Two boats from the “Day-Dream” were waiting in readiness for Sir Percy and my lady and those whom they would bring with them.
Silently the party embarked, and as the boats pushed off and the sailors from Sir Percy's yacht bent to their oars, the old Abbe Foucquet began gently droning a Pater and Ave to the accompaniment of his beads.
He accepted joy, happiness and safety with the same gentle philosophy as he would have accepted death, but Marguerite's keen and loving ears caught at the end of each “Pater” a gently murmured request to le bon Dieu to bless and protect our English rescuer.
Only once did Marguerite make allusion to that terrible time which had become the past.
They were wandering together down the chestnut alley in the beautiful garden at Richmond. It was evening, and the air was heavy with the rich odour of wet earth, of belated roses and dying mignonette. She had paused in the alley, and placed a trembling hand upon his arm, whilst raising her eyes filled with tears of tender passion up to his face.
“Percy!” she murmured, “have you forgiven me?”
“What, m'dear?”
“That awful evening in Boulogne... what that fiend demanded... his awful 'either—or'... I brought it all upon you... it was all my fault.”
“Nay, my dear, for that 'tis I should thank you...”
“Thank me?”