boys, and--three hundred and sixty galley slaves and sixty Turkish slaves.

A life of h.e.l.l was this of the galley to all on board her when at sea--even to those in command! Neither first nor second captain, neither major nor commissary general, nor even volunteer officers--often members of the oldest and most aristocratic families of France--could ever lie down to sleep on board, for the sufficient reason that in the confined s.p.a.ce there was no room for bed, cot, nor berth. Rest had to be taken by these superiors either when sitting on ordinary chairs placed on the p.o.o.p cabin, or in armchairs if such were on board--their clothes on, their arms by their side. For not only was there no room for anything in the shape or nature of a bed, but also the galleys were rarely at sea except in time of open war, when at any moment they might be engaged in action. Truly, a life of h.e.l.l!

Yet, if to the superiors such miseries came and had to be endured; such want of sleep, such constant necessity for watchfulness, such poor, coa.r.s.e food as alone the galley could find room to carry--bacon, salt beef, salt cod, cheese, oil, and rice, with a small pot of wine daily, being their allowance--what of those wretches who propelled her when there was no wind, the galley slaves? What was their existence?

Let us see!

Bound to the labouring oar--itself of enormous size and weight, being fifty feet long--seven _cond.a.m.nes_ to each oar, they sat at sixty benches, thirty on each side, four hundred and twenty men in all, including Turkish slaves. Naked they rowed for hours chained to these benches--sometimes for twenty-four hours at a stretch--while the _comites_, or overseers, men brutal beyond all thought and chosen for the post because of their natural ferocity, belaboured their backs with whips made of twisted and knotted cords. If they fainted under these continuous thrashings, their backs were rubbed with vinegar and salt water to revive them; if they were found to have died under their chastis.e.m.e.nt, the chains and rings round their legs were taken off and they were flung into the sea like carrion as they were. Then another man took their place, there being always a reserve of these unhappy creatures.

To see them would have wrung the hearts of all but those who dominated them. Their naked backs had upon them wheals, sores, old and new, scars and cicatrices; their faces were burnt black from the effects of the suns, the diverse winds, and the sprays under which and through which they rowed _en perpetuite_--since most were doomed for life; their hair was long and matted with their beards, when they were not old men who had grown bald in their lifelong toil and misery.

Moreover, they were nearly starved, their daily food being twenty-six ounces of coa.r.s.e and often weevily biscuit, and four ounces of beans a day--or rather "pigeon peas"--with water. And if any swooned from their long hours of rowing (hours only relieved by a favourable wind springing up, when the small sails could be set), in contradistinction to their fainting from the brutalities of the _comites_, then there was placed in their mouths a piece of bread moistened with salt water or vinegar, or sour and sharp wine, either of which was supposed to be an excellent reviver.

All were distinguished by numbers and none by name, though, in occasional moments that could be s.n.a.t.c.hed from under the watchful eyes and ears of the _comites_, the doomed wretches could sometimes acquaint each other with their names, former positions in life, and supposed reasons for being condemned to their perpetual slavery. But not often, for a word spoken and overheard brought terrible retribution in its train, especially as in nine times out of ten religion was both the cause for which they suffered and by which they were punished. The galley slaves were in general Protestants who would not embrace the Roman Catholic faith, while the superior officers and the overseers were ardent papists. Yet there were others who, in ordinary eyes, though not in those of their taskmasters, would have been deemed to be sunk in crimes worse than that of being Huguenots.

No. 512 was a murderer--of his own father; No. 497 had been caught giving information to England, he being a fisherman, of the whereabouts of Jean Bart's flotilla; No. 36 had cursed the king and his family--a truly awful crime; No. 98 had robbed a church, and so on. But in the eyes of the law, which was the king, or rather the reformed and married wanton, De Maintenon, none were so vile, none deserved such bitter punishment and bastinadoing, and rubbing in of vinegar and salt in their wounds, and starvation, as the pestilential heretics.

The black spot on the horizon grew larger to the view of the officers standing aft on the _coursier_, or raised fore-and-aft pa.s.sage of the galley, which ran between the larboard and starboard gangs of rowers, and across which they were hourly stretched to be bastinadoed by their fellow-slaves, the Turks; and those officers by no means appreciated the increasing size of that spot. It showed that the English frigate was overhauling the French galley. The latter, low down in the water though it was, and with its two sails furled, had been seen by the former and the pursuit had begun. Fortunate for the galley, and unfortunate for the miserable slaves whose lives were a curse to them, if she escaped that frigate now following it so rapidly!

"Row! row!" howled the _comites_, as they rushed up and down the gangways of the benches, striking the bare backs of the _vogueurs_, or row-slaves, till they were all crimson with blood. "Row! In time! in time! Beware, all you," cried one, as bench 12 rowed wildly, while the lash fell on all their backs in consequence; "will you impede the galley's course? _Carogne!_" (a common oath), "you wish the accursed English to take us--foul Protestants like yourselves!"

"Ay," replied one slave on that bench, a man known as 211--"ay. Pray G.o.d they take us or sink us! In the next world we shall not be chained, nor you free. The chances will be equal."

The lash fell on his back as he spoke, raised a new wheal to keep company with the others already there, and then the _comite_ pa.s.sed on, thrashing and belabouring all the others on his side of the ship, and howling and bawling and blaspheming at them.

Meanwhile the black spot became a large blur on the blue water; now her royals were visible, white and bright against the equally clear blue sky. She was sailing down the galley,

"Have a care, 211," muttered the _galerien_ next to him--"have a care.

If we escape the English ship with life, your existence will be a greater h.e.l.l than before for those words!"

211 threw his matted hair back from his eyes with a jerk of his head--his hands he could not release from the oar--and looked at his neighbour. He was a man burnt black with the sun, thin, emaciated, and half starved. On his shoulders, where they caught hourly the cords of the _comite's_ whip, great scars, and livid--as well as raw--wounds; yet still young and with handsome features.

"We shall not escape," he replied. "She gains on us each moment.

See!" and as their faces were naturally directed aft of the galley, they could observe, through the great scuttle by the p.o.o.ps, the frigate rising larger each instant behind them.

"Better even this than death," said the other. "We know where we are now, at least--who knows where we shall be? Hist! he returns."

Again the _comite_ ran along the gangway, dealing out more blows and curses, each of these men getting their share. Then, when the hoa.r.s.e, foul voice of the overseer was heard at the other end of the hundred and eighty feet long galere Grand Reale, No. 211 answered him.

"No," he said, "death is better than this. It is peace at least."

"You seek it--hope for it?"

"Ay," No. 211 replied, "pray for it. Hourly!"

"What was your crime?" his companion asked. They had been chained together for two days only, the slave whose place the questioner now filled having been beaten to death, and this, in the excitement of the impending attack, was their first opportunity of conversing.

"Nothing."

The other grinned. Then he exclaimed, "We all say that."

"Most of us say true."