"You——?"
Cécile broke off, slipping her arm round her mother. Madame de Quernais, weak with exhaustion, was battling against growing faintness.
"Mother of Heaven, pity," prayed the girl.
"Merciful God, hear us," moaned Gabrielle.
Through the mists loomed the outline of three horses and their riders.
Gigantic shadows at first, indefinable to those cowering behind the boulders. But they were plainer now; the moonlight, though waning, showed them more than mere outline.
The sound of voices, crying to each other, struck sharply on listening ears, and were answered in glad echoes.
"Michael, Michael!"
"Morice! Ah, ciel! it is they! it is they!"