"They are not to be trusted, Mademoiselle."
A tiny furrow wrinkled her white brow and she shuddered.
"Oh yes, yes," she whispered. "I will not believe that the Terror can come to Kérnak and Varenac."
"It is already at St. Malo."
He did not mean to frighten her, and noted with self-reproach and admiration how, whilst her cheeks paled, her eyes shone bravely.
"Yes," she replied, "Louise told me. They have a guillotine there which they call the 'widow,' and make terrible jests. Oh yes! I know that the Terror has come to St. Malo and to our dear Brittany—but not to us. Our people love us, and we are so safely hidden away here, with the forest on one side and the landes on the other. We are not near a town, and, excepting for Bertrand, the people of the villages are loyal. And you yourself, Monsieur, will strengthen their loyalty."
She held out her hands as she spoke, smiling gladly.
"Yes," she added, "that is what la Rouerie says. The spark is needed—an example. In the towns the men listen to the Revolutionaries from Paris. They are ready to cry 'À bas' to everything. But those are not the heart of Brittany; that waits—it wants impulse, quickening. Yet the inspiration cannot come from the nobles. Just now they will not listen to them—so Jéhan tells me. It must be the cry of the people to the people. It will be the cry of Varenac to Brittany. You smile, Monsieur Cousin? Ah! you do not know like Jéhan and our Marquis. True, our villages may be very small, very secluded; but see how a spark caught by a strong wind may become a great blaze.
"That will be the work of the nobles, of the Marquis, of Jéhan, of you too, Monsieur. You will let the voice of Varenac echo over the landes till others hear and listen. It is then the true heart of Brittany will awake and beat with life till her people rise to save themselves and France,—from the monster who devours her."
Her words, rehearsed from the lips of enthusiasts, were spoken with a conviction and spirit which stirred the listener's wavering pulses.