"I will save him," she said slowly, as she faced Marie Alloadec; "yes, it is possible. See, little one," she added, pointing reverently to a small figure of the Madonna placed on a table near, "it is the Holy Mother herself who has shown me how to do it; but go, my Marie, for there is little time to lose, even in prayers, go, tell Father Ambrose that I would see him now, quickly, if may be, in the chapel."
Marie stared. "But, mademoiselle!" she gasped.
Gwennola laid both hands firmly on the other's shoulders, looking down kindly but commandingly into the frightened brown eyes upraised to hers.
"Listen, Marie," she said quietly; "thou must obey without questioning. A noble knight's life hangs perchance in the issue, therefore 'tis no time for woman's fears or weakness; but what I purpose doing I tell neither to thee nor any other, seeing that it were ill for any save myself alone to refuse to answer when my father commands; only this thing I ask thee: go, tell Father Ambrose that I await him in the chapel, see that he fails me not, and, for the rest, be silent. Nay," she added, as tears rose in the girl's eyes, "'tis not that I doubt thy faithfulness, child, but that I would spare thee pain, ay, and myself too, though one thing more there is I would ask of thee which I had well-nigh forgotten. Bid Job lead the stranger's horse from the stables in an hour's time and tether him within the wood close by the river's bank; let none see him do it, neither let him speak of what he does. Also, should he fancy he seeth a figure pass him by whilst he standeth on guard at the outer postern, let him cross himself and deem 'tis a spirit, such as he already dreamt to see to-day, and take heed that he goeth not to inquire too closely as to whether there is aught of flesh and blood about it, for to-morrow mayhap it will have been well for him to have been somewhat blind and deaf."
Marie curtsied, not daring to reply, as she saw the determination in her mistress's face. Nevertheless, as she sped on her errand, she muttered many an ave to her patron saint, knowing well what the fury of the lord of the château would be did his daughter succeed in her daring intention.
It may have been that even Gwennola's heart half failed her as she sank on her knees in the dimly lighted chapel of the castle. Wrapped in a long hooded cloak, she might well have passed for a shadow amongst the shadows which the moonlight flung around. Involuntarily the young girl crossed herself as she watched the cold, clear beams which fell long and pale across the altar, streaming down in flickering waves of light towards where she knelt in one of the stalls; for, high-born as she was, the superstitions of the day ran riot in her mind, and well she knew the baneful influence of the moon on the destiny of the Breton, and yet—as she argued to herself—the evil omen of the ghostly light might be averted, seeing that he whom she would fain succour was no Breton; and with the thought came others, more mocking and bewildering. Why did she thus dare brave her father's anger, and outrage her maiden modesty for the sake of a stranger and an enemy? The burning blushes which overspread her cheeks at the thought of the plan she had conceived might have convinced her, but the mad whirl of her mind refused to be analysed too closely. In vain she argued with herself that it was but her own keen sense of justice, so certain was she that the tale of Guillaume de Coray was false. But why should it be false? That she could not reply to, except by the illogical, but all-convincing, sense of her woman's intuition. A false quantity that in a hall of justice. Gwennola shuddered as she felt the frailty of such an argument, shuddered as she saw how fast the net of fate had immeshed this stranger. There was a little sob in her throat as she bowed her head in her hands, a sob which, like her deeper thoughts, she refused to analyse. Surely it was but a note of pity for an innocent man whom jealous hatred or some passion she could not divine was condemning to death? A hand laid on her shoulder roused her, and with a little frightened cry she sprang to her feet, but it was only Father Ambrose, that good father who had known and loved her ever since she had first lisped out baby confessions of infantine sin and wickedness at his knee. Yes, it had been a happy thought to send for him, though for his own good she must deceive him as to her intentions.
"The hour is late, my daughter," said the old priest gently. "What wouldest thou with me, child? Surely 'tis no time," he added with a smile, "even for confessions?"
"Nay, my father," she said softly, "'tis no confession, but perchance more of pity for one unjustly condemned to death that moves me to crave thy help."
"To death?" he echoed, glancing keenly at her. "Nay, daughter, but what hath chanced? and who in the château of thy gallant father may dare to condemn unjustly?"
"Nay," she replied, "listen, my father, and thou shalt judge for thyself," and in a few hurried sentences she told her tale.