They were standing, those two, on the terrace path close by the river side. Beyond them lay the grey gloom of the forest, with its air of tragedy and mystery, and behind them the château, standing on the outskirts of a dreary heath, grim and forbidding. But around them life took a gladder note; the sunshine of summer played amongst flowers and orchard blossoms, and birds sang sweetly in the boughs overhead. Above all youth and happiness smiled the glad story, old and for ever new, of love and devotion, into each other’s eyes. Yet, even in the tender beauty of the present, the music of joy struck a minor note in the sad word of farewell. It was hard—so hard—to part, when love was but newly born, and yet part they must. The Sieur de Mereac was inflexible in his decision. Convinced of d’Estrailles’ innocence, he had offered his injured guest the courteous apologies due to him, apologies as sincere as they were hearty, though perchance small blame could be attached to his conduct, seeing what had passed; whilst apologies would have been of small value had Yvon de Mereac appeared in the hall of judgment a few moments later. Great and bitter had been the old noble’s anger and mortification at finding that his own kinsman should have played so base a part, and terrible was the retribution which he swore to repay him with. But even in his desire to offer amends for an injustice so nearly consummated, Gaspard de Mereac turned a deaf ear to d’Estrailles’ pleadings concerning his daughter. To him it was a thing altogether beyond comprehension that a Mereac should mate with the natural enemy of her country, for here, on the borderland of the distracted dukedom, hatred of France was drawn in with the first breath of life. Only at last, yielding most unwillingly to his cherished darling’s entreaties, did he agree to temporize. Did the mission of the Count Dunois meet with success, and the bond between mutual enemies be cemented in one of love and marriage, then perchance, if Gwennola were still unchanged, natural prejudice should give way and a betrothal between the two be permitted. Yet even this temporizing would scarce have been, had not de Mereac convinced himself of the certainty of his Duchess’s rejection of any offer of union betwixt herself and the man whom she must needs regard as her bitterest foe, in defiance of the troth she had already plighted to the King of the Romans. So the wily old Breton, yielding no whit in his purpose to mate his daughter to none but her own countryman, outwardly consented to conditions little likely of fulfilment, and so silenced the importunities of the child he adored and the man whom he had so nearly condemned unjustly to death. But to Yvon he confided his secret purpose.