It was time to be going.
Pierre Koustak was the first to urge it, even whilst he clung to the hand of a master whom he had been so ready to serve and love even before he knew him. But the Terror had come to Varenac, and there was no room there now for noble Marquises.
"Farewell—farewell."
It was a sad leave-taking for all; but those who rode away had less regret than he who stayed.
A flame of fire rose, leaping high in the air from an upper window of the old building.
Pierre Koustak's arms were around his daughter, but it was she who upheld him.
He had vowed never to leave Varenac, and soon there would be no Varenac left. Then it was time for him to be going too.
"Jesu, Maria, mercy! Monsieur le Marquis—farewell. Ah! he is already gone. Jesu! Maria!"
The grey head sank forward.
It was too heavy for Olérie to support. Gently she laid him on the ground, close to a clump of laurels. Trembling and weeping, she knelt over him.