Doom Castle | Page 2

of so savage an
aspect, in the retinues of the Scots exiles who hung about the
side-doors of Saint Germains, passed mysterious days between that
domicile of tragic comedy and Avignon or Rome, or ruffled it on
empty pockets at the gamingtables, so he had no apprehension. Besides,
he was in the country of the Argyll, at least on the verge of it, a
territory accounted law-abiding even to dul-ness by every Scot he had
known since he was a child at Cammercy, and snuff-strewn
conspirators, come to meet his uncles, took him on their knees when a
lull in the cards or wine permitted, and recounted their adventures for
his entertainment in a villainous French: he could not guess that the
gentry in the wood behind him had taken a fancy to his horse, that they
were broken men (as the phrase of the country put it), and that when he
had passed them at the cataract--a haughty, well-setup duine uasail all
alone with a fortune of silk and silver lace on his apparel and the fob of
a watch dangling at his groin most temptingly--they had promptly put a
valuation upon himself and his possessions, and decided that the same
were sent by Providence for their enrichment.
Ten of them ran after him clamouring loudly to give the impression of

larger numbers; he heard them with relief when oppressed by the
inhuman solemnity of the scenery that was too deep in its swoon to
give back even an echo to the breaker on the shore, and he drew up his
horse, turned his head a little and listened, flushing with annoyance
when the rude calls of his pursuers became, even in their unknown
jargon, too plainly peremptory and meant for him.
"Dogs!" said he, "I wish I had a chance to open school here and teach
manners," and without more deliberation he set his horse to an amble,
designed to betray neither complacency nor a poltroon's terrors.
"Stad! stad!" cried a voice closer than any of the rest behind him; he
knew what was ordered by its accent, but no Montaiglon stopped to an
insolent summons. He put the short rowels to the flanks of the sturdy
lowland pony he bestrode, and conceded not so little as a look behind.
There was the explosion of a bell-mouthed musket, and something
smote the horse spatteringly behind the rider's left boot. The beast
swerved, gave a scream of pain, fell lumberingly on its side. With an
effort, Count Victor saved himself from the falling body and clutched
his pistols. For a moment he stood bewildered at the head of the
suffering animal. The pursuing shouts had ceased. Behind him, short
hazel-trees clustering thick with nuts, reddening bramble, and rusty
bracken, tangled together in a coarse rank curtain of vegetation, quite
still and motionless (but for the breeze among the upper leaves), and
the sombre distance, dark with pine, had the mystery of a vault. It was
difficult to believe his pursuers harboured there, perhaps reloading the
weapon that had put so doleful a conclusion to his travels with the
gallant little horse he had bought on the coast of Fife. That silence, that
prevailing mystery, seemed to be the essence and the mood of this land,
so different from his own, where laughter was ringing in the orchards
and a myriad towns and clamant cities brimmed with life.
CHAPTER II
-- THE PURSUIT
Nobody who had acquaintance with Victor de Montaiglon would call

him coward. He had fought with De Grammont, and brought a wound
from Dettingen under circumstances to set him up for life in a repute
for valour, and half a score of duels were at his credit or discredit in the
chronicles of Paris society.
And yet, somehow, standing there in an unknown country beside a
brute companion wantonly struck down by a robber's shot, and the
wood so still around, and the thundering sea so unfamiliar, he felt
vastly uncomfortable, with a touch of more than physical apprehension.
If the enemy would only manifest themselves to the eye and ear as well
as to the unclassed senses that inform the instinct, it would be much
more comfortable. Why did they not appear? Why did they not follow
up their assault upon his horse? Why were they lurking in the silence of
the thicket, so many of them, and he alone and so obviously at their
mercy? The pistols he held provided the answer.
"What a rare delicacy!" said Count Victor, applying himself to the
release of his mail from the saddle whereto it was strapped. "They
would not interrupt my regretful tears. But for the true élan of the trade
of robbery, give me old Cartouche picking pockets on the Pont Neuf."
While he loosened the bag with