CHAPTER XXVII
WHO MICHAEL MET ON THE ROAD TO VARENAC
Michael Berrington rode to Varenac.
Grey gloom around suited well with his mood, for therein strove counter forces as fiercely as storm-lashed waves against the jagged rocks of a forbidding coast.
Behind lay Kérnak—and love. Before him was Varenac—and duty.
He dared not leave his father in the unscrupulous hands of such men as Denningham and Trouet.
Had he not promised his grandfather to preserve Berrington honour with his life?
So he set his face sternly, never once glancing back, though his heart cried aloud, bidding him return to the woman he loved.
Gabrielle might be in danger, for already rumour was busy, telling of the ferment in the towns around, and the growing cries of "Vive la nation," "À bas les aristocrats!" Yet he must go on—on—on, leaving Gabrielle behind.
It was getting dark; purple moorland and purple sky blending together in a misty haze. Hooting of owl and barking of fox came from the forest on his right, whilst far away to the left the waves broke dully against the cliffs.