Yet, strangest and most mysterious of all did it seem that Gwennola de Mereac—she who, in past days, had been so tenderly attached to her brother—should scarcely heed the fact of his altered appearance, and, from brooding melancholy, herself assume all suddenly an aspect of content and happy expectation. So the retainers of Mereac gazed at the mysterious march of events, whilst the whisper on the air grew clearer day by day. But Gwennola suspected none of these things. True, her heart ached for her brother as she noted his altered looks; yet so wide had grown the gulf which Diane de Coray had made between them, that her pride refused to allow her to show the anxious solicitude she felt; whilst Diane herself strove secretly to make such solicitude the more impossible by her attitude towards the girl she hated. Yvon was made silently to know that he must choose between his sister and his lady-love; and there was no hesitation possible in his mind as Diane bent tenderly over his couch, whilst Gwennola held coldly aloof, allowing no one to guess the bursting grief and jealousy which raged in her heart. But it was not altogether pride alone which set Gwennola’s lips into a calm and serene smile of seeming unconcern for her brother’s sickness; for, setting apart her anxiety for him,—and youth is skilful in persuading itself that such fears are groundless,—she was rejoicing secretly in the message brought to her by the hand of Jean Marcille. Ah! what a joy it had been, and yet how fierce an anxiety brooded behind it! As she sat by her window, watching the brown leaves of the forest trees caught and whirled away in the autumn wind, her heart was singing, yet shuddering, as she thought of the time, but three days hence, when she should creep forth as she had done months ago and find, under that forest shade, the lover, faithful and true, who laughed at perils for the joy of clasping her once more in his arms. How sweet it was to rehearse over and over again that meeting—the terrors of the woodland path, the haunting dread of spying eyes, all forgotten and swallowed up in the glad moment when she should feel those strong arms holding her to him, and should look up to read the old, old story in eyes so full of love’s deepest tenderness. Then the exquisite joy of the picture faded, as fears crowded with jeering, mocking faces around the dream. What if he should be discovered? This time there would, she knew, be no escape. No shadow of suspicion would be too faint to seal his doom. Revenge, she knew, was smouldering deeply in de Coray’s heart, and the hatred and jealousy of his sister would but too eagerly seize upon this means of repaying her rival, whose influence, she knew, would fain have been exerted to drive her from the château gates.