Yet filial affection was not wholly dead. Weak, vacillating, utterly unscrupulous though he was, Steenie Berrington had not been without a certain lovableness—a kindly, merry humour which, even if insincere and selfish, was fascinating after its kind.
And now he was dead!
Heaven have mercy on his soul!
But there were the living to think of—and justice to be done.
Michael was not one to lose opportunity in vain reveries and regrets.
He must ride with the hotter haste to Varenac, even though only his enemies awaited him there.
He told Olérie this briefly, promising that, if the dealing of justice lay in his hands, the innocent should not suffer for the guilty.
She thanked him tearfully, allowing him to lift her upon his horse; and thus, together, the strange companions rode, as quickly as they might in the gathering dusk, to Varenac.