But, alas! how different a word would it be to what was anticipated. Instead of sealing the hopes of that gallant enterprise led by la Rouerie and other noble gentlemen of Brittany, the doom of the Chouannerie would be pronounced, and the Republic would again triumph. The balances, trembling and uncertain, would sink under the weight of a traitor's blow.
All an Englishman's notions of honour and fair play rose in revolt against the hideous baldness of the facts.
Yet what could he do?
Doubtless, both Trouet and Conyers were already on their way, and the latter would soon be joined by his evil genii, Lord Denningham and Sir Stephen.
Against these what weight would his unsupported word carry?
A laugh, threats, failure—yes, that was all he minded,—that last; and it would be inevitable, seeing that he could not fight his own father,—and Trouet was no duellist.
What should he do? What should he do?
The question drummed ceaselessly in his ear, whilst honour's mournful ghost seemed to rise to his side, looking at him with Sir Henry's reproachful eyes.
Could he not, by some means, save them both,—these two, weak backsliders, from this same honour's roll,—and thus redeem his vow and wipe that dimmer blot from the scutcheon of his house?
Save Morice Conyers and his father! Pray Heaven to find a way for that!