A MAID OF BRITTANY (continued 3)

A sudden flush of joy, rather than maidenly bashfulness, crimsoned the girl's cheeks as she rose hastily, and with a deep curtsy welcomed her visitor.

To his surprise, de Coray found himself treated with a respect and gratitude wholly unlocked for. It was evident that her brother had breathed no word of his patron's true character or the reason of his present difficulties, but instead had sung such praises into his simple sister's ears that she looked upon de Coray in the light of some poor, persecuted saint.

If is a strange experience thus to be taken for what one is too obviously not, and de Coray listened, half amused, half pleased, to her shy, faltering words of gratitude.

The suspicions which had lurked around his heart as to the trustworthiness of his little ally faded away before the clear truth of his sister's dark eyes, and involuntarily he made an effort to assume the rôle which she had given him so innocently. It was the wolf in sheep's clothing once more, but this time the wolf was more anxious to hide his own dark skin than to devour the trusting lamb.

So, after the meal was over, they sat there together, those two ill-assorted companions, whilst in still shy but more confiding sentences Gabrielle related to her visitor the simple story of her life. It was so simple, so humble, yet, as he sat there by her side, watching the innocent beauty of her face and listening to her murmured words, interrupted as they were by an occasional burst of bird song from the whispering woodlands around, it seemed a very idyll of beauty.

The glamour of an entirely new experience had crept over the cruel, scheming man of many crimes as he sat there waiting for the twilight to fall, the glamour which hangs around the days of early childhood and innocence, and seems to whisper of things holy and beautiful. It thrilled him with a new sense of what life might be, and made him shrink back appalled from what his had already been.

It was shame, and yet not without its sweetness, to see himself mirrored in this peasant girl's eyes as a noble knight whose goodness and untarnished honour had been already the theme of her girlish thoughts, and he almost shivered as he pictured how the light of reverence and admiration would fade from her sweet face did she know the truth.

"Ah, monsieur," murmured Gabrielle as she paused in her busy work to look across to where he was sitting, "my heart aches to think of the cruelty of those who seek to do you harm, nor can I conceive how one so good and noble as the Sieur de Mereac could be so deceived by lying tongues."

De Coray shrugged his shoulders. "Nay, mademoiselle," he said carelessly, "doubtless in time the noble Sieur will find out his error and regret his hasty judgment; for the rest, if I can but ride in safety to my own château at Pontivy, I shall not forget the succour which you and your brother have bestowed."

"Nay," cried the girl softly, "monsieur must not speak of reward for what it has been our joy to give; monsieur has already saved us from want, for, see, I was sick—I could do but little spinning—and my brother had but small money to bestow on me, until monsieur, in the generosity of his heart, gave him much silver, for which may our Lady and all the saints for ever bless you, monsieur, and deliver you from the hands of cruel men."

"Nay," said de Coray gallantly, "methinks, fair maid, one of the sweetest saints hath already undertaken my deliverance."

She looked at him innocently, not comprehending the compliment he intended to convey, seeing that her thoughts were not of herself, but for him.

And so they sat there, talking softly, as the spell and glamour of the moment bade them, and she told him with the simplicity of a child how she lived here alone in the forest hut, all alone, spinning for the most part, for she was lame and could walk but little, and how her brother Pierre would come often to see her, when it was possible. And at Pierre's name her eyes grew tender, for her love for him was great. Ah! the poor little Pierre!—he who would have been so gallant a soldier had it not been for his affliction. The poor Pierre! It had been long ago that the Sieur de Mereac, hunting in his forests, had passed the little hut where François Laurent lived with his wife and two children, and alas! the little Pierre, playing out there in the sunshine, had paused to gaze at the gay trappings of the cavalcade rather than run to the safe shelter of his mother's arms, so that one of the horses had struck him down underfoot and injured his spine.

That was the story of poor Pierre; that was why instead of a strong-limbed, gallant man, he must shuffle through life as the crooked, puny Pierre the fool. It is true the Sieur de Mereac regretted what had happened, and when Pierre was old enough he had taken him into his service, and finding the sharp-faced lad had a wit of his own, had made him jester, with Petit Pierre the ape for company.

But for herself? de Coray asked. Had she no fear dwelling alone in so desolate a hut, with nothing but the howlings of wolves and the wailings of the wind to keep her company?

The little Gabrielle smiled. Surely not! How could she fear, when the Blessed Mother of God and all the holy saints were near to protect her from evil? So simple, childish innocence argued with guilt and crime, which go ever hand in hand with fear and terror; and again, de Coray, looking into her great, dark eyes, felt a thrill of joy that she did not know him for what he was; for truly, had he spent that long day of secret fears and suspense with an angel from heaven, no softer or more purifying hand could have been lain on the hardened blackness of his heart, causing it to leap with a sudden vague, yet momentary yearning towards what was pure, noble, and good.

So the twilight fell, and neither Pierre nor his enemies had come; but as the dim, mysterious time of shadows passed into the darkness of night, the two watchers saw through the trees the approaching figure of a boy leading a horse by its bridle.

"It is Pierre!" cried Gabrielle joyfully, and rose from her work, though she waited still in the doorway till her brother came towards her, smiling his welcome first into her flushed, glad face, before he turned to de Coray.

"Monsieur," he said, bowing low with a sweep of his tall fool's cap, which seemed more mockery than deference, though perchance he meant it not—"monsieur, all is well. The enemies of monsieur ride towards Nantes and Angers; it is evident that they have forgotten so humble an abode as that of Pierre the fool. Moreover, methinks they scarce suspect me of assisting you, seeing that I was found sleeping this morning between the good hounds Gloire and Reine."

"And the forest?" questioned de Coray eagerly.

"That also they have searched, monsieur, though it is evident not yet with sufficient care; my lord indeed hath commanded that every corner of Brittany be searched till you are found, and hath offered a goodly reward for your capture, but for the present he himself is too much occupied with attending upon Monsieur Yvon to direct the search in person."

De Coray smiled, casting a side glance towards Gabrielle, who had entered the hut to prepare supper, as he added in a lower key—

"Heardst aught, my friend, of one Kerden? In their search for me did they light, perchance, on a man who bears that name, who methinks might even now be haunting yon woods?"

Pierre glanced up to meet his patron's inquiry with a look as shrewd as de Coray's own.

"Monsieur," he said simply, "it appears that this Kerden will no longer haunt the forest of Arteze in the flesh, and if all be true of which men talk at the château, the devil will have been too swift in bearing off his spirit to its own place to leave it chance of roaming yonder at nightfall."

"Dead?" echoed de Coray, with a long-drawn sigh of relief. "Thou art sure of it?"

"Verily," retorted Pierre, "if the word of mademoiselle, and the bloody jaws of Gloire are sufficiently to be trusted. The hound killed him, so 'tis said, out yonder on the heath, where the courils dance on moonlit nights; but monsieur will be wise to delay no longer. See, the horse is a good one, and fresh too; there are also provisions for a journey, though methinks they were prepared for other jaws to consume than those of monsieur, but they will taste none the less sweet for that." And the strange lad chuckled gleefully over his jest.

"Nay, 'tis the steed of the Frenchman!" exclaimed de Coray, as his eye glanced over the bay horse which Pierre held by the bridle. "Tiens! my friend, I know it by its white star and cropped ears. But how came you by it, little knave? Methinks monsieur yonder would scarce have such ardent desire for my escape as to lend me his own steed?"

"Nay," replied Pierre wisely, "in that you speak truth, monsieur; but I will explain. The horse of the French knight I discovered two days since, when Petit Pierre and I went at midnight in the footsteps of mademoiselle; it was stabled close to the chapel of the brown friar, and hath there remained till the present. Methinks in his expected exit from the present life, monsieur's thoughts were too busy with the next to remember his poor steed; and so this morning, ere I returned to the château, I visited the shed and unloosed the poor beast, and, after giving him a meal, I led him to a distant part of the forest, where I tethered him, trusting in the saints that none should chance to pass that way. Also near the chapel I discovered a basket of provisions which the thoughtful care of the beautiful mademoiselle had prepared for her lover; these also I appropriated for the needs of monsieur, therefore methinks that for a fool I have done right well. Is it not so, monsieur?"

"Nay," said de Coray warmly, "thou hast done right gallantly, my friend, and great shalt be thy reward in due time, though for the present an empty gratitude must be thy guerdon; but when fortune smiles once more on me, then there shall be golden smiles for thee too, my manikin, as also for thy sweet sister here."

"Ay," replied Pierre, drawing himself up proudly, as he led the way into his humble abode, "peasants though we be, monsieur, still there is nobility too in the blood of the Laurents of Arteze, for truly in the veins of our ancestors ran the blood of King Arthur himself, and the renowned Morgana. Is it not so, Gabrielle?"

The girl smiled from one to the other.

"Nay, my brother," she replied softly, "so our parents told us, but I wot well that there is better truth in the words of our father, that nobility is of the soul rather than the body, and it little matters who our ancestors were, so long as we ourselves wooed honour and virtue for our spouses."

"Mademoiselle is wise," said de Coray smoothly, as his glance met hers. And, to his shame perchance, his own fell not beneath the steadfast gaze, but met it, as if he too cherished the ideals imprinted on her pure young brow.

Nevertheless, perhaps his heart, false though it was, reproached him as he rode away into the darkness of the night, bearing with him the memory of an upturned face full of sweet, confiding trust and reverence, and eyes which hailed him by a name he had never known.

CHAPTER XI

"And so we say farewell, my Henri?" sighed Gwennola mournfully, and there were tears in the blue eyes raised to Henri d'Estrailles' dark, handsome face.

"Nay, rather, 'au revoir,' sweet," he replied tenderly, "though I trow that be hard enough to say."

They were standing, those two, on the terrace path close by the river side. Beyond them lay the grey gloom of the forest, with its air of tragedy and mystery, and behind them the château, standing on the outskirts of a dreary heath, grim and forbidding. But around them life took a gladder note; the sunshine of summer played amongst flowers and orchard blossoms, and birds sang sweetly in the boughs overhead. Above all youth and happiness smiled the glad story, old and for ever new, of love and devotion, into each other's eyes. Yet, even in the tender beauty of the present, the music of joy struck a minor note in the sad word of farewell.

It was hard—so hard—to part, when love was but newly born, and yet part they must. The Sieur de Mereac was inflexible in his decision.

Convinced of d'Estrailles' innocence, he had offered his injured guest the courteous apologies due to him, apologies as sincere as they were hearty, though perchance small blame could be attached to his conduct, seeing what had passed; whilst apologies would have been of small value had Yvon de Mereac appeared in the hall of judgment a few moments later.

Great and bitter had been the old noble's anger and mortification at finding that his own kinsman should have played so base a part, and terrible was the retribution which he swore to repay him with.

But even in his desire to offer amends for an injustice so nearly consummated, Gaspard de Mereac turned a deaf ear to d'Estrailles' pleadings concerning his daughter. To him it was a thing altogether beyond comprehension that a Mereac should mate with the natural enemy of her country, for here, on the borderland of the distracted dukedom, hatred of France was drawn in with the first breath of life.

Only at last, yielding most unwillingly to his cherished darling's entreaties, did he agree to temporize. Did the mission of the Count Dunois meet with success, and the bond between mutual enemies be cemented in one of love and marriage, then perchance, if Gwennola were still unchanged, natural prejudice should give way and a betrothal between the two be permitted. Yet even this temporizing would scarce have been, had not de Mereac convinced himself of the certainty of his Duchess's rejection of any offer of union betwixt herself and the man whom she must needs regard as her bitterest foe, in defiance of the troth she had already plighted to the King of the Romans.

So the wily old Breton, yielding no whit in his purpose to mate his daughter to none but her own countryman, outwardly consented to conditions little likely of fulfilment, and so silenced the importunities of the child he adored and the man whom he had so nearly condemned unjustly to death. But to Yvon he confided his secret purpose.

"'Tis but the passing whim of a foolish maid," he said lightly, "and one not to be regarded seriously, my son; yet 'tis wisest to yield in outward seeming, for, did I oppose her will, the little Gwennola would sigh and weep as any love-lorn maiden of romance, such as our minstrels picture wherewith to turn the heads of other silly maids; but if she have her way, she will soon forget a stranger when another noble lover comes a-wooing. Nay, nay, the child is too true a Mereac to long love a French lover; another shall soon steal the fancy from her heart and leave a truer one in its place. Alain de Plöernic seeks a bride, and where shall he find a fairer or a sweeter than the demoiselle of Mereac?"

So the old father built his schemes, all unwitting of his daughter's mind, dreaming; that maids, forsooth! must needs be all of one pattern, and ready enough to change lovers at a father's command, or because, perchance, the name of one sounded ill in a father's ear, little recking that here was a slip from his own stern, iron-willed stock, which, having found its mate, responded not to the call of any other, even at the command of a parent, however beloved.

So on the terrace walk the lovers, so ill assorted, yet so faithful, pledged undying constancy and truth, and in the hall of the château the Sieur de Mereac smiled at his new-found serpent's wisdom, then altogether dismissed from his mind the ill thought of Gwennola's unwelcome lover, to turn instead to think of the man to whom he had pledged his daughter's troth, and to swear vengeance on the subtle brain which had so nearly wrought the undoing of his house. Even in his racial hatred he could not but admit that Henri d'Estrailles claimed his gratitude in striving, even though vainly, against the coward hand which had struck the traitor's blow on his Yvon. And so, from thoughts of that scene in the wood of St Aubin, once more the old man's wandering reflections went back with a shuddering fury to the tale which Yvon himself had so haltingly told them as he stood there in the dim hall, with his father and sister beside him, his hands—such thin, trembling hands!—locked in theirs as he spoke.

And the tale itself! Ah! why had the chief actor in it gone so summarily from justice—his justice? Almost he could find it in his heart to quarrel with the faithful hound that had done its work of retribution so swiftly and so well. At first it had been almost impossible to believe that this broken, feeble-minded man with Yvon's eyes could really be the gallant youth on whom his fond hopes had been set. And then he had heard—yes, heard of the little cellar chamber in the old house at Rennes where his son had awaked from his long unconsciousness and found it so hard to struggle back through the shadowland of delirium into realization of where he was, and in whose keeping. And the realization, too, when it came, how terrible and how bitter! The father, conning over the tale, could well fit in the bare outline of it all, with lurid touches of imagination. As he stared, leaning his elbow on the table before him, with unseeing eyes on the faded tapestries of the wall, he could picture that dark cell, the sick, fevered man, whose youth struggled so madly within him for life; then the mocking, jeering face of his captor as he told him the truth which there was no need to hide—the truth that he was to lie there as this villain's trump card, the instrument with which he was to work on another's fears; how indeed that he was to be kept there to pine and languish, but not to die, until his kinsman should enter upon his inheritance, when his captor would be able to use him as a constant menace to the unlawful Sieur de Mereac, wherewith to extort gold and favour for himself. Oh, it was a cunning scheme! and how gleefully the originator of it would have laughed as he unfolded it to his victim! And then the long waiting time, the dragging by of month after month, in which death indeed must have been yearned for as the best good, and yet came not at his call. Then the delirious fancy, born of that terrible captivity, that his gaoler was ever waiting an opportunity to come creeping into his cell with his murderous dagger. And even though he had prayed for death and longed for her restful kiss, yet the terror of this swift and bloody end must have become unendurable. Then, when hope seemed dead, the sudden fresh upleaping of it in the pity and friendship of the old crone who brought him food, and, on rare occasions, fresh garments—the resolve for flight, the breathless excitement of creeping up those long and winding flights of stairs, with the old hag muttering and sobbing out fears that her master would kill her when he heard the truth, then the mad joy of drawing in once more the pure draught of outer air, and finally the ill-timed escape—an escape so nearly successful, however, that he had reached the river side and stood in very view of the château, when the sight of his cruel captor had unbalanced the weak, cowed spirit once more, and he had incontinently fled into the forest, only to be easily overtaken and overpowered by Kerden, who with oaths and blows threatened torture and punishment for his temerity when once more he had brought him back to his prison. But here the ruffian had been himself outwitted, for, in his search for his victim, he had himself been seen and recognised by his late master, and anxious, not only to elude, but put the latter off his scent entirely, he had determined to lie low until de Coray's suspicions were allayed. Accordingly he had carried Yvon to the cave he had found on the hillside, and had secreted himself beside him, only to steal out at night in search of provisions, which he procured from the peasants of Mereac and the little town of Martigue close at hand. That very night he had told Yvon of his intention of fetching his horse and returning to Rennes, leaving his trembling prisoner in suspense as to his own fate. Whether he had changed his mind, or whether the vigilant search of Pierre the fool had alarmed him, it was impossible to say, seeing that death had so swiftly overtaken the heartless schemer; but as de Mereac recalled the terror-haunted face of his son as he told his story, he brought down his clenched fist on the table before him with a fierce curse on the soul of the man who had done this deed.

"My son," said a gentle voice at his side, "saith not the Holy Script, 'Forgive, as we forgive to others their trespasses'?"

De Mereac turned swiftly with outstretched hand towards the black-robed figure standing by his chair.

"Ambrose!" he cried softly. "Nay, it does me good to hear thee speak of forgiveness, seeing how much I need at thy hands."

The Benedictine smiled as he laid his slender hand on the other's broad shoulder.

"Nay," he replied, "it is not for thee to crave my forgiveness, Gaspard, for in very truth methinks I was to blame for yielding to a maiden's whim, albeit a generous one."

"Bah!" laughed de Mereac heartily, as he drew forward a chair and gently pushed the old priest into it. "Thou wert not to blame for that, my friend. Gwennola, I fear me, is her father's own daughter, and when she setteth her mind to a thing there is no rest till it is performed. But truly all was ordered for the best, and my little maid's judgment was not ill, though whether she defied her father from love of justice, or because she so hated the man whom in my folly I would have had her wed, I know not."

Father Ambrose's smile was somewhat whimsical, for from his window he had seen the two figures by the river side.

"Nay, old friend," he said gently, "perchance 'twas neither altogether justice nor hatred that made a heroine of romance of the child, but a stronger power than both, namely, love, which ever moveth a maid to strange deeds and fancies."

De Mereac stared across at the priest for a moment with knitted brow, then, as he divined his meaning, he frowned.

"A foolish whim," he retorted shortly, "and one that I trow well will fade fast enough when this Frenchman hath taken his departure, which, thanks be to Mary! he doth speedily. I would sooner the maid became a dismal nun, all prayers and melancholy, than the wife of a French robber."

"Truly to be a bride of Heaven is a happy and exalted vocation," said Father Ambrose reprovingly, "though," he added, with a twinkle in his keen old eyes, "methinks scarcely fitted for our Gwennola."

"Nay," replied de Mereac bluffly, "the maid hath too high a spirit and too warm blood to endure the cramping life of a convent cell. A noble maid, father, a noble maid, and one who shall be as nobly wed. I have thought of young Alain de Plöernic or Count Maurice de la Ferrière, both worthy mates for the dove of Arteze, who, alas!" he added with a shrug of his shoulders, "was so nigh to falling a prey to yonder bloody hawk, whose neck I would fain wring ere the morrow's sun. False caitiff! Nay, father, speak not to me of forgiveness, when I remember yon lying tongue and think that I might have given my daughter's hand into the red one which had thought to slay my son."

"Peace, Gaspard," said the priest soothingly, as de Mereac leapt from his seat to stride wrathfully up and down the hall, "and rather than vengeance think of the mercies vouchsafed to thee in that thou hast son and daughter safely restored to thine arms."

"Restored!" cried de Mereac bitterly. "Nay, Ambrose, think of yon poor lad's face and drooping form, all haggard and terrible, and recall the morning when young Yvon rode forth so blithely across the bridge, calling back to me, as I lay, cursing my ill luck in being unable to move with rheumatic pains, that he would bring back our banner in triumph with fresh laurels twined around it."

"It may yet be that he will recover," said Father Ambrose gently. "But now, I left him sleeping peacefully; he is young, and life still runs swiftly in his veins; here at Mereac, with love and friends surrounding him, we may well hope to blot out those years which would altogether have crazed one less strong and courageous."

"My poor Yvon! my poor son!" moaned the father. "My curses on these, his all but murderers. Nay, father, reprove me not, for curse them I must and will; I grow verily weary of delay when I think of de Coray even now escaping my justice. Nay, father, your pardon, for whilst I thus rave I forget to ask after thy hurts. Thou art still pale and worn; methinks it were not well to rise so soon from thy couch."

"Nay," said the priest with a smile, "'twas but a cracked pate, which truly somewhat acheth still, but which I trow will soon mend. Better a pain in the head, my son, than one at the heart; therefore listen to thy old friend's advice, and pray rather for thine enemies' souls than for the destruction of their bodies."

"Nay, that will I not," retorted de Mereac sturdily, "for I would not rob the devil of such choice morsels.—How now, Job, what news dost thou bring? Where is thy prisoner?"

"Nay, my lord," faltered Job Alloadec, as he advanced, sweating and abashed, towards his irate master, "I fear me that he hath escaped, for, though we searched the forest from the château walls to Martigue itself, we could find no trace of the miscreant."

"Curses on him!" growled de Mereac. "But I know thy searchings, knave, with one eye shut and the other gazing upwards, as if thou expectest thy quarry to drop like a ripe nut from the boughs overhead. Why, the fellow must needs be within reach, since he had no steed to carry him."

"Nay, monsieur," replied the soldier with a perplexed stare at his master, "craving your pardon, methinks he found a steed awaiting him yonder in the forest, for when we rode to the ruined chapel" (Job involuntarily crossed himself) "to fetch hitherward Monsieur d'Estrailles' steed, which he told us was harboured close by, we found no trace of it, though we searched not only the shed but the ruins too."

"By the beard of St Efflam, the villain hath escaped!" growled de Mereac furiously, "the fiends verily having assisted him, for else, how knew he where to find the Frenchman's horse?"

Job scratched his head doubtfully. It was to him altogether an affair of Satanic agencies, and as he left his lord's presence with fresh orders to continue the search, however hopeless, he again crossed himself, little dreaming that he and his fellow-searchers had been more than once that day within a stone's throw not only of the Frenchman's horse, but of de Coray himself, sitting quietly within the sheltered hut of Pierre the fool.

It was a grief indeed to Henri d'Estrailles when he heard of the loss of his favourite horse—that the poor Rollo should be condemned to carry his master's would-be murderer out of reach of the hand of justice seemed a fate altogether unworthy of so gallant a beast, and one which filled d'Estrailles with so keen a sorrow as could not well be compensated by the generous gift of a splendid grey Arab from the Sieur de Mereac himself.

The old Breton noble bade his guest a characteristic adieu, bluff, hearty, yet in no way concealing his satisfaction at his departure.

But though Henri d'Estrailles found little encouragement from his host's evident, though courteously concealed antagonism, he still clung to hope as he bade a tender farewell to Gwennola. That love must triumph over all obstacles is the gospel of youth, and so thought those two as they looked their last into each other's eyes.

"I shall return," whispered Henri gently as he leant from his saddle bow to kiss the tears from the beautiful upturned face—"I shall return ere long, little one, to claim thy promises, and perchance remind thy father of his, and for troth I shall guard this ring which thou hast given me, and thy favour, which I shall bind in my helmet in the day of battle."

She smiled at him through her tears.

"Thou hast given me no guerdon," she whispered softly.

"Have I not?" he replied tenderly. "Nay, sweet, the only guerdon I have to give is myself, and the heart that thou hast already in thy keeping, and which I shall surely return anon to claim at thy hands."

"Thou shalt not have it then," she retorted, smiling again as she raised her blue eyes to meet his dark ones. "For thou hast given it me for all time, and in place—in place——"

"In place?" he echoed, bending still lower.

"Foolish one!" she cried, with a little laugh which ended in a sob, "thou knowest very well what heart thou hast in exchange—a heart of Brittany, monsieur, for whose sake thou must be tender of its countrymen."

"I swear it," he replied—"I swear it, little Gwennola," and so rode away through the forest, and out over the wild heaths beyond, on the road to Rennes.

CHAPTER XII

The long-cherished dream of the astute and far-seeing François Dunois, Comte de Longueville, had apparently been brought to an untimely end by the imperious will of a young girl. In spite of the representations of her guardian and trusted councillors, as well as those of her faithful friend, the Count Dunois himself, Anne remained firm in her rejection of the proposal to unite herself with the King of France, and thus form an indissoluble bond of union between the kingdom and duchy.

"King Charles," she said, "is an unjust prince, who wishes to despoil me of the inheritance of my fathers. Has he not desolated my duchy, pillaged my subjects, destroyed my towns? Has he not entered into the most deceitful alliances with my allies, the Kings of Spain and England, endeavouring to overreach and ruin me? And have I not, by the advice of all of you who now counsel the contrary, just contracted anew a solemn alliance with the King of the Romans, approved by you and all my people? Do not believe that I will so falsify my word, nor that I will burthen my conscience with an act which I feel to be so reprehensible."

In vain her council urged upon her the necessity of yielding to their suggestions; in vain de Rieux, de Montauban, and the Prince of Orange joined with Dunois in pleading the state of Britanny, the impossibility of its defending itself, the certainty of its falling a prey to the first ambitious neighbour who attacked it, since their Duchess would be in a distant country, married to a man whose own subjects were continually in a state of rebellion.

Anne haughtily refused to listen to these arguments. In spite of her tender years, her will was indomitable, and her mind clear as to what her actions should be.

"Rather," she replied at length to her discomfited council, "than be found wanting in the honour and duty I owe to the King of the Romans, whom I look upon as my husband, I will set forth to join him, since he finds it impossible to come hither to fetch me."

Such a reply was decisive, and Dunois was fain to ride back chagrined and discomfited, but not yet baffled, to give Anne's answer of defiance to her royal wooer.

So also seemed to terminate the vague hopes to which Gwennola de Mereac had clung during those summer days—days which were bringing, alas! fresh sorrows to the lonely maiden of the old Breton château. For, scarce two months after her lover's departure, a fall from his horse during a boar hunt had left her to mourn a father who had ever been tender and loving to his daughter, although for the past few weeks somewhat sterner than his wont at her—to him—obstinate refusal to listen to the command he laid on her to accept the hand—if not the heart—of the young Comte de Laferrière, a betrothal which might indeed have been forced upon her had not death intervened to save her from an unwelcome lover, at the same time that he deprived her of a tenderly loved parent.

The mourning of those days was long, and sufficiently trying even for those whose grief was the most sincere; etiquette demanding that a daughter should retire to bed for six weeks in a funereally draped chamber, at most only being permitted to rise and sit upon a couch, also hung with trappings of woe.

Deeply as she mourned her father, Gwennola could not but breathe a sigh of relief as she stole out into the September sunshine at the conclusion of the stated period of retirement. How dreary all seemed, she told herself, and yet,—why, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and after all life was young, and death,—she shuddered as she glanced down at her black robe; but even whilst the tears dimmed her eyes, her thoughts, with the inconsequence of youth, flew back to the lover from whom she had parted, and wondered when he would come again a-wooing, and what Yvon would say when he asked her hand of him. Those months of rest and peace had wrought a great change in her brother. Much of the lost beauty of youth had returned, and the attenuated limbs had regained their strength and vigour, but still in the blue eyes there lurked that vague terror which three years of haunting dread and suffering had indelibly stamped within them. Neither would Yvon de Mereac ever be the noble, gallant knight his boyhood had foreshadowed. Cruelty and mind-torture had crushed and enfeebled a strong, brave nature in their ruthless clutch, and Gwennola's own eyes would often fill with tears of sympathy as they met the restless, anxious glance of her brother's, which betokened a mind still clouded with nervous fears. Yet, in spite of weakness, Yvon possessed an obstinate determination, when once his mind was set, from which neither argument nor entreaty would move him, and it was this vein of obstinacy which Gwennola trembled to evoke by mention of her lover's name, seeing that her brother inherited all his father's implacable animosity to their natural foes of France. Still, the love of brother and sister for each other was strong, and it would often seem as if Yvon would lean on the stronger nature of Gwennola for guidance and advice, whilst her own sisterly affection had, at times, the motherly instinct of protection for one whose mind still became shadowed with dread of an unseen, indefinable fear.

Accompanied by Marie and the faithful Gloire Gwennola was returning some few days later from her weekly visit to the now bed-ridden old peasant dame, Mère Fanchonic, when she was surprised to note the signs of an arrival at the gates of the château. Two strange men-at-arms were leading away horses, on the backs of which were pillions.

"See, Marie," Gwennola exclaimed, as she hurried forward, "what can it mean? It is without doubt visitors who have but lately arrived, and look, pillions also! Verily, what dames can so unexpectedly have honoured us, here at Arteze?"

"Some travellers doubtless who have lost their way," suggested Marie. "But see, lady, here cometh Job, with his foolish face all agog with news."

"Which we are as fain to hear as he to tell," cried Gwennola, laughing gaily, for her spirits had risen to hail any change which came to break the monotony of existence; besides, might this strange visit not be in some way connected with her absent lover?

"Perchance 'tis the Dame of Laferrière come hither with her noble son," suggested Marie slyly, as she watched the flush of annoyance which instantly rose to her young mistress's brow.

"'Tis little likely," retorted Gwennola with some asperity, "seeing that the good dame hath been as bed-ridden as Mère Fanchonic these past two years. An thou hast no better suggestion to give, wench, 'twere wisest to bear in mind the good Father Ambrose's homily on the virtue of silence, which he delivered last Sunday."

Marie did not reply to this rebuke, though she pursed her rosy mouth, round which the dimples played, and tossed her dark, comely head with an air of great sagacity, as one who knew well what lay in her mistress's thoughts behind the sharp speech.

But the maidens' curiosity was in no way gratified by the worthy Jobik, who conveyed only the intelligence that a dame had but lately arrived at the château, and that his master had bidden him speedily seek his mistress and acquaint her with the news.

"A dame? Alone and unattended?" queried Gwennola eagerly. "Tell me then, good Jobik, what name did she give? and what appearance hath she? Is she old or young? and hath knowledge of her features?"

To which Job Alloadec responded that to his knowledge the lady had given no name, and that so closely was she hooded that he had not seen her features, but that she was tall and slender, and spoke with the air of a great lady, very haughtily and proudly. For the rest, he knew naught save that she had come in company with a waiting damsel and three men-at-arms, and that the Sieur de Mereac had bidden him hasten.

Seeing that it was useless to waste time in further questions, Gwennola hastened on, wondering greatly what such a visit portended, and who the lady might be who thus rode in such troublous times with so small an escort and unattended by any cavalier.

The hall of the château was deserted, save for two men-at-arms who lounged near the lower end, and Pierre the fool, who lay on his stomach sporting with his ape, and emitting from time to time shrill screams of merriment in mimicry of his wizened little companion's cries of anger at being thus mocked, much to the amusement of little Henri, the page, who squatted opposite him. In reply to his mistress's inquiries, the page informed her that his master was awaiting her coming in the solar room, whilst he ran before her to raise the tapestries which hung before the inner apartment.

The solar room was one in which Gwennola most often sat with her maidens over her tapestry or embroidery work, and was more sumptuously furnished than the rest of the château; the floor being covered with a fine Flemish carpet, and the hangings of dark velvet, whilst in the corner stood a harp and embroidery frame.

Standing by the high, narrow window, his head leaning against the stone work, as if he strove to see beyond into the courtyard, was Yvon de Mereac, and Gwennola noted the restless, uneasy expression of his handsome face as he turned to greet her.

"Fair sister," he began nervously, as he bowed with the courtesy which in those days of chivalry even brothers paid to their sisters. "Pardon me for so hasty a summons, but—but——"

"Jobik bade me hasten to greet an unexpected guest," replied Gwennola, glancing round the room in surprise at seeing no other occupant saving her brother.

"Ay," replied Yvon with growing uneasiness. "I pray you, my Gwennola, of your courtesy, greet the lady graciously, for——"

"Nay," retorted his sister with some haughtiness. "Am I then accustomed to treat guests so unbecomingly, that thou needest to school me in my manners, Yvon?"

"Nay, nay," he replied anxiously. "Again thy pardon, little sister, but methought,—methought perchance the name might strike unpleasingly upon thine ear, did I not first explain."

"The name?" repeated Gwennola wonderingly. "In sooth, brother, I take not thy meaning."

"It is Mademoiselle de Coray," he muttered hurriedly. "Nay, sister, look not so angrily; she hath come, poor maid, on an errand of peace."

"Peace!" echoed Gwennola, her face hardening into lines so proud and cold as to recall the stern look of her father, "a de Coray bound on peace? Sooner would I trust the serpent who spoke soft words to our Mother Eve to have come on an errand of love to mankind than the sister of Guillaume de Coray to be bound on such a mission."

"Nay, thy words are unjust," said Yvon hotly. "But stay, thou shalt not judge till thou hast seen her, for once look into her eyes and thou shalt read there such wells of innocence and truth as shall shame thee of suspicion."

"Innocence and truth!" replied Gwennola scornfully. "So perchance thought Adam when he looked into Eve's eyes and plucked the apple from her hand; but tell me, then, what hath brought this paragon of beauty and perfection to our poor Château of Mereac? There must e'en be good reason to bring so fair a dame across Brittany in these times."

"Thy mocking becomes thee not," retorted Yvon coldly. "As for the errand of Mademoiselle de Coray, thou shalt judge for thyself whether it augurs more of deceit than of such sweetness of disposition as I fear me thou wilt scarce appreciate in thy present wayward mood."

"Wayward mood!" echoed Gwennola indignantly, for a seventeen-year-old châtelaine could hardly thus calmly brook being chidden as a child. "Wayward mood, forsooth! but we shall see in good time who is the wise one. Yet mayhap thou wilt tell me, most wise and well-discerning brother, of what import the story was? Whereof it was made I wot I know already."

Perhaps Yvon did not hear the last few words, in his eagerness to convert his sister to a more amenable mood concerning their guest.

"She had heard," he said, "that our father was no more, and would, in spite of her brother's opposition, insist straightway on coming to Mereac, deeming the time a fitting one to heal a sore breach betwixt loving kinsmen, by an explanation which should have been made long since."

"Loving kinsmen!" murmured Gwennola, plucking at the girdle round her waist. "Bah! I would have little of such love, I trow."

"And so," continued Yvon, heeding her not, "she hath come to Mereac, and told me her story."

"Which thou hast believed with all the simplicity of a yearling babe."

"Tush! child, thou pratest of what thou knowest not; little like was I to be deceived. Yet verily there was no deception in the eyes of mademoiselle; whilst, as for the story, it is simplicity itself."

"As was the hearer," whispered Gwennola. "And the story, brother?"

"Truly for the most part I knew it before. My sole enemy was François Kerden, who himself stole upon me in the wood, and would have killed me, for no reason but wanton cruelty, had not the fouler scheme entered his head. Yet, even as it came to him, fate furthered the plot, for Guillaume de Coray, seeing in part what was chancing, sprang to the spot, and would have revenged my death, as he supposed, on my murderer, had not the Frenchman intervened and robbed him of his prey and me." Yvon stopped with a groan as the memory of those three years of imprisonment returned to him.

"But," said Gwennola coldly, "the story scarce bears the light of truth, brother, seeing that Henri d'Estrailles saw the traitor blow struck; besides, if so innocent, why fled this so noble kinsman when he saw thee appear? and why did he strive to doom to death another, when he saw who had in reality struck thee down, according to this pretty fable?"

"Nay," said Yvon, knitting his brows, "it is easily explained, didst thou but listen, girl. It was in this way. Guillaume had already been wounded, and, faint with loss of blood, could scarce distinguish betwixt Frenchman or Breton. Both wore closed vizors, and both were near at the time of my fall; which had struck the blow Guillaume could scarce realize. The Breton fled, however, and whilst he turned to strike him down in the act, the Frenchman opened his vizor, and de Coray clearly saw his features. Methinks it was this that confused him in claiming that d'Estrailles had done the coward's act, for but one face was imprinted on his reeling memory, and surely 'twere easy thus to confuse which of the twain he had seen actually to perform the foul deed. That it was Kerden himself is shown by the part he afterwards played in so torturing me."

"Nay," said Gwennola shortly, "the story is false, my brother, and should not deceive a babe—false as the weaver of it. Did I not kneel beside this Kerden and listen to his dying words, which fitted so aptly with those of Monsieur d'Estrailles? It is impossible, Yvon, that for a moment thou couldest believe so lying a tale, or shelter beneath thy roof one who proves herself traitress with her first breath."

"Nay, mademoiselle," said a laughing voice in the doorway, and, turning, brother and sister perceived the object of their conversation standing there, the tapestry curtain half raised by one arm, as she smiled from one to the other, as if aware of the dainty picture she thus formed.

That Diane de Coray was beautiful there was no denying, but her beauty was not of the kind which perchance Gwennola had already imagined her to possess. No possibility of deceit seemed to lurk in her clear, hazel eyes, which shone with frankness and merriment. Her rosy cheeks, full red lips, and delicate features, all combined to give her an appearance of extreme youth, an embodiment of springtime, in truth, and a fair one to boot. The hair under the white head-dress was soft and wavy, and of a rich, dark brown; her figure was slender and tall, set off to advantage in a sleeveless gown of crimson velvet, edged with lettice, a fur much in vogue then amongst the fashionable, whilst round her waist she wore a handsome girdle with jewelled tassels.

As they turned to face her, Diane dropped the tapestry and with a deep curtsy towards her young hostess advanced with outstretched hands.

"Nay," she cried, still laughing, "thou shalt not thus judge me unheard, little one. Fie on thee! thy kinswoman a traitress? I pray thee tell me wherein? See! I come as a hostage for my brother's truth."

"And one that we shall hope to keep for long," responded Yvon courteously, as he placed a seat for her.

She laughed up at him, showing a set of small, pearly teeth as she did so.

"Thy sister would not too warmly echo thy words, fair kinsman," she replied with a sly glance towards Gwennola.

But Mademoiselle de Mereac was not to be moved by roguish glances, dimples, or sweet words. She had responded to her cousin's effusive greeting with a stiff curtsy, taking not the slightest notice of the outstretched hands.

"Mademoiselle," she replied icily, in answer to Diane's rallying words, "is as welcome as the sister of Guillaume de Coray is likely to be at Mereac."

Diane pouted her lips, with the sweet coquetry of a spoilt child; there would even seem to have been tears in the eyes which she raised first to Yvon and from him to Gwennola.

"It is cruel," she murmured softly, "that thou wilt not believe my word, but it is as Guillaume warned me, for oft he hath told me with sorrow of the hatred you bear him, sweet Gwennola. But no," she cried, springing from her seat and clasping her slim hands together with a pretty little air of supplication, "thou shalt be convinced, fair cousin. See, I swear to thee it is true. Wilt thou not believe me?"

"If Monsieur de Coray were innocent, why did he fly?" demanded Gwennola inexorably.

"Fly?" echoed Diane innocently. "Nay, cousin, scarcely fly! That he left in haste it is true; yet not so much from fear as from another sin—shall I confess it?" Her arch smile was met by Gwennola's grave, set face, which, however, seemed in no way to abash her. "It was jealousy," she murmured, glancing up towards Yvon and addressing him more than Gwennola. "Fie! it is an evil passion. Is it not, monsieur? but one to which poor mortals are prone. He had verily proved, as he thought, that Monsieur d'Es—d'Es—monsieur the Frenchman was guilty of his cousin's blood, and unworthy though it might be, he was the more glad to see him die as he fancied the lady of his love looked more kindly on him than he deemed befitting. So, when he found that his rival was like to be restored to liberty, in a foolish fit of unreasoning rage he hurried homewards, little dreaming how ill a construction so weak an act could have placed upon it."

"And how knew he of such construction, seeing he fled in such haste?" demanded Gwennola shrewdly; but Diane de Coray had suddenly become afflicted with deafness.

"To such foolishness doth unrequited love lead us," she sighed, addressing Yvon solely now. "Alas! 'tis a cruel passion at best, is it not, monsieur? and one better eschewed by the wise."

"Nay," replied he slowly, looking down with undisguised admiration into her face. "Not when it cometh in the guise of an angel of peace and love, mademoiselle."

"Peace and love!" whispered Gwennola to herself as she withdrew. "Mary, Mother, grant that it be not strife and bitter hate; for, alas! she is false, this demoiselle, false to the heart's core, for all her beauty."

CHAPTER XIII

It would seem indeed that Diane de Coray had come,—if come for that purpose she had,—to play hostage for life against her brother's truth, for almost imperceptibly she slipped into her niche in the simple, family life at the Château of Mereac.

Not that her presence brought peace in its train, for it seemed that where she found peace she would fain leave a sword, and many and bitter were the tears that Gwennola shed in the solitude of her chamber as she watched her enemy gaining daily more undisputed sway over her pliable and weak-minded brother. Yes, it was tacitly agreed that it was to be warfare between these two kinswomen, yet such warfare as only women can play, the scratching of claws from velvet paws, and the sweet smile veiling bitter words. Not that Gwennola was an adept at such fencing; her nature was too straightforward, perhaps also too tempestuous, to repay veiled insult with veiled insult. She would reply hotly, even angrily, thus bringing the odium of a quarrel entirely on her own shoulders, leaving her rival to smile indulgently, as if at the stormy outburst of a child, till Gwennola could have wept for very mortification. These unequal trials of strength had, however, the effect at which Diane aimed; brother and sister grew gradually more estranged, for Yvon, hot with the infatuation with which his beautiful kinswoman had inspired him, hesitated not to rebuke his sister, ofttimes with anger, for replying indignantly to Diane's sugared taunts. So the days wore on, and Gwennola's heart grew ever heavier, and the hopes which summer had whispered in her ears faded before the shrill blasts of autumn.

It had been rumoured that King Charles had taken ill the refusal of the young Duchess to listen to his proposals, and was even now assembling a mighty army to march into Brittany and demand by force what could not be his by pleading.

In face of such rumours the bitter hatred of their overweening and powerful neighbours became intensified, and Gwennola knew that her rival would make use of such national indignation to crush her hopes that Yvon would allow of a betrothal between herself and Henri d'Estrailles.

Indeed, that such was in truth the case, Yvon, all too soon, took no pains to conceal, telling his sister coldly that since she so resented the thoughts of a betrothal with Guillaume de Coray, she must choose between a nun's veil and the bridegroom her father had already designed for her, Maurice de Laferrière.

In vain Gwennola pleaded her father's promise that, should peace at length bind the two countries together, her hand might follow the dictates of her heart. With an obstinacy which, when once aroused, was immovable, Yvon refused to listen to tears or entreaties, bidding her choose without delay, seeing that it was time that her destiny should be settled, and at the same time announcing his own betrothal to Diane de Coray.

Prepared as she was for this, still, the shock was terrible to the unhappy Gwennola. The prejudice she had conceived against the sister of de Coray had ripened during those past weeks into something akin to hatred, a feeling she felt to be heartily reciprocated by Diane herself. That young lady, however, was sufficiently mistress of her emotions to conceal her dislike under a very pretty show of friendship, which entirely deceived the love-sick Yvon, who felt that his sister only was to blame in the dissensions which rose from time to time between châtelaine and guest.

Thus matters stood that October morning, as Diane de Coray entered the hall of the château with her falcon on her wrist, and a smile of triumph in her hazel eyes.

"Come, Pierre," she said softly, as the fool, who had been crouched shivering over the fire, at her entrance rose to his feet. "I would talk with thee yonder, on the terrace path. The Sieur de Mereac will not yet be ready for the chase, and meantime I have somewhat to say to thee. Tell me," she added, still further lowering her voice, as she reached the broad terrace and stood facing her shivering companion, "hath thy master arrived?"

"He has been for some days past at the hut of Henri Lefroi," muttered the lad, eyeing his interrogator curiously.

"For some days?" echoed Diane in surprise. "Nay, 'tis strange; to what purport should he linger thus?"

"I know not," replied Pierre moodily, "that being my master's business, and none of mine. But what is your will, lady? for methinks I hear monsieur's voice yonder, calling your name."

"No matter," said Diane lightly; "he can wait for the nonce. But attend then, little knave: thou must go this day to the house of this Lefroi, and bid my brother ride hitherward as if he had come from a journey. Tell him that his welcome is assured from all, except perchance the little fool Gwennola de Mereac; but tell him on no account to delay longer, for I am at a loss how to proceed without him." She repeated the last words emphatically, as if desirous of imprinting them on Pierre's mind, then with a brief nod she turned from him to welcome with sunny smiles the young lord of the château, who came striding towards her, his handsome face flushed with pleasure, his blue eyes aflame with love.

"Nay, sweetheart," he cried reproachfully, "didst not hear me call? See, I grow jealous even of a fool, who is thus overwhelmed with honour at receiving one smile from those sweet lips."

Perhaps Pierre the fool, slipping back to his corner by the fire, found the honour less burdensome than his lord supposed, seeing that he sat there chuckling at the merry flames that blazed and leapt on the open hearth. It was manifestly an effort to drag himself away from the warm glow, out once more into the keen air, yet, so pleasant seemed his thoughts, that he still chuckled softly, as he trotted along the forest path with Petit Pierre perched on his shoulder, chattering and scolding in unison.

The hut of Henri Lefroi bore almost as ill a reputation as the ruined chapel of the Brown Friar, for, folk said, this was the habitation of a wizard whose powers in the occult science were so great as to defy both heaven and hell, wherefore at the name men and women crossed themselves and repeated an ave, for very fear of incurring the wrath of so dread a personage.

But it was not to the hut of old Lefroi that Pierre turned his steps, but rather to the little dwelling-place where Gabrielle, his sister, would be sitting spinning.

It was two weeks since that her brother had also started spinning, but not in his case from flaxen thread, but the woof of romance, which had been born suddenly in his cunning mind. Why should Monsieur de Coray, he asked himself, come so many days before the time appointed by his sister? And why, instead of acquainting her with the fact of his presence, should he strive to conceal it? And also, why should he daily steal away from Henry Lefroi's dismal abode to spend the long hours of the autumn days beside the pretty Gabrielle? Aha! a pretty romance that was, which the little fool watched, safe hidden from prying eyes, amongst the undergrowth of the thicket. Yes, he told himself, without doubt Monsieur de Coray had lost his heart to Gabrielle, his sister, and without doubt the day would come when Gabrielle should be the mistress of a noble château, and he, Pierre the fool, would for ever doff the motley and play the rôle of Monsieur Laurent. Ah! how grand it sounded, how distinguished! Yet for all that he kept jealous guard over those two, for not altogether did he trust the honour of Monsieur de Coray, although he marked shrewdly with what respect he spoke to the little sister, such respect as he had surely not even shown Mademoiselle de Mereac, the proud, haughty demoiselle of the château yonder.

And Pierre, for all his foolishness, was right, for the passion of a bad and evil man had become purified in the presence of this child of the forest. He loved her, not as he had loved others, but with a reverence, such as one has for saints, combined with the passion he felt for the woman, and, as he sat there, day by day, watching her as she span, or listening entranced when she sang to him a sweet, simple ballad of Brittany, filled with the romance and sadness of her land, in a voice such as the birds might have envied, he swore to himself that this peasant girl should be his wife, and that for her sake he would do all things. But the snake of old ever lurks in the fairest garden of dreams, and so the very purpose of his presence in these forests became one that he swore to fulfil, evil and cruel as it was, for the sake of this beautiful child, whose guileless glances had won his sin-hardened heart. So the devil tempts us. For the sake, we say, of one we love, however pure and good, we will do evil so that we may lavish its fruits on the object of our devotion, who, forsooth! would shrink back appalled if it knew from whence those fruits came.

So in the autumn woods three souls dreamed out their dreams. Pierre the fool strutting, in his mind's eye, in a suit of velvet and chain of gold, no longer the jester or object of jest, but "Monsieur Laurent," brother, honoured and esteemed, of Madame la Châtelaine. Guillaume de Coray clasping in his arms the lovely girl whose image had blotted out so many and so varied dreams of ambitions, and leading her with proud and triumphant steps to his Château of Mereac, won at last by means to which he involuntarily closed his eyes. And Gabrielle Laurent, seeing only the face of the man to whom she had given her heart, and whom she must love for all time, indifferent to whether he were great lord or simple peasant, with all the pure tenderness of her young heart. Whilst at night, as she knelt in prayer within her lonely hut, she would thank the good God and all her guardian saints, with child-like simplicity and gratitude, for sending into her life one so noble and so good as Guillaume de Coray, repeating the name softly and reverently to herself, as though it possessed some charm to drive away all dreams of ill, as she lay in her wooden bed, watching the flickering moonlight as it fell across the threshold—the white, beautiful moonlight, which was no purer than her thoughts as she fell to sleep murmuring her lover's name. Alas! the poor little Gabrielle!

CHAPTER XIV

It was some three hours after Pierre the fool had delivered Diane de Coray's message that the brother and sister sat together in her chamber at the Château de Mereac.

"So thou hast succeeded?" inquired Guillaume, scanning with curiosity, not unmixed with admiration, his sister's beautiful face.

"Beyond our expectations."

There was a mocking intonation in her words which did not escape him.

"So," he said, crossing his legs and leaning his elbow against the table, so that his eyes were bent nearly opposite to hers. "Beyond our expectations? That is well. And so the poor fool, Yvon de Mereac, loves you?"

"As warmly as his sister hates me."

"Equally to their own destruction."

She laughed a trifle uneasily.

"The idea causes you amusement?"

His tone was not pleasant.

"Amusement," she said vaguely. Then, changing her tone, "Is it after all so necessary?"

"Altogether necessary. Remember your oath."

She changed colour, but clung to her point.

"Nay, but seeing—seeing he loves me?"

"Scarcely with such devotion that he would give up his inheritance to the brother of his adored."

She winced under the sneer.

"But will nothing else content you, mon frère? If I were his wife, I—I would arrange matters altogether to your will. You shall be lord in all but name. Consider, he is, after all, but a poor, weak fool, who will ever do my bidding."

Her words were rapid, and rang with a note of pleading, but Guillaume de Coray only frowned.

"It is necessary that he shall be altogether removed, or, if plain speaking be necessary, he must die. The means are already in our hands."

She shuddered involuntarily.

"Bah!" he said lightly. "Thou surely dost not love this weakling lover of thine, Diane? Grieve not for him, ma chère; the new Sieur de Mereac will wed thee to a nobler suitor when he comes to his own."

"I cannot do it," she moaned. "Nay, brother, I sicken at the very thought. 'Tis not in truth that I love him, but—but——"

"A foolish fancy," quoth her brother mockingly. "Nay, Diane, thou art not wont to blanch so easily, and bethink thee of thy sweet revenge on yon proud and scornful maid."

Her hazel eyes grew hard.

"Yes," she said, "I hate her; yes, hate her with all my soul, for she scorns me, Guillaume, and flouts me too, for all her brother's anger. Ay, revenge is sweet, and yet——"

"Courage," mocked Guillaume, leaning closer to her across the table—"courage, little sister. After all——"

He paused, watching her eyes dilate with sudden dread as she filled in the unspoken words.

"No," she cried at length, and her voice rose in a quick, decisive tone, "I cannot do it, Guillaume; sooner than be thy tool in this work I will—I will——"

"Die thyself belike," he said coolly, his eyes never leaving her changing face. "Think well, Diane, yes, very well, before thou breakest thine oath—remember the fate that awaits thee, did I so much as breathe one word concerning thy dealings in matters which have brought many a fairer maid than thee to the stake, or the torture chamber. Did I proclaim thee witch, what arm, even of love itself, would be strong enough in Brittany, ay, and in all France, to save thee?"

"I am no witch," she cried passionately, "as thou knowest well, liar and coward that thou art."

"No witch," he replied smoothly, "yet sufficiently akin to seal thy doom, were I to reveal thy secret dealings with one at whose name all Brittany shudders. And thou thyself hast been no mean pupil, my sister—therefore——"

The significant pause was sufficient, and the unfortunate girl covered her face in her hands as she moaned out—

"Nay, spare me the taunt, Guillaume. It is true I have sinned, and yet I am no witch, before Heaven I am no witch. Did I not flee from the beldame's accursed dwelling in very terror from such deeds as they would have me do? Nay, brother, little I knew with what black terror I played, I, a motherless girl, led astray by one whom I had deemed a friend."

"A fair friend," he sneered, "truly a fair friend; but enough. That thou didst flee is known to me; that thou wert there shall be known, ay, and proved to the world if thou art obstinate, and thou shalt pay the penalty as surely as if thou wert as truly a servant of Satan as any hag who gathers nightly on the sands of Seville or around the nut tree of Benevento."

Diane crossed herself, white to the lips, whilst her eyes crept to his face with the fear of a dog who looks up in very terror of the lash he knows he shall see descending.

"What is thy will?" she whispered mechanically, as she read no sign of relenting in the hard face before her.

He smiled triumphantly.

"Thou wilt obey?"

"I will obey."

"That is well, but for the rest, thou knowest very well my will, and wherefore thou camest hither."

She shuddered.

"Still," continued her brother, "if thou wilt hear it again I will repeat our plan, our plan, thou mindest, Diane, which thou helpedst me to form so cleverly at Pontivy."

"I had not known him then," she cried with a little sob, "and—and he loves me well."

"So much the better; the less chance of suspicion falling upon us. See, child, have done with these foolish vapourings, and mark how all falls in with our purpose. The Sieur de Mereac loves thee—a love which he will doubtless in time extend in some measure to me, thy brother, seeing that thou hast set his mind at rest concerning the affair at St Aubin. All then are at peace and filled with content, saving only Mademoiselle de Mereac, who, for some unknown reason, is consumed with hatred and jealousy against her brother's beloved friends, a hatred which, indeed, also estranges her from her brother. Suddenly, without warning, the Sieur de Mereac falls ill, wasting away, in some strange and inexplicable sickness, till in due time it is apparent that death claims him for a comrade. A whisper is rumoured throughout the house coupling the name of Gwennola de Mereac with witchcraft; the whisper grows to an outcry; proofs of guilt are discovered in the maiden's chamber; she is condemned to death, but it is too late to save her ill-fated brother, who perishes, a victim to an execrated sister's malevolence, and Guillaume de Coray, his cousin, reigns in his stead over the broad lands of Mereac. Voilà, my sister, how charming and how simple a history! And the means, the means," he emphasized, "of its fulfilment lie here."

As he spoke he handed her a small phial containing a dark liquid, watching her, as the cat does the mouse, as she took it in her trembling hand.

"You comprehend?" he asked softly.

"I comprehend."

He smiled pensively.

"That is very well, and in due course my delightful history will unfold itself. For the whisper of mademoiselle's guilt it would be well to employ the services of the good Jeanne. She is discreet, that girl, and worthy of reward."

But Diane did not answer; she was still staring in horror at the tiny phial she held in her hand—the phial that was the price of a life.

"A charming love potion, the dear Lefroi informed me," said de Coray, spreading out his hands with an airy gesture. "Ah, what a man is that, and what a dwelling!—a very charnel-house; and yet not without its amusement. Thou mightest have done worse, my Diane, than stay to listen to thy fair friend's discourse on the occult science, that night at Pontivy. But thou dost not agree? Bah! what foolishness!—'tis surely better to mix one's own potions rather than trust to the discretion of another. But, as for Lefroi, he is no gossip, and, if one foresaw danger, a dagger thrust is a sure seal to unruly lips. And now, my sister, I will bid thee au revoir, seeing that I go to greet the beautiful demoiselle who did me the honour not long since to become my betrothed bride. Parbleu! it may well be that ere long she shall regret having scorned the hand which was once offered her in love and friendship."

"Love and friendship!" echoed Diane drearily to herself, as with a bow her brother withdrew. "Thy love and friendship! Merciful heavens! methinks the love of such an one would but bring damnation in its train, and I——" A sob choked her whispered words.

"Ah, Yvon! poor Yvon!" she muttered softly, "and thou must die!" Then, shaking back her hair, which had partly fallen across her face, she drew herself up defiantly. "At least," she said softly, as she faced her mirror, and noted the haggard countenance reflected therein—"at least I shall have revenge on yon proud girl. For her I have no pity—the scornful one!"

Meantime, so strange is human nature, Guillaume de Coray was standing looking out from his turret chamber towards the forest with a look so softened and tender that his sister would have failed to recognise the man who but a short hour before had planned murder in mocking tones. Now he was dreaming of the time when he should lead his Gabrielle forth from those forest shades, a proud and happy bride. In that dream of the future, when he saw himself at last at the summit of ambition, lord of the surrounding lands, husband of a woman already adored, it was strange that he saw himself also attaining to an honour and nobility which he could never possess. The husband of Gabrielle Laurent, he told himself, should close for ever the gates of the past which shrouded Guillaume de Coray, the blood-stained, unprincipled villain who, from serving an evil master, had afterwards served, more evilly still, his own lusts, trampling underfoot on his way any who opposed his progress to his goal, only mindful of his ends, caring no jot by what villainy they were accomplished. Yes, the gates should be shut on this man, and in the Sieur de Mereac should arise a new creature, upright, honourable, knightly, a phantom figure striving to be ever what the woman he loved had pictured him. Strange freak of complex human nature, seldom found so lost as to be beyond the pale of redemption; cruel and sin-hardened as this man was, there must needs have been a heart somewhere buried deeply within him, which afar off worshipped goodness and truth,—a heart which had been roused into life, amidst corruption, by a woman's pure touch. She had believed in him, this simple peasant girl, with the face and mind of a holy Madonna, and the trust had awakened within him that long silent chord of chivalry and honour from which love itself had sprung. In her presence he was no longer the Guillaume de Coray whom the world knew, but one who strove to cloak that evil presence in a garb of honour and nobility. And in the deception itself lay the very germ of a new-born nobler self, a desire to lay aside for ever that hidden being of sin and become that which he read himself to be in her pure eyes. He shuddered as he pictured her realization of himself as he was, and swore that sooner than that this should be he would cast the old self aside. Yet,—mark the insidious whisper of Satan,—such dreams of goodness and virtue were garments to be donned after he had accomplished his purpose. Sin was the necessary tool he must employ to win for his white dove the fair nest he coveted; therefore sin should be his boon companion till the work was done, and he almost forgot to shudder at her uncomely countenance or shrink from the foul whispers of her counsel in his haste to use her far his will. Afterwards he would spurn her—yes, afterwards, when Gabrielle reigned at Mereac—afterwards—but not now.

CHAPTER XV

The sound of revelry rose high in the great hall of Mereac. On the dais at the head of the table the young Sieur, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, raised his goblet of wine and drank deeply as he looked into the hazel eyes of the beautiful woman beside him. The guests around the table whispered together that Yvon de Mereac's taste had not been amiss when he chose the lovely Diane de Coray for his betrothed, and toasts were freely drunk to the future châtelaine of the castle, and admiring glances flung towards the youthful beauty who sat there laughing and smiling so gaily and happily.

Guillaume de Coray laughed too as he pledged the fair dame beside him and quaffed the choice hippocras which filled his cup. All indeed went well with those castles in the air which he was so intent on building. The first seeds were already sown, and his keen glance noted with a thrill of pleasurable excitement that the flushed cheek and sparkling eye of his young host wore anything but the bloom of health. His own eyes roamed slowly round the board as he followed the tenor of his thoughts, and fell at length on the face of Gwennola de Mereac.

The young girl was sitting silent and pale amongst her brother's guests, her listless eyes and apathetic replies to the cavalier beside her telling how far away were thoughts and heart. In vain the Comte de Laferrière whispered tender words in her unwilling ears. She replied in accents so cold that they must necessarily have chilled the warmest admirer; and at length the Count, weary of repulses, turned his attentions and compliments to a more sprightly damsel on his left, who seemed only too willing to respond to his wit and gallantry. If he had thought to chagrin his destined bride, the effect was quite contrary to his expectations, for Gwennola seemed entirely indifferent, if not oblivious, to his neglect, but sat in her place, pale, listless, and indifferent as before, except when for a moment's space she raised her blue eyes to encounter de Coray's mocking smile, when a flush of anger swept over her pale cheeks, and for a moment her eyes flashed with their old scorn and defiance.

In spite of her passionate indignation and pleading, this man had been welcomed as an honoured guest by her infatuated brother, who listened with ready ears to the lame and feeble excuses with which de Coray strove to explain the past. All was forgiven and forgotten to the brother of the lovely Diane, and it needed but a brief space for de Coray to attain a firm command over his future brother-in-law's weak and wavering will. That she should be forced into some hateful marriage or condemned to a convent cell was Gwennola's daily expectation, but so far the blow had not fallen. It is true that Maurice de Laferrière still wooed, but no formal betrothal had taken place. Yet all hopes of a marriage with her lover were shattered for ever, not only by reason of France's threatening attitude towards the persecuted duchy, but because of the bitter enmity of de Coray, who had successfully persuaded de Mereac that the Frenchman had been the ally of François Kerden.

No wonder, therefore, that Gwennola's heart was heavy as she sat, perforce, alone and solitary, amidst the revelry around.

"A new minstrel!" cried Yvon with a gay laugh. "Nay, my friend, by the bones of St Yves, thou comest in a fortunate hour. Thy name, good fellow? and a cup of wine to clear thy throat before thy song."

The stranger bowed as he accepted the cup and glanced towards the speaker.

"My name, monsieur," he replied in the Breton tongue, "is Jean Marcille, and my birthplace near to Cape Raz."

"Good," replied the host. "A true Breton; and a Breton ballad of Breton prowess is ever welcome at the Château de Mereac. Eh, old Antoine? A new strain will be as welcome to us as a rest is to thee; therefore sing us a stirring lay, Sir Minstrel, and see that its theme be of love and war, for of such things all true knights make their dreams and fair ladies welcome."

Again the minstrel bowed, and, taking his vielle in his hand, swept the chords ere he began his song, glancing as he did so round the long board, though his eye seemingly rested on none. He himself was a sufficiently striking figure to cause interest, especially at the lower end of the table, where the waiting-women eyed with appreciation the slight, well-formed figure in its corset of scarlet cloth and wide hanging sleeves, and the cap of velvet, nearly half a yard in height, set jauntily on the man's dark hair, which well matched his bronzed complexion and black, merry eyes, which seemed to promise a boon companion of a gay wit and keen tongue.

The visit of such a vielleur was not uncommon to the châteaux of the great; for although nearly all possessed a minstrel of their own, a fresh repertoire was always welcomed, music and singing being an almost necessary accompaniment to the meal.

Jean Marcille was evidently the possessor of a voice of no mean merit, and thunderous applause greeted song after song. Wild ballads of ancient Brittany he sang, telling of the fate of the wizard Myrddyn, who, for all his wisdom, was beguiled to tell his secret to the treacherous Vyvyan, knowing all the while of her cruel intention, yet unable to withstand the siren wiles of her woman's tongue, and so lies sleeping for ever in his tomb in the forest of Broceliande, under the fatal stone where his false love has enchanted him. Then, still pursuing the mournful themes with which Brittany seems to abound, and which her children hold so dear, he sang of the romantic loves of Abelard the sage and Helöise the beautiful—loves which, crushed and killed in sorrow and despair, bloomed immortally in poetry and song. But presently his voice rang with a more martial strain, as, sweeping the chords of his harp, he sang the inspiriting songs of valour—songs these, perchance, of his own weaving, for they told of the distresses of the fair young Duchess Anne, of her helpless condition amongst ravening enemies, of her gallant Bretons rallying around her, of the intrepidity of Breton heroes, of the siege of Gwengamp, where the brave Captains Chero and Gouicket defied the traitor Rohan's call, and declared that whilst there was a Duchess in Brittany they would not give up her towns; and of Tomina Al-Léan, the wife of Gouicket, who took her husband's place on the walls when he lay helpless and wounded below.

Such ballads, at such a time, when deeds of chivalry were brave men's daily acts, and ladies had no smiles for recreant knight or coward lover, never failed to stir their listeners to a frenzy of enthusiasm, and knights drew their swords as they sprang to their feet, and, with goblets in their right hands, drank to their little Duchess, and flung the shivering glass to the ground.

Only, perhaps, the enthusiasm of Guillaume de Coray was a little forced, and his lips curved more than once into a mocking smile as he watched the ring of flushed faces, and reflected how small a concern it was of his did Duchess or King rule in Brittany, provided his own schemes went well.

The stranger minstrel needed little pressing to stay at the Château of Mereac, for truly it seemed that he fell almost naturally into his place in the household. A welcome addition, indeed, to enliven the shortening and gloomy days, for the voice of old Antoine was growing cracked and faltering, and his songs became wearisome by reason of oft repetition; nor had the elder man the facility in weaving new ones which his young rival seemed to possess—a fact which tended to jealousy, though Antoine was too wise to let such be apparent.

Meantime, Jean Marcille proved to have as soft and winning a tongue in speech as in song, and so Marie Alloadec found, as she sat busily employed in her needlework, whilst the minstrel sat on the wide ledge beside her with crossed legs and a face bent perhaps a little nearer to Marie's swiftly flying needle than was judicious.

He was telling her of his home, near the wild and mournful Cape Raz, and from time to time Marie would allow her work to fall as she listened to the graphic descriptions of that dreary and romantic coast. The very name of Raz causes the trembling sailor to pray aloud to his patron saints as he thinks of the time when his boat must glide by the red rocks where the hell of Plogoff yearns for its prey. No wonder the Breton proverbs say, "None pass the Raz without hurt or fright," and "Help me, great God, at Cape Raz;—my ship is so small, and the sea is so great."

A terrible dwelling-place this, with a brooding fear in the air and a melancholy mingled with every legend and fancy which haunts the coast around. Far away there beyond Dead Man's Bay lies the island of Sein, a desolate sandbank inhabited by a few compassionate families, who yearly strive to save the shipwrecked mariners. This[#] island was the abode of the sacred virgins, who gave the Celts fine weather or shipwreck. There they celebrated their gloomy and murderous orgies; and the seamen heard with terror, far off at sea, the clash of the barbaric cymbals. Yonder, too, watchers may see two ravens flying heavily on the shore: they are the souls of the dread King Grallo and his daughter; whilst the shrill whistling, which one would take for the voice of the tempest, is the crierien, or ghosts of the shipwrecked, clamouring for burial.

[#] See Michelet's History of France.

"But see," Marie exclaimed, with great eyes grown even greater with wonder and awe as she listened to the wild tales which Marcille poured into her ears, "they are gloomy, these tales, and very terrible; and yet, how is it that you laugh and are gay, and have altogether the air of joy and happiness?"

"A good conscience," quoth Jean lightly, as with absent fingers he twanged the strings of his vielle. "Also, mademoiselle, perchance the good gift of my mother, who came from laughing Touraine, where all sing and are gay, and where the waters of the Loire dance with the happy sunshine, instead of being grey with melancholy, as here in Brittany."

"Of Touraine?" questioned Marie, dropping her voice, whilst her bright eyes searched curiously the dark, smiling face of the minstrel. "And thy mother came from Touraine? But that perchance was long since, and thou hast never journeyed so far?"

"I?" laughed Jean Marcille. "Nay, mademoiselle, a minstrel wanders oft in many lands, and I have seen not only the orchards and meadows of Touraine, but the blue skies of Italy, and the white mountains of Switzerland in my day."

"But of Touraine?" persisted Marie. "If thy mother is of that country, thou knowest perchance much—almost as much as of thy native Brittany?"

"Verily," replied Marcille, with a shrug of his shoulders, "seeing that my father died long since, when I was but a little lad, and my mother, wearying of grey skies and the wails of lost spirits, was fain to return to the sunshine of her own land."

"And so," said Marie, her colour deepening as her eager eyes again sought his, "you have long dwelt in the land of our enemies, Sir Minstrel? Aha! but you told not that to our lord yesternight when he asked from whence you came."

Marcille spread out his hands with a careless gesture of indifference.

"Monsieur asked me only of my name and birthplace," he replied with a smile.

"But if perchance mademoiselle fears I am a spy——" He paused, watching her face as she turned it to him.

"Nay," she murmured, glancing around to be sure that they were unheard; "I asked,—I asked—because,—because I would have inquired of a noble monsieur from Touraine who journeyed hitherward in the early summer, and in whom my mistress took somewhat of an interest."

"For that matter," said her companion, "there is scarce a château in all Touraine whose lord I do not know; for there is ever a flagon of wine ready for the minstrel bard."

"But not ever for Breton ballads," slyly replied Marie, with a coquettish side-glance.

"Nay," he laughed, "I suit my songs to my company, mademoiselle, for 'tis a foolish bird that sings only on one note, and there are chansons and rondeaux of Touraine and Anjou with which I can woo the dimples to thy cheeks, sweet mistress, as well as ballads of Brittany, to bring tears to those bright eyes."

"But," she said, shaking her head at him with a dimpling smile to moderate her rebuke—"but you are foolish, altogether foolish, and I want no compliments of France, but rather listen to what I would ask of you. In this fair Touraine, where all laugh and are gay, have you perchance met one who is named Monsieur Henri d'Estrailles, whose château lies not far from the banks of the Loire?"

"So well I know him," replied Marcille, eyeing her steadily, as if he would fain read her very heart—"so well I know him, that at his bidding I am here; pretty maiden, to bring his message to thy fair mistress."

"A messenger from Monsieur d'Estrailles!" gasped Marie, whilst the work slipped from her hands and lay unheeded on the floor. "A messenger from Monsieur d'Estrailles!"

"Ay, verily," whispered the minstrel. "But speak not so loudly, mademoiselle, for, from what I gather, there were short shrift for me did some here suspect me or my errand."

"But I cannot believe it," murmured Marie, her eyes still round with wonder. "It is impossible."

For reply Marcille slipped his hand into his vest and brought forth a small ring which lay safely shrouded in his brown palm.

"It is the token," he said simply. "Do not fear, Mademoiselle Marie; all is as I say. I am in truth the servant of Monsieur d'Estrailles, who hath a message for his mistress's ear, but knew too well that he might not come hither in his own proper person to tell it, seeing that even now the French army crosses the Breton border, and he feared that his presence at such a time might be less than welcome."

"Less than welcome!" echoed Marie. "Nay, at the moment I ween it would be death itself to the gallant knight. But your message shall be delivered, monsieur, and at once. See, I go with haste to my mistress's chamber, and it shall be that I will return anon to summon you to her presence."

So saying, Marie Alloadec, without waiting to gather up her fallen embroidery, tripped quickly away, to return with haste in a few moments, softly calling to Marcille to follow her.

Neither of them noticed that close to the embrasure in which they had been seated knelt the figure of a woman, who withdrew almost behind the heavy tapestry hangings as they passed. But there was a smile on the face of Jeanne, the dark-browed waiting-woman of Diane de Coray, as she watched furtively their departing figures.

CHAPTER XVI

The Sieur de Mereac was sick. No longer could there be any disguising of the fact; he had grown in the past week thin and emaciated, whilst his great blue eyes, so like his young sister's, looked out of his sunken face with a pathetic wistfulness which touched a chord of pity in the hardest heart.

Yet what the reason of so strange and deadly a sickness might be it seemed impossible to say. Vague suspicions, indeed, seemed to float like faint and evil breaths upon the air of the château; but so intangible were they, that men scarce dared to look into the thought which from time to time stirred within them. Gloom had suddenly seemed to fall upon the household which had before resounded with a mirth scarcely befitting, seeing that so short a time had elapsed since the death of the old Sieur. And now it would seem that death again stretched forth his hand, but not this time to gather to his full garner one whose head was already white with the snows of age, but to snatch greedily at youth, with its swift pulsations of joy and life. What did death here? What place had he at the betrothal board? What right had his shadow to fall between the sunshine of love and its fulfilment? Such questions were hard indeed to answer, and by reason of them the shadow of fear fell on those who pitied, whilst they loved, the young master, whose footsteps through life had led him in such tragic paths, and who now seemed, in the dawn of happiness, before unknown, to stand before the yawning chasm of a grave.

Yet, strangest and most mysterious of all did it seem that Gwennola de Mereac—she who, in past days, had been so tenderly attached to her brother—should scarcely heed the fact of his altered appearance, and, from brooding melancholy, herself assume all suddenly an aspect of content and happy expectation.

So the retainers of Mereac gazed at the mysterious march of events, whilst the whisper on the air grew clearer day by day. But Gwennola suspected none of these things. True, her heart ached for her brother as she noted his altered looks; yet so wide had grown the gulf which Diane de Coray had made between them, that her pride refused to allow her to show the anxious solicitude she felt; whilst Diane herself strove secretly to make such solicitude the more impossible by her attitude towards the girl she hated. Yvon was made silently to know that he must choose between his sister and his lady-love; and there was no hesitation possible in his mind as Diane bent tenderly over his couch, whilst Gwennola held coldly aloof, allowing no one to guess the bursting grief and jealousy which raged in her heart.

But it was not altogether pride alone which set Gwennola's lips into a calm and serene smile of seeming unconcern for her brother's sickness; for, setting apart her anxiety for him,—and youth is skilful in persuading itself that such fears are groundless,—she was rejoicing secretly in the message brought to her by the hand of Jean Marcille.

Ah! what a joy it had been, and yet how fierce an anxiety brooded behind it! As she sat by her window, watching the brown leaves of the forest trees caught and whirled away in the autumn wind, her heart was singing, yet shuddering, as she thought of the time, but three days hence, when she should creep forth as she had done months ago and find, under that forest shade, the lover, faithful and true, who laughed at perils for the joy of clasping her once more in his arms. How sweet it was to rehearse over and over again that meeting—the terrors of the woodland path, the haunting dread of spying eyes, all forgotten and swallowed up in the glad moment when she should feel those strong arms holding her to him, and should look up to read the old, old story in eyes so full of love's deepest tenderness. Then the exquisite joy of the picture faded, as fears crowded with jeering, mocking faces around the dream. What if he should be discovered? This time there would, she knew, be no escape. No shadow of suspicion would be too faint to seal his doom. Revenge, she knew, was smouldering deeply in de Coray's heart, and the hatred and jealousy of his sister would but too eagerly seize upon this means of repaying her rival, whose influence, she knew, would fain have been exerted to drive her from the château gates.

But Marie Alloadec had no such fears. The faithful maiden rejoiced not only in her mistress's romance, but in one of her own which was being woven at the same time. The handsome face of Monsieur d'Estrailles' messenger had already made its impression on the Breton girl's susceptible heart; and Jean Marcille had been no backward wooer, finding it altogether to his own pleasure, as well as his master's interests, to make love to the pretty waiting-woman whilst he attended to her mistress's commands.

All three were keenly aware of the dangers that beset them; but love laughs at such dangers, and the happy optimism of Marie and Marcille comforted, if it did not convince, Gwennola. For Marie it was easy to be gay, for her lover was beside her; but for her own part, Gwennola shivered even whilst she smiled, so fearful of ill was she.

But at last the night had arrived, a night so calm, so peaceful, that it seemed as one born out of time in that wild month of November. True, there was but a dying moon to light the way through the forest path, and from time to time even her wavering light was dimmed by the scudding clouds which obscured her. But this time Gwennola went not to her tryst unattended; indeed, such a course was fraught with dangers, which had necessarily multiplied since the summer, for the hungry wolves grew more importunate than ever for their prey. Shielded, however, by the strong arm of Jean Marcille, and accompanied by Marie, who pleaded to be allowed to follow her mistress on her dangerous errand, she felt little fear of these four-footed enemies; whilst behind, she knew, Job Alloadec guarded faithfully the open postern gate.