"MICHAEL! MICHAEL!"
They were alone.
Those three helpless women standing together under the shadow of the
Calvary beside their dead. The crowd had gone. Some in pursuit of
Floessel, others drifting away, shamed and frightened, as you have seen
whipped curs creep back to their kennels.
Here and there a woman had stolen near to the little group, sobbing out
a petition for pardon; but most of them had gone silently, with doubt
and fear in their hearts.
Pere Mouet had bidden them return to their homes, and, at this moment,
Pere Mouet's commands were powerful.
So they went--regretfully, perhaps,--when they thought of the chateau,
and the fine night's plunder and amusement they had promised
themselves, but hurriedly when they remembered the woman who stood,
crying, scornfully and accusingly, to them that their good priest was
dead--murdered.
But it was possible they would come back. Cowed they might be, but
they were dangerous still.
None knew that better than Madame.
They had tasted the sweets of momentary power. They had cried "Vive la
nation!"
They would cry it again at the bidding of another Floessel.
"We must not delay," she said, speaking very quietly, yet with a great
effort; "it is still far to the cave."
"To the cave! You will leave the good father, Madame Maman?"
Cecile's voice was reproachful.
"He needs no more of our care, my child," replied her mother gravely.
"Nor could we leave him in a more fitting resting-place."
She crossed herself reverently as she spoke, bending over the little
figure in its brown habit; such a little shrunken figure it looked, but
the smile transfigured a wrinkled, care-worn old face into a strangely
majestic beauty.
Yes, Pere Mouet would sleep well under the shadow of the cross.
They left him there, resting so peacefully after a very hard and lonely
life, and the moonbeams, falling softly on his closed eyelids, seemed
to kiss away the deep lines of care and sorrow, which he had borne so
bravely, and leave only beauty behind. The night-wind sang his requiem
as it swept wailing over the moors. It might rather have been the
lament of many in Kernak, who that night had lost a friend.
* * * * *
It was, indeed, a long and weary walk to the coast.
Yet none of the three travellers who wended their way across the moor
complained.
It was the inevitable, which must be conquered by resignation.
Yet at last they paused to look around them and wonder, in but
half-framed whispers, whether they were coming the right way.
Pere Mouet was an unerring guide; without him difficulties presented
themselves more forcibly every moment.
It was no easy task, indeed, to keep to a right track across that
almost trackless lande.
Gorse-bushes made but poor landmarks, and there were neither trees nor
hillocks near to guide them.
It was true that the coast lay before them, but this cave would be hard
to find if they had gone out of their path in approaching it.
Had it not been for the moonlight they would have despaired. As it
was, they gazed around in bewilderment and anxiety. Behind them lay
the forest. Beyond that--Varenac.
Ah! what was happening at Varenac? Another question to torment them!
Again, it was possible that the others had already reached the cave.
If so, in what apprehension they would be waiting!
At any rate they must press forward. Enemies might overtake them at
any moment. The persuasions of Floessel or his fellows might again
incite the peasants to pursue them, and they had walked but slowly.
Hark! Listen! The muffled thud, thud, of horse-hoofs coming from the
left.
The wind had dropped and mists were gathering again. They could not
pierce those dark shadows, strain their eyes as they might.
Yet horsemen were coming towards them across the moors.
Could it be those who had gone to Varenac?
It seemed impossible, since they came from the direction of Kernak.
Who could it be then?
Marcel Trouet and Lord Denningham.
That was Gabrielle's instant thought as she clung to Cecile's hand.
Yes, it would be those two. They were pursuing them, they would find
them.
Instinct had long since told Gabrielle what Lord Denningham's feelings
towards her were. She already vaguely guessed his intentions.
But she would die sooner than marry him. Oh! it would be easy to die,
rather than that.
And he had ridden to, and from, Kernak now to find her.
She was convinced of it.
But what should they do?
Where hide?
Not even a gorse-bush near, and the horse-hoofs were approaching
quickly. Through the mists she would soon see her enemy appear, and
then what escape would be possible?
Her fears were the fears of her companions, though theirs were vaguer,
wrought more from strained nerves than knowledge. Yet what could they
do?
A block of granite rocks, leaning one against the other, formed the
only shelter within sight.
It was thither they fled, Madame leaning heavily against them, for
exhaustion had well-nigh conquered courage.
So they crouched, whilst Cecile whispered to Gabrielle that, if those
who came were Breton born, they might be safe enough.
"Safe?" murmured Gabrielle, cowering low. "Nay, a little search and
they must find us."
"They will not think of searching. These are the haunted stones of the
Breton landes. Have you never heard? The fairies and dwarfs hide
their treasures here--so the ignorant say--and if any approach they are
destroyed. But hush, these--these perhaps are----"
"From Varenac."
"Nay, nay! not from Varenac."
"Not those we need? But I have enemies there."
"You----?"
Cecile broke off, slipping her arm round her mother. Madame de
Quernais, weak with exhaustion, was battling against growing faintness.
"Mother of Heaven, pity," prayed the girl.
"Merciful God, hear us," moaned Gabrielle.
Through the mists loomed the outline of three horses and their riders.
Gigantic shadows at first, indefinable to those cowering behind the
boulders. But they were plainer now; the moonlight, though waning,
showed them more than mere outline.
The sound of voices, crying to each other, struck sharply on listening
ears, and were answered in glad echoes.
"Michael, Michael!"
"Morice! Ah, ciel! it is they! it is they!"