"Nor I, Monsieur. Till now our people have been so good and kind. We owe much to the influence of our good curé, Père Mouet. They love him as he deserves, and it is he who keeps the Terror from our villages as much as the memory of my uncle the Marquis."
He had succeeded in drawing her thoughts from Bertrand, and the tears were drying on her cheeks.
Her eyes grew troubled again, whilst she shuddered a little.
"He was our gardener. Madame Maman dismissed him because he stole, and sang the Marseillaise. He has a brother in Paris who has a bad influence over him."
"Oh no, no. I ... I do not think he will come near again. Our people would have no sympathy with him."
"He deserves none--the brute! See how he has hurt you."
The blue weals were clearly visible on the slender wrists which Morice raised for inspection.
"I was afraid," she confessed, her eyes filling again. "But, Monsieur, you saved me."
"I would that I had come sooner. I did not guess who I should meet on my walk."
"I often come here," she said simply, "to visit old Nanette Leroc, who used to be our nurse. She is blind, and lonely too, although her niece lives with her. But Marie cannot read, and that is what Nanette likes."
She stooped, as she spoke, to pick up the little velvet-covered Book of Hours which had fallen from her grasp in the struggle.
"You, too, were up early, Monsieur," she added shyly.
"We should be returning to the château," she continued, not noticing his confusion. "Madame Maman will be wondering what has become of us. She--she does not altogether approve of my journeys to Nanette's cottage all alone. But what would you? Guillaume could not always be spared to come with me, and till to-day I had trusted in our people."
"They are not to be trusted, Mademoiselle."
A tiny furrow wrinkled her white brow and she shuddered.
"Oh yes, yes," she whispered. "I will not believe that the Terror can come to Kérnak and Varenac."
He did not mean to frighten her, and noted with self-reproach and admiration how, whilst her cheeks paled, her eyes shone bravely.
"Yes," she replied, "Louise told me. They have a guillotine there which they call the 'widow,' and make terrible jests. Oh yes! I know that the Terror has come to St. Malo and to our dear Brittany--but not to us. Our people love us, and we are so safely hidden away here, with the forest on one side and the landes on the other. We are not near a town, and, excepting for Bertrand, the people of the villages are loyal. And you yourself, Monsieur, will strengthen their loyalty."