"If you are hurt," she said, very gravely, "you shall let me bind it for you. I--I have some slight skill in such work. Nurse Bond taught me."

She made as though to touch the wounded wrist, but he drew it back sharply.

"Tush! a scratch!" he growled. "Half healed already. I want no bandages."

Count Jehan was yawning, as he helped himself to snuff.

"An excellent flavour," he murmured, half to himself. "Bought from a friend who has traded much in the East. Permit me, Monsieur."

He offered the dainty little box with a graceful bow.

Lord Denningham stretched out a ready hand. In doing so the lace ruffle fell back, disclosing an arm too white for manhood, though muscular and hardened by sword-play. Count Jehan looked from arm to owner.

His glance was significant.

"Have you by chance met my cousin, the Marquis de Varenac, this morning, Monsieur?" he questioned smoothly.

Lord Denningham forgot to inhale the delicate aroma of the snuff as he turned scowling away--a curse on his lips.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE MEETING IN THE FOREST

Morice Conyers stood leaning against the gnarled trunk of a mulberry-tree.

It mattered nothing to him that his view was bounded by a cl.u.s.ter of shrubs and a stone wall; he was gazing at neither.

What was Cecile thinking of him now? What was she saying? What doing?

Each question was a torture.

Jehan had returned to Kernak.

If only he could have seen the young Count first, if only there had been time to prove that repentance had come in time to save his honour!

And now _she_ would believe in neither the one nor the other.

He groaned at the thought, pa.s.sing a trembling hand across his forehead. Oh! he must prove himself--must prove himself, even if he died in doing it.

"Cecile, Cecile, Cecile."

The breeze overhead chanted the name again and again, now sadly, now sweetly, alluringly, distractingly.

"Cecile, Cecile, Cecile."

His heart echoed the cry, going out with wild longing to her who had won it and transformed it at one magic touch.

"Slit me! if it's not Morry himself. You sly dog! What demned mischief have you been up to now, my friend, leaving Steenie and me to cool our heels in that old rat-trap of yours?"

Jack Denningham's voice broke in sharply on a day-dream of love. It was no more welcome interruption than the sight of my lord himself, cool, suave, smiling, with a hearty clap on the shoulder to add to his upbraiding words of welcome.

But there was no response in Morice Conyers' eyes.

Since Denningham was here he might as well understand at once that there was a vast difference between the Marquis de Varenac and Beau Conyers of Carlton House fame.

"I have been attending to business," he replied coldly, "and there's more that needs looking after badly. If you take my advice, Denningham, you and Steenie will be returning to England without asking too many questions."

Seeing that a certain laurel-clump was well within earshot of the mulberry-tree, my lord was singularly obtuse.

"Business? Return to England?" he cried, with a merry chuckle. "Why, we've all come on business, and when we're tired of teaching these surly beggars of yours their Ma.r.s.eillaise, I'll warrant we'll all be ready enough for town, and some good jests for our Florizel, to boot.

Ha! ha! Yes, we'll all return together _afterwards_."

But Morice was facing him squarely, and there were no signs of irresolution round the corners of his mouth now.

"As for returning to England, that depends on events," he retorted.

"But one thing is certain, Jack,--I'll not be teaching my tenants any of your demned songs of liberty or murder either. I've come to cry: 'G.o.d save King Louis, and confound the Red Revolution and all its leaders.'"

He drew himself to his fullest height as he spoke, and looked his quondam friend in the face.

Lord Denningham was neither smiling nor sneering now, but his blue eyes had an ugly expression in them.

"Brittany has evidently had a depressing effect on you," he observed drily. "Come, don't be a fool, Morry. Let's to the house. Steenie is brewing a bowl of punch which will clear your addle-pate. We haven't come here to listen to any demned heroics, but to do business as members of the Corresponding Society."

The words were fuel to smouldering flame.

Morice Conyers forgot caution and wisdom both.

With a curse he sprang forward, dashing his hand into the other's face.

"Fools for the punch-bowl," he shouted. "You may drown your coward whines in it if you're afraid to be a man. But I tell you I've done with your traitor Societies, and the rest of 'em. I've been knave and villain long enough. Heaven knows I was both, with my fool's eyes shut to what I was doing. You brought me here to whistle to your tunes; you'll find I have one of my own to sing--a song that won't sully the lips of a Marquis de Varenac, nor those of an honest Englishman."

Denningham's face was very white--save where the mark of Morice's fingers had brought a red patch to his cheek.

"Honest Englishman!" he gibed. "Mongrel cur is the better t.i.tle.

Where have you been hiding, n.o.ble night-bird? Too-whoo--too-whoo,--the owl should keep to forest-shade in the daylight, lest the hunter might shoot her as too noisy a pest."

"You shall give me----"

"Satisfaction? Come, come, Mr. Forest-skulker, be not too valiant; it is dangerous. Still, if you will,--what time like the present?"

"I'll not wait longer."

Morice's fury was at fever-pitch, his pa.s.sion blinding him to all discretion.

He did not realize that he had fallen at once into the trap my lord had prepared for him.