But Michael had not been killed, and the duel was over, with some blood-letting on both sides, but nothing of serious consequence. And now—well, she was glad that Morry and that hateful lordling were in town, but she wished Sir Stephen Berrington would be content with the Manor, or even be laid up with gout for a time, for the blackberries were ripe in Barham woods, and she cared nothing for plucking them alone, since the brambles would tear her hands and gown.
A step without broke through her reverie. A visitor? Nay! Who could it be?
Giles, the butler, stood aside with perplexed face. "Moosoo Yay—Yay—Yay-harn de Quernais," he announced, with dignity which battled with difficulty.
Gabrielle rose hastily, and her eyes were as brightly curious as her cheeks flushed.
"Monsieur Jéhan de Quernais!" she cried. "Why, then, you are my cousin."
And she held out both hands, with a gesture of childish welcome to the young man in the green travelling-suit who stood bowing before her.
Not an ill-looking youth either, this unexpected visitor, but tall and straight, combining grace with that pride of carriage inherent in Breton blood.
Mud-splashed, it is true, even to his sleeves, and the costly lace at his wrists frayed and torn, whilst his dark locks were matted and tumbled. But the face beneath was handsome enough, set in a delicate mould, but strong too, with its oval contour and firmly-compressed lips, whilst the long, thin nose and broad forehead told of a sensitive and intellectual mind.
He smiled in answer to such a welcome, and black eyes flashed a look of admiration and pleasure into the girl's face ere he bent to kiss the extended hands.
"Yes, mademoiselle," he replied, "I believe I have that honour. A slender reason, perhaps, to excuse my presence here, and my claim on your hospitality."