A ghost? Was it a ghost?
Surely something akin to it.
A flutter of white, a shadowy figure looming large in the mist, then gradually resolving itself into a woman's form.
A woman, alone on the moorland, at this hour—in these times?
A peasant girl come to meet her lover, perhaps, but brave even then, since Breton superstitions are manifold concerning these bleak landes at the witching hour of twilight.
But this woman came in haste. Surely it was to no love-tryst!
Michael was soon convinced of that.
Stumbling, panting, tripping, over the rough, uneven ground she came, pausing, with a shrill cry, half-fear, half-welcome, at sight of the man who had leapt from his horse and stood ready to greet her.
It was Olérie Koustak, the fair-haired daughter of the old major-domo at Varenac. Michael had recognised her at once, and guessed that she ran thus for some purpose.
"M'nsieur, M'nsieur," she cried, even before she reached his side. "Oh, M'nsieur, help!"