“What shall be said of this embattled day,
And armèd occupation of this night!”
—D. G. Rossetti, Parted Love.
M. des Graves paused to shut the library door behind him ere he turned to Gilbert with the light of a great thankfulness on his face.
“Deo gratias!” he said. “Gilbert, it is like a miracle to have you here, for this afternoon I had a terrible conviction of disaster.”
The Marquis, who had passed him and gone straight to a chair by the hearth, threw himself down in it as he replied, in a voice by no means remarkable for grateful feeling: “Oh, I was never, that I know of, in real danger. But I suppose one is lucky to be back.” He gave a short laugh devoid of merriment, and leant his head against the back of the chair as if he were weary.
“You are tired, my son,” said the priest, looking down for a moment compassionately at his figure, with its air of something deeper than fatigue. “Go to bed now, and we can talk to-morrow morning.”
“What! when I have not heard all about you!” exclaimed the Marquis, looking up at him. “No—sit down, Father; I am not too tired to talk.”
At least, if he were, it was rest of a kind to be in here. Louis’ face! What had he said to him? . . . He had half forgotten already. But with M. des Graves he would neither have the temptation to say more than he meant to say, nor run the risk of being plied with questions.
The Curé poked the recently-lit fire. “Then if you really are not too tired let me hear all about it.”