A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 57

"Morice! Ah, ciel! it is they! it is they!"

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

THE CAVE OF LOST SOULS

If the riders paused to ask whence the cries came it was only for an instant. The next they were on the ground beside those who stood, laughing, sobbing, thanking Heaven, and crying welcome in a breath.

Was it possible? All safe. _All_.

Thank G.o.d for that! Again and again thank G.o.d.

At first it was Madame who required all their attention.

Joy, following the cruel strain of those past hours, had been too much for her, and she fainted with Jehan's strong arms around her. But she revived shortly, for the hour of weakness must be put off yet again.

The danger was not over.

Marcel Trouet would see to that. By this time, doubtless, he had joined forces with some of his other friends from Paris, perhaps with Jean Floessel himself.

There had been delay in their ride from Varenac, since they had gone first to Kernak, where Guillaume had kept them with a long-winded story of the flight.

And then they had pa.s.sed the Calvary.

Michael's arm was close around Gabrielle, whilst Jehan de Quernais'

voice faltered as he spoke of their great fear and dread when they found the body of Pere Mouet.

They had hesitated, indeed, as to whether they should not return to Kernak at once, convinced that those they sought had been made prisoners.

Finally, however, they decided to ride quickly to the cave and return to the chateau if their search were in vain.

But it had not been in vain.

G.o.d be thanked for that!

It was a moment of emotion, not of convention.

That was why Cecile clung to Morice with no thought but that the man she loved had come back to her from the shadow of death.

And he could look down into her eyes without shame.

After all, Morice Conyers owed something to the Red Revolution. It had made a man of him.

The moment of a man's reward is sweet.

Yet he took it humbly, bending to kiss the small, upturned face with a reverence which no woman had ever inspired in him before.

And she smiled into his eyes with a frank avowal of love returned, unmarred by any veiled doubt.

In times less perilous he might have found his wooing as long by months as it had been short by days. But fear and danger had swept aside the hundred and one conventions which cl.u.s.tered burr-like around a demoiselle of the old school.

And Gabrielle?

She, too, had her lover, the lover she had chosen from childhood, her loyal knight for ever and ever.

Thus she had claimed and held him.

They belonged to each other, these two. She did not even question so old a fact. And her fears for him made her kinder even than she might have been, for Gabrielle was more woman than babe, and not averse--at times--to the kindling of jealous flame for the sake of listening to fresh vows of love.

But this was no time for jest. Love in such garb as theirs was too sacred a thing for sport or coquetry, though she could smile as she looked up at him.

"We are safe now," she whispered contentedly. "But, oh, Michael, I feared it was Lord Denningham."

"No," he answered gravely. "_He_ at least will trouble you no more."

"Dead?"

Her tone was awe-struck.

"Yes. It was a duel. I killed him."

She drew a deep breath.

Even though she hated Lord Denningham she knew he had loved her--and a woman's hatred of a lover is ever a partial one.

"Yes, I was afraid of him," she mused, and shuddered. "I am afraid altogether," she cried piteously. "Oh, Michael, let us go home."

She stretched out her hands to him, and he took her tenderly enough in his arms. But it was a moment to be more practical than sentimental.

"They may reach the coast before us," he said, looking from her to Jehan de Quernais. "We should not delay."

The Count nodded.

"It is true," said he. "We must not delay."

The waning moonlight was playing them false, even as he spoke.

Shadows, deepening around, would have confused clearer heads than theirs.

Yes, it was time they reached the coast. Had they not left it all too late already?

Shouts from the right, where Varenac village lay hidden by a downward sweep of the moor, told them that Marcel Trouet was not minded to be outwitted.

Trackers or spies might have guessed where they rode. At any rate, it was certain that the pursuit was being persevered in,--would be persevered in to the last.

But the shouts gave them warning.