But to murder one of the people might lead to consequences now, though five years ago it would have been no matter at all. So Bertrand was allowed to live.

Mademoiselle Cecile, wiping pretty eyes with a tiny piece of cambric, implored this between gasping breaths.

It was more than he deserved, however, Morice explained in a few words of execrable Breton, enforcing each syllable with a kick.

Bertrand crouched, whining as cur under the whip. But his eyes were vicious.

"Go to your kennel, dog and pig," commanded his opponent, with a last blow. "And next time you use ugly words about your masters, your tongue shall be cut out."

Bertrand rose, groaning. He was very sore; but the inward bruises were the worst, though he rubbed the outer ones dolefully as he limped away.

Morice did not catch the glint in his eyes as he went, or hear the vows and curses growled low in the husky throat.

He was bending over Cecile.

"My poor little cousin, he has hurt you--the brute. You should have let me kill him. Such vermin are dangerous."

"To--to their slayers, Monsieur."

Her English was almost as adorable as her eyes, over which tear-laden lashes drooped piteously.

A sudden desire to kiss away those heavy drops seized the man beside her.

Yet he forbore, fearing to frighten her afresh; but his pulses were throbbing as he made answer:

"They need an example. I did not know such dangers were so near you here, Mademoiselle."

"Nor I, Monsieur. Till now our people have been so good and kind. We owe much to the influence of our good cure, Pere Mouet. They love him as he deserves, and it is he who keeps the Terror from our villages as much as the memory of my uncle the Marquis."

"They loved him!"

"As they will love you, Monsieur."

He had succeeded in drawing her thoughts from Bertrand, and the tears were drying on her cheeks.

But he lacked tact.

"And this fellow?"

Her eyes grew troubled again, whilst she shuddered a little.

"He was our gardener. Madame Maman dismissed him because he stole, and sang the Ma.r.s.eillaise. He has a brother in Paris who has a bad influence over him."

She spoke with the air of a matron.

"It would have been better to kill him."

"Oh no, no. I ... I do not think he will come near again. Our people would have no sympathy with him."

"He deserves none--the brute! See how he has hurt you."

The blue weals were clearly visible on the slender wrists which Morice raised for inspection.

"I was afraid," she confessed, her eyes filling again. "But, Monsieur, you saved me."

"I would that I had come sooner. I did not guess who I should meet on my walk."

"I often come here," she said simply, "to visit old Nanette Leroc, who used to be our nurse. She is blind, and lonely too, although her niece lives with her. But Marie cannot read, and that is what Nanette likes."

She stooped, as she spoke, to pick up the little velvet-covered Book of Hours which had fallen from her grasp in the struggle.

"You, too, were up early, Monsieur," she added shyly.

"Yes."

His voice was hesitant.

"We should be returning to the chateau," she continued, not noticing his confusion. "Madame Maman will be wondering what has become of us.

She--she does not altogether approve of my journeys to Nanette's cottage all alone. But what would you? Guillaume could not always be spared to come with me, and till to-day I had trusted in our people."

"They are not to be trusted, Mademoiselle."

A tiny furrow wrinkled her white brow and she shuddered.

"Oh yes, yes," she whispered. "I will not believe that the Terror can come to Kernak and Varenac."

"It is already at St. Malo."

He did not mean to frighten her, and noted with self-reproach and admiration how, whilst her cheeks paled, her eyes shone bravely.

"Yes," she replied, "Louise told me. They have a guillotine there which they call the 'widow,' and make terrible jests. Oh yes! I know that the Terror has come to St. Malo and to our dear Brittany--but not to us. Our people love us, and we are so safely hidden away here, with the forest on one side and the landes on the other. We are not near a town, and, excepting for Bertrand, the people of the villages are loyal. And you yourself, Monsieur, will strengthen their loyalty."

She held out her hands as she spoke, smiling gladly.

"Yes," she added, "that is what la Rouerie says. The spark is needed--an example. In the towns the men listen to the Revolutionaries from Paris. They are ready to cry 'a bas' to everything. But those are not the heart of Brittany; that waits--it wants impulse, quickening. Yet the inspiration cannot come from the n.o.bles. Just now they will not listen to them--so Jehan tells me. It must be the cry of the people to the people. It will be the cry of Varenac to Brittany.

You smile, Monsieur Cousin? Ah! you do not know like Jehan and our Marquis. True, our villages may be very small, very secluded; but see how a spark caught by a strong wind may become a great blaze.

"That will be the work of the n.o.bles, of the Marquis, of Jehan, of you too, Monsieur. You will let the voice of Varenac echo over the landes till others hear and listen. It is then the true heart of Brittany will awake and beat with life till her people rise to save themselves and France,--from the monster who devours her."

Her words, rehea.r.s.ed from the lips of enthusiasts, were spoken with a conviction and spirit which stirred the listener's wavering pulses.

What would she have said had she known that he had been on the road to Varenac with a vastly different purpose in his heart?

But an hour had changed his resolves. The brief struggle with the cur who would wreak a paltry revenge on an innocent girl had helped to show him what underlay the gaudy picture which Marcel Trouet had painted so often for him and his comrades in England.

He could read the writing on the wall in another language this side of the Channel.

With a low bow he offered the little Royalist champion his hand.