"Olérie," he exclaimed, catching her hand as she swayed, white to the lips with a sudden faintness. "Why! what has chanced? Has the Terror come already to Varenac?"
She looked at him, her great blue eyes beseeching him dumbly, even before she could regain breath for speech.
But presently she told her tale.
Murder at Varenac?
Murder of one of the English m'nsieurs who said they were friends of M'nsieur le Marquis who never came?
Michael found it difficult to put the next question, and it came short and harsh enough at last.
"Which one?"
"The elder, M'nsieur—the one who laughed all day, and who sang and drank much wine!"
"And he is dead?"
Was it Michael's own voice that asked the question? He could hardly believe it.