"I have come with as small delay as possible," he replied shortly; and this time he dared not look towards Cécile.
"And you have come in time," she smiled. "The Terror has not arrived here yet. We have no tree of liberty planted at Kérnak or Varenac, though we hear that at St. Malo——"
She shuddered, crossing herself.
"But the Marquis de la Rouerie will save us—and France too," she added. "You, who are a Varenac at heart, will adore him like the rest of us. As for your tenants——"
She smiled, thoughtfully.
"They await your coming," said she softly.
But Maurice Conyers did not reply; he was thinking how Marcel Trouet would be already marching from Paris with his red-capped murderers, singing the song he himself had been so ready to join in over the wine-cups as they toasted the Red Revolution and the cause of Liberty at club and coffee-house.
Somehow things were beginning to wear a different complexion on this side of the Channel, and fear crept knocking vaguely at his heart when he thought of the part a certain noble Marquis had come to play in his mother's land and amongst his mother's kin.
But Cécile sang softly to herself that night as she stood, later on, looking out towards the wild coast-line.
The storm had passed, the stars were shining, and, as she watched the glittering lights so far above her, it seemed to the young girl that they were eyes looking down and down and down into her heart.