"An this be love," murmured the handmaiden as she turned aside, "may the holy St Catherine protect me from such spells! for verily my lady is distraught with it to dream of so mad an enterprise. The saints preserve us from the wrath of my lord should some evil chance reveal it!"
CHAPTER VII
Softly the moonlight stole through the interlacing branches of the trees, like white-robed fairies who come earthward to kiss the sleeping flowers into fresh beauty for the morrow's sun. Darkly against the silver sheen stood out the rugged, ivy-grown walls of the forest chapel. It was a spot sufficiently romantic for the youngest and tenderest of lovers, and yet not without its thrill of that gloom and foreboding which seems to haunt the land of Brittany, where such stern shadows seem indissolubly mingled with the wild beauties of poetry and romance.
But, for the moment at least, shadows had fled into the darkness of the surrounding forest, and romance reigned clear and beautiful as the Queen of Heaven, who shed her silver beams down so softly on the two lovers sitting there amongst the ruins which superstition had clad with such terror and awe.
It was the third night that Gwennola had successfully stolen out from her father's château, leaving two faithful hearts to beat in anxious fear for her safety until her return. So little dreamt any of such an undertaking, that the task had been less difficult than she had supposed, and so, night after night Job had watched with gloomy fear the dark, hooded figure slip past him and vanish like some grim shadow into the grimmer blackness of the forest, and there, divided betwixt love and the overpowering fear of superstition, he had been fain to watch for her return, whilst the moments dragged by leaden-footed, till more than once love overcame fear, and he started from his post in search of his young mistress, only to come to a halt midway down the terrace path, whilst the beads of perspiration stood thickly on his brow as he muttered aves and paters, and finally with a groan of terror fled back to his place as he recalled the dread vision which had already looked at him, hollow-eyed and beseeching, from amongst the trees, till his knees knocked together in a perfect frenzy of terror.
But no such fears now troubled Gwennola, for love had bidden such phantom terrors a mocking adieu. Yes, they were lovers now, not bowing and curtsying to each other, with eyes more bold and eloquent than the stiff phrases of their tongues; there was no more speech of gratitude or duty, or the many foolish subterfuges by which love must first hide himself, but instead all the glamour and passion of first love, which exaggerates itself and its dreams of sentiment and finds in itself so sweet a delirium that it forgets all else and mocks gaily at staid middle age, which shakes its head so wisely at such quaint fantasies and preaches truisms against its tender madness which are listened to with deaf ears; for youth must have its way and dream its dreams of love and fair ideals, which clothe it in all its springtide of beauty, little recking of the winter that must perchance disperse all, or sober them down to greyer tints.
"Ah, sweet," whispered d'Estrailles as he bent down to look into the blue eyes raised so happily to his; "what shall I say to prove to thee the devotion with which thou hast inspired me, or thank thee for the tender heroism which brings thee thus to me through such perils?"
"Nay," she replied gaily, "speak not of thanks, my Henri, but rather of our love. What fear have I, my beloved, save for thy safety? Ah," she cried, clasping her hands with a sudden gesture of pain, "every time my father rides forth my heart beats with terror for fear that by some unlucky chance he should discover thy hiding-place, for his heart is still bitter against thee, my Henri, for de Coray still distilleth his poisoned words into his ears; neither will he so much as look on me, his daughter; whilst for the poor Father Ambrose, he hath sworn to send him back to his monastery in disgrace so soon as his sickness is healed."
"Nay, weep not, little one," said d'Estrailles gently, as he drew her into his embrace, "but let us rather dream of the days when all this suffering and wrong be past, and when thou, sweet Gwennola, art my wife, and ridest with me to our château on the gay Loire, where I will give thee sunshine and mirth, beauty and laughter instead of these dreary forests and grey gloom, which seem fitting surroundings for traitor hearts and sad forebodings."
"Nay," she said with a sigh, "it is of my Brittany thou speakest, dear heart, and I would not that thou shouldst find it so ill a place, for I love it dearly, ay, so dearly!" she whispered, clinging to him, "though perchance in time thy château of sunshine shall be more dear, my Henri, because of thy presence; but I would have thee also to love in some measure the Château of Mereac, and in time, it may be, my father, who is good—ah! so good, so noble, so brave!—although now it would seem his ears are closed and his eyes blinded by a treacherous foe."