Marquis of Varenac, scion of an ancient race, noble of the noble, as well as Breton of the Breton.
Was he to cast aside these newly forged bonds of honour as though they were useless shackles?
He had been ready enough to do so twenty-four hours ago; but that was before he had seen Cécile de Quernais.
A pair of lustrous black eyes, a small, innocent face, sweet and pure as child's or nun's, and a heart which, shining through those wonderful eyes, proclaimed her trust and admiration in this cousin who had come to save Brittany.
Many a fair lady had smiled upon Morice Conyers at St. James's, many a woman, far more beautiful than this little Bretonne girl, had shown him her favour. Yet they had never stirred his heart as this simple child had done.
They had known him for what he was, being ready to accept him at his current valuation and ask no more.
But Cécile did not know him. He knew that as well as the fact that she was quite ready to regard him as some new knight, willing to give his life for country and honour.
It is no easy task to tumble off a pedestal of one's own accord, even when one has not put oneself there.
Should he? Should he?——
Pish! Of course he must go to Varenac. He would go at once. He would not return to the Château of Kérnak. He would reach Varenac and forget the episode of a night's lodging.