Slowly shaking his head, as if still beset with doubts as to his wisdom in thus yielding to what he considered a wild, if generous whim, Father Ambrose went his way, leaving Gwennola to pace the chapel with eager steps, finally flinging herself down before the great crucifix which stood upon the little altar. But even prayers at that moment were little better than a wild, incoherent cry, so great a turmoil raged in the young girl's heart. Now fears beset her as to the folly of an undertaking as perilous as it was daring; only the thought of de Goray's cruel triumph on the next day goaded her forward to persevere in what had been the impulse of a moment, and even this thought scarcely held her to a purpose which of a sudden seemed to grow impracticable, unmaidenly, almost unseemly. Girt round as the young girls of the period were with a host of restrictions and proprieties, the part she now proposed to play seemed almost impossible; only the daring blood of a Breton maid would have made such a thought conceivable, and now outraged modesty rang a host of warnings in her ears. This stranger knight, what would he think of such a suggestion? What would he deem her, thus boldly to seek an interview, herself unsought? She had been mad to have thought of such a possibility of escape, and now perhaps he would scorn her for her unmaidenly forwardness.
The burning blush which swept over her cheeks had scarce had time to cool when her quick ear caught the sound of footsteps, halting and slow, as if their owner walked with difficulty, and at the sound her woman's pity forgot the false sense of shame which had agonized within her. Ay, and she forgot too to question wherefore she took such interest in a stranger, as he stood before her, and her quick heart throb told her swiftly that it was more than pity and love of justice which had brought her to dare risk so much for his sake.
Only ten minutes, and a life weighing in the balances! Parbleu! was it a time for maiden coyness and false bashfulness? He stood still in the moonlight, looking towards her with an eager, questioning glance in his dark eyes. How handsome he was and noble, and yet how pale! Ah! that unhealed wound in his side—doubtless he suffered much, and yet——
She was at his side now, her hood slipping back from her flushed face; for even at that moment she was a woman, and the ill-omened moonlight had no grudge against the gleaming tresses of her hair.
"Monsieur," she whispered. "Ah, monsieur, think me not unmaidenly, but it was your life that was in danger, which is——"
"Unmaidenly?" he interrupted gently. "Nay, mademoiselle, to me, though, alas! I have known you so short a space, you must always be the embodiment of all that is most fair and lovely in womankind; but," he added, seeing that though the colour on her cheeks deepened, she had too much to say to listen to tender words, "you would fain have speech with me, mademoiselle, on a matter of much gravity, the good father saith?"
Rapidly she told the tale, with every now and then a catch in her breath of sheer excitement, but when she would have gone on to what was deepest in her heart, he checked her with a little imperative gesture of command.
"Nay, mademoiselle," he said firmly, "before aught else let me clear myself of this foul calumny. Ma foi! that this accursed wound prevents me from driving the lie down the dog's throat. Pardon, mademoiselle, but it is hard for a d'Estrailles to listen to so deep an insult and yet wear his sword sheathed; but no—well I understand how matters lie—the word of a Frenchman is naught against that of a Breton whose face hath not yet been unmasked. Nay, mademoiselle, with your father there rests no blame save blindness of sight perhaps in not reading traitor in false eyes; but to you, whose pure heart hath read so truly, it were but right to tell the tale as it stands, though methinks 'tis no easy one to read in all its blackness. Yet at the battle of St Aubin du Cormier I saw that chance of which your kinsman has made so tangled a story; 'tis for you to help me to spell its meaning. The battle was over, and, as yon villain truly saith, the Prince of Orange was taken prisoner in a neighbouring wood, whilst Louis of Orleans was found wounded amongst the slain. It chanced, as we searched for other prisoners of less note, that in this self-same wood I lighted on a man who wore the black cross of Brittany struggling with a soldier of France, but as I came near the Frenchman was overcome, and the Breton knight was about to turn aside, when another, wearing the same black cross as himself, stole swiftly up behind and smote him a foul blow which caused him to fall, methinks a corpse, almost at my feet. Enraged at such treachery, I strove mightily with the murderer, inflicting, however, but a flesh wound on his left arm, and another of less import which clove his lower lip, his vizor being raised; but before I could slay or take him prisoner he dealt me a caitiff's blow which stunned me for a moment, and before I could recover he had fled through the trees."
Gwennola's face had grown white to the lips, as d'Estrailles told his tale, but her blue eyes blazed, as she cried with a sob—
"Monsieur, it is plain, the murderer was de Coray himself. Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! and I might even have married him." Then, drawing her cloak round her, she signed to the young man to follow her. "There is no time for further speech," she whispered softly; "all explanations, monsieur, I must tell you afterwards; for though it is clear to me that your story needs must be true, yon viper with his crooked tongue may well ensnare my father's wit and cruel injustice be done. Yet it shall not be; I, Gwennola de Mereac, will save you, monsieur, because—because I love justice, and will not see foul murder done again by yon false and evil man."