"Ah, Marie, Marie, what shall I do? Tiens! petite, canst say no word to comfort me? Bah! with thy great eyes thou hast no more sense than the owls which cry all night in the forest yonder. Nay! forgive me, Marie, and comfort me, because, because——"
"Nay, lady," sighed the waiting-maid, "I fear me there is little to be said, for see, you tell me that on the morrow Monsieur de Mereac——"
"Ah, listen then, Marie, and I will explain all to thee," said Gwennola, clasping her hands as she looked piteously across into Marie's sympathetic face.
"Monsieur de Coray, viper that he is, has for some reason I know not conceived a hatred for Monsieur d'Estrailles, therefore he has told to monsieur my father many false lies, saying that Monsieur d'Estrailles foully murdered the poor Yvon, whose soul rest in peace, at the battle of St Aubin du Cormier, three years since; but Marie, it is false Monsieur d'Estrailles could do no such unknightly deed—nay, I am assured of it."
"But wherefore, mistress?" demanded Marie stolidly. "We know nothing of this French monsieur; it may be that his tongue is no smoother than his heart false. Jobik hath ofttimes bid me beware if a Frenchman cross my path, for they are altogether children of the devil in their deceitful ways."
"Jobik is a fool!" declared his young mistress tartly, "and thou also art lacking in all sense, my Marie, to listen to him. See then how many noble Frenchmen have been true friends to Brittany; think of Monsieur d'Orléans and Monsieur the Count Dunois, who even now seeks to aid our sweet Duchess; but all such talk is foolishness. Be assured, Marie, that I, thy mistress, am convinced that Monsieur d'Estrailles is a good and true knight, and yet, alas! alas! to-morrow morn it may well chance that he will hang as if he were some cowardly traitor or foul murderer—for see then, Marie, it is the word of a Frenchman against a Breton, and though the latter be thrice times a traitor knave, yet well I know he hath the trick of lying with as smooth a brow as any guileless babe, and so—and so—my father will believe him. Alas! alas!" and the young girl broke down into a flood of tears.
Marie stood watching her mistress's distress, tears brimming in her own brown eyes, although in her heart was still some doubting of the Frenchman's honour. But, after all, what maid of any age is proof against romance? and the fact that Gwennola was deeply interested in the handsome stranger was apparent enough to the waiting-woman's eyes. And what wonder, seeing that fate had hitherto offered naught but so sorry a lover as Monsieur de Coray? There was no love for the latter in Marie's heart, which went the farther in his rival's favour.
"Alas! my lady," she murmured, with a sob, "'tis grievous to think of, and that he should die, this poor monsieur, at dawn, on the word of such an one as Monsieur de Coray! If it had been that he were not injured, we might even have helped him to escape, but alas——"
"Alas!" sobbed Gwennola, "with such a wound 'twere death to attempt it. No, Marie, he will die, and I, it may be, will find shelter in a convent, as Father Ambrose hath ofttimes suggested, for well I wot I would marry no murderer, liar and coward, such as Guillaume de Coray."
The passion of her hatred against her betrothed husband for the moment had roused Gwennola from her grief. Now she dried her tears, and, rising, began slowly to pace the room, her head thrown back, and a light gradually dawning in her blue eyes. The wild untamable spirit of daring which had raced so madly through the veins of countless generations of ancestors had lifted her from the weak and unavailing grief of womanhood.