Part 11 (1/2)

”The time for thinking is past,” he said. ”It is decision I came for.”

”I will think the matter over,” I repeated, then added, as afterthought: ”If the lady's plans do not accord with mine, then mayhap the plans of your master may fruit as he desires. For remember, priest, he is no master of mine.”

”You do not know my master,” he said solemnly.

”Nor do I wish to know him,” I retorted.

And I listened to the lithe, light step of the little intriguing priest go down the creaking stairs.

Did I go into the minutiae of detail of all that I saw this half a day and half a night that I was Count Guillaume de Sainte-Maure, not ten books the size of this I am writing could contain the totality of the matter. Much I shall skip; in fact, I shall skip almost all; for never yet have I heard of a condemned man being reprieved in order that he might complete his memoirs--at least, not in California.

When I rode out in Paris that day it was the Paris of centuries agone.

The narrow streets were an unsanitary scandal of filth and slime. But I must skip. And skip I shall, all of the afternoon's events, all of the ride outside the walls, of the grand fete given by Hugh de Meung, of the feasting and the drinking in which I took little part. Only of the end of the adventure will I write, which begins with where I stood jesting with Philippa herself--ah, dear G.o.d, she was wondrous beautiful. A great lady--ay, but before that, and after that, and always, a woman.

We laughed and jested lightly enough, as about us jostled the merry throng; but under our jesting was the deep earnestness of man and woman well advanced across the threshold of love and yet not too sure each of the other. I shall not describe her. She was small, exquisitely slender--but there, I am describing her. In brief, she was the one woman in the world for me, and little I recked the long arm of that gray old man in Rome could reach out half across Europe between my woman and me.

And the Italian, Fortini, leaned to my shoulder and whispered:

”One who desires to speak.”

”One who must wait my pleasure,” I answered shortly.

”I wait no man's pleasure,” was his equally short reply.

And, while my blood boiled, I remembered the priest, Martinelli, and the gray old man at Rome. The thing was clear. It was deliberate. It was the long arm. Fortini smiled lazily at me while I thus paused for the moment to debate, but in his smile was the essence of all insolence.

This, of all times, was the time I should have been cool. But the old red anger began to kindle in me. This was the work of the priest. This was the Fortini, poverished of all save lineage, reckoned the best sword come up out of Italy in half a score of years. To-night it was Fortini.

If he failed the gray old man's command to-morrow it would be another sword, the next day another. And, perchance still failing, then might I expect the common bravo's steel in my back or the common poisoner's philter in my wine, my meat, or bread.

”I am busy,” I said. ”Begone.”

”My business with you presses,” was his reply.

Insensibly our voices had slightly risen, so that Philippa heard.

”Begone, you Italian hound,” I said. ”Take your howling from my door. I shall attend to you presently.”

”The moon is up,” he said. ”The gra.s.s is dry and excellent. There is no dew. Beyond the fish-pond, an arrow's flight to the left, is an open s.p.a.ce, quiet and private.”

”Presently you shall have your desire,” I muttered impatiently.

But still he persisted in waiting at my shoulder.

”Presently,” I said. ”Presently I shall attend to you.”

Then spoke Philippa, in all the daring spirit and the iron of her.

”Satisfy the gentleman's desire, Sainte-Maure. Attend to him now. And good fortune go with you.” She paused to beckon to her her uncle, Jean de Joinville, who was pa.s.sing--uncle on her mother's side, of the de Joinvilles of Anjou. ”Good fortune go with you,” she repeated, and then leaned to me so that she could whisper: ”And my heart goes with you, Sainte-Maure. Do not be long. I shall await you in the big hall.”

I was in the seventh heaven. I trod on air. It was the first frank admittance of her love. And with such benediction I was made so strong that I knew I could kill a score of Fortinis and snap my fingers at a score of gray old men in Rome.