Pierre was plainly of the same mind, for, seizing the rough bridle, he sprang to the ground, urging the pony on at a fresh trot towards their goal.
Morice drew a deep sigh of relief as they reached the shelter of the trees and hastened up the narrow road which led, through an avenue of wind-swept oaks, to the château gates.
CHAPTER XV
CÉCILE DE QUERNAIS
A low hall heavily raftered with black oak, and walls hung with tapestry and armour; a huge fire blazing on the open hearth, and two ladies seated near, in carved oaken seats, one busy with her embroidery, the other with the spinning-wheel.
An old-fashioned, stereotyped picture enough, yet that was what Morice Conyers saw as he stood, dripping and bedraggled, in the doorway, demanding, somewhat peremptorily at first, for a night's lodging of the old major-domo who had opened the gate.
But the masterful key was lowered as, from her seat by the fire, the elder lady arose.
"Welcome, Monsieur," she said—speaking with that clear enunciation and purity of accent which proclaimed the aristocrat—"as any stranger would be, on such a night, in the home of Louise de Quernais."
It was the graceful introduction which showed that, for all his sodden garments and dishevelled appearance, she had recognised an equal in the suppliant whom Guillaume eyed so dubiously.