Part 36 (1/2)

”And Marcel Trouet comes from Paris with his Revolutionaries?”

”Yes, yes. That is what makes me afraid. If they meet----”

”They will probably meet.”

”And Morice may be--killed.”

”I do not think you need alarm yourself.”

She was quick to catch the note of sarcasm, and faced him, a little indignantly.

”You do not believe that--that he is changed?”

”To be honest, ma cousine, I find it difficult.”

Gabrielle turned impulsively towards the man who had entered and stood apart near the window behind her.

”Michael believes me,” she cried.

The eyes of Breton and Englishman met.

”Does Monsieur Berrington believe in him?” asked Jehan slowly.

”In Morice Conyers?” demanded Michael quietly. ”Yes, Monsieur le Comte, I do--until he disproves such belief.”

De Quernais shrugged his shoulders, spreading out his hands with an impatient gesture.

”I ask your reasons, Monsieur,” he said. ”I too am ready to believe, if possible, but you see the case. My cousin is a friend of the Revolution, a member of the Society which congratulates murderers. He is so enthusiastic in their cause that he plays a trick, which,--your pardon, Gabrielle,--is not in accordance with honour, and comes to Brittany for the purpose of stirring up his people to join what he is pleased to call the Cause of Liberty.

”He comes--with Marcel Trouet, a spy, Revolutionary, murderer, liar,--and arrives at Kernak, where he--again your pardon, ma cousine--continues the policy of his friends, and calls himself a Royalist and _my friend_. Then, suddenly leaving Kernak, he comes to Varenac, where comrades of his and Trouet's already await him. He sees his sister, tells her a tale--a wonderful tale of conversion--and disappears. What do you think of this story?”

Michael leant his dark head against the window-frame, facing the flushed and trembling Count Jehan, whose eyes were ablaze with hot anger and excitement.

”It sounds as though Morice Conyers were a traitor,” quoth he. ”Yet I'll still believe in the miraculous. You have a sister, Monsieur, and a fair woman has been known to make as many conversions as a saint.”

”Yes, yes, that is it,” cried Gabrielle eagerly. ”Jehan, you don't know Morry. He--he is not wicked as you think. It is true that he has been very foolish, and done many things that are wrong--very wrong.

But he has had bad friends, and he has been weak and vain, allowing himself to be led by them. Oh! I do not excuse him, but I believe--yes, I do believe--that he might change and be a very honourable gentleman. He told me that in Brittany he had found a teacher worth a hundred Marcel Trouets.”

”But why did he disappear?” demanded the Count fiercely. ”Ciel! if he had not, and he had his eyes opened indeed to his duty, we should yet win Varenac, aye, and Brittany too, for la Rouerie and the Cause. But where is he?”

It was the question on the lips of each. Where could he be? What could he be doing if ha were not on the road to meet Marcel Trouet?

Gabrielle covered her face with her hands, moaning. ”Oh, Morry, Morry,” she sobbed, ”where are you? If only----”

An opening door made her break off sharply, whilst tear-dimmed, eager eyes watched for the entering figure. But it was only my Lord Denningham, smiling, debonair, handsome as ever, who stood looking in on the little trio.

He paid not the least attention to Monsieur le Comte, who drew himself up stiffly at sight of him, but made his bow to Gabrielle with the exaggerated homage he so well knew annoyed her.

”Ah, Mistress,” he murmured plaintively, ”you have punished me cruelly.