"My soul," muttered the man with a groan. "He had that long since—my soul," and he smiled mockingly into the fair face bent over him. "Nay," he continued with another groan; "'tis ill to jest in death's own face, though I have laughed in outwitting him many a time before, but yon devil hath brought me to bay at last, though I'll not go without my revenge."

He muttered the last words over several times, as if trying to recollect something, then continued to speak rapidly and pantingly, as one who, having raced, would fain deliver his message without delay; and, verily, it was a grim race he ran, with death swift on his heels to cut the tale short.

"Guillaume de Coray," he muttered, "he was my master, I, his slave, body and soul, mistress—body and soul. Ah! I could tell you stories, but there is not time, suffice to say that he was the tool—the thing—of the tailor of Vitré[#]—and I—well, no matter, the past is dead, but there is still revenge..... It was the battle of St Aubin—the son of de Mereac was there—his heir—my master was the next in succession..... He slew young Yvon, as he thought, in the wood there .... by treachery, and came to Mereac to be welcomed as the heir, and to marry the sister of the slain youth. Is it not so, mademoiselle? Ah! I read it in your eyes that the bridegroom was not to your pleasing, for your eyes are true and his .... Well, Guillaume de Coray rode to Mereac, but before he did so, it chanced that he had found that he had no more occasion for my services, therefore he had bidden another to hasten my departure to another land, from whence no tales return to inconvenience monsieur; but he who was so clever made a mistake..... The man was my friend..... He told me his mission..... We drank to each other's health and the confusion of our master. So it came to pass that when he fled from that wood at St Aubin with a murderer's fear in his heart, I sought the body of Yvon de Mereac. He was not dead .... nay, he was not dead. Merciful God! why then does he haunt me with those eyes? Nay .... was it not I who saved him, and tended him for months?—aye years?—for, for long the blow on his head had rendered him little better than a fool. Then, when understanding returned, he demanded many things...... Ah! but he was proud and impatient .... that youth .... perchance I pleased him not for a guardian..... He commanded to be set free .... he raved at times .... foolish one .... saying that I kept him prisoner to murder him .... I, who but bided my time till the fruit was ripe for the picking..... But he escaped from my safe shelter. I was angry .... I followed him quickly. What, mademoiselle, after these years was I to be robbed of my reward? Grand Dieu! not so, I arrived whilst he still wandered in the forest, so far still distraught that he had lost his way. I found him .... but ere I did so was myself seen by ill fate by my enemy, Guillaume de Coray. It became impossible that I should escape too hastily with my friend, therefore we concealed ourselves .... de Coray and his devil's imp seeking us all the time..... To-night"—the blood in his throat well-nigh choked him as he spoke—"to-night—we—we...."

[#] The nickname of Pierre Laudais, the hated and infamous minister of François II., Duke of Brittany. The angry nobles at last took justice into their own hands, and hanged the miscreant who had ruined their country.

He stared vaguely up at the moon—already the finger of death was resting on his shoulder.

"But my brother—Yvon—he lives? Oh, where—where is he?" cried Gwennola, whose emotions had scarcely been controlled during the gasping confession which seemed to foreshadow forth so grim a tragedy. "Speak!"

But already death had sealed those lips with his cold kiss, only with a convulsive effort the man raised his arm and pointed towards one of the heaps of piled stones which gleamed white in the moonlight halfway up the opposite slope. Then a spasm seized him, and he lay in the last dread struggle, with his black eyes fixed upwards in horror, as if around him he saw crowding the reproachful victims of a sinful life, gathering about to arraign him before the dread Judge Who awaited him beyond the veil.

Falling on her knees, Gwennola whispered a prayer into the dying ears, till, with one last gasping groan, the jaws relaxed, the dark eyes, still terror-haunted, became fixed, and a soul fled forth in shame and awe into the silence of eternity.

With a sob—the outcome of overwrought nerves—the young girl rose to her feet, and stood looking from the dead man at her feet towards the rude cairn which seemed to form so poor a clue to her search. And yet her heart beat rapidly as she thought of what that search might mean, and recalled that not only a brother's but a lover's life lay as a guerdon for success. Then with a low breathed prayer she hastened to turn and scramble up the slope towards the spot indicated by the dead man's finger.

CHAPTER IX