A Blot on the Scutcheon

by Mabel Winifred Knowles

For a few moments there was silence in the darkening room. Then Gabrielle spoke.

"And Morry must decide!"

"The peasants of three villages await his coming."

She rose, her hand resting against the knot of the fichu at her breast.

"Oh, I would it were I," she cried, "instead of he."

"Yet surely, cousin, you think alike?"

Her voice sounded heavy and lifeless in answer.

"I—do—not—know. Morry has bad friends."

Although she had scarcely addressed Marcel Trouet her suspicions were keen.

But Gabrielle possessed that power which is, perhaps, the best—though ofttimes fatal—prerogative of youth. She could put aside forebodings and doubts to dwell in the pleasanter atmosphere of the present. After all, Morry was half Breton too, and Monsieur le Marquis now, into the bargain. Surely he would not fail to respond to this appeal to his honour?