Instinct of sympathy bade Gabrielle put loving arms about his neck.

"But to-morrow we will go to her," she whispered. "And Jehan will see then that you are indeed the Marquis."

"I would that Jehan were here now," he answered. "I tell you, Gay, we should not wait an instant. Trouet and his red-cap orators from Paris may be here at any time now to do their devil's work. Let's to the house and see what steps we must take first to make sure of our hearing; my Breton is too halting to face an a.s.sembly of tenants unaided."

"There is Pierre," Gabrielle replied. "He was butler and valet for forty years to the old Marquis Gilles. Last night he wept for joy to see me. His daughter Olerie told me he would do anything for a Varenac. If all are like him our task is easy."

"Good. But did you not say that Denningham and Steenie were here?"

"Yes, they are both here."

"If I could see Pierre first, it would be better."

Gabrielle nodded brightly.

"Stay here," she commanded, "and I will bring both him and Michael.

Then we can arrange."

"Michael Berrington? What is he doing here?"

She frowned and blushed at the same time.

"I told you--he accompanied Jehan and me."

Their eyes met, and it was Morice's turn to smile. It appeared that little Cecile had taught him how to be observant, amongst other things.

"So, so, my Gay. Is that the reason you flout my lord?"

The lashes drooped over tell-tale eyes, but rosy lips were scornful.

"I _hate_ Lord Denningham."

"And you do not hate Michael? Aha! Gay, though I will not tease you now, but only wish you happiness when you seek it. Now run away and bring those two to me. We'll hold a Royalist Council between us which shall quash the designs of Trouet and his brood for ever."

So spoke Morice, lightly enough, yet with a deeper note vibrating in his voice--a note that had not been there before Cecile touched and set it throbbing with her little hand.

Gabrielle was laughing softly to herself as she sped away back over the lawns, and across the pretty rustic bridge, which led by way of the avenue to the house.

She did not notice how a man stood crouching amongst the shrubs to her left as she pa.s.sed--so near that the hem of her white gown touched his foot.

But Lord Denningham smiled.

CHAPTER XXI

A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE

"He has gone!"

Gabrielle looked round in wondering perplexity, repeating the words again.

"He has gone!"

Old Pierre's eager face lengthened.

"Mademoiselle?" he faltered.

Gabrielle stood still, her hands clasped together, eyes deepening with anxiety.

"I can't understand it," she cried. "It was _here_, just here; and he promised to await your coming."

"Perhaps he wearied at the delay," suggested Michael Berrington, "and has wandered farther down the path."

"I do not think he would, and we have not been very long. Still, we can look. Where does the path lead, Pierre?"

"Only to the wicket, Mamselle, and then out on to the moor."

"We can go to the wicket then. He would not have strayed beyond."

Together they hurried down the path, Gabrielle calling her brother's name again and again.

No answer.

And the wicket-gate was closed.

Nothing was to be seen beyond saving a narrow stretch of moorland broken by forest growth, which bordered a valley.

"Morice! Morice! Oh, Michael, where can he be?"

She had called him Mr. Berrington yesterday, and the man's heart stirred with quick throbbing at the sound of his name, and the appeal in her tones.

"Do not be afraid," he replied. "No harm can have befallen him; none knew of his coming."

"Excepting my Lord Denningham."

"But he had no speech with him. You say he went away at once."

"At once."

"Probably to tell my father of his coming. You remember it was arranged that they should meet."

"Yes, yes; and of course they do not know that he--has changed."

"Impossible. Do not be afraid. Your brother will join us in a few minutes."

"He may have gone towards the house by some other way."