"I have come alone to see Monsieur le Comte," he replied with some emphasis.
But Gabrielle was in no mood to take the hint.
"Then it is about Morry," she said, leaping, woman-like, at a conclusion. "Tell it us quickly, Mr. Berrington."
She knew how to command.
And Michael, sore at heart, but desperate in his need, obeyed, telling the story without garnishings or surmisals, but with a blunt directness which left no shadow of doubt behind.
One little sob was the only answer he received at first, though, in the silence, a robin's cheerful song at the open window jarred almost as much as the glory of October sunshine flooding the room.
Count Jéhan's face was whiter than Gabrielle's, and his black eyes blazed.
It was a cruel wound—even more so than Michael could understand, for the young Breton's whole soul and enthusiasm had been kindled to fever-heat by the fascination of leader and cause.
La Rouerie and the Chouannerie were names written in letters of fire on his heart. And this visit to England was to have done so much for both.
Now he knew himself betrayed.