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

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

"They will probably meet."

"And Morice may be--killed."

"I do not think you need alarm yourself."

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

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

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

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

"Michael believes me," she cried.

The eyes of Breton and Englishman met.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isn't it enough that Morry's left Steenie and me in the lurch without you scorning us into the bargain? Lud', me lady, it's hardly the work of so dainty a hostess. You'd not treat us so at Langton. You'll be merciful now, and join us at the card-table, or sing us a song of Brittany to your guitar?--though, stap me! I believe I'd rather it were an English one. I've no love for this cheerless land."

He accentuated the last words with a grimace.

"I have no taste for cards, and no humour for song," retorted Gabrielle, her eyes alight with the indignation Lord Denningham ever kindled within her. "And, if I had, my song would scarcely please _your_ ears, my lord, since it would be loyal and royal both."

Her overstrained nerves showed in a gusty little fit of pa.s.sion, which brought a wider smile to Jack Denningham's mocking lips.

"Loyal and royal," he murmured. "And you are Morry's sister!"

The last words beneath his breath had bitter sting in them.

It goaded Gabrielle to indiscretion.

"Yes," she replied hotly, "I am Morry's sister,--sister to the Marquis de Varenac, I would have you remember, and mistress here in his absence."

A low bow was her answer, but Lord Denningham's eyes were malicious.

"I congratulate you, with all my heart," he said softly, "on your new mistress-ship." And he smiled as he glanced towards Michael Berrington.

The latter was standing erect, and his eyes were ready to flash their reply and challenge.

But Gabrielle interrupted--she had not caught the drift of his subtle insult.

"Ere the day is over Morry will be here himself," she cried. "I think you will find the room cramped at the Manor of Varenac when he returns."

The smile broadened on the sneering features.

"I am prepared to remain _till then_," retorted my lord suavely. "I do not think I need look for another lodging at present."

Count Jehan stepped suddenly forward.

"Your lace is soiled, Monsieur," he observed, with meaning in his tones, whilst, stretching out his hand, he touched the ruffle of Mechlin lace which fell back from Lord Denningham's wrist.

"Soiled?"

The owner of the ruffle looked down with a careless laugh.

The whole of the under-portion of the lace was stiff with blood.

Gabrielle gave a low cry.

"What is it?" she gasped. "What is it?"

Lord Denningham forced another laugh, not quite so careless and mocking as the first.

"A mere scratch," he replied, with would-be lightness--"nothing of any consequence."

But impulse had already brought Gabrielle to his side.