A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 51

Life was strong in his veins,--life and love. It was not only for his own sake that that life was precious.

Gabrielle must be saved--and those other poor ladies of Kernak.

But how could they be reached? How were they to save themselves?

Already the great crowd was surging about the door. Ere long they would be in the Manor itself,--and after that----? Michael did not look further.

He was half way up the stairs when he met Morice hurrying down with Pierre Koustak at his side.

The old man was crying bitterly, but Morice was calm. The reckless idler of Carlton House, with head crammed by fopperies and vanities, had been transformed into a man--and a Marquis de Varenac.

"We must escape," he said, pausing for a moment. "They will not listen. And ... and we should reach Kernak without delay."

"But how?" Michael's voice sounded harsh enough.

A roar from without and the sound of cracking timber answered him.

"Dieu de Dieu!" moaned Koustak. "Hasten, Messieurs, or it will be too late."

He clung to Morice's hand as he spoke.

"Koustak knows of a secret pa.s.sage which leads to the stables,"

explained Morice hurriedly. "We can ride to Kernak."

"To Kernak."

The relief in Michael's voice rang high.

"They will be in before we can reach it," muttered Count Jehan.

"Already----"

A crash completed the sentence.

But they were running now, all together.

"This way--this way, Messieurs," sobbed their guide, and tore aside a curtain.

A panel in the wall slipped back easily enough--one did not allow hinges to rust in the Brittany of those days--and soon they were groping their way down a dark, narrow pa.s.sage.

Morice's heart beat fast. He was returning to Kernak without shame.

Even failure could not keep him from exulting over that thought.

He would be able to look little Cecile in the eyes,--to take her brother's hand.

Above them rose shouts and cries. The mob was searching the Manor.

Afterwards they would swarm out again into the gardens--the stables.

At present they were occupied.

Click. Click.

A trap-door creaked, and the restless stamping of horse-hoofs proved welcome sound enough.

They had reached the stables of Varenac. But no moment must be lost, for they had a Trouet to reckon with besides these addle-pated peasants.

Already they were leading out the horses. Three of them,--for Koustak had declared that he must remain--his daughter Olerie was here, and he could never leave Varenac.

Shouts and yells told of fury and disappointment in the Manor close by.

Had they found their Citoyen yet?

A faint moonlight showed the fugitives a wild stretch of desolate moor and forest. Yonder lay Kernak.

What was happening there?

It was the fearful question of each heart.

"Le jour de gloire est arrive."

Dark forms were already seen hurrying from the house. Trouet had bethought himself of the stables.

It was time to be going.

Pierre Koustak was the first to urge it, even whilst he clung to the hand of a master whom he had been so ready to serve and love even before he knew him. But the Terror had come to Varenac, and there was no room there now for n.o.ble Marquises.

"Farewell--farewell."

It was a sad leave-taking for all; but those who rode away had less regret than he who stayed.

A flame of fire rose, leaping high in the air from an upper window of the old building.

Pierre Koustak's arms were around his daughter, but it was she who upheld him.

He had vowed never to leave Varenac, and soon there would be no Varenac left. Then it was time for him to be going too.

"Jesu, Maria, mercy! Monsieur le Marquis--farewell. Ah! he is already gone. Jesu! Maria!"

The grey head sank forward.

It was too heavy for Olerie to support. Gently she laid him on the ground, close to a clump of laurels. Trembling and weeping, she knelt over him.

Yes, she might well weep, but the tears should all be for herself.

The old man was smiling, his eyes closed; but no breath issued through the parted lips. Pierre Koustak would never leave Varenac now.