A warning not to be disregarded.

Those who hastened towards the Cave of Lost Souls did not waste time in conversation.

A desolate and gloomy shelter. Well-named, indeed. Moaning winds whistled and sobbed through crevices in the great rocks which hemmed in the cave on each side.

No wonder that the peasantry, steeped in superst.i.tion, believed that this was fitting place for lost and wandering souls.

How vividly they could picture dead faces peering from out of the dark clefts, dead mouths uttering their unceasing cries against the fate which had closed for ever the gates of Paradise, dead eyes staring into each other's depths in startled horror, or away over the grey waste of waters ever roaring hungrily for more victims.

Even Cecile shuddered, crossing herself as she stood on the sandy sh.o.r.e, listening to the eerie sobbing of wind and waves, and watched how dying moonbeams shed ghostly patches of light in dark, deserted corners.

But Morice's arm still encircled her, and there was no wavering or weakness in the blue eyes which looked down into hers.

She had cried to him for protection, and manhood, ready armed, had sprung to l.u.s.ty life within him at the appeal.

"You will trust me, sweetheart?" he asked her, and his voice shook a little over the question in humble self-distrust.

Her smile destroyed all doubt.

What matter that she left home and country behind in the mists of night? Before her lay love and the dawn of a new day.

"With my life, Morice," she whispered, nestling close to his side with the confidence of a trustful child.

But Gabrielle stood nearer to the sh.o.r.e, the waves almost lapping her feet, whilst flaky fragments of spume fluttered against her cloak.

The boats rocked softly to and fro as the waters rose and fell beneath them. Madame de Quernais was already seated in the prow of the larger craft.

It was time to go.

Michael had taken the girl's hand in his, and, though it lay warm and restful there, she was stretching out the other to Count Jehan, who stood apart.

"You are coming too, my cousin?" she said gently, for instinct told her of a lonely heart beating near hers that night.

The light fell on her fair face and uncovered head. Stray curls lay in pretty disorder in the arch of her neck and across a white forehead.

Hazel eyes, sweet and true, looked kindly into the pale face opposite her own.

Count Jehan drew himself up proudly.

None should ever know the pain which racked him as he looked at her.

She was not his--never would be his. Did not Michael Berrington hold her hand--her heart?

So love must be buried at birth, and, if he must rise again, it should be only as some tender, shadowy ghost, which, though sweet to gaze at, could never be held in mortal arms.

Yes, love must hide from sight.

But Brittany remained.

So Count Jehan held his head high as he made answer, sternly and quietly, thinking--poor fool--that none guessed his secret, least of all the woman who looked so wistfully into his eyes.

"La Rouerie calls me his friend," said he, "and Brittany her son. As friend and son I remain on Breton soil.

"As for the Cause, it will never die till la Rouerie breathes his last.

And so Heaven bless and hold you all in its fair keeping till we meet in happier times."

He smiled, making light of the parting as though he went to some merry fete.

Nor would he let his mother weep, or Cecile cling around his neck.

"For Brittany and the Cause," he cried, laughing gaily as the boats glided out at last into the deepest waters of the bay.

"For Brittany and the Cause--we'll cry that in Paris ere long."

He waved his handkerchief as he spoke, and, though the shadows fell around him, they could hear the glad ring of triumph in his voice.

But only Gabrielle, as she clung to Michael's side, in the great joy of reunion and hope, knew that Count Jehan de Quernais went back with empty, aching heart to a lost cause.

Yet youth is selfish, and love is sweet.

"My true knight for ever and ever," she whispered, and laid a happy head on Michael's shoulder.

There was no room in her heart just then for aught but sweet content.

_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._

A Catalogue of Books

published by

Mills & Boon Ltd.

49, RUPERT STREET, LONDON, W.

(Close to Piccadilly Circus Tube Station.)

Telephone: 5878 Central. Telegrams: "Millsator, London."

This Catalogue is divided into two sections; the first (pages 1-14) contains the most recent books and announcements, and the second (pages 15-32) contains the books previously published.