Part 11 (2/2)
From one of the windows of the chateau-tower a boy's face looked out, full of eager longing,--a fine, strong face, but sullen now, with black brows, dark, restless eyes, and lips set, as if rebellious thoughts were stirring in his mind. He watched the gay cavalcade disappear, until a sunny silence settled over the landscape, broken only by the larks and the sound of a girl's voice singing. As he listened, the frown smoothed itself from his brow, and his eye brightened when it rested on a blue-gowned, white-capped figure, sprinkling webs of linen, spread to bleach in the green meadow by the river Rance.
”If I may not hunt, I'll away to Yvonne[2] and take a holiday. She can tell better tales than any in this weary book, the bane of my life!”
[2] p.r.o.nounced Evone.
As he spoke, the boy struck a volume that lay on the wide ledge, with a petulant energy that sent it fluttering down into the court-yard below.
Half-ashamed and half-amused, young Gaston peeped to see if this random shot had hit any one. But all was quiet and deserted now; so, with a boyish laugh and a daring glance at the dangerous descent, he said to the doves cooing on the roof overhead: ”Here's a fine pretext for escape. Being locked in, how can I get my lesson unless I fetch the book? Tell no tales of the time I linger, and you shall be well fed, my pretty birds.”
Then swinging himself out as if it were no new feat, he climbed boldly down through the ivy that half hid the carved flowers and figures which made a ladder for his agile feet.
The moment he touched ground, he raced away like a hound in full scent to the meadow, where he was welcomed by a rosy, brown-eyed la.s.s, whose white teeth shone as she laughed to see him leap the moat, dodge behind the wall, and come bounding toward her, his hair streaming in the wind, and his face full of boyish satisfaction in this escapade.
”The old tale,” he panted, as he threw himself down upon the gra.s.s and flung the recovered book beside him. ”This dreary Latin drives me mad, and I will _not_ waste such days as this poring over dull pages like a priest, when I should be hunting like a knight and gentleman.”
”Nay, dear Gaston, but you ought, for obedience is the first duty of the knight, and honor of the gentleman,” answered the girl, in a soft, reproachful tone, which seemed to touch the lad, as the voice of a master tames a high-mettled horse.
”Had Father Nevin trusted to my honor, I would not have run away; but he locked me in, like a monk in a cell, and that I will not bear. Just one hour, Yvonne, one little hour of freedom, then I will go back, else there will be no sport for me to-morrow,” said the lad, recklessly pulling up the bluets that starred the gra.s.s about him.
”Ah, if I were set to such a task, I would so gladly learn it, that I might be a fitter friend for you,” said the girl, reverently turning the pages of the book she could not read.
”No need of that; I like you as you are, and by my faith, I doubt your great willingness, for when I last played tutor and left you to spell out the pretty legend of St. Coventin and his little fish, I found you fast asleep with the blessed book upon the floor,” laughed Gaston, turning the tables on his mentor, with great satisfaction.
The girl laughed also as she retorted, ”My tutor should not have left me to play with his dogs. I bore my penance better than you, and did not run away. Come now, we'll be merry. Will you talk, or shall I sing, while you rest this hot head, and dream of horse and hound and spearing the wild boar?” added Yvonne, smoothing the locks of hair scattered on the gra.s.s, with a touch as gentle as if the hand were that of a lady, and not that of a peasant, rough with hard work.
”Since I may not play a man's part yet, amuse me like a boy, with the old tales your mother used to tell, when we watched the f.a.gots blaze in the winter nights. It is long since I have heard one, and I am never tired hearing of the deeds I mean to match, if not outdo, some day.
”Let me think a bit till I remember your favorites, and do you listen to the bees above there in the willow, setting you a good example, idle boy,” said Yvonne, spreading a coa.r.s.e ap.r.o.n for his head, while she sat beside him racking her brain for tales to beguile this truant hour.
Her father was the count's forester, and when the countess had died some sixteen years before, leaving a month-old boy, good dame Gillian had taken the motherless baby, and nursed and reared him with her little girl, so faithfully and tenderly that the count never could forget the loyal service. As babies, the two slept in one cradle; as children they played and quarrelled together; and as boy and girl they defended, comforted, and amused each other. But time brought inevitable changes, and both felt that the hour of separation was near; for, while Yvonne went on leading the peasant life to which she was born, Gaston was receiving the education befitting a young count. The chaplain taught him to read and write, with lessons in sacred history, and a little Latin; of the forester he learned woodcraft; and his father taught him horsemans.h.i.+p and the use of arms, accomplishments considered all-important in those days.
Gaston cared nothing for books, except such as told tales of chivalry; but dearly loved athletic sports, and at sixteen rode the most fiery horse without a fall, handled a sword admirably, could kill a boar at the first shot, and longed ardently for war, that he might prove himself a man. A brave, high-spirited, generous boy, with a very tender spot in his heart for the good woman who had been a mother to him, and his little foster-sister, whose idol he was. For days he seemed to forget these humble friends, and led the gay, active life of his age and rank; but if wounded in the chase, worried by the chaplain, disappointed in any plan, or in disgrace for any prank, he turned instinctively to Dame Gillian and Yvonne, sure of help and comfort for mind and body.
Companions.h.i.+p with him had refined the girl, and given her glimpses of a world into which she could never enter, yet where she could follow with eager eyes and high hopes the fortunes of this dear Gaston, who was both her prince and brother. Her influence over him was great, for she was of a calm and patient nature, as well as brave and prudent beyond her years. His will was law; yet in seeming to obey, she often led him, and he thanked her for the courage with which she helped him to control his fiery temper and strong will. Now, as she glanced at him she saw that he was already growing more tranquil, under the soothing influences of the murmuring river, the soft flicker of the suns.h.i.+ne, and a blessed sense of freedom.
So, while she twisted her distaff, she told the stirring tales of warriors, saints, and fairies, whom all Breton peasants honor, love, and fear. But best of all was the tale of Gaston's own ancestor, Jean de Beaumanoir, ”the hero of Ploermel, where, when sorely wounded and parched with thirst, he cried for water, and Geoffrey du Bois answered, like a grim old warrior as he was, 'Drink thy blood, Beaumanoir, and the thirst will pa.s.s;' and he drank, and the battle madness seized him, and he slew ten men, winning the fight against great odds, to his everlasting glory.”
”Ah, those were the times to live in! If they could only come again, I would be a second Jean!”
Gaston sprung to his feet as he spoke, all aglow with the warlike ardor of his race, and Yvonne looked up at him, sure that he would prove himself a worthy descendant of the great baron and his wife, the daughter of the brave Du Guesclin.
”But you shall not be treacherously killed, as he was; for I will save you, as the peasant woman saved poor Giles de Bretagne when starving in the tower, or fight for you, as Jeanne d'Arc fought for her lord,”
answered Yvonne, dropping her distaff to stretch out her hand to him; for she, too, was on her feet.
Gaston took the faithful hand, and pointing to the white banner floating over the ruins of the old castle, said heartily: ”We will always stand by one another, and be true to the motto of our house till death.”
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