Michael Berrington rode to Varenac.
Grey gloom around suited well with his mood, for therein strove counter forces as fiercely as storm-lashed waves against the jagged rocks of a forbidding coast.
Behind lay Kérnak—and love. Before him was Varenac—and duty.
He dared not leave his father in the unscrupulous hands of such men as Denningham and Trouet.
Had he not promised his grandfather to preserve Berrington honour with his life?
So he set his face sternly, never once glancing back, though his heart cried aloud, bidding him return to the woman he loved.
Gabrielle might be in danger, for already rumour was busy, telling of the ferment in the towns around, and the growing cries of "Vive la nation," "À bas les aristocrats!" Yet he must go on—on—on, leaving Gabrielle behind.
It was getting dark; purple moorland and purple sky blending together in a misty haze. Hooting of owl and barking of fox came from the forest on his right, whilst far away to the left the waves broke dully against the cliffs.
A ghost? Was it a ghost?
Surely something akin to it.
A flutter of white, a shadowy figure looming large in the mist, then gradually resolving itself into a woman's form.
A woman, alone on the moorland, at this hour—in these times?
A peasant girl come to meet her lover, perhaps, but brave even then, since Breton superstitions are manifold concerning these bleak landes at the witching hour of twilight.
But this woman came in haste. Surely it was to no love-tryst!
Michael was soon convinced of that.
Stumbling, panting, tripping, over the rough, uneven ground she came, pausing, with a shrill cry, half-fear, half-welcome, at sight of the man who had leapt from his horse and stood ready to greet her.
It was Olérie Koustak, the fair-haired daughter of the old major-domo at Varenac. Michael had recognised her at once, and guessed that she ran thus for some purpose.
"M'nsieur, M'nsieur," she cried, even before she reached his side. "Oh, M'nsieur, help!"
"Olérie," he exclaimed, catching her hand as she swayed, white to the lips with a sudden faintness. "Why! what has chanced? Has the Terror come already to Varenac?"
She looked at him, her great blue eyes beseeching him dumbly, even before she could regain breath for speech.
But presently she told her tale.
Murder at Varenac?
Murder of one of the English m'nsieurs who said they were friends of M'nsieur le Marquis who never came?
Michael found it difficult to put the next question, and it came short and harsh enough at last.
"Which one?"
"The elder, M'nsieur—the one who laughed all day, and who sang and drank much wine!"
"And he is dead?"
Was it Michael's own voice that asked the question? He could hardly believe it.
"Yes, yes. He is dead—murdered. But it was not my father who did it. By all the blessed saints I swear it, M'nsieur. It was impossible. Only two minutes had he left me to go to the pantry when the English milord called him."
"And then?"
Olérie clasped her hands tightly.
"Oh, M'sieur, I was afraid, and—and I hid—whilst I listened. I—heard all. They told my father it—it was he who committed the murder, and locked him in an upper room. Afterwards they—they laughed and talked together. I—I do not altogether—comprehend, for it was not Breton tongue they talked; but it seemed that the—English milord will stay and—call himself M'nsieur le Marquis, whilst the other goes—to tell our people."
"And how know you this if they did not speak the Breton tongue?"
"M'nsieur, I went to an aunt in Paris when I was little. I stayed three—four years. I talked French."
"And it was French these others talked? How many were there?"
"Two, M'nsieur. One was the English milord. I did not see the face of the other."
"But he was French?"
"Yes, M'nsieur. Oh, M'nsieur, they will kill my father."
Her tears flowed fast at the thought.
"They have already killed mine."
Michael's face was very stern.
Olérie looked up in startled wonder.
"Yourfather, M'nsieur?—the English M'nsieur who laughed and sang always?"
"Yes."
He turned his face away, afraid to read pity in her eyes. It was not pity he needed just then.
His father was dead.
The thought filled him with infinite horror and infinite relief.
The Berrington honour was safe.
Yet filial affection was not wholly dead. Weak, vacillating, utterly unscrupulous though he was, Steenie Berrington had not been without a certain lovableness—a kindly, merry humour which, even if insincere and selfish, was fascinating after its kind.
And now he was dead!
Heaven have mercy on his soul!
But there were the living to think of—and justice to be done.
Michael was not one to lose opportunity in vain reveries and regrets.
He must ride with the hotter haste to Varenac, even though only his enemies awaited him there.
He told Olérie this briefly, promising that, if the dealing of justice lay in his hands, the innocent should not suffer for the guilty.
She thanked him tearfully, allowing him to lift her upon his horse; and thus, together, the strange companions rode, as quickly as they might in the gathering dusk, to Varenac.
Lord Denningham was waiting, not patiently—that virtue had never been his—but with a growing irritation.
After all this was a fool's game.
Notoriety was cheap, and he could—if he had willed—have sought and found it in far more amusing paths than those of political intrigue.
He had a good mind to throw up the whole business and return to England by the next boat.
A fit of indigestion—or was it spleen? Perhaps the latter, for he was thinking of pretty Gabrielle Conyers.
If he went to England she should go with him. Yes! he had sworn that, and she might think herself a lucky woman that he would take her as Lady Denningham. He smiled over the thought, and then set his lips in a thin, tight line.
My Lady Denningham! Yes; he would teach the chit who was master, and she would love him the more for it.
As for this business of Trouet's, it was the means to an end.
He would masquerade as a converted marquis, teach a crowd of loutish peasants the tune of the Marseillaise, consign a few of these mock-heroic aristos to the devil, and take home his bride by way of reward, with the substantial thanks of the Committee of Public Safety and France in general.
It was a perfectly satisfactory picture. In the meantime he was more than ready for the first act of the little comedy wherein the ci-devant Marquis de Varenac would make his bow to good patriots as the Citizen Morice.
Involuntarily he chuckled as he thought of one morning, a few days since, when he had put a superfluous Morice de Varenac safely out of the way.
Confound that fellow Trouet! was he never coming?
My lord was getting restless.
A passing curiosity led him to the library.
Pity old Steenie had met such a paltry fate; he might have helped wile away a heavy hour with the cards.
Poor Steenie!
Jack Denningham slowly took a pinch of snuff as he looked down at the still figure at his feet.
A sight to point a moral.
The handsome but bloated face, the rich dress, helpless hands, and the broken bowl, with the sickening smell of punch-fumes mingling with the close atmosphere of the room.
Faugh! My lord turned to throw open a window, and came face to face with the dead man's son.
It might have been an embarrassing situation for most, but Jack Denningham was noted for his sang-froid.
"In good time," quoth he. "My condolences and congratulations, Sir Michael. The loss of a father is not always a bereavement his heir finds it hard to bear."
One swift glance towards the hearth, then back at the sneering, smiling face before him.
"I await explanations," said Michael sternly.
Denningham burst into a loud laugh.
"Stap me, sir, but you take it coolly," quoth he. "One would almost have thought you were prepared for the blow."
"As I am to find the striker," replied Michael coldly.
"Ha, ha! You do me the honour of suspecting my hand in the matter? A pretty compliment, my young friend. May I repay it?"
The speaker's tone was yet more insolent. Michael looked his adversary full in the face. Perhaps he guessed why my lord was so ready to pick a quarrel.
Denningham was still smiling mockingly.
"Berrington Manor needed a new master—and mistress!" he questioned. "But you must be careful, my friend, in your daydreams, or there will be an unexpected awakening."
"You will explain your words, my lord, or give me satisfaction."
"Ha, ha! You have been a frequenter of the King's Theatre. I grant you John Parkington is superb; but I prefer melodramaonlyon the stage. I am too prosaic for you, Sir Michael."
"Your prose should be readable then."
"Have I not made it so already? But I assure you, sir, that you must be careful which way you look. Mistress Gabrielle will have the honour of being Lady Denningham one day soon."
"You lie!"
"Tut, tut! ugly words, ugly words, my Irish mongrel. You will do well to be discreet, seeing——"
He nodded towards the hearth.
"You dare——"
Lord Denningham had succeeded admirably; his adversary was ablaze with unrestrainable anger.
"Ah! you will prove your innocence. Of course, of course. Do not lose your temper, I implore you, sir. Only you will not deny that your father's murder was a matter of no surprise to you. And as your father's heir——"
"You will answer me for your insults, my lord—and at once."
"I am always at the service of a gentleman. Would you prefer swords or pistols?"
"Swords. On guard, my lord."
"As hot at fighting as in love-making. Aha! this mongrel blood! Come, if you will have it so; but I shall teach you a lesson, my friend. Afterwards——"
"Afterwards——?"
"I shall marry pretty Gabrielle Conyers and take to writing poems."
Mockery and laughter, meant to goad on his adversary to mad indiscretion.
But Michael Berrington was sobered already.
If he fell in the duel, Gabrielle would be at this man's mercy.
Fool that he had been to be so trapped!
But it was too late now, and there was murder sure enough in Denningham's half-veiled blue eyes.
A duel a l'outrance.
They did not speak after the swords had once crossed.
It was for a woman they fought, and each knew it, whatever the reason given.
A mad fight in a dying light, traitor shadows to baulk each thrust.
Yes, it would be more luck than skill which should proclaim the winner.
Not a flicker of an eyelid, not a smile to part stern lips. A cruel fight, with Death to guide the quick thrusts which each parried in turn.
To and fro, to and fro. As near the window as possible to gain the advantage of every glimmer of light.
And by the hearth the gloom deepened into darkness.
The breathing of the antagonists was getting more laboured now. But the eyes were hard and unflinching as ever beneath sweating brows.
To and fro, to and fro, till they were shadows amongst shadows.
And then, whilst victory hung in the balance, and Death stood back to await his victim, the door opened.
It was Denningham who faced it—Denningham who, for the briefest second, looked up and saw a figure standing there, watching the scene with curious, wondering eyes.
A brief second and yet it was enough.
A look of horror swept over the mocking face, which became ghastly in its pallor. With a scream of fear, he lurched forward, almost falling upon Michael Berrington's sword.
"Conyers! My God! Conyers!" he sobbed, sinking to the ground—and never spoke again.
It had all been the work of an instant, too brief for realization. No time for Michael, indeed, to have lowered his sword before that fatal stagger.
And the duel was over.
Not skill, not luck, but fate itself decided it, and Jack Denningham lay dead. It was a fate he had so often meted out to others, and the day of reckoning must come at last.
It had come now.
But it was no ghost who knelt by the dead man's side, looking down into the grey, horror-stricken face, but Morice Conyers in the flesh—a little paler, a little thinner, but himself for all that.
"He is dead," he said, looking up into Michael's face. "It was just that he should die. The fellow was rogue and villain."
"Rogue and villain I grant," replied Michael slowly, "but I would that the duel had ended before you entered."
Morice shrugged his shoulders.
"Witnesses are always useful," he said. "And there was no shadow of blame to you."
"Even so, I would——"
"Tush, tush! there's no time for discussing the nicety of a thrust now, as de Quernais will tell you."
"De Quernais?"
Michael looked with surprise towards the young Count, who stood beside his cousin.
It was bewildering to find these two together after the happenings of the past three days.
"What mean you?"' he asked briefly.
Morice Conyers straightened himself.
"I come hither as Marquis de Varenac," he replied.
"As Marquis de Varenac? And Trouet——"
The latter question was involuntary.
"Is as much my enemy as that of my cousin here."
His eyes sought Count Jéhan's.
"Yes, yes," answered the latter quickly. "All is explained. My good friend and cousin is here with me to do what he can to save his people from themselves—and Marcel Trouet."
"If it be not too late," murmured Morice bitterly.
Michael held out his hand.
"At least we are comrades together," he replied, with one of those winning smiles which transformed the dark grimness of his face. "And Trouet is not here yet."
"But he is on his way."
"Yes, and I do not think he is far off. Denningham"—he glanced down at the dead man—"was to have played the Marquis."
"Was that his own idea?"
"Ah! I wonder. It did not occur to me. Perhaps——"
"It is possible that Trouet has already been here."
"The girl Olérie told me there were two."
"Denningham—and Sir Stephen."
"Nay;aftermy father had—had been murdered."
Both listeners started.
"Murdered!"
They had not seen what lay in the shadows beyond the window.
"Yes," said Michael grimly, "murdered." And he pointed to where a dim outline was visible, huddled together on the hearth.
Morice sprang forward with a cry of dismay. He had been fond of Steenie Berrington.
"How did it happen? Who did it? Ah! Steenie, poor Steenie!"
It was pitiful sight enough on which he gazed down.
"That is what I asked Denningham here. He suggested that it was a case of parricide."
"He would have picked a quarrel. But had he done it himself?"
"I hardly think so. My father was no one's enemy but his own. And it was foul murder."
It was Count Jéhan who spoke next.
"Did you not say a girl brought the news?" he questioned abruptly.
Michael nodded.
"Olérie Koustak. I was forgetting. She told me some tale of her father being in danger of his life—accused of the deed."
He flung open the door as he spoke, stepping out into the passage.
"Olérie, Olérie," he cried.
The girl was not long in responding. Crouched in a corner behind the salon door, she had been awaiting developments in an agony of fear.
"Where is your father, child?" rapped out Morice peremptorily.
"Ah! Monsieur, in the room above."
"He is locked in?"
"Si, si! The English milord has the key."
She crossed herself as though speaking of the devil.
"The English lord? I will bring it."
Count Jéhan spoke quietly. He had no fear or passing pity for the dead in that darkened room behind them.
He was not long absent. But Olérie was the only one who smiled on his return.
Together they hastened to the room above.
On their way Michael found tongue to ask what happened at Kérnak.
Again it was the Count who answered.
"They are safe," he said. "Our servants are faithful, and Père Mouet is with them. They know that danger threatens. If it draws too near they will not await us, but escape across the landes to the coast."
"To the coast?"
"Yes, yes. There is a cave. It has the name of the Cave of Lost Souls. Our peasants are superstitious, Monsieur Berrington. They declare that the souls of unshriven mariners lodge there, and that to hear their wailing cries strikes madness into the hearts of listeners. They would not enter it after sundown if they thought that King Louis himself were hidden there."
"And then——"
"There are boats there. It will be easy to escape to Jersey and thence to England."
The last words were warm with comfort.
But, alas! England was some way from the Manor of Varenac, and evidently the Terror was near.
It was an affecting sight to see the joy of old Pierre Koustak when they liberated him, telling him that at last M'nsieur le Marquis had come to his own.
He wept and sobbed over Morice's hand, kissing it again and again, calling him his dear, dear master.
But it was not the moment for sentiment. The tale of poor Pierre's false accusation and imprisonment was told with some preamble, mingled with many explanations of his whereabouts prior to the crime.
"There were two men in the library," interrupted Michael shortly. "Describe the one who was not the English lord."
"A little man, M'nsieur, with a villainous face and villainous red cap. He had the air of a Republican leader, and there was a scar, very red, across his forehead."
"Marcel Trouet!"
The three looked at each other.
Michael's face was very grim.
"It was he who murdered my father."
"But why?"
Morice's voice faltered a little over the question.
"I cannot tell. But there can be no second possibility. He may have mistaken him for another."
"For——"
Count Jéhan shrugged his shoulders.
"For you yourself, my cousin. He may have heard too much talk of the Marquis and too little of the Citizen. It is wonderful how news spreads. Meantime——"
"Meantime," Michael replied slowly, "the men of Varenac will come hither to greet their new lord."
"Their new lord?"
"Denningham told me of a proposed masquerade."
"Ah!"
They were understanding now.
It was time.
A scream from Olérie, who stood at the window, was echoed by a dull roar from without as she threw the casement open. Instinctively the four men ran to her side. Up the avenue of stately oaks—the pride of many a generation of Varenacs—came a crowd of men and women. Uncertainly at first, but with growing strength, rose the sounds of the familiar tune:
"Aux armes, citoyens!Le jour de gloire est arrivé."
Then a pause.
"Citoyen Varenac! Citoyen Varenac! Citoyen!"
The cry went up from hundreds of throats, a deep, exultant roar of welcome and anticipation.
Morice moved forward.
A tiny balcony without would give him the opportunity he desired.
"Citoyen Varenac! Citoyen!"
Bareheaded he stepped out.
"I am the Marquis de Varenac," he cried.
A moment's hush, then again the mighty cry:
"Citoyen Varenac! Citoyen!"
Morice leant forward into the darkness. Behind him lights gleamed, from below a few torches lit up the surrounding gloom.
Yellow light flaring on pale, eager faces, turning curiously upwards.
"No, my people," he cried in clear, ringing tones, that could be heard even on the outskirts of the crowd. "I am no Citoyen, but your Marquis, the heir of your well-loved Marquis Gilles de Varenac, come to you from England with Breton blood in my veins, Breton love in my heart, to cry 'Vive le roi. Vive la reine. Vive Bretagne.'"
A murmur broke his words, a murmur which grew, battling as it were with two elements, uncertain and faltering.
That last cry had stirred their blood—and yet the poison, so cunningly distilled amongst them, was busy at work.
And, whilst they still wavered, some crying one thing, and some another, a shrill voice rose, dominating and stilling the growing outcry.
"À bas les aristos," it yelled. "Down with traitors and liars. Hein! men of Brittany, are you such fools? That is no Citoyen Varenac, he is an impostor. The Citoyen has another voice. He cries 'Vive la nation,' 'Vive liberté.' As for that fellow, he is no Varenac but a liar. Come, let us find the Citoyen before his enemies murder him. Let us——"
"I am the Marquis de Varenac," cried Morice, "as Heaven is above. Men of Varenac, listen to me. Will you believe one who knows? Pierre Koustak will tell you I speak truth."
But the temper of the mob was uncertain.
"Vive la nation," cried many voices, and a woman in shrill tones began once more screaming out the first lines of the Marseillaise.
"Vive la nation. Death to the aristos. Where is the Citoyen Varenac?"
The cries were threatening.
A shot was fired towards the balcony, but Morice stood unmoved whilst old Koustak stepped from the window to his side.
"Friends, friends," he shouted. "Ah! you are all mad. It is Monsieur le Marquis, our M'nsieur le Marquis."
But the words, which would have been magic a week ago, fell now on deaf ears.
"Le jour de gloire est arrivé."
The echo of the song rang out from the crowd.
They were in no listening and obedient mood just now.
Marcel Trouet's friends knew how to speak—and fever is infectious.
"Friends—ah! ah! foolish ones, listen——"
It was once more the piteous voice of old Koustak, but none heeded it.
They were crowding around the outer door.
"If they will but listen," groaned Jéhan de Quernais—"if only for a minute."
Michael nodded.
"They may do so yet."
"Not if they succeed in entering the Manor. Their mood is dangerous—and—if Trouet declares that Denningham is Varenac——"
"We shall not live long to prove the contrary."
"And there are the women."
Michael's eyes flashed.
"I had not forgotten."
"If they will but listen. Hark! Morice is trying again. With Koustak beside him it is possible that they may be persuaded."
"If he has time."
"We must make time. There is the courtyard."
"And the outer gate is strong. The Manor was not built yesterday."
"Shall we come?"
"Immediately."
Without another word the two young men turned and hurried downstairs.
There was a chance still for the Cause.
It was Gabrielle's brother who stood in peril; also Gabrielle herself.
Thus each thought, and drew their pistols as they ran.
The men of Varenac had not expected resistance.
The firing of pistols as two of the most enthusiastic of their number scaled the wall was something of a shock. Who were these new enemies?
Marcel Trouet did not answer the question, but, from a safer distance, screamed to good citizens to advance.
Once more the double report of firearms rang out from behind the ivy.
There was some heavy cursing amongst the crowd.
Aha! They were cunning, those two on the other side, but they did not know Varenac as Meldroc Tirais did. That crumbling corner near where the wood was stacked was unknown to them.
"Aux armes, citoyens."
But the shout of triumph came too soon. Back from the gate ran Michael Berrington, swift as sleuth-hound on its prey, with sword drawn.
There was fighting now, at gate and breach, rare fighting too, enough to warm the heart of any man.
And Michael was in fighting vein—the Irish blood in him saw to that—and the grimmer the work the merrier grew his mood.
Hotspur Mike he had been called at college, and Hotspur Mike was he, in very truth, that night.
A Breton peasant is no coward when the humour is on him, and his temper roused for the combat, so work there was in plenty for Michael's blade.
Surely the fairies must have kissed his eyelids—so his enemies swore, as they drew back for a moment—for this man seemed to see as well in the darkness as by day.
But the breach in the wall was growing—and Gabrielle was at Kérnak.
It was therefore no time for throwing away life, just because the fire of the fight ran lustily in his veins.
"Back! back!" cried Michael, in English, and, sword in hand, ran back himself across the courtyard, even as a dozen sturdy peasants flung themselves at a scramble over the wall.
Count Jéhan was not slow to obey the command, though he too had fought as la Rouerie's follower should fight.
"Fire! fire!" screamed Marcel Trouet, emptying his barrels into the darkness.
"Kill them—kill the vermin, before they run to ground. Mille diables! Kill them, vile aristos."
But pistols were few amongst his followers, and, though men started quickly enough in pursuit, Michael and his companion had reached the porch first, and made haste to slip heavy bars across the oaken door before their adversaries flung themselves, cursing and yelling, against it from without. The situation promised to be a desperate one.
All hope that the mob would listen to their new lord was gone.
Monsieur le Marquis had come too late. What therefore remained?
Little enough, save to die, crying, "Vive le roi," "Vive Bretagne" in the face of these murderers of king and country. So Count Jéhan thought.
But Michael found not the smallest consolation in such a prospect.
Life was strong in his veins,—life and love. It was not only for his own sake that that life was precious.
Gabrielle must be saved—and those other poor ladies of Kérnak.
But how could they be reached? How were they to save themselves?
Already the great crowd was surging about the door. Ere long they would be in the Manor itself,—and after that——? Michael did not look further.
He was half way up the stairs when he met Morice hurrying down with Pierre Koustak at his side.
The old man was crying bitterly, but Morice was calm. The reckless idler of Carlton House, with head crammed by fopperies and vanities, had been transformed into a man—and a Marquis de Varenac.
"We must escape," he said, pausing for a moment. "They will not listen. And ... and we should reach Kérnak without delay."
"But how?" Michael's voice sounded harsh enough.
A roar from without and the sound of cracking timber answered him.
"Dieu de Dieu!" moaned Koustak. "Hasten, Messieurs, or it will be too late."
He clung to Morice's hand as he spoke.
"Koustak knows of a secret passage which leads to the stables," explained Morice hurriedly. "We can ride to Kérnak."
"To Kérnak."
The relief in Michael's voice rang high.
"They will be in before we can reach it," muttered Count Jéhan. "Already——"
A crash completed the sentence.
But they were running now, all together.
"This way—this way, Messieurs," sobbed their guide, and tore aside a curtain.
A panel in the wall slipped back easily enough—one did not allow hinges to rust in the Brittany of those days—and soon they were groping their way down a dark, narrow passage.
Morice's heart beat fast. He was returning to Kérnak without shame. Even failure could not keep him from exulting over that thought.
He would be able to look little Cécile in the eyes,—to take her brother's hand.
Above them rose shouts and cries. The mob was searching the Manor. Afterwards they would swarm out again into the gardens—the stables.
At present they were occupied.
Click. Click.
A trap-door creaked, and the restless stamping of horse-hoofs proved welcome sound enough.
They had reached the stables of Varenac. But no moment must be lost, for they had a Trouet to reckon with besides these addle-pated peasants.
Already they were leading out the horses. Three of them,—for Koustak had declared that he must remain—his daughter Olérie was here, and he could never leave Varenac.
Shouts and yells told of fury and disappointment in the Manor close by.
Had they found their Citoyen yet?
A faint moonlight showed the fugitives a wild stretch of desolate moor and forest. Yonder lay Kérnak.
What was happening there?
It was the fearful question of each heart.
"Le jour de gloire est arrivé."
Dark forms were already seen hurrying from the house. Trouet had bethought himself of the stables.
It was time to be going.
Pierre Koustak was the first to urge it, even whilst he clung to the hand of a master whom he had been so ready to serve and love even before he knew him. But the Terror had come to Varenac, and there was no room there now for noble Marquises.
"Farewell—farewell."
It was a sad leave-taking for all; but those who rode away had less regret than he who stayed.
A flame of fire rose, leaping high in the air from an upper window of the old building.
Pierre Koustak's arms were around his daughter, but it was she who upheld him.
He had vowed never to leave Varenac, and soon there would be no Varenac left. Then it was time for him to be going too.
"Jesu, Maria, mercy! Monsieur le Marquis—farewell. Ah! he is already gone. Jesu! Maria!"
The grey head sank forward.
It was too heavy for Olérie to support. Gently she laid him on the ground, close to a clump of laurels. Trembling and weeping, she knelt over him.
Yes, she might well weep, but the tears should all be for herself.
The old man was smiling, his eyes closed; but no breath issued through the parted lips. Pierre Koustak would never leave Varenac now.
"I love him. Oh, Gabrielle, I love him. And—and yet I bade him go to Varenac."
"You love Morice?"
Gabrielle's arm was round her cousin's slender waist as they sat together in the deep embrasure of a window overlooking the clustering heads of the oak-trees, which grew around the foot of the hillock on which the château stood, and away over the purple landes where the mist-wraiths of evening gathered.
"You love Morice?"
A pair of big, troubled eyes were raised to hers at the repetition of the words.
"Oh, yes, I love him, with all my heart, Gabrielle."
"With all your heart? But you have only known him these few short days."
Cécile sighed.
"Yet it is there," she whispered, laying her little hand over her heart. "I do not understand, for I have never loved before, but I think I loved him from the first moment he stood in the hall and told us that he was my cousin."
"And then you found——"
"Ah, yes—yes, the great cloud came, just when the sun was beginning to shine. But, though I despaired, love did not die, Gabrielle."
"Love cannot die, little cousin. It is for always."
"But it became bitter. Mother of Heaven! how bitter! You do not know the tears I shed—and the shame, when Jéhan told the story."
"And yet you loved him, even though he were a traitor?"
"Yes. But after all, he is no traitor, Gabrielle. He has gone to Varenac to prove it."
"Thank God for that."
"Thank God. Yes, that is easy to say; but supposing—supposing——"
"I will suppose nothing, dear Cécile. We are asking all the time that the good God will take care of those we love, and He will hear us."
"Holy Virgin, grant He may. Let us go on praying all the time. But you, Gabrielle, for you it is different. A brother——"
"He is my only one."
"So is Jéhan to me, and yet I do not think of him now."
The colour came rosily to Gabrielle's cheeks.
"There is one at Varenac who is more than brother to me," she whispered, plucking at the end of her fichu.
"A—a lover? Oh, Gabrielle, forgive me. I understand. It is the tall Monsieur with the dark face and grey eyes, which can look two things at once. And he——"
"He is at Varenac. Cécile, Cécile, God grant they may all come back in safety. I am afraid."
The two girls clung to each other, finding comfort in this new bond of sympathy.
"We will not be afraid," Cécile murmured in her cousin's ear. "We will ask le bon Dieu to guard them. See, it is getting dark—perhaps they will soon be back now. It is certain that the men of Varenac will listen to Morice and cry, 'Vive le roi,' and then others will take example and do the same, and Monsieur de la Rouerie will march at the head of his army into France to save the poor King and Queen, and put an end to the dreadful Revolution. Afterwards we shall all be happy."
It was the summing up of a child who knows nothing of the world, and even Gabrielle smiled at such a rose-coloured picture.
"That is a very charming dream," she replied, "and I would that we could see Michael and Morice riding over the heath to tell us that the first part is accomplished."
"Yes, and Jéhan. Poor Jéhan! I fear we forget him."
Gabrielle sighed.
"Poor Jéhan! Yes, and yet I think he will be quite happy if he can carry good news to this great hero of yours, the Marquis de la Rouerie."
"Ciel! It is true he is a hero. And so handsome. All the demoiselles of Brittany are in love with him; but Jéhan says his head is too full of the Royalist cause to think of women. Ah, Gabrielle, look! I believe it is a messenger."
As she spoke Cécile pushed open the casement, peering out into the gathering darkness.
Certainly it was some one who came in haste. Clattering steps in the courtyard and a panting cry told that.
"It is——?" murmured Gabrielle.
The two girls looked at each other.
"Jean Marie, one of the shepherds. He is a good boy, and—and promised to bring warning."
"Warning?"
"Of danger."
They were standing now, the cool evening air blowing in on them, setting stray curls fluttering.
Perhaps it was the snap of autumn chill that sent a shudder through Cécile's slender frame.
"Come," she said, holding out an impulsive hand to her cousin. "Let us go down and see what Madame Maman and the good father are talking about."
Lights were already kindled in the salon below. Madame de Quernais, seated near the fire, was conversing gravely with a little man in the brown habit of a Benedictine.
A little man with a round and kindly face, which reminded one of a russet apple long gathered.
He nodded smilingly to the two girls as they curtsied, whilst Madame bade them come nearer the fire, as they looked cold.
"It is certainly chilly," replied Père Mouet. "Henri Joustoc says it will be a winter of great severity. But I do not heed the croakers. Always take the days as they come, and leave the future to the bon Dieu. That is the secret of happiness."
The salon door was flung open most unceremoniously as he spoke, and in rushed Guillaume, the butler.
It was evident that the poor man was too excited to remember the ceremonies, on which both he and his mistress set such store.
"Ah! ah! M'd'me," he gasped. "Ah! ah! It is Jean Marie who brings news."
Madame de Quernais had risen—not hurriedly, but with all the grave dignity which was her birthright.
As for Père Mouet, he had already advanced to Guillaume's side.
"Peace, my son," he commanded gently. "You will alarm Mesdames. If there is news, it will be told more quickly if you compose yourself."
The quiet words certainly had a soothing effect on poor Guillaume, though his eyes continued to roll wildly.
"It is the Terror," he groaned. "Jean M'rie brought the news. There are men from Paris, men of Brittany, who come with evil tongues to bid our people rise and murder their masters. Ohé, they are very clever, clever as Monsieur Satan himself, and the fools listen to them. Already they cry, 'Vive la nation,' 'Vive la guillotine!' 'Vive liberté!'"
"Tsch, tsch," smiled Père Mouet, "their throats will soon get hoarse, and then they will drink and go to sleep. To-morrow, when they awake, I will talk to them."
"Ah, mon père," cried Guillaume, "they will not wait till to-morrow. That is why Jean M'rie came running at once with the news. Already they cry, 'À Varenac! À Kérnak!' They will be here to-night and will do the same as they did at Baud and Villerais."
Père Mouet glanced across towards Madame de Quernais.
If indeed the Terror were here it would be wise not to delay.
Madame still stood erect, her hand clasping the back of the chair, her powdered head held high.
If she had been alone she would certainly have defied these canaille with her last breath.
But there were the children.
Her proud lips quivered a little as she looked at Cécile, who stood near, with Gabrielle's hand locked in her own.
Yes, there must be no defiance.
"Take Jean Marie to the kitchen, Guillaume," she said, speaking very slowly and decidedly. "Give him some supper; also"—she drew a ring from her finger—"this souvenir of his mistress, with her best thanks. Perhaps one day I shall have opportunity of thanking and rewarding him more befittingly."
The old butler bowed, took the ring in silence, and withdrew.
Instantly Madame turned to the others.
"We must lose no time; is that what you would say, father?" she asked abruptly.
Père Mouet nodded.
"Not a moment more than necessary, Madame," he replied. "It is quite likely that Count Jéhan may be at the cave before us. We must certainly not delay—for sake of these children."
He murmured the last words in a lower key.
"Make haste and put your cloaks on, mes enfants," Madame de Quernais said. "And the little bags are packed as I ordered? That is good. As we cannot take the servants we must be content with few things."
She stifled a sigh as she spoke, whilst only Père Mouet noted how her hands clenched and unclenched.
"There are many, daughter," he replied gently, "who can never sufficiently thank the good God if they escape with nothing but their lives."
"It is true, father. I will do penance for such rebellion. Nor will I tempt Providence with my complainings. Thank you, Cécile. At any rate I shall be warm. Come, we are all ready now."
She drew more closely round her the heavy, fur-lined cloak Cécile had brought, and herself opened the casement which led to the terrace and avenue.
In silence Père Mouet and the two girls followed her.
At that moment danger was too pressing—for Cécile at least—to feel acute pain at leaving her home.
The darkness without would have been intense had it not been for the moonlight, which but partially succeeded in piercing the misty gloom of the lande which stretched before them.
A long, weary walk it must be, though not one of the four who set out on it lacked courage. But what was happening at Varenac?
Who would they find awaiting them in the Cave of Lost Souls?
Those were the questions which stirred their pulses with growing dread.
It was well they had their cloaks, for it was cold enough here, facing the night wind across the bleak moors.
But they did not complain.
Keeping close together, they tramped on, Madame de Quernais walking out as bravely as any of them, disdaining proffered help over the uneven ground.
Presently a low exclamation from the priest brought them to a halt.
"Listen," he said in a whisper. "What is that?"
It was a question which grew easier to answer every second. There could be no mistaking the tramp, tramp of many feet, the shouts and cries of many voices.
The mob was on its way to the château.
"Allons, enfants de la patrie,Le jour de gloire est arrivé,Centre nous de la tyrannieL'étendard sanglant est levé....Aux armes, citoyens, formez vos bataillons;Marchons, marchons!Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons."