It would be easier to think with the morning sunshine around, and the cool autumn breezes to clear his brain.
Yet he walked aimlessly, filled with doubts which tore him first one way and then another.
He must go to Varenac. He could not fail his friends.
As member of the London Corresponding Society, and sympathizer with these leaders of the great cause of Liberty, he had his part to play.
Of course all revolutions had their black side.
Yet they were necessities.
The cry of the people must be heard.
It was justice, not revenge, they took in their hands.
All the old claptraps which he had heard so often of late, and which he took care to rehearse over and over again!
But somehow they seemed strangely hollow now as he paced between the purple and the gold of this new land of his, and heard that dumb, mysterious voice of Nature crying to him in strange, alluring chant, reminding him that he was something more than Morice Conyers the Englishman—namely, a Varenac of Varenac, a noble of this Brittany which already fascinated as much as it repelled him.