Michael leant his dark head against the window-frame, facing the flushed and trembling Count Jéhan, whose eyes were ablaze with hot anger and excitement.
"It sounds as though Morice Conyers were a traitor," quoth he. "Yet I'll still believe in the miraculous. You have a sister, Monsieur, and a fair woman has been known to make as many conversions as a saint."
"Yes, yes, that is it," cried Gabrielle eagerly. "Jéhan, you don't know Morry. He—he is not wicked as you think. It is true that he has been very foolish, and done many things that are wrong—very wrong. But he has had bad friends, and he has been weak and vain, allowing himself to be led by them. Oh! I do not excuse him, but I believe—yes, I do believe—that he might change and be a very honourable gentleman. He told me that in Brittany he had found a teacher worth a hundred Marcel Trouets."
"But why did he disappear?" demanded the Count fiercely. "Ciel! if he had not, and he had his eyes opened indeed to his duty, we should yet win Varenac, aye, and Brittany too, for la Rouerie and the Cause. But where is he?"
It was the question on the lips of each. Where could he be? What could he be doing if ha were not on the road to meet Marcel Trouet?
Gabrielle covered her face with her hands, moaning. "Oh, Morry, Morry," she sobbed, "where are you? If only——"
An opening door made her break off sharply, whilst tear-dimmed, eager eyes watched for the entering figure. But it was only my Lord Denningham, smiling, debonair, handsome as ever, who stood looking in on the little trio.
He paid not the least attention to Monsieur le Comte, who drew himself up stiffly at sight of him, but made his bow to Gabrielle with the exaggerated homage he so well knew annoyed her.
"Ah, Mistress," he murmured plaintively, "you have punished me cruelly. Isn't it enough that Morry's left Steenie and me in the lurch without you scorning us into the bargain? Lud', me lady, it's hardly the work of so dainty a hostess. You'd not treat us so at Langton. You'll be merciful now, and join us at the card-table, or sing us a song of Brittany to your guitar?—though, stap me! I believe I'd rather it were an English one. I've no love for this cheerless land."
He accentuated the last words with a grimace.