Both heard it. Galors drove in the spurs, and
the chase began. They were yet a mile away from
Martle Brush. If they could cross the brook and
gain the ridgeway, it was long odds on their being
overtaken that night.
‘BIDE THE TIME’
Walking the rounds at Hauterive the night of his coming
there, a man sprang out at Prosper from a black entry
and stabbed at him between the shoulders. “For
the ravisher of Isoult!” was all the message
that did not miscarry, for Galors’ mail of proof
stopped the rest. Prosper whipt round in an instant,
but the assassin had made up the passage-way.
There was a quick chase through the break-neck lanes
of the steep little town, then blood told. Prosper
ran his man to earth in a churchyard. He proved
to be a red-haired country lout, whose bandy legs
had been against him in this work. He asked for
no quarter, seemed beside himself with rage.
“Friend,” said Prosper, “you struck
me from behind. You must have wished to make
very sure. Why?”
Said Falve, “Thou ravisher, Galors.”
“I cannot be called Galors to my face; politics
may go to the devil. Keep my secret, countryman;
I am in Galors’ shell, but I will be Galors
no more.”
Falve dropped on his knees. “Oh, my lord,
my lord—” he began to cry out.
“Enough of lords,” said Prosper.
“Some of them do not very lordly, I grant you.
Your words touched me nearly. Be so good as to
make yourself plain. Who is Isoult?”
“Isoult la Desirous, my wife, Messire.”
“Your wife!” cried Prosper, grinding his
teeth.
“As good as that, my lord. I should have
married her in the morning if my mother hadn’t
played the Turk on me.”
So he had the whole story out of him. Prosper
learnt that Isoult had been put in her way to safety
by the old woman, who immediately after had made that
way the most perilous of all—with the best
intentions always.
“Master Falve, I am your debtor,” said
Prosper at the end; “I wish you good evening.”
“Messire, will you not find my wife?”
“Your wife again, sirrah!” cried he, turning
sharply.
“Ah, my lord, if you have any ill-will to that——”
“I have the greatest possible ill-will, my man,
because she is already my own.”
“Heaven round about us, was there ever such
a married woman!” cried poor Falve, tearing
his hair.
The politics of a lady to whom, so far as he then
knew, he owed no service held Prosper till the morning.
The rest of the night he spent walking the ramparts.
At the first flutter of light he beat up the garrison,
assembled the men of both parties, and declared himself.
“Hauterive returns to its allegiance,”
said he. “Conradin de Lamport is commandant.
The former garrison will deliver up all arms and take
the oath of fealty. A declaration of hue-and-cry
is posted for Galors, with a reward for his head.
In three days’ time the Countess will send her
Viceroy to claim the keys. Gentlemen, I bid you
good morning.”
