They had hesitated, indeed, as to whether they should not return to Kérnak at once, convinced that those they sought had been made prisoners.
Finally, however, they decided to ride quickly to the cave and return to the château if their search were in vain.
It was a moment of emotion, not of convention.
That was why Cécile clung to Morice with no thought but that the man she loved had come back to her from the shadow of death.
And he could look down into her eyes without shame.
After all, Morice Conyers owed something to the Red Revolution. It had made a man of him.
Yet he took it humbly, bending to kiss the small, upturned face with a reverence which no woman had ever inspired in him before.
And she smiled into his eyes with a frank avowal of love returned, unmarred by any veiled doubt.
In times less perilous he might have found his wooing as long by months as it had been short by days. But fear and danger had swept aside the hundred and one conventions which clustered burr-like around a demoiselle of the old school.
She, too, had her lover, the lover she had chosen from childhood, her loyal knight for ever and ever.
They belonged to each other, these two. She did not even question so old a fact. And her fears for him made her kinder even than she might have been, for Gabrielle was more woman than babe, and not averse--at times--to the kindling of jealous flame for the sake of listening to fresh vows of love.
But this was no time for jest. Love in such garb as theirs was too sacred a thing for sport or coquetry, though she could smile as she looked up at him.
"We are safe now," she whispered contentedly. "But, oh, Michael, I feared it was Lord Denningham."
"No," he answered gravely. "_He_ at least will trouble you no more."
Even though she hated Lord Denningham she knew he had loved her--and a woman's hatred of a lover is ever a partial one.
"Yes, I was afraid of him," she mused, and shuddered. "I am afraid altogether," she cried piteously. "Oh, Michael, let us go home."
She stretched out her hands to him, and he took her tenderly enough in his arms. But it was a moment to be more practical than sentimental.
"They may reach the coast before us," he said, looking from her to Jéhan de Quernais. "We should not delay."