A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 56

"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 m.u.f.fled 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 hors.e.m.e.n 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 G.o.d, 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!"