The Quest of Glory, Marjorie Bowen [reading an ebook .txt] 📗

CHAPTER X # THE MAGICIAN

The Marquis, roused by his servant, woke to see the man standing in

misty moonlight by the square of window; with a languid distaste at

being called from sleep Luc rose.

 

“Monsigneur,” said the servant in a low voice, “there are those two, the

foreigner and the priest, and a third with them just gone into the

barn.”

 

He pointed to a building close to the house, from the large doorway of

which came a great blaze of light, strong and fitful, as if caused by a

bonfire.

 

The reflection of it trembled over the rough floor of the room, and it

was this that had aroused the servant to look from the window, when he

had, he declared, seen three men carrying lanterns cross the yard and

enter the barn; he swore to two being the Italian and the priest.

 

Luc considered; his curiosity was certainly roused and a sense of

distrust also. The barn was so lonely, the two strangers so peculiar in

appearance—and he recalled how the Italian had called after him, “Are

you going to Avignon to-night?” as if he wished to be sure that he would

be out of their way.

 

“What can it be?” he murmured to himself, and he thought of coining.

 

The light from the barn was increasing in intensity as he watched it,

and presently began to take on an artificial red tinge that lit up

windows and door with a lurid glow.

 

“I think they practise fireworks,” smiled Luc. He put on his hat, took

up his sword, and quietly stepped out into the dreary farm-yard,

followed by his servant.

 

The first objects that he beheld were three horses fastened to the stump

of an elder tree: two, those ridden by the travellers he had met

yesterday; the third, a black horse of great beauty. Keeping in the

shadows of the house, and avoiding the long trails of flickering light,

Luc and the servant gained the barn and crouched against the wall of it,

endeavouring to find some aperture. Voices raised loudly and angrily

came from within, among them the tones of the Italian speaking in his

own language with great vehemence.

 

At length Luc found a considerable hole in the loose and rotting beams

that composed the walls of the barn and, looking through, saw an

extraordinary scene.

 

In the centre of the building stood an iron brazier, which held a large

fire of vivid leaping flame; round this was drawn a chalk circle marked

with various figures and symbols, and beyond that a ring of dead frogs

and snakes.

 

Behind the brazier stood the Italian attired in a sweeping black robe

and a scarlet skullcap; he held in one hand a long white wand and in the

other a closed parchment-covered book.

 

Beside him stood the priest regarding him with an expression of

impatience and vexation. The exceeding brightness of the flames threw

over the features of both a glow of red, and gave even their dark

garments something of the colour of blood.

 

A third man was facing these two. He was standing quite close to Luc; he

had his hands behind his back, and wore a long tabinet riding-cloak; his

slight figure, scarcely of the medium height, was of a remarkable grace;

his hair was clubbed and unpowdered. Luc could only see his profile,

which was sensitive, attractive, and high bred.

 

This last man was manifestly a noble, which caused Luc some surprise. He

was gazing at him with curiosity when the priest suddenly moved and

disclosed a fourth occupant of the barn. Luc gave a long shudder of

horror and moved back from the hole.

 

It was the dead body of the heretic peasant woman, sitting upright in a

rude chair with the rope still round her swollen throat and the harsh

flare over her disfigured face, dropping jaw, and staring eyes.

 

“What is it, Monseigneur?” asked the servant eagerly.

 

“Have your pistols ready,” answered Luc in a stern whisper, “and get to

some vantage where you can see what is going on within.”

 

The man obeyed, creeping away through the mingled moonlight and

firelight until he found another notch in the wood of the wall.

 

Luc again looked into the barn. The priest had now thrown on some powder

that filled the whole building with smoke, the Italian was shouting

short sentences in an uncouth language, and the third man had sprung

forward and was staring at the corpse through the soft film of the

bluish smoke.

 

“She does not speak!” he cried. “She does not speak!”

 

The priest gave a furious exclamation and cast something dark and heavy

into the flames, and the Italian tore a chain from his neck and flung it

in the lap of the dead woman. A towering red and orange flame, that

seemed as if it would set the roof on fire, suddenly shot up from the

brazier, an unearthly and awful voice called out—

 

“Beware of she who comes from Bohemia!”

 

This was cut short by a passionate ejaculation; who it came from Luc

could not tell. All three men seemed to run together; the brazier was

overturned, and there was perfect darkness, broken by a shriek, a groan,

several short cries of fury, and the rip of unsheathing swords. Luc ran

round to the doorless opening that was the main entrance to the barn; as

he reached it a man came rushing out with a weapon in his hand, bare in

the moonlight. Luc seized him and flung the sword away. The servant had

come up now and stood ready with his pistol.

 

“Explain yourself,” demanded the Marquis.

 

The other, completely taken by surprise, wrenched himself free, but made

no attempt to escape.

 

“Are you the Devil?” he asked, with more eagerness than fear.

 

“No,” answered Luc in brief disgust.

 

Before he could say more the priest came out of the barn carrying a

lantern.

 

“What is this foul mummery?” asked Luc sternly. “I shall speak to the

Governor.”

 

Seeing his companion in the power of a stranger, the priest gave a cry

and made as if he would fly into the night.

 

But the other turned on him fiercely.

 

“By God, you are wanted here!” he cried, and the priest came back

instantly.

 

“This is a creditable affair for one of your cloth to be involved in,”

said Luc.

 

The priest ignored the comment, but his companion remarked with a great

degree of haughtiness—

 

“I suppose I have been disarmed by a gentleman?”

 

“Oh yes,” answered Luc quietly. “Take up your sword.”

 

The stranger turned and looked for it by the aid of the priest’s

lantern.

 

“Where is the Italian?” asked Luc.

 

“Escaped,” returned the other carelessly, slipping his weapon into the

scabbard.

 

“The rascal ran out by the back way,” added the priest.

 

“He hath left his horse,” remarked Luc, glancing at the three beasts.

 

“Being far too frightened to think of it,” was the answer, and the

stranger, with a sudden show of pleasantness, came up to the Marquis and

laid his hand on his shoulder.

 

“Come, my dear fellow,” he said, “do not look so grave. We have been

endeavouring to raise the Devil and have made a failure of it, that is

all.”

 

“A stale game,” said Luc scornfully. “And you were profaning the dead,

Monsieur.”

 

“A peasant! A heretic!” cried the other, with an instant return of

haughtiness. “And who are you to call me to account?” At this the

priest touched him on the arm, and he added in a quiet tone, “You are

scarcely a spy, Monsieur.”

 

“No,” said Luc wearily. His anger had changed into mere disgust.

“No—you know you were doing an illegal thing, a foolish thing, and a

horrible thing; but I am no judge of your actions. I will forget you,

Monsieur. Only I ask you to give that poor creature decent burial.”

 

He was turning away when the other caught him by the sleeve.

 

“Who are you?” he asked curiously. “I should like to know you. You speak

like M. de Voltaire.”

 

Luc had instantly resolved not to give his name.

 

“I am a private citizen of Provence,” he answered, “and I have business

in Avignon. The rain is over and I have had some rest, also I do not

care to remain here, so I will now ride on to the town.”

 

He made a grave bow and was turning away when the other again detained

him.

 

“You cannot ride to Avignon till it is light. Come with me—my name is

Armand, Monsieur Armand—I do not ask yours.”

 

“And I have not yours,” answered Luc.

 

The other laughed.

 

“Armand for to-night—and I swear it is my christened name. There is

supper in the house—I give you an invitation.”

 

The priest seemed impatient to be gone and annoyed at this conversation,

but Luc, despite his distaste of the whole thing, was interested in the

stranger, in his very shamelessness, in his peculiar, gentle address, in

his mention of M. de Voltaire. He felt curious to see this man’s person,

for they stood now in the shadow of the barn, and the priest kept his

lantern turned carefully away.

 

“Monsieur,” answered Luc, “at present I