University of Virginia Library

THE VASSAL'S WIFE.

1. CHAPTER I.

The early sun was shining on as beautiful a morning of the
merry month of May as ever lover dreamed or poet sang, over
a gentle pastoral scene in the sunny land of France. It was a
little winding dale between soft, sloping hills, covered with the
tenderest spring verdure, and dotted with small brakes and
thickets of hawthorn and sweet-brier; the former all powdered
over, as if by a snowstorm, with their sweet, white blossoms,
and the others exhaling their aromatic perfume from every dewspangled
bud and leaflet.

To the right hand the narrow dale widened gradually as it
took its way — worn, doubtless, in past days by the waters of
the noisy brooklet which flowed along its bottom over a bed of
many-colored pebbles, among thickets of willow, alder, and
hazel — toward a broad and beautiful valley, through which
flowed the majestic volume of a great, navigable river. To the
left it decreased in width, and ascended rapidly between steep
banks to the spring-head of the rivulet, a clear, cold well, covered
by a canopy of Gothic architecture rudely chiselled in red
sandstone.

Above this the gorge of the ravine — for into such the dell

here degenerated — was thickly overshadowed by a grove of
old tufted oak-trees, which might well have rung to the brazen
trumpets of the Roman legions, and echoed the wild war-whoops
of the barbarous Gauls in the days of the first Cæsar. Sheltered
and half-concealed by these, there stood a very small, old-fashioned
chapel, in the earliest and rudest style of Norman
architecture, exhibiting the short, massive, clustered columns
and round-headed arches of that antique style. It had never
spire or tower; but on the summit of the steep, peaked roof
there was a little crypt or vaulted canopy, supported by four
columns, and containing a bell proportioned to the dimensions
of the humble village-chapel.

The larger valley presented all the usual beauties of rural
landscape scenery at that remote and unscientific day, when
lands were principally laid down in pasture, and husbandry
consisted mainly in the tending of flocks and herds. There
were wide expanses of common ground, dotted here and there
with few arable fields now green as the pastures with their
young crops of wheat and rye; there were woodlands bright in
their new greenery, and apple-orchards, glowing with their fragrant
blossoms. There were scattered farmhouses among the
orchards; and an irregular hamlet scattered along a yellow road
in the foreground, among shadowy elm-trees, all festooned with
vines; and far off, on the farthest slope on the verge of the
horizon, the towers and pinnacles of a tall, castellated building
towered above the grand and solemn woods, which probably
composed the chase of some feudal seigneur.

The little dale which I have described was traversed by two
separate ways: one, a regular road, so far as any roads of the
fourteenth century could be called regular, and adapted for
horses and such rude vehicles as the age and the country required;
the other, a narrow, winding foot-path, following the
bends of the rivulet, which the other crossed by a picturesque

wooden bridge, at about five hundred yards below the well-head
and the chapel.

At the moment when my tale commences, the doors of the
chapel were thrown wide open, and the little bell was tinkling
with a merry chime that harmonized well with the gay aspect
of nature — the music of the rejoicing birds which were filling
the air with their glee, and the lively ripple of the stream fretting
over its pebbly bed.

As if summoned by the joyous cadence of the bells, a numerous
party was now seen coming up the foot-path by the edge
of the rivulet, apparently from the hamlet in the larger valley,
wending their way toward the chapel. It needed but a glance
to discover the occasion. It was a bridal-procession, headed
by the gray-haired village priest in full canonicals, and some
of the elders of the village.

Behind these, lightly tripped six young girls, dressed in white,
with crowns of May-flowers on their heads, and garlands of the
same woven like scarfs across their bosoms. They were all
singularly pretty, having been chosen probably for their beauty
from among their playmates: they had all the rich, dark hair,
flowing in loose ringlets down their backs; the fine, expressive,
dark eyes; the peach-like bloom on the sunny cheeks, and the
ripe, red lips, which constitute the peculiar beauty which is
almost characteristic of the south of France. Each of these
fair young beings carried on her arm a light wicker basket,
filled with the bright field-flowers of that sunny land and season
— the purple violet, the rich jonquil, and pale narcissus,
the many-colored crocuses from the mead, the primrose from
the hedgerow-bank, the lily of the valley from the cool, shadowy
grove — and strewed them, as they passed along, before
the footsteps of the bride; chanting, as they did so, in the quaint
old Gascon tongue, the bridal strain:—

After these, followed by her bridemaids, the bride stepped
daintily and demurely along, the acknowledged beauty of the
village, happy, and bright, and innocent — the young bride Marguerite.

Her hair was of the very deepest shade of brown — so dark,
that at first thought you would have deemed it black; but when
you looked again, you discovered, by the absence of the cold,
metallic gloss upon its wavy surface, and by the rich, warm
hue with which it glowed under the sunlight, what was its
true color. Her forehead was not very high, but broad and
beautifully formed, and as smooth as ivory; while her arched
eyebrows showed as black as night, and as soft and smooth as
though they had been stripes of sable Genoa velvet. Her
nose, if not absolutely faultless — for it had the slight upward
turn which was so charming in Roxabara — added an arch and
sprightly expression to features which were otherwise passive
and voluptuous rather than mirthful; but her eyes, her eyes
were wonderful — like to no eyes on earth that have ever met
my gaze, save thine, incomparable —, which still shine
upon my soul, though long unseen, and far away, never, never
to be forgotten! — not star-like, but like wells of living, loving,
languid lustrousness — brown of the deepest shade, filled with
a humid, rapturous tenderness, yet brighter than the brightest,
but with a soft, voluptuous, luminous brightness; not flashing,
not sparkling, but penetrating and imbuing the beholder with
love at once and magic light. They were fringed, too, with
lashes so long and dark, that, when her lids were lowered,
they showed like fringes of raven-hued silk against the delicate
blush of her round cheek. Her mouth, though perhaps rather
wide, was exquisitely shaped, with the arched upper lip and

full, pouting lower lip, of the color of the ripe clove-carnation,
that woos the kiss so irresistibly; with teeth as bright as
mother-of-pearl, and a breath sighing forth sweeter than Indian
summer.

Such was the face of Marguerite, the bride of that May
morning; nor was her form inferior to it. Modelled in the
fullest and roundest mould that is consistent with symmetry
and grace, her figure was the very perfection, the beau-ideal of
voluptuous, full-blown, yet youthful womanhood. The broad,
falling shoulders; the fully-developed, glowing bust, swelling
into twin hills of panting snow; the round, shapely arms, bare
to the shoulder; the graceful and elastic waist; the rich curve
of the arched hips, and the wavy outlines of her lower limbs,
suggesting, by the rustling folds of her draperies as she walked
the dewy greensward like a queen, the beauty of their unseen
symmetry: these, combined with the exquisite features, the
singular expression uniting, what would appear to be incongruous
and contradictory, much roguish archness, something that
was almost sensual in the wreathed smile, and yet withal the
most perfect modesty and innocence, rendered Marguerite, the
May-bride of Castel de Roche d'or, one of the loveliest, if not
the very loveliest creature that ever walked to church with her
affianced lover in that fair land of France.

She wore, like her bridesmaids — who, all pretty girls, were
utterly eclipsed by her radiant beauty — a May-wreath on her
head, and a large bouquet of fresh violets on the bosom of her
low-cut white dress, which was looped up at one side with
bunches of narcissus and violets, to show an under-skirt of pale
peach-colored silk, the tints of which showed faintly through
the thin draperies of her tunic; but, unlike them, she wore a
long gauze veil, intertwined with silver threads, floating down
among her luxuriant tresses, below her shapely waist.

Never was there seen in that region a lovelier, a purer, or a

happier bride. Immediately behind the bridesmaids, supported
in his turn by an equal number of tall, sinewy, well-formed
youths, dressed in their best attire, half-agricultural, half-martial,
as feudal vassals of their lord, bound to man-service in the
field, came on the stalwart bridegroom. He was a tall, athletic,
well-made man of twenty-nine or thirty years, erect as a quarter-staff,
yet showing in every motion an elastic pliability and
grace, which, although in reality the mere result of nature, appeared
to be the consequence either of innate gentility or of
long usance to the habits of the upper classes.

His complexion was that of the south — rich, sunny olive,
without a tinge of color in the clear, dark cheek; his hair black
as the raven's wing, and his eyes of that wild, fiery shade of
black which perhaps indicates a taint of Moorish blood. His
features were very regular, and very calm in their regularity,
though there was nothing pensive nor anything very grave in
their expression. It was the calmness of latent passions, not
the calmness of controlling principles — the stillness which precedes
the thunderburst, not the stillness of the subsident and
overmastered storm: for the firmly-compressed lips, the square
outlines of the hard, massive jaw, the immense muscular development
of the neck, and the deeply-indented frown between
the eyebrows, intersecting a furrow crossing the forehead from
brow to brow, would have indicated at once to the physiognomist
that Maurice Champrèst was a man of the fiercest and
most fiery energy and passions, concealed but not controlled —
existing perhaps unsuspected, but utterly unchecked by any
principle — and certain to start into a blaze at the first spark
that should enkindle them.

His dress was the usual attire of a man in his station at the
period, though of finer materials than was ordinary, consisting
of a dark forest-green gambison, or short tunic of fine cloth,
not very different in form from the blouse of the modern Frenchman,

gathered about his waist by a broad belt of black leather,
fastened in front by a brazen buckle, and supporting on one side
a heavy, buckhorn-hilted wood-knife, and on the other a large
pouch or purse of black cordovan, bound with silver; his hose
were of the same color with the tunic, fitting close to the shapely
thigh, and above these he wore long boots of russet-tawny
leather. His black hair fell in two heavy clubs or masses over
each ear, nearly to the collar of his doublet, from beneath the
cover of a small cap of black velvet, set jauntily on one side,
and adorned with a single white-cock's feather.

His appearance on the whole, though he was very far inferior
in regard of personal beauty to the exquisite creature whom he
was so soon to call his wife, was manly and imposing; while
the character of his dress and equipments, as well as the decorations
of Marguerite and her attendant maidens, showed at once
that they were all of a quality and station to the serfs employed
in the cultivation of the lands of the great seigneurs, and indeed
to that of the ordinary armed vassals and feudal tenants of
the day.

In truth, Maurice Champrèst was not only the richest farmer,
but the highest military vassal under the fief of Raoul de Canillac,
the marquis of Roche d'or, his ancestor having been banner-bearer
to the first lord of the name, and his people having
held and cultivated the same farm for many a century, bound
only to homage and free man-service in the field under the
banner of his lord, to which in war he was held to bring five
spearsmen and as many archers in full bodynge, as it was then
technically termed, and effeyre-of-war. He was, in short, though
not noble, nor what could be exactly termed a gentleman, of the
very highest of feudal territorial vassals, not far removed from
the class which were in England designated as franklins, although
with fewer privileges and smaller real freedom, France
having always been more rigidly feudal than the neighboring

island, owing to the absence of the large admixture of Saxon
blood and Saxon liberty, the latter of which soon began to preponderate
in the white-rocked isle of ocean. His beautiful
bride Marguerite, though not his equal in birth — for her grandfather
and grandmother, nay, her father himself, in his early
youth, had been serfs — was a free-born and a gently-nurtured
woman; the old people having been manumitted and presented
with a few acres of land, in consequence of the gallantry with
which he had rescued the then seigneur of Roche d'or, when
unhorsed and at the mercy of the German communes at the
bloody battle of Bovines, stricken between Philip the August
and his rebellious barons.

This event had taken place years before the birth of Marguerite,
and in fact when her father was a mere stripling; and,
as her mother was a woman of free lineage, neither serf nor
villeyn, she was, of course, beyond the reach of cavil. Nay,
more than this, the unusual courage of the old man on that
dreadful day, and the consideration always manifested toward
him by the then marquis and his immediate successor, had won
for him a far higher standing than was usually accorded to
manumitted serfs by the class next above them. Her family,
moreover, in both the last generations, had prospered in worldly
wealth, for the old serf was shrewd and wary, had hoarded
money, and increased the extent of his rural demesne, till Marguerite,
who was an only daughter, was not only a beauty but
an heiress; and probably, with the exception of her husband,
would be, on the death of her parents, the richest person in the
hamlet. She had received, moreover, advantages at that period
very unusual indeed; for having, when a mere child, attracted
the attention of the late marchioness de Canillac by her grace,
her beauty, and the artless naïveté of her manners, she had been
selected to attend, rather as a companion than a servant, on
Mademoiselle de Roche d'or, a girl a few years her senior.

The young lady had become much attached to Marguerite,
and on being sent to a convent in the principal town of the department
for her education, as was usual, had obtained permission
that Marguerite might attend her still; so that the young
peasant had enjoyed all the advantages of mental culture granted
to the high-born damsel; had profited by them to the utmost;
and had parted from her orphaned mistress only when, after
the death of her parents, she was removed with her brother,
the present marquis, to the guardianship of their next relative,
the prince of Auvergne. In the meantime, while the marquis
and his sister had breathed the atmosphere of courts and large cities,
far away from their native province, Marguerite had returned
to the humble home of her parents which she had filled with
happiness by the light of her loving eyes, and the harmonies of
her soft, low voice; had expanded from the bud into the full-blown
flower, admired and beloved of all; had burst from the frail
and graceful girl into the exquisite and complete woman; and,
having long been loved of Maurice Champrèst, and bestowed
upon him all the tenderness and truth of her maiden affections,
was now about to surrender her hand also to him unto whom
she had been during the whole of the last year affianced.

And now, with pipe and tabor, with the old, time-honored
bridal-chorus, with flowers scattered along the way, and garlands
swinging from the hedgerows by which she was to pass,
and decorating the rude pillars and stern arches of the old
Gothic church in which she was to wed, with all the village in
her train, carolling and rejoicing at so suitable, so sweet a bridal,
Marguerite, the bride of May, was led to the ceremony that
should of the twain make one for ever and for ever, of which
the word of God himself declared that whom he hath united
no man shall put asunder.

Merrily, with louder strains and blither minstrelsey, they
wound up the little dell among the oaks, paused for a moment

at the rustic fount to cross their brows with its holy waters,
and entered the low portals of the village-chapel. The bells
ceased tinkling; the brief ceremnny was performed by the old
priest who had baptized them both; the hand of the down-eyed,
blushing bride, still sparkling and smiling amid her happy, soft
confusion, was placed in the ardent grasp of Maurice, and she
was now her own no longer, but a wedded wife.

She was wept over, blessed, caressed, and kissed, by half
the company, and many a fervent prayer was breathed for the
happiness, the complete and perfect bliss of Marguerite, the
bride of May — alas for human hopes and the vain prayers of
mortals! — and then, while the bells struck up a livelier, louder
chiming, and the bride-maidens trolled the chorus forth more
cheerily —

with many a manly voice swelling more lustily the nuptial cadence,
they passed the little green descending to the horse-road,
Marguerite clinging now to his supporting arm and looking
tenderly up into his with eyes suffused with happy tears
and cheeks radiant with dimpled smiles and rosy blushes.

But at the moment when the bridal-train was wheeling down
toward the road, and had now nearly reached the point of its
intersection with the foot-path, the loud and noisy trampling of
many horses, and the jingling clash of the harness of armed
riders, was distinctly heard above the swelling chorus of the
hymenean, above the chiming of the wedding-bells; and within
a few seconds, two or three horsemen crossed the brow of the
eastern hill, at a gentle trot, and were followed by a company
of some fifty men-at-arms, under the guidance of an old officer,
whose beard and hair, as white as snow, fell down over his

gorget from beneath the small, black-velvet cap, which alone
covered his head, for his helmet hung at his saddle-bow. The
troopers were all armed point-device, in perfect steel, with long,
pennoned lances in their hands, two-handed broadswords slung
across their shoulders from the left to the right, and battle-axe
and mace depending on this side or that from the pommels of
their steel-plated saddles. Their horses, too — strong, powerful
brutes of the Norman stock, crossed with some lighter strain
of higher blood — were barded, as it was termed, with chamfronts
and neck-plates, poitrels on the breast, and the bards
proper covering the loins and croup; and all were arrayed under
a broad, square banner, blazoned, as if every eye of the
bridal-party could at once distinguish, with the bearings of the
lords of Castel de Roche d'or.

No sooner had they discovered this, than they halted, and
formed a line along the edge of the road, anxious to testify
their respect to their young lord — who now, recently of age,
was returning, after years of absence, from the chateau of his
guardian — and eager to observe the passage of the cavalcade.

The persons who led the approaching band were three in
number, two of whom rode a few horse-lengths in advance of
the third, and were evidently of rank superior to the rest; while
something seemed to indicate, though it was indefinite, and not
very obvious how far it did so, that even between these two
there subsisted no perfect equality.

He to the left was the elder by many years; a finely-formed
and not ill-favored man, of some forty-five or fifty years; magnificently
apparelled in a suit of rich half-armor, with russet-leather
boots meeting the taslets or thigh-pieces at the knee;
accoutred with heavy gilded spurs, and wearing on his head a
crimson-velvet mortier, adorned by a massive gold chain, and
a lofty plume of white feathers.

And he it was, who, although in his outward show he was

the more splendid — though he bestrode his steed with an air
of pride so manifest, that you might have fancied he bestrode
the universe — though he addressed all his inferiors with intolerable
haughtiness, and appeared to look upon all his equals as
inferiors — yet, by his demeanor toward the youth who reined
his Arab courser by his side, and by his almost servile watching
of his every motion, and lowering his voice at his every
word, appeared to be oppressed in his presence by a sense of
the utmost unworthiness, and scarcely to hold himself entitled
to have an opinion of his own until sanctioned by that of the
young marquis de Roche d'or.

The features of this man were certainly well-favored rather
than the reverse — for the brow, the eyes, the outlines, were all
good; and yet the expressions they assumed, as he was moved
by varying passions, were so odious and detestable, that on a
nearer view, a close observer would probably have styled him
hideous, and avoided his advances. Pride, of the haughtiest
and most intolerant form, would at one time writhe his lip and
deform his every lineament; at another, it would yield to the
basest, the most abject servility. Cruelty alone sat fixed and
permanent in the thick, massive, animal jaw, the low and somewhat
receding forehead, and the oblique glances of the cold,
clear, gray eye; but sensuality, and sneering sarcasm, and utter
want of veneration or belief for anything high or holy, had left
their hateful traces in the lines about his mouth and nostrils:
nor were these odious, ineradicable signs of an atrocious character
redeemed by the evident presence of high intellect and
pervading talents, for that intellect was of a shrewd, keen, cunning
caste, and was in no wise akin to anything of an imaginative,
a noble, or a virtuous type.

Such was the appearance, such the aspect, of a man renowned
in his day far and wide through France, but renowned for evil
only. Such was Canillac le fou — a soubriquet which he had

won throughout his province, for the insane, frantic, and unnatural
vice and crime which had marked his whole career from
boyhood. Canillac the madman! — and with good reason did
the vassals of the old house of Roche d'or shrink upon themselves,
and draw instinctively one toward the other, like wildfowl
when they see the shadow of the soaring falcon, with a
foreboding of peril near at hand, when they beheld this fierce,
voluptuous, pitiless monster — whose favorite boast it was that
he had never spared a woman in his passion, nor a man in his
hatred — riding at the bridle-rein of their young lord, as his
chosen friend and companion, and probably as the arbiter of his
pleasures, instigator of his vices!

And of a truth they had good cause to shrink and tremble,
an' had they but then known that which was even now impending,
to curse the very hour in which he or they were born
— he to inflict, they to endure the last, worst outrages of feudal
tyranny and wrong!

But they as yet knew nothing, nor, save instinctively, foreboded
anything; but he, with his keen, furtive, ever-roving
glances, noted (what none less sly, suspicious, and acute, would
have suspected) the secret and intuitive horror with which the
peasantry of Castel de Roche d'or regarded him, and vowed at
once within his secret soul that they should have good cause to
curse him, and that speedily.

His comrade, the young marquis, was, to the outward eye, a
very different personage. Having barely reached his twenty-first
year, he was as graceful and finely-framed a youth as ever
sat a charger. His face, too, was very fine and regular, with
the large, liquid, dark eyes, and deep, clear, olive tint, which
are so common in the south of France. His hair was black as
the raven's wing, with the same purplish, metallic lustre gleaming
over its glossy surface, and fell in long, wavy, uncurled
masses over the collar of the quilted gambison of rose-colored

silk, which he wore under a shirt of flexible chain-mail, polished
so brilliantly, that it flashed and sparkled in the morning sunbeams
like a network of diamonds.

The ordinary expression of his countenance was grave, calm,
and melancholy; yet it was impassive and cold, rather than
thoughtful and imaginative, while there was an occasional flashing
light in the sleepy eye, and a gleam of almost fierce intelligence
in all the features, and a strange, animal curl of the
pale lips, which seemed to tell that there lurked beneath that
cold exterior a volcano of fierce and fiery passions, ready at any
instant to leap into life, and consume whosoever should oppose
his will.

The keen observer of humanity would have pronounced him
one cold, rather than collected; selfish at once, and careless of
the rights and happiness of others; sluggish, perhaps, and difficult
to arouse, but, once aroused, impetuous, and of indomitable
will — truly a fearful combination!

When the company had arrived within thirty or forty paces
of the bridal-party, the villagers threw up their caps into the
air, and raised a loud and joyous exclamation — “Vive Canillac!
vive Canillac! Vive le beau marquis de Roche d'or!” —
and, for the moment, the boy's face lighted up with a gleam of
warm and honest feeling — gratification at the welcome of his
people, and something of real sympathy with their condition.

But just as he had determined to ride forward and return
their kindly greeting with words of cheer and promise of protection,
the young and fiery Arab on which he was mounted,
terrified by the shoutings, and the caps tossed into the air,
reared bolt upright, made a prodigious bound forward, and then,
wheeling round, yerked out his heels violently, and dashed
away with such fury, that before the young rider, who sat as
firmly in his saddle as though he had been a portion of the animal,
could arrest him, they were almost among the men-at-arms.

The whole passed in a minute; but that minute was of fearful
import to many there assembled, many both innocent and
guilty. Even in the point of time when the wild horse was
plunging forward to the bridal-party, the young lord's eye, undiverted
by the sense of his own keen peril, had fallen upon
the lovely face and exquisite symmetry of the fair bride, who,
moved by a timid apprehension for the safety of the handsome
cavalier, leaned forward a little way in front of her young companions,
with clasped hands and cheeks blanched somewhat by
sympathetic fear and pity.

The blood rushed in a torrent to his cheek, and remained
settled there in a red, hectic spot; a fierce, unnatural light
gleamed from his glassy eye, and his lip curled with an odious
smile. A volume of fierce passions rushed over his soul, overpowering
in an instant all his better characteristics. He was
determined, in that instant, by that one glance, to possess her,
reckless what misery and madness he might cause — reckless
of all things, human or Divine!

And, whether the disembodied fiend, who, we are taught to
believe, is ever ready at such moments of temptation to urge
the incipient sinner on to deeper crime and ruin, did spur his
wicked will or not — there was a human, sneering, tempting
fiend, who, as he rode beside him, read his inmost soul in every
look and gesture, and spared nothing of allurement to excite
him onward on that fell road of evil passions which should
insure his subjugation to his own sins and their readiest minister.

“Ha! what is this?” exclaimed the young man, almost angrily,
as he pulled up his violent horse, at length, beside the
aged seneschal; “what is this, Michael Rubempré — or who
am I, that my villeyns and serfs wed at their will, without my
consent, or consideration of my droits and dues?”

“So please you, beau seigneur, these be no serfs,” replied

the old man, bowing low, “but vassals of the highest class, in
this your lordship of Roche d'or — free vassals, beau sire, of
the highest class. Your consent was applied for duly, and
granted, in all form, by me, as, in your absence, by letters of
instruction, your representative and agent. The dues were all
paid, and a large present above them, as a donation to mademoiselle,
your sister, on whom the young bride attended, when
she dwelt in the house of the Ursulines, in Clermont.”

Darker and darker grew the brow of the young lord, as he
listened; for he could not fail to perceive the obstacles which
were opposed to the atrocious wrong he meditated. Yet he
listened sullenly to the end.

“Ha!” he replied, moodily, “no droits, only dues, and those
satisfied! The worse for them, by heaven and hell, and all
who dwell therein!”

He paused a moment, with his hands clinched, and the veins
upon his brow swollen into thick, azure cords, by the rush of
the hot blood; and then resumed, in a low, hissing tone, widely
different from his usually slow and modulated voice:—

“Who be they, Michael Rubempré? I would give half my
lands, they could be proved serfs. Can not this be done, Michael?”

“Impossible, beau sire!” replied the old man, firmly, though
there was much of anxiety, and even of alarm, in his eye; “utterly
impossible. The forefathers of Maurice Champrèst came
into the lands of Roche d'or with the first Canillac, and he
holds the same farm still, under the first grant, by tenure of
man-service, only on the field of battle. He is your lordship's
greatest vassal, and brings five spears and as many crossbows
to the banner of Roche d'or, serving himself on horseback.”

“Ha! curses on it! curses on it! And she — who is she!
By heaven, she is the loveliest creature I ever looked upon!
Who is she! ha!”

“Her grandfather, beau sire, then a serf — permitted, through
the exigency of the times, to bear arms in the field — saved the
life of your lordship's grandsire, by taking in his breast the
pike-thrust intended for his lord. For this good deed, he was
manumitted, with his wife and son, who is now a free vassal
and a large tenant of Roche d'or, bringing six crossbows to your
banner. Marguerite was selected by the marquise to wait on
Mademoiselle de Canillac de Roche d'or, and was educated
with her, almost as a friend. She is the best girl, too, in all
the village.”

“Ha! so much the worse! Curses on it — twenty thousand
curses!”

And he had turned his horse's head again, to ride on his way,
apparently convinced that for this time, at least, his wicked will
must be balked of its fulfilment; but at this moment, the voice
of the tempter, Canillac the madman — mad in his crimes alone,
for his wily and diverse intellect was clear as that of Catiline,
whom he in some sort resembled — addressed him, calm, yet
cutting and sarcastic:—

“What is it that has moved you so much, beau cousin? Methinks
your people's greeting should enliven, not depress you.”

“Tush!” the young man replied, almost savagely; “tush!
You are no fool, Canillac!”

“Not much, I think; though they do call me Canillac le fou!
But what then, what then, beau cousin?”

“Did you not see her? did you not see her, Canillac? As
I hope to live before God, she is the loveliest piece of woman's
flesh I ever looked upon! I would give — I would give half
my lands, half my life, that I had droits seignorial over her;
but I have dues, dues only, and they are satisfied. She is free
— a free woman of her own right, and can not be mine.”

“Were I you, cousin, and I so desired her as you do, she
should be mine, ere nightfall!”

“How so? how so?” asked the young man, sharply. “Did
I not tell you she is free — free — that I have no droits over her,
and do you tell me I can make her mine?”

“What if she be? She is but a peasant-wench — one of the
mere canaille. I would regard her squalling no more than a
kitten's mewing; nay, rather I would glory in it, for I am sick
to death of your complaisant beauties. Besides, she is not free,
if she was born while her father was a serf, unless she was
named in the deed of manumission.”

“But she must have been born years afterward. Look at
her, man: she could not have been born in my grandfather's
time.”

“Deny that she is free. Have her up with us to the castle,
now. Hold her there as a hostage, till she be proven free. If
you be not aweary of her, ere the week is ended, I will find
twenty men who shall swear she was born in the days of Sir
Noah in the ark, if it be needful.” And he laughed scornfully.

“By Heaven, I will not weary of her in a week of years!
But it is well advised. I will essay it.”

“Essay nothing: do it! Promise to hold her in all honor.
Promises cost no man anything, nor oaths either, for that matter,
which is fortunate; for, by mine honor, she is fitter to be a
prince's paramour than a Jacque's wife. So forward!”

And, with the word, they galloped forward, and pausing exactly
in front of the bride, who stood between her husband and
the priest — shrinking with modesty and terror from the ardent
and licentious gaze which he riveted on her glowing charms —
he began to rate the latter for daring to wed a serf-girl to a free
vassal without his lord's consent, and the former for presuming
to defraud his siegneur of his droits.

In vain the good curate explained and expostulated; in vain
twenty oaths were proffered by contemporaries of the girl's
grandsire, that she was free; in vain the husband tendered

security, and offered rich donations; in vain the village-maidens
grovelled before the young lord's charger's hoofs, and clasped
his knees in an agony of fruitless supplication! The wrong
was predetermined; the wronger was a strong man, armed; and
how should humble innocence prevail against the might which
makes the right, where violence is masterful, and law its abject
servitor?

To make a sad tale short, Raoul de Canillac announced his
determination to carry her up to the castle presently, and hold
her there in trust, until such time as a “court-baron” could be
held to decide on the question of her manumission. He plighted
his knightly word, however, his honor, as a peer of France,
that she should be treated with all tenderness, as one who had
waited on his sister; and returned to her husband, in all honor,
should she be pronounced free: but this on the condition only
that she should render herself freely up and gently, and go
without resistance or complaint. To this he added, that, as an
act of grace and favor, and to prove that he would deal with
them in all faithfulness of honor, he would himself hold court
at high noon to-morrow, at which he cited all his vassals to appear,
and enjoined it on the priest, the parents, and the bridegroom,
then and there to produce the testimonials of her birth
or manumission; or, failing that, to remain for ever mute.
Lovely as ever, if not lovelier, paler than the white lily, and
like it drooping when its fair head is surcharged with dewdrops,
and deluged with soft, silent tears, the miserable Marguerite
sank on her husband's breast in one last, long embrace.

Fire flashed from the dark eyes of Raoul de Canillac, and
the blood literally boiled in his veins, as he saw that lovely form
clasped close by arms other than his own — those lips polluted,
as he termed it, by the kiss of a peasant!

“Enough of this!” he cried. “Set her upon the palfrey —
the gray palfrey we brought down for my sister. You, Amelot

de l'Aigle, guide it,” he continued, “but keep her in the middle
of the lances.”

But the wretched girl had fainted; and they were forced to
place her on a cloak, doubled upon the bows of the demipique,
in front of the page, to whose waist she was bound by a silken
scarf, to prevent her falling to the ground. The tears stood in
the eyes of the good old senechal; and the faces of many of
the men-at-arms, who were all of the same class with the bridegroom,
and many of them his comrades and friends, were dark
and sullen. None, however, dared to remonstrate, much less
to resist the authoritative mandate of the feudal tyrant.

No words, however, can express the scene which ensued as
the cavalcade swept onward at a rapid pace, leaving behind
them agony, and desolation, and despair, where all, before their
coming, had been happiness, and innocent, quiet bliss, and hopeful
peace! The stifled wailing of the girls, the silent agony
of the hopeless bridegroom, the deep, scarcely-smothered execrations
of the men — it was a scene as terrible and heart-rending
as that which preceded it had been delightful and cheering
to the soul.

At length the priest, raising his arms toward heaven, cried in
a low and plaintive voice —

“My children, let us pray; let us pray to the most high God,
that he will keep our sweet sister Marguerite in innocence and
honor, and give her back to us in happiness and peace. Let
us pray!”

And every voice responded of all who heard his words; every
voice, save one, responded, “Let us pray!” and every knee
was bent as they bowed them in a sorrowing circle around
their monitor and friend — every knee, save that of Maurice
Champrèst; but he stood erect, and pulled his hat over his
brows, and folded his arms across his chest, and exclaimed, as
the ravishers of his sweet wife wound through the dale into the

larger valley: “Earth has no justice, Heaven no pity! Man
has no honor, God no vengeance!”

But on rode the tyrants, onward — careless of the ruin they
had wrought, ruthless toward the innocence they had determined
to destroy; confident in the puissance of their prowess,
and almost defying the thunders of Heaven, which were even
then rolling and muttering far away among the volcanic peaks
of the Mont d'or. Were these the omens of a coming storm?

They reached the esplanade before the castle-gates, and Marguerite
was still unconscious. Happy had she nevermore regained
her consciousness! But as the horses' hoofs thundered
over the echoing drawbridge, the clang roused her from her
swoon. She raised herself up, drew her hand across her brow,
as if to clear away some imaginary mist obscuring her mental
vision, and gazed wildly and hurriedly around her on the strange
objects which met her eyes, as if she had not as yet realized
to herself her condition, nor altogether knew her destination.
As she was carried, however, through the dim, resounding vault
of the barbacan, and heard the grating clang of the portcullis
when it thundered down behind her, a sense of her lost condition
flashed upon her soul, and a voice seemed to whisper in
her ear those words of horrible import which Danté, in after-days,
inscribed upon the gates of hell: “On entering here,
leave every hope behind!”

Still she shrieked not, nor wept, nor craved or sympathy or
pity; for too well did she know that the hearts of those to
whom she should appeal were harder, colder than their own
iron breastplates; her only confidence was in her own strenuous
virtue, her only hope in Him who alone can save.

She was lifted from the horse, not only with some show of
gentleness, but even of respect, without receiving word or sign
of intelligence from the young lord of Roche d'or, who strode
away, accompanied by his ill-counsellor, Canillac the madman,

toward the banqueting-room, wherein the noontide meal was
prepared already, and where the flower of the knights and nobles
of the province were assembled to welcome the new-comer.
Then she was conducted by the page through several long,
winding passages, to a sort of withdrawing-room, in which she
found several female-servants of the higher class, to the care of
one of whom she was consigned, with a few words of whispered
orders, by her conductor, who bowed low and retired. The
girls looked at her for a moment or two earnestly, inquiringly —
eying her gay bridal-dress, so ill-suited to the mode of her arrival,
with an air between suspicion and sympathy — until, at
length, one of them seemed to recognise her, and exclaimed:
“Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! if it be not the fair Marguerite!”

And then, as pity seemed to prevail over all other feelings,
they crowded round her kindly and respectfully; and after a
few kindly-intended but little-meaning words, one of them offered
to conduct her to her appointed chamber, promising to
bring her refreshments shortly, and saying that doubtless she
would prefer to take some repose, and be alone.

Through dark, circuitous passages, vaulted with solid stone,
and ribbed as though they had been hewn out of the living rock,
and up interminable winding stairs, she led her, until her brain
whirled round and round, and her senses were almost bewildered.
At length they reached the topmost story of the huge,
square tower, and, opening a low, arched door, the hapless
bride was ushered into a room so sumptuously furnished as
Marguerite had never seen or dreamed of; and then, with a
deep reverence, and a half-compassionate air, the attendant
maiden left her, a prisoner; for she heard the lock turned from
without, and her heart fell at the sound.

The sun, which had turned already toward the westward, was
pouring a rich stream of light through the oriel window, over
the tapestried walls and floor; over the velvet bed in a deep

alcove; over the soft arm-chairs, and central table covered with
a splendid carpet, and strewn with illuminated books, and rich,
sculptured cups and vases. But it was on none of these that
the eyes of Marguerite dwelt meaningly; for, as they wandered
over these, half-marvelling amid her terrors at their beauty, she
discerned an oaken prie-Dieu, in a small niche beside the window,
with a missal on its embroidered cushion, and a crucifix
with the sacrificed Redeemer looking down from it on the repentant
sinner.

In an instant, she was on her knees before the image of her
God, pouring forth the whole of her innocent and spotless soul,
in the holiest of supplications. She prayed for aid from on
high to preserve her unstained virtue; she prayed for strength
from on high to resist temptation; she prayed for pardon from
on high for her sins and errors past, for grace that she might
err no more in future; she prayed that He, who alone could
pity human suffering — for that he had suffered as no man suffereth
— would touch the hearts of her ruthless persecutors,
through his Virgin Mother; she prayed that he would console
her sorrowing parents, and him whom she scarcely dared think
of, so terrible she knew must be his anguish; lastly, she prayed
for pardon to her persecutor, and that, if she were doomed that
night to perish, her soul might be received to grace, through
the intercession of the saints, and her, the ever-blessed, the
Virgin Mother Mary!

Her prayer, if in form it were erroneous, in spirit was sincere
and fervent; and, as sincere and fervent prayers will ever, surely
must hers have found a hearing at the throne of mercy, for she
arose from her knees confirmed, if not consoled, and strengthened
in her virtuous principles, and calm by the very strength
of her resolves.

Then, opening the oriel window, she stepped out into the
little balcony, or bartizan, which projected out beyond the face

of the wall — perhaps in the hope of finding some means of
escape; but, alas! if such a hope had flattered her, it was delusive;
for there was no egress from it, nor any method of descending;
and it impended far over the broad, deep moat, a
hundred feet or more above its dark, clear waters — which, she
remembered to have heard men say, were fifty feet in depth to
the bottom of their rock-hewn channel. Long, long she gazed
over the lovely sunlit valley of her birth, which all lay mapped
out in the glorious glow before her eyes; the happy home among
the limes, beneath which she was born; the happier home of
promise, into which she had hoped that day to be led by him
whom she loved the best; the little chapel in the dell, among
the oaks, in which she had plighted, that very morn, her faith
for ever, until death, and death alone, should dissolve the bonds.

“And death alone,” she exclaimed, as the thoughts swelled
upon her soul, “and death alone shall dissolve them! But I
must not look upon these things — I must not think of him — or
my spirit will sink into utter weakness!” Then she paused,
and, leaning over the low breastwork of the bartizan, looked
down with a steady eye into the abyss, and crossing herself
as she rose — “May God assoil my soul, if I be driven to do
this thing, as do it of a surety I will, if otherwise I may not
save my honor!”

Then she returned into the chamber, leaving both lattices of
the oriel open; and seated herself calmly near the window,
with her eyes fixed on the effigy of her dying God, expecting
that which should ensue, in trembling and shuddering of the
spirit, it is true, yet in earnest resignation and fixed purpose.

Ere long, a step approached the door, but it was light and
gentle; and, when the lock was turned, it was the girl who had
led her thither, bearing wine and refreshments on a silver salver:
but, though the attendant pressed her kindly to take comfort
and to eat, that she might be strengthened, she refused all

consolation, and only drank a deep draught of the cold spring-water,
to quench the feverish thrist which parched her very
vitals. Seeing at once that the prisoner would not be consoled,
nor enter into any conversation, the maiden bade her “Goodnight,
and God speed her!” and added that she believed she
would not be disturbed that night, for the gentles were revelling
furiously in the great hall: and the feast, she believed,
would efface all thought of her.

“God grant that it may be so,” she replied, fervently; “for
if I live scatheless until to-morrow morn, I am free and happy!
No court on earth can dare decide against the testimony we
shall show to-morrow.”

But, in His wisdom — we, blind wretches, can not discern,
may not conjecture wherefore — HE did not grant it.

The sunlight faded from the sky, as the great orb went down;
and the stars came out, one by one; and then the moon arose,
nigh to the full, and filled the skies with glory, and the maiden
May-bride's heart with increasing hope on earth, and gratitude
toward Heaven. But little did she dream that he, she had that
morning wedded, lay, even now, at the verge of the moat,
watching her oriel window, with agony and desperation at his
heart; yet so it was. When she stepped on the bartizan, he
had been observing the castle with an angry and jealous eye
from the skirts of the nearest woodland; and, though it was
nearly a mile distant, the lover's glance of instinct had at once
detected the loved and lovely figure. As the shades of evening
closed, and night fell thick before the moon arose, he had crept
up, pace by pace, till he had reached the brink of the moat, unseen
of the warders on the keep and the flanking walls; and
now he lay couched in the rank grass, almost within reach of
his beloved, able to hear every sound — should sound come
forth — from her gentle lips, yet powerless to succor, impotent
to save!

It was now nigh midnight, and Marguerite had begun to
frame to herself a hope that she was indeed forgotten; when
suddenly the sound of feet, coming up the winding stair, aroused
her. The sounds were of the feet of two men: the one, heavy
and uncertain, as of a person who had drunk too deeply; the
other light and agile.

She rose to her feet, with her heart throbbing as though it
would have burst her boddice. “The time of my trial hath
come! My God, my God, now aid, or, if need be, forgive thy
servant!”

The door flew open, and at the sight hope fled her bosom, if
any hope had so long dwelt within it.

Flushed with wine — inebriate, almost — with his doublet
unbraced, and his points unfastened — with a glowing cheek, a
sparkling eye, and an unsteady gait, Raoul de Canillac stood
before her — the page Amelot bearing a waxen torch before
him, which he placed in a candelabrum near the bed, and that
done, retiring.

As the door closed, the young lord moved toward her, while
she stood gazing at him like a deer at bay, with a sad, liquid
eye, and the tears rolling down her cheeks, yet motionless and
dauntless.

“Dry thy tears, sweet one,” he exclaimed, “or rather weep
on, till I kiss them from thy cheeks, and replace them by smiles
of rapture. Girl, I adore thee. Be but mine, and I will change
thine every bunch of silly-flowers for gems worth an earl's ransom;
better to be—”

“Seigneur Raoul de Canillac,” she interrupted him, in tones
so calm, that he was compelled to pause and listen — “marquis
of Roche d'or, knight of the Holy Ghost, as you are prince and
noble, as you are peer of France and belted knight, hear me,
and spare me! By the soul of your mother, who was chaste
wife to your lordly father! by the honor of your sister, who is

spotless demoiselle! spare me, who am at once chaste wife
and spotless maiden! Conquer me you may, perchance, by
brute force; win me, by words, you never can! Nor would I
yield to thee one favor, were death itself the alternative!”

“Brute force, then, be it!” he replied, though, half-awed by
her manner, he advanced no farther; “for, conquer thee I will,
if I may not win thee, though my mother's soul stood palpable
between us, and my sister's honor were trampled underneath
my feet, as I spring on to seize thee!”

“False knight, your plighted honor! bad lord, your promised
faith!” she cried, so loud and clear, that her every accent reached
the ear and tore the heart of Maurice Champrèst below.

“Honor!” he shouted, sneeringly; “to the wild winds with
honor! Faith! who kept faith with a woman ever?”

And he dashed at her with a bound so sudden and unexpected,
that he cleared the space between them, and had his arms
around her, in an instant.

She thought that she was lost, and uttered one wild shriek,
so long, so shivering, so thrilling, that not one ear that heard it
but felt as if a lance had pierced it. But virtue gave her strength,
as vice and excess had robbed him of it; and, with a perfect
majesty, she thrust him from her, that he staggered and fell
headlong.

One spring, and she had cleared the oriel window; another,
and she stood upon the dizzy brink. “My God, forgive mine
enemy! Jesus, receive my soul!”

She veiled her head with her bridal-veil, and, with her white
arms clasped above it, stooped herself, and plunged headlong!

For one second, there was seen by every eye, within eye-shot,
a long, white gleam, glancing downward through the
misty moonlight —

For one second, there was heard by every ear, within earshot,
a dreadful, hurtling sound —

And then a sudden plash, and the waters of the moat flashed
upward in the serene moonlight, and closed over the head of
chaste, unspotted Marguerite!

But another plunge followed instantly; and, within one second,
she was drawn forth and clasped in her husband's arms,
shattered and stunned, and beyond all hope of life, yet still not
wholly dead.

A few long minutes passed — minutes as long as years —
and then, warmed into life by the pressure of that fond breast,
she revived; her dying eyes looked into his; she knew him —
she was blest! —

“Maurice — I am thine — in death, as in life — thine own,
thine own, pure Marguerite — kiss — kiss me! I am gone —
hus-husband!”

And she died, happy — died, may we not trust, forgiven! —

And he howled out a hideous curse against the castle, and
against its lord, and against all whom its guilty walls protected;
and then, bearing his dead bride in his arms, away through the
darkness of the night — away, with a speed mocking the fleet
pursuit of horses!

The sunrise of the morrow shone down upon the corpse of
Marguerite, clad in her bridal-veil and marriage-garments, dripping
and soiled with moisture, outstretched upon the very altar
before which the preceding dawn had seen her wedded.

But years elapsed ere Maurice Champrèst was seen again
in the hamlet of Castel de Roche d'or; and, when he was seen
there, it was a sorry sight to many a noble eye, and the very
stones cried “Wo!” when the Vassal's Wife was avenged on
her destroyer.

2. CHAPTER II.

They were dark and dismal days in the fair land of France.
Foreign invasion was triumphant, domestic insurrection was
rife.

The terrible and fatal field of Poictiers, the field of the Black
Prince, had stricken down at a single stroke the might of a
great, a glorious nation; her king a captive in a foreign dungeon;
one third of the best and bravest nobles dead on the
field of honor, or languishing in English fetters; a weak and
nerveless regent on her throne; and Charles, the bad king of
Navarre, the counsellor, the nearest to his ear.

Half of the realm at least was held directly under English
sway, with garrisons of English archers in the towns, and the
red-cross banner of St. George floating above her vanquished
towers; and in the provinces, still nominally French, armies
of free companions sweeping the fields of their harvests far and
near, plundering the cottage, pillaging the castle, levying contributions
on open towns, storming by force strongholds — English,
Gascons, and Normans — led for the most part by men of
name and renown — bastards, in many cases, of great and noble
houses, such as the bourg de Maulion, and the bourg de Keranlouet,
and a hundred others of scarcely inferior fame — had
subjected the country scarcely less effectually than it had been
done elsewhere by open, honorable warfare.

To this appalling state of things a fresh horror was now
added, where horror was least needed — and that the most tremendous
of all horrors, a servile insurrection — the sudden, and
spontaneous, and victorious outbreak of ignorant, down-trodden,
vicious, cruel, frenzied, and brutal slaves!

The nobles themselves — who, had they been combined, and
acted promptly and in unison, could have crushed the life out
of the insurrection in a week — divided into hostile parties, dispirited
by the wonderful successes of the victorious English,
intimidated and crest-fallen — held themselves aloof the one
from the other; and, attempting to defend their isolated fortresses
singly, without either concert or system, allowed themselves
to be surprised in detail, and butchered upon their own hearthstones,
by the infuriated serfs.

All horrors, all atrocities that can be conceived, were perpetrated
by the victors, maddened by long years of servitude and
suffering, by deprivation of all the rights and decencies which
belong of nature to every living man, and by the enforcement
of droits so infamous and unnatural, that it is only wonderful
how men should have so long endured them! Not the least
galling of these was that feudal right which permitted the seigneur
to compel the virgin bride on her wedding-day to his own
bed, and then return her dishonored to the arms of her impassive
husband — a right which not merely existed in abeyance,
or, as in latter days, was compounded by a fine, but which was
an every-day occurrence, a usage of the land — to enforce which
was no more considered cruel or tyrannical than to collect rents,
or tithes, or any other feudal dues — and which was not finally
abolished until the reign of Louis XIV., when it was at length
suppressed in those memorable assizes, known as the grands
jours d' Auvergne, when many of the noblest of the land died
by the hands of the common executioner for tyranny and persecution.

When, therefore, crimes like these, and worse, were perpetrated
daily under the sanction and authority of feudal law;
when they had been endured for years — not, indeed, without
feelings of the direst bitterness and rage, but without loud complaint
or general resistance, by all the serfs and villeyns of the

land — what wonder was it that these miserable, trampled
wretches, scarcely human, save in form, from the squalid
wretchedness of their condition, and the studious care of their
oppressors to prevent their progress or improvement — what
wonder, I say, was it, that, seeing at length their opportunity,
when their lords were distracted by foreign conquests, by the
devastations of robber-bands, and by their own political dissensions
or social feuds, they should have sprung to arms everywhere
— their cry, “War to the castle, peace to the cottage!”
— seeking redress or revenge, and braving death willingly, as
less intolerable than the wrongs they had been so long enduring
in sullen desperation? What wonder was it, that, when
victorious, they, who never had been spared, should have shown
themselves unsparing; that they, whose hearths had been to
them no safeguards for any sanctity of domestic life, no asylums
for any age or sex, should have wreaked upon the dwellers of
the castles the wrongs which for ages had been the inheritance
of the inmates of the cottages; that they, whose wives and
daughters had never found protection from worse than brutish
violence in tender years, in innocence of unstained virtue, in
the weakness of imploring beauty, should have requited, on the
wives and daughters of their tyrants, pollution by pollution,
infamy, and death?

Such, such, alas! is human nature; and rare it is indeed that
suffering at the hands of man teaches man moderation to the
sufferers when it becomes his turn to suffer. Injustice hardens,
not melts, the heart; and we have it, from no less an authority
than the word of Him who can not lie, that “persecution maketh
wise men mad” — but, of a surety, the wretched serfs and Jacquerie
were far enough removed from wisdom, however they
might be deemed mad, nor were many of their actions very far
removed from madness. Knights crucified above the altars of
their own castle-chapels, while their wives were dishonored,

tortured, and slain, with all extremities of cruelty, before their
eyes; infants tossed upon pikes, or burnt alive, in the presence
of their frantic mothers; women compelled to eat the flesh of
their own husbands, roasted at their own kitchen-grates ere yet
life was extinct; the whole land filled with blood and ruin, and
the smoke of conflagration going up night and day to the indignant
and polluted heavens — these were the signs of those dark
and awful times, these were the first fruits of the conquered
liberty of the emancipated helots of the feudal system!

And when, nerved at length by the very extremity of peril,
the nobles took up arms to make common cause against the
common enemy, they found themselves isolated and hemmed in
on all sides, unable to draw together so as to make head against
the countless numbers of the enemy, which, like the waters of
an inundation, increased hourly, and waxed wider, deeper,
stronger, as it rolled onward. Large bodies could not be collected;
small bodies were cut off; till at length so completely
were the proud and warlike nobles of the most warlike land in
Europe cowed and disheartened by the triumph of their despised
and degraded slaves, that fifty men, armed cap-à-pie, and
mounted on their puissant destriers, who would, six months before,
have couched their lances confidently, and ridden scatheless
through thousands of the skinclad Jacquery — trampling
them at leisure under the hoofs of their barded horses, and, invulnerable
themselves, spearing them at their will from their
lofty demipiques — now felt their proud hearts tremble at the
mere blast of a peasant's horn, and fled ingloriously before an
equal number of undisciplined and half-armed serfs!

About the period, however, of which I write, several encounters
had taken place, especially in Touraine, in the Beauvoisis,
and the country about the Seine, between the chivalry and their
insurgent villeyns, in which the former had been worsted, not
so much by superior forces as by superior courage, discipline,

and skill. And it came to be rumored far and near that there
was one hand, and that the fiercest and most cruel of all — consisting
of above a thousand foot, spears, and crossbow-men, and
led by a powerful man-at-arms, before whose lance everything
was said to go down — at the head of nearly a hundred fully-equipped
lances, which was in no respect unequal to the best
arrays of the nobility with their feudal vassals.

What was at first mere rumor, soon came to be accredited —
soon came to be undoubted truth; for, emboldened by their successes
from attacking the parties of chivalry in detail, as they
fell upon them traversing the country in the vain hope of combinations,
this great band now began to sit down before strong
towns and fortified holds, to besiege them in due form of war,
and were in every instance successful.

Their numbers, too, increased with their success, for every
knight or man-at-arms who fell, or was taken prisoner, mounted
and armed a peasant; and it was singular to observe with what
skill and judgment the leader apportioned his best spoils to his
best men: so that, developing his resources slowly — never
admitting any man to enter his cavalry who had not approved
himself a soldier, who could not ride well, and charge a lance
fearlessly, nor enrolling any one among his footmen who was
not well armed with a corslet or shirt-of-mail, and steel cap or
sallet, with sword, dagger, and pike, or crossbow — he was soon
at the head of two thousand excellent foot, and above three
hundred lances, admirably mounted, who fought under his own
immediate orders.

Who he was, no one knew, or conjectured. It was reported
that his own men were unacquainted with his name, and that
his face, when the vizor of his helmet was raised, was covered
by a sable mask. How much of truth or falsehood there might
be in these vague rumors, no man seemed to know; but it is
certain that a mysterious and almost supernatural terror attached

to the “Black Rider,” as he was universally termed,
whenever he was spoken of — a terror which perhaps he took
a secret pleasure in augmenting, either from motives of policy
or of pride.

The strong suit of knight's armor which he wore, of the best
Milan steel, was black as night from the crest to the spur, without
relief of any kind, or device on the shield, or heraldric crest
on the burgonet. The plume which he wore on his casque was
similar to those affixed in modern days to hearses; and another,
its counterpart, towered between the ears of his charger, which
was a coal-black barb, without one white hair in its glossy hide,
barded with chamfront, poitrel, neck-plates, and bard proper,
all of black steel, with funeral-housings of black cloth.

Such was the man who alone of the leaders of the Jacquerie
seemed to make war on a system, acting according to the dictates
of the soundest judgment rather than, like the others, by
wantonness or whim; permitting no license, nor promiscuous
individual pillaging, but causing all plunder to be brought together
for the common weal — thus making war support war,
according to the prescribed plan of the greatest of modern conquerors
— and subsisting his men on the spoils of the powerful
and rich, without trespassing in any wise on the property of
the poor, whose favor it was his object to conciliate.

It came, too, to be understood, ere long, that his cruelty was
no less systematic than his plundering. No wanton barbarity,
no torturing, roast, crucifying, or the like, was ever perpetrated
by his band; and of himself, it was notorious that, except in
open warfare or in the heat of battle, he had never dealt a blow
against a man, or laid a rude hand on a woman, of the hated
caste of nobles. Still, neither man nor woman ever escaped
his rancorous and premeditated vengeance.

Every male noble, of whatever age — gray-haired, or full-grown
man, stripling, or child, or infant in the cradle — no

sooner was he taken than he was hanged on the next tree if in
the open field, or from the pinnacles of his own castle if within
stone walls.

Every female of noble birth — and to these, though he never
looked on them himself, nor was tempted by the charms of the
fairest — was delivered at once to the mercies of his men, subjected
to the last dishonor; and then, when life was intolerable
to them, and death welcome, they were drowned in the nearest
stream or lake, if in the open country, or cast from the battlements
into the moat, if captured within the precincts of a fortalice.

So rigidly did he adhere to this last mode of execution, often
carrying his victims along with the band for several days until
he could find a suitable place for drowning them, that it was
soon determined that he must have some secret motive, or strong
vow, binding him to this strange course — the rather that there
were many reasons for believing him to be a man naturally of a
feeling and generous temper, hardened by circumstances into
this vein of cold and adamantine cruelty.

Though he had never been known to relent, tears had been
known to fall fast through the bars of his avantaille, as he repulsed
the outstretched arms and rejected the passionate entreaties
of some lovely, innocent maiden, imploring death itself
as a boon, so she might save her honor.

At such times, it was affirmed — and they were of no unusual
occurrence — when he seemed on the point of relenting, he
needed only to clasp in his mailed fingers a long, heavy tress
of female hair — once of the loveliest shade of dark brown,
verging almost upon black, but now bleached by exposure to
the summer sun and the wintry storm — which he wore among
the black plumes of his casque, when he became on the instant
cold, iron, and impenetrable, as the proof-harness which he
wore; and the words would come from his lips slow, stern,

irrevocable, speaking the miserable creature's doom, so that
even she would plead no longer! —

“Away with her! away! For she, too, was beautiful, and
innocent, and good; and which of these availed her, that she
should not perish? Away with her, I say, and do your will
with her; but let me not look on her any more!”

Up to this time, the insurrection had been confined to the
northeast of France, and more especially to the Beauvoisis
and the regions adjacent to the capital, the armed commons of
which appeared ready to encourage and assist, if not openly to
join them; but, at the period when my tale commences, it began
to spread like a conflagration, and rapidly extended itself in all
directions.

Auvergne still continued, however, free from disturbance, and
the knights and nobles whose demesnes lay within that fair
province went about their ordinary avocations and amusements,
unmolested and unsuspicious of danger, without any more display
of military force than was usual in those dark and dangerous
times, and with no more than ordinary trains of feudal dependants
and retainers.

This, however, was now brought to a sudden and alarming
conclusion by the occurrence of an incident so terrible and hideous
in its character, that it struck a panic-terror into every heart
that heard tell of it, and that it still survives, though centuries
have elapsed, as clear and distinct as if it had but just occurred,
in the memories of the peasantry of Auvergne.

It was a beautiful morning in the latter part of June, when
the whole face of the country was overspread by a garb of the
richest summer greenery, when the skies were glowing with
perfect and cloudless azure, and when the atmosphere was perfumed
with the breath of flowers and vocal with the melody of
birds. It was a morning when all nature seemed to be at peace,
the bridal, as are old pock-words of the earth and sky — when

even the angry passions of man, the great destroyer, seem to
be at rest, and when it is difficult to believe in the existence
or commission of any violence or wrong.

It was on such a morning that a gay cavalcade of knights
and ladies issued from the gates of the castle of Roche d'or,
with a numerous train of half-armed retainers; with grooms,
and foresters, and falconers; with hounds, gazehounds, and
spaniels, fretting in their leashes; and goss-hawks, jer-falcons,
peregrines, and marlins, horded upon their wrists, or cast upon
frames suspended by thongs about the waists of the varlets who
carried them.

At the head of this gallant company rode a finely-formed man
of stately presence, and apparelled in the rich garments of a
person of distinction in an age when every station and rank of
life had its distinctive garb, and when the sumptuary laws were
enforced with much strictness, rendering it highly penal for one
class to assume the dress of the station next above it. Velvet,
and rich furs, and ostrich-plumes, rustled and waved in the
garb of this puissant noble, and many a gem of rare price flashed
from the hilts of his weapons, and even from the accoutrements
of his splendid Andalusian charger. On either hand of him
rode a lady, beautiful both of them, and young, but in styles of
beauty utterly dissimilar: for one was dark-browed and black-haired,
with the complexion of a clear-skinned brunette, suffused
with a rich, sunny color, and large, languid black eyes; while
the other had a skin as white as snow, with the slightest possible
tinge of rose on the soft, rounded cheeks — eyes of the
hues of the dewy violet — and long, streaming tresses of warm,
golden brown.

In the dark-haired lady it was easy to trace a resemblance,
of both outline and complexion, to the gentleman who rode between
them, and it would not have needed a very keen observer
to discover at a glance that they were brother and sister. And

such was the truth: for the personages were Raoul de Canillac,
the marquis of Roche d'or; Louise de Canillac, his lovely sister;
and Clemente, his late-wedded wife, formerly Clemente
Isaure de Saint Angely, who was the wonder of the country
for beauty, and its idol for her charity and goodness.

Next this lady, on the outer side, there rode one who was as
much and as deservedly detested by the neighborhood as she
was admired and beloved — a strange compound of all the foul
and hideous vices which can render humanity detestable, unredeemed
by one solitary virtue, if bravery be excepted, which
was a quality so general and necessary — being, in fact, almost
unavoidable, from the peculiar nature of chivalrous institutions
— that it must be regarded rather as a virtue of the age and
military caste of nobles, than of this or that individual. He had
earned himself a fearful reputation, and how well he had deserved
no one could doubt who looked upon his face, all scathed
and furrowed by the lines stamped on it by habitual indulgence
in every hateful vice, habitual surrender to every fiery passion.
A cousin of the marquis, and his nearest male relative, he had
done much to deprave and corrupt his mind; and though an
accomplished and gallant gentleman, honorable, and affable, and
companionable to his own caste, a fond husband, a kind brother,
and a warm friend, he had succeeded in rendering him as cruel
and unmerciful an oppressor of all beneath him as a feudal
seigneur in those days could be, if his power was equalled by
his will to do evil. He also was Canillac, the reproach and
disgrace of an old and noble name, and was known far and wide,
for his furious and frantic crimes — which seemed, so perfectly
unprovoked were they at times and devoid of meaning, to arise
from actual insanity — by the soubriquet of Canillac le fou, the
madman — a title of which, so shameless was he in his infamous
renown, he actually appeared to glory, singing it as a portion
of his name, or an honorable title of distinction.

On the other side, next to Louise de Roche d'or, rode a tall
and handsome youth, wearing the belt and spurs of knighthood,
and gazing at times into the face of the beautiful girl with
eyes full of deep, ardent affection, and speaking to her in those
low, earnest tones which denote so certainly the existence of
strong and pervading interest and affection. The knight, already
famous far beyond his years, for deeds of dauntless daring,
was Sir Louis de Montfauçon, a puissant baron of Auvergne,
whose bands marched with those of Castel de Roche d'or, and
the affianced husband of the young and fair Louise. Pages and
equerries, with the usual attendants, followed, and the courtyard
rang and re-echoed with the clang of hoofs, the neighing of
coursers, the deep baying of the bloodhounds, and the screams
of the frightened falcons.

They issued from the castle-gates; wound through the open
park, and the dense woodland chase beyond it; swept down a
steep descent into a broad and fertile valley, watered by a great,
clear river, which they crossed by a wooden bridge; traversed
the narrow, sandy street of the village of Castel de Roche d'or,
and, turning off short to the right, entered a little dell, through
which a bright, clear rivulet murmured over its pebbly bed, on
its way to join the larger river in the valley.

The lower part of this little dell was principally open pasturage,
dotted here and there with brakes and solitary bushes of
hawthorn; and along the margin of the rivulet there ran a fringe
of willow and alder thickets, but a little higher up it degenerated
into a mere gorge or ravine, thickly overshadowed by the
gnarled arms and dense, verduous umbrage of huge, immemorial
oaks, the outskirts and advanced guard, as it were, of a vast
oak-forest, which covered leagues on leagues of rough and
broken country, to which this dell formed the readiest means
of access.

Just in the jaws of this pass, overhung by the oaks, stood a

small, gray, rustic chapel, supported on four clustered columns,
with groined arches intersecting each other resting upon them,
a small, arched canopy containing a bell on the summit of its
steep, slated roof, and a low-browed door, with a round arch,
decorated with the wolf-toothed carvings of the earliest Norman
style. Immediately in front of the door, the little rivulet which
watered the dell burst out of the other in a strong, gushing
spring, which had been blessed by some saint of old, and, being
surmounted by a vaulted canopy, was held to be peculiarly holy
by the superstitious rustics of the region.

This lovely spot, however, peaceful as it showed, and calm in
its tranquil and sequestered security, had been the scene, some
two or three years before, of a fearful and cruel crime: had
witnessed the violent seizure of a sweet, innocent, and rarely
lovely bride, fresh from the marriage benediction, by this very
Raoul de Canillac; and the girl had escaped pollution only by
self-immolation.

It was a cursed deed — and cursed was the vengeance it
provoked!

Just as the company I have described wheeled into the lower
end of the little dell, conversing joyously together, and enjoying
the sweet influences of the season and the place, they were
saluted by the long, keen blast of a bugle, well and clearly winded,
in that peculiarly note known at that period as the mort,
being the call that announced the death of the game, whatever
it was, which might be the object of pursuit.

This call came from the oaks above the chapel, although no
performer was seen, nor was there any baying of hounds or
clamor of hunters, such as usually accompanies the termination
of a chase.

There was no privilege at that time more highly regarded by
the nobles than the rights of the chase, nor was there any crime
more jealously pursued and punished more vindictively than the

infraction of the forest-laws; so much so, indeed, that the death
of a stag or wild-boar by unlicensed hands was visited with a
far deeper meed of vengeance than the murder of a man!

It was with a face, therefore, inflamed by the fiercest ire, a
flashing eye, and a knitted brow, that Raoul de Canillac unsheathed
his sword, and spurred his horse into a gallop, calling
upon his men with a vehement and angry oath to follow him,
for there were of a surety villeyns in the wood slaughtering the
deer.

The ladies of the party checked their horses on the instant
in affright, while the men rushed forward in confusion, drawing
their weapons, and casting loose the hounds and hawks which
they had led or carried, in order to wield their arms with more
advantage; and between the shouts of the feudal retainers, the
deep baying of the released bloodhounds, and the wild screams
of the hawks, all that calm and peaceful solitude was transformed
on the instant into a scene of the wildest turmoil and
confusion. At this moment, just as the lord of Roche d'or
spurred his horse up the slight eminence toward the little
church, a man of great height and powerful frame stepped
slowly forward from among the oaks, clad in a full suit of
knightly armor, of plain, unornamented black steel, with no device
or bearing on his shield, and no crest on his casque, which
was overshadowed by an immense plume of black ostrich-feathers.
He had a two-handed sword slung across his shoulders,
and carried a ponderous battle-axe in his right hand.

Startled by this unexpected apparition, Raoul de Canillac
checked his horse suddenly, exclaiming: “Treason! fy! treason!
Ride, ladies, for your lives! — ride! ride!”

But this warning came too late: for, simultaneously with the
appearance of the leader, above five hundred crossbow-men and
lancers poured out from the wood on either flank, with their
weapons ready; and a body of fifty or sixty mounted men-at-arms

drew out from behind a spur of the hills at the entrance
of the gorge, and effectually cut off their retreat. Entirely surrounded,
escape was impossible, and resistance hopeless, so
great was the numerical superiority of the enemy, and so perfectly
were they armed and accoutred for offence and defence,
while the retainers of the lords had no defensive arms whatever,
nor any weapons except their swords and hunting-staves,
and a few bows and arbalasts.

The leader of the Jacquerie — for it needed not a second
glance to inform Raoul de Canillac into whose hands he had
fallen — waved his axe on high as a signal, and instantly a single
crossbow was discharged; and the bolt, striking the horse
of the seigneur full in the centre of the chest, he went down on
the instant: and before he could recover his feet, the marquis
was seized by a dozen stout hands, and bound securely hand
and foot with stout hempen cords.

On perceiving this, the elder nobleman, Canillac the madman,
with the desperate and reckless fury for which he was so
conspicuous, dashed forward, sword in hand, with his paternal
war-cry, followed by a dozen or two of the armed servitors, as
if to rescue his kinsman. Perhaps he perceived the hopelessness
of their condition, and preferred selling his life dearly to
surrendering only to be slaughtered in cold blood: and if such
was his notion, he was not all unwise.

Again the battle-axe was waved, and this time a close and
well-aimed volley followed, the bolts taking effect fatally on the
bodies of the old lord and several of his followers, three of
whom with their chief were slain outright, while several others
staggered back more or less severely wounded.

With this, all resistance ended, the men throwing down their
arms, and crying for quarter, which — as they were all, with
the exception of two pages and an esquire, men of low birth —
was granted, and they were discharged without further condition.

To those of gentle origin, however, no such clemency
was extended. The pages and esquire were stripped of their
costly garb, and immediately hanged up by the necks from the
oak-trees, together with the young knight affianced to Mademoiselle
Roche d'or, in spite of the entreaties and supplications
of his beautiful betrothed.

The ladies were then compelled to dismount, and their arms
being bound behind their backs, were tied with ropes to the
tails of their captors' horses; and, together with Raoul de Canillac,
whose feet were now released from their fetters, were
dragged in painful and disgraceful procession back to the gates
of the feudal fortalice from which they had so lately issued free
and happy!

On the first summons of the leader of the Jacques — seeing
their lord and the ladies captive, weak in numbers, dispirited,
and without a leader — the garrison immediately surrendered:
the portcullis was drawn up, the pontlevis lowered, and, with
their wretched prisoners, the fierce marauders entered the walls,
which, by their massive strength, might otherwise have long
defied them.

Meantime, not one word had been uttered by the leader of
the party, who indicated his demands to his men merely by the
wafture of his hand or the gesture of his head, which were
promptly understood and implicitly obeyed. In compliance
with a sign, the prisoners were now led after him into their
own magnificent abode, and carried through long, winding passages,
and up an almost interminable stairway, to an apartment
in the summit of a huge, square tower, overlooking the castlemoat,
from a battlemented balcony, at the height of above a
hundred feet. A dread foreboding shook the breast of Raoul
de Canillac, as he was brought into that chamber, the scene of
his outrageous cruelty to the lovely Marguerite in past years,
and now to be the scene of its as cruel retribution.

The black warrior raised the vizor of his helmet, and gazed
into the face of his former lord with the fixed, resolute, determined
scowl of Maurice Champrest, while the bad, bold oppressor
shook before his captor with a visible, convulsive air.

“Ay! tremble, murderer and tyrant — tremble!” thundered
the fierce avenger; “tremble! for thy time is at hand: and,
Marguerite — lovely and beloved Marguerite — right royally
shalt thou be now avenged! Away with these! away with
them! their doom is spoken!”

And a scene of more than fiendish cruelty and violence ensued.
Those innocent and lovely women, subjected to the last
dishonor before the eyes of the husband and brother — tortured
with merciless ingenuity when their violators were satiate of
their beauties — and then cast headlong from the bartizan into
the moat which had received the corpse of the Vassal's Wife!
Raoul de Canillac, scourged till the flesh was literally torn from
his bones, was plunged headlong after them!

Such was the Vassal's Vengeance! — and when he fell,
shortly afterward, before the walls of Meaux, by the lance of
the renowned Captal de Buch, his last words were: “I care
not — I care not to live longer. My task was ended, my race
won, when thou wert avenged, Marguerite — Marguerite!” and
he perished with her name on his tongue. His crimes were
great, but was not his temptation greater? Pray we, that we
be not tempted!