Bertrand rose, groaning. He was very sore; but the inward bruises were the worst, though he rubbed the outer ones dolefully as he limped away.
Morice did not catch the glint in his eyes as he went, or hear the vows and curses growled low in the husky throat.
He was bending over Cécile.
"My poor little cousin, he has hurt you—the brute. You should have let me kill him. Such vermin are dangerous."
"To—to their slayers, Monsieur."
Her English was almost as adorable as her eyes, over which tear-laden lashes drooped piteously.
A sudden desire to kiss away those heavy drops seized the man beside her.
Yet he forbore, fearing to frighten her afresh; but his pulses were throbbing as he made answer:
"They need an example. I did not know such dangers were so near you here, Mademoiselle."
"Nor I, Monsieur. Till now our people have been so good and kind. We owe much to the influence of our good curé, Père Mouet. They love him as he deserves, and it is he who keeps the Terror from our villages as much as the memory of my uncle the Marquis."