"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." "Nay," said her lover tenderly, "I was wrong, sweet, to speak of gloom where I found such sunshine as hath before never lighted the fairest spot of fair Touraine. See then, it shall be that which thou lovest, I love, and what thou hatest——" He broke off to turn swiftly in the direction of the forest, his hand on his sword, as though he had caught a sound other than the constant murmur of cries from bird and beast which arose in plaintive cadences around. "What is it?" breathed Gwennola, with a little gasp of fear, as she bent forward to gaze in the same direction as that in which his eyes were still turned. "Methinks ’twas but a fancy," he replied softly; "and yet—see, sweet, what is that which moves yonder? Nay, ’tis naught, but some animal, or——" But Gwennola’s face had grown white with terror, as with horror-stricken eyes she gazed across the open space towards where, in a bright patch of moonlight, sat a small, wizened creature perched on its haunches, the very impersonation of some imp of darkness, which, after pausing one brief instant to mouth at them in seeming mockery, fled nimbly back into the forest with a shrill cry. "Bah," murmured d’Estrailles, devoutly crossing himself, "’tis verily a spirit of evil, little one, that fled at the glance of thy sweet eyes."