CHAPTER XXXIII
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 God for that! Again and again thank God.
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 Jéhan'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 Kérnak, where Guillaume had kept them with a long-winded story of the flight.
And then they had passed the Calvary.
Michael's arm was close around Gabrielle, whilst Jéhan de Quernais' voice faltered as he spoke of their great fear and dread when they found the body of Père Mouet.
They had hesitated, indeed, as to whether they should not return to Kérnak 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 château if their search were in vain.
But it had not been in vain.
God be thanked for that!
It was a moment of emotion, not of convention.
That was why Cécile 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 clustered 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 Jéhan 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.
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 superstition, 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 Cécile shuddered, crossing herself as she stood on the sandy shore, 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 lusty 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 shore, 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 Jéhan, 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 Jéhan 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 Jéhan 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 fête.
Nor would he let his mother weep, or Cécile 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 Jéhan 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.