Montacute's face was purple. His eyes seemed to be starting from their sockets. It was hard to say which was the more terrible face, his or that of Tom, which was perfectly white, and set in lines of ferocity and hatred as though petrified into stone.

In the doorway stood the figure of a tall monk, clad in the long white robe and black cloak of his order. Behind him was another, similarly attired, holding the light above his head.

The first stepped quietly forward, and laid a hand upon Tom's shoulder; and something in the touch made the young man turn his head to meet the calm, authoritative glance bent upon him.

"Enough, my son, enough," he said, in quiet tones, that brooked, however, no contradiction. "Let the man go."

Had the followers of Montacute sought to loose his clasp by force, Tom would have crushed the life from his victim without a qualm; but at this gentle word of command he instantly loosed his hold, and stood upright before the monk.

"He drove me to it--his blood be upon his own head! He would have scourged me to death, I verily believe, had it not been that the rafter gave way."

Tom spoke English, for he had been addressed in that language, and so knew that he should be understood. The monk bent his head, as though he grasped the entire situation.

"I would we had come in time to spare you what you have already suffered, my son. But we did only enter the doors as the fall of the rafter announced that some catastrophe had happened. I feared to find you already a corpse."

"You came after me, good father?" asked Tom in amaze.

"Yes, truly. Your companion, who is safe over the other pa.s.s by this time, caused the message to reach us that you were like to fall into the hands of Montacute, and be hanged or shot. He begged that if we could we would save you; and as our work lies in succouring those who are in peril upon these heights, be that peril what it may, we have been seeking you ever since. I would we had arrived a few minutes earlier."

Tom's eyes gleamed; it seemed to him as though the madness was not yet out of his blood.

"I can scarce echo that wish, reverend father," he said; "for I have had my taste of joy! If my back be torn and scored, I have had my fingers on yon miscreant's throat. I think he will carry the marks of them as long as I shall carry my scars. I have had my recompense!"

"Peace, my son," said the monk, lifting his hand. "The heart of the natural man l.u.s.ts after vengeance; but these pa.s.sions are terrible, and contrary to the will of G.o.d. Especially in these savage solitudes, with the strange and awful handiwork of the Almighty Creator about us, should we bow in humblest adoration of His infinite power, and draw near and close, in bonds of brotherhood, to our fellow men. But I know that the sin was not yours. You were sinned against sorely first. Nevertheless, we must needs learn to forgive our enemies, and do good to those that persecute us. So alone can we follow in the steps of Him who is set as the light of the world."

Tom hung his head. He was a little abashed at the fury he had shown, and yet the savage joy of it was still tingling in his veins. He looked at the other monk, who was kneeling upon the floor beside Montacute, and he perceived that the latter was slowly recovering, and was able to sit up, propped against the wall.

As soon as he was able to understand what was said to him, the elder monk addressed him in stern tones.

"Montacute--thou man of blood--be warned by the fate which thy cruelty well-nigh drew down upon thy head this day! If G.o.d in His mercy had not sent us, in the very nick of time, to save this youth out of thy murderous hands, thou wouldst have pa.s.sed ere now to the scathing fires of purgatory, whence there be few to offer prayers for thy release. Be warned by this escape. Repent of thy bloodthirstiness and cruelty. Seek to make atonement. Go and sin no more, lest a worse thing happen unto thee."

Then turning from him with a slight gesture of repulsion, he said to Tom:

"My son, we would take you to the safe shelter of our monastery home, till your comrade comes for you. The way is something hard and long, but the moon and frost will help us. Have you the strength to walk with us?--for we would not leave you here, and it would be safer for all to travel without delay; albeit there be few so vile as to seek to do hurt to those who wear the habit of the servants of the Lord."

The fire yet burned in Tom's veins. He felt no abatement of his powers. He declared himself well able for the march, and was soon helped into his torn garments, with wet rags to protect his bleeding back from rough contact. The monks gave him to drink from a flask that contained some cordial, which was marvellous in subduing his natural fatigue; and there was a mess of broth awaiting him below, of which both he and the monks partook, ere setting forth upon their moonlight march.

As for Montacute and his followers, they remained in the room above, and made no effort to delay the travellers. They had been worsted at every point, and seemed to be aware of it.

It was a strange experience for Tom, this trudge over the hard, frozen snow, with his two cowled and gowned companions. It seemed to him afterwards like a vision of the night, full of a strange oppression and pain. He started forth with undiminished strength, as he thought; but ere long he felt as though leaden weights were fastened to his feet, as though some strange, uncanny beast were seated upon his chest, impeding his breathing, and paralyzing his heart. The smart of his raw back became more and more intolerable with every mile, and the awful whiteness of the moon upon the limitless plains of snow seemed to make the whole expanse reel and dance before his giddy eyes.

How the last part of the journey was performed, and what befell him when he reached the monastery, he never afterwards remembered. As a matter of fact, he was already in the grip of a burning fever; and for weeks he lay sick upon his pallet bed, tended by the kindly monks. Indeed, the spring had penetrated even to those rugged heights ere he had recovered strength enough to think of travelling once more; and Lord Claud had come to seek him, and bring him word of his own successful journey with the despatches of the Duke.

When Lord Claud had gone stumbling down the hillside, in affected illness, he soon found, rather to his dismay, that Montacute himself was following him. He therefore abandoned his intention of seeking battle with his foe, knowing that in brute strength and weight and muscle his adversary was his superior; and he had gone to the inn and put himself to bed, letting all around him believe thoroughly in his illness. Montacute had remained on the watch for a time; but finding, as he supposed, that there was no feigning in the matter, he had gone back to his appointed meeting place with the men sent after Tom. He had paid a fellow to keep watch upon Lord Claud, and send immediate word if he recovered and left his bed; but this man was one of those whose hearts had been won by Lord Claud's pleasant manners, and he at once reported the matter to him, and asked what he should do.

Between them it was arranged that they should change clothing, and, with the connivance of the landlord, should exchange ident.i.ties.

The young peasant should lie in bed, and be tended as the sick stranger; and Claud, in peasant's dress, should flee over the other pa.s.s, leave word with the monks as to the peril of his friend, and make his way to Savoy with all the speed he could.

This had been done with wonderful ease and celerity. And now, having accomplished all with unlooked-for success, he had returned to find Tom not only alive, but in good condition; for the latter, having once got rid of the persistent fever which had brought him so low, was getting back his strength and vigour every day. The mountain air was now acting like a tonic upon him, and the kindly ministrations of the brothers of the monastery gave him every help his condition needed. Even the scars upon his back had ceased to smart, and he was all but fit for the road and the saddle ere Lord Claud joined him again.

His lordship had heard good tidings of the horses in the valley below. And when rested from his rapid journey in search of Tom, he went to visit them, and reported them abundantly fit for the road.

But the war had now been resumed, and the countries were all in commotion. Travelling was a risky thing, save in numbers; and the good monks warned them that they might easily lose their lives by falling in with some bands of hostile soldiers, who were sure to fall upon travellers in ferocious fashion, and rob them of arms and horses, if not of life itself.

Soon, however, some of the monks themselves were to take a journey into France, and if the travellers would habit themselves in the cowl and gown, and travel with them, they could do so in almost certain safety. Tom's shaven head lent itself excellently to the tonsure; and though Lord Claud objected to part with his golden tresses, he quickly manufactured himself a tonsured wig which almost defied detection. As the monks, too, were to travel on horseback for greater speed, they had but to teach their steeds to amble along at a gentle pace, and none would be likely to suspect them.

So the day came when the parting was made, the travellers leaving behind their earnest thanks for kindness received, and taking with them the blessings of their hosts, who had come to love the two gallant young men right well.

They turned their backs upon the monastery, and wound their way down into the green valley, where horses were awaiting all the party; and then they turned their backs upon the ice and snow, and set their faces towards sunny England and home.

CHAPTER XII. BACK IN LONDON.

"Why, Tom, my lad! Now this is a welcome sight in sooth! Verily it is you yourself, else should I think I must sure be dreaming! Come in, come in, lad, and a hearty welcome to you! Faith, we had almost begun to give you up for lost! There be so many who go to foreign parts, but return thence no more, and of whom nothing more is ever heard. The Lord be praised that that has not been your fate!"

Cale had taken Tom by both hands, and was drawing him eagerly into the house. The young man had entered the doorway just as the shutters were being put up at dusk. The light lasted long now that May had come, and Cale was about to step forth to take the air for a while himself, when he beheld the tall figure darkening the doorway, and saw that it was indeed Tom who was entering.

"Why, methinks you are taller than ever! and have gotten the air of a man of travel! This will be news for my little Rosy tomorrow.

Why, it was but last Sunday, as we sat and talked of you, that the tears came into her eyes, and she said she feared we should never see you more! How she will laugh and skip tomorrow when she sees you in your accustomed place!"

"It was kind of Mistress Rosamund to spare a thought for me," said Tom, feeling that it was good to be welcomed home again so warmly.

Other home welcome had he not yet received, for they had not returned by Holland and the port of Harwich. The good monks had taken them the shorter way through France, and had seen them safe upon a vessel bound for Southampton, where they had safely disembarked a few days ago. They had spent their last money in getting themselves clothing other than a monkish habit, and had then ridden merrily to London in quick time. Tom had left his good mare in Lord Claud's stable, and had marched off forthwith to Master Cale's shop; whilst his companion had declared his intention of making speedy application for the payment due to them for their recent enterprise, which had now been successfully carried through.

"I would I could have seen the Duke himself," said Lord Claud; "but he is gone back to the Hague, men say, and may be anywhere now. But I shall lay my case before some of the ministers of the realm, and claim our reward. The Duke of Savoy knows the value of the news I brought him, and the labourer is worthy of his hire. You shall have your share, Tom, when I get the gold; for you took your share of peril boldly, and were a stanch comrade in all moments of danger.

You suffered more than I, and that shall not be forgotten."

So Tom felt light and happy of heart. He was back again in the old country, hearing his native tongue once more around him, the satisfaction of success in his heart, the experiences of a man of travel giving him added dignity in his own eyes. If his purse was light, he would soon replenish it; and in the welcome accorded to him by the honest perruquier he felt the earnest of other welcomes in store for him.

As they sat at table together the traveller told his adventures to his host, Cale listening with eager attention, and rubbing his hands softly together as he heard how Montacute had been outwitted, and how he had been well-nigh throttled by Tom, as well as rebuked by the pious monks.

"I have seen the fellow," he said thoughtfully--"he came here once for a peruke--and a more evil countenance I have seldom seen. They say he is half an Italian, though he pa.s.ses here for an Englishman; and that he is in the pay of the King of France is a thing commonly reported. He has an evil face, and I hope we shall see it no more in this land. You must have a care, Tom, if ever he crosses your path again. He will not forget that grip on his throat in a hurry!"

"Nor I those lashes upon my back!" answered Tom between his shut teeth. "He will find me ready for him whenever he wants! I am sometimes fain to regret that I did not squeeze the life out of him as he lay in my grasp, even as--well, others I know have regretted that they did not run him through the heart in a duelling bout."

"It is not many who get that chance, if report speaks truth," said Cale; "Sir James Montacute is reckoned a notable swordsman."

"He is no mean antagonist, truly," answered Tom, with a slight smile; "yet I have seen a better."

The day following was Sunday, and eagerly did Tom await the arrival of Rosamund, whom her father had set out betimes to fetch. But he had promised to keep the secret of Tom's return for a surprise to meet her on her arrival; and so, when she turned the corner of the street upon her father's arm, laughing and chattering to him in her brightest fashion, there was Tom standing in the doorway, clad in one of his finest suits (left behind in the care of Cale), smiling bravely, hat in hand, and looking altogether so grand and finished a gentleman that at the first moment Rosamund could scarce make sure if it was he himself.

But when convinced of this, her pleasure was pretty to see. She made him stand by the window where she could see him; she looked him all over, clapping her hands, and declaring that he had grown so grand and handsome that she was quite afraid of him. But her dancing eyes and laughing lips belied her words, and soon she was chattering away in the old free style; and Tom sat looking at her, thinking how pretty she was, and what a pleasant thing it was to be home again after such a period of peril and adventure.

Of course he had to tell his story over again, whilst Rosamund's face turned red and pale by turns, and her breath came fitfully between her lips. She clung to her father's hand in a tremor of sympathetic fear as she heard of the doings of that memorable night in the rude hut amid the snows of the Little St. Bernard; but that Tom was a greater hero than ever in her eyes, after she had heard all, could not for a moment be doubted, and perhaps that was why she felt that in him she could safely confide a secret fear which was troubling her own mind.

She waited till her father had gone down to set the dinner upon the table; but when once she and Tom were alone together she was not long in opening her trouble.