Behind lay Kernak--and love. Before him was Varenac--and duty.

He dared not leave his father in the unscrupulous hands of such men as Denningham and Trouet.

Had he not promised his grandfather to preserve Berrington honour with his life?

So he set his face sternly, never once glancing back, though his heart cried aloud, bidding him return to the woman he loved.

Gabrielle might be in danger, for already rumour was busy, telling of the ferment in the towns around, and the growing cries of "Vive la nation," "a bas les aristocrats!" Yet he must go on--on--on, leaving Gabrielle behind.

It was getting dark; purple moorland and purple sky blending together in a misty haze. Hooting of owl and barking of fox came from the forest on his right, whilst far away to the left the waves broke dully against the cliffs.

A ghost? Was it a ghost?

Surely something akin to it.

A flutter of white, a shadowy figure looming large in the mist, then gradually resolving itself into a woman's form.

A woman, alone on the moorland, at this hour--in these times?

A peasant girl come to meet her lover, perhaps, but brave even then, since Breton superst.i.tions are manifold concerning these bleak landes at the witching hour of twilight.

But this woman came in haste. Surely it was to no love-tryst!

Michael was soon convinced of that.

Stumbling, panting, tripping, over the rough, uneven ground she came, pausing, with a shrill cry, half-fear, half-welcome, at sight of the man who had leapt from his horse and stood ready to greet her.

It was Olerie Koustak, the fair-haired daughter of the old major-domo at Varenac. Michael had recognised her at once, and guessed that she ran thus for some purpose.

"M'nsieur, M'nsieur," she cried, even before she reached his side.

"Oh, M'nsieur, help!"

"Olerie," he exclaimed, catching her hand as she swayed, white to the lips with a sudden faintness. "Why! what has chanced? Has the Terror come already to Varenac?"

She looked at him, her great blue eyes beseeching him dumbly, even before she could regain breath for speech.

But presently she told her tale.

Murder at Varenac?

Murder of one of the English m'nsieurs who said they were friends of M'nsieur le Marquis who never came?

Michael found it difficult to put the next question, and it came short and harsh enough at last.

"Which one?"

"The elder, M'nsieur--the one who laughed all day, and who sang and drank much wine!"

"And he is dead?"

Was it Michael's own voice that asked the question? He could hardly believe it.

"Yes, yes. He is dead--murdered. But it was not my father who did it.

By all the blessed saints I swear it, M'nsieur. It was impossible.

Only two minutes had he left me to go to the pantry when the English milord called him."

"And then?"

Olerie clasped her hands tightly.

"Oh, M'sieur, I was afraid, and--and I hid--whilst I listened.

I--heard all. They told my father it--it was he who committed the murder, and locked him in an upper room. Afterwards they--they laughed and talked together. I--I do not altogether--comprehend, for it was not Breton tongue they talked; but it seemed that the--English milord will stay and--call himself M'nsieur le Marquis, whilst the other goes--to tell our people."

"And how know you this if they did not speak the Breton tongue?"

"M'nsieur, I went to an aunt in Paris when I was little. I stayed three--four years. I talked French."

"And it was French these others talked? How many were there?"

"Two, M'nsieur. One was the English milord. I did not see the face of the other."

"But he was French?"

"Yes, M'nsieur. Oh, M'nsieur, they will kill my father."

Her tears flowed fast at the thought.

"They have already killed mine."

Michael's face was very stern.

Olerie looked up in startled wonder.

"_Your_ father, M'nsieur?--the English M'nsieur who laughed and sang always?"

"Yes."

He turned his face away, afraid to read pity in her eyes. It was not pity he needed just then.

His father was dead.

The thought filled him with infinite horror and infinite relief.

The Berrington honour was safe.

Yet filial affection was not wholly dead. Weak, vacillating, utterly unscrupulous though he was, Steenie Berrington had not been without a certain lovableness--a kindly, merry humour which, even if insincere and selfish, was fascinating after its kind.

And now he was dead!