"To the coast?"
"Yes, yes. There is a cave. It has the name of the Cave of Lost Souls. Our peasants are superstitious, Monsieur Berrington. They declare that the souls of unshriven mariners lodge there, and that to hear their wailing cries strikes madness into the hearts of listeners. They would not enter it after sundown if they thought that King Louis himself were hidden there."
"And then——"
"There are boats there. It will be easy to escape to Jersey and thence to England."
The last words were warm with comfort.
But, alas! England was some way from the Manor of Varenac, and evidently the Terror was near.
It was an affecting sight to see the joy of old Pierre Koustak when they liberated him, telling him that at last M'nsieur le Marquis had come to his own.
He wept and sobbed over Morice's hand, kissing it again and again, calling him his dear, dear master.
But it was not the moment for sentiment. The tale of poor Pierre's false accusation and imprisonment was told with some preamble, mingled with many explanations of his whereabouts prior to the crime.
"There were two men in the library," interrupted Michael shortly. "Describe the one who was not the English lord."