"You are not dead?"

A hundred questions were in her eyes.

"No, I am not dead, dear love, dear love."

He spoke the last words hungrily, wistfully, longing for response, yet scarcely daring to hope for it.

The colour had not come to her cheeks at his words; she was still staring up in that same wonder.

Yet he saw another thought dawning behind it.

"If you are alive, what does it mean?" she asked, then shuddered violently. "They told me you were a traitor," she said.

"A traitor? And so I was, Cecile--a black and dishonoured traitor.

But I repented."

"Repented!"

Her voice rang harshly.

"Ay. G.o.d grant before too late."

"When--when you rode to Varenac----"

"I went as its Marquis, to cry 'Long live the King.'"

"And yet----"

"I never reached Varenac."

"You--turned back?"

How her eyes accused him.

"Cecile! Cecile! Yet I deserve it. No, I did not turn back. I met my sister----"

"She has told me all that, and how you disappeared before she could return."

"Lord Denningham found me awaiting her. A quarrel was forced. He sneered at me for a Chouan. I lost my temper, and gave him his desire.

We fought near here, and I think he left me for dead. Old Nanette nursed me back to life--it was a miracle that saved me. I am on my way to Varenac."

He spoke breathlessly, almost incoherently. Yet each word carried truth with it. And she believed him, though, by reason of her very love and fear, she hesitated.

"You go to Varenac?"

"At once, Mademoiselle."

"Your enemies are there."

"They will be kinder than my friends--or those I dared to hope might be my friends. But I understand----"

"You understand?"

"That it is too late--there is no forgiveness for sin meditated."

"No forgiveness?"

Her lips were quivering, her eyes full of tears. All the hardness had gone from the little face which was raised to his.

Morice was trembling, less from weakness now than the hope with which those eyes inspired him.

"You believe me?"

"I do."

"Cecile!"

She was in his arms, sobbing out all the despair and horror of those three days. His shame had been hers, and more bitter to hear of than his death. But Gabrielle's story had helped to clear a name she held so dear, yet left her doubtful, and utterly miserable.

Dead without proof that penitence had been sincere! Mother of G.o.d! it had seemed to break her heart.

And now, why! now she wept--wept tears of joy and thankfulness which swept aside despair.

He was alive--alive, and on his way to Varenac.

That last thought sent a chill through throbbing pulses.

To Varenac!

She remembered how Jehan had brought Gabrielle to Kernak, and how grim he had looked when rumours of the approaching Terror reached them. It was not only at St. Malo that the "widow" claimed her victims.

And at Varenac Lord Denningham, the avowed friend of Marcel Trouet, still remained. She shivered at the thought.

Gabrielle had told her much of this man, and her belief that he could, if he chose, explain the reason of Morice's disappearance.

Yes, she feared Lord Denningham almost as much as the Terror.

Yet it was true that Morice must go to Varenac.

It might not be too late even now to do something for the Cause.

But he should not go alone.

"You must return with me to Kernak," she whispered. "Jehan is there.

He will go with you. You--you must prove to him, too, that you are Monsieur le Marquis."

The faintest smile parted her trembling lips.