A Blot on the Scutcheon

by Mabel Winifred Knowles

"I do."

"Cécile!"

She was in his arms, sobbing out all the despair and horror of those three days. His shame had been hers, and more bitter to hear of than his death. But Gabrielle's story had helped to clear a name she held so dear, yet left her doubtful, and utterly miserable.

Dead without proof that penitence had been sincere! Mother of God! it had seemed to break her heart.

And now, why! now she wept—wept tears of joy and thankfulness which swept aside despair.

He was alive—alive, and on his way to Varenac.

That last thought sent a chill through throbbing pulses.

To Varenac!

She remembered how Jéhan had brought Gabrielle to Kérnak, and how grim he had looked when rumours of the approaching Terror reached them. It was not only at St. Malo that the "widow" claimed her victims.

And at Varenac Lord Denningham, the avowed friend of Marcel Trouet, still remained. She shivered at the thought.