As he went Gilbert awoke to a half-alarmed realisation of what he had done. If Louis left the room without speaking to him—and, from whatever cause, he evidently intended to do so—his mother and the priest would certainly regard it as an extraordinary lapse, on this, of all nights. He hastily poured out a glass of wine and intercepted the Vicomte before he got to the door. “Had you not better drink this before going up the stairs?” he said, holding it out to him. Louis took the glass. His brain was by now too confused to transmit anything but a vague conception of hostility embodied somehow in Gilbert, whose figure, in a nightmarish fashion, was tending queerly to vary in size. Whatever happened he must not seem to notice this. He drank; and, less by the physical stimulus than by some inner succour of blood and breeding, was restored to speech. “Thank you,” he said, carefully putting down the glass. “I am all right now. Good-night, Gilbert.” He paused a second and then held out his hand; it scarcely shook. The Marquis took it unhesitatingly. “Good-night,” he returned. “I hope you will sleep.” “I hope so too,” said the Vicomte, and with a little white, half-defiant smile he gave his arm to the Marquise at his elbow. Gilbert held open the door and the two passed out. The observer by the hearth had barely had time to feel puzzled and a trifle hurt at the absence of any farewell from his former pupil, when Madame de Château-Foix reappeared alone upon the threshold. “Louis desires your blessing, Father,” she said. “Will you give it him out here, for I think the poor boy is really too worn out to move a step further than he need.” When the priest came back he found Gilbert standing as he had left him, staring into the fire, but when he put his hand on his arm the Marquis turned and followed him without a word. CHAPTER XXVI BELEAGUERED “What shall be said of this embattled day, And armèd occupation of this night!” —D. G. ROSSETTI, _Parted Love_. M. des Graves paused to shut the library door behind him ere he turned to Gilbert with the light of a great thankfulness on his face. “_Deo gratias_!” he said. “Gilbert, it is like a miracle to have you here, for this afternoon I had a terrible conviction of disaster.” The Marquis, who had passed him and gone straight to a chair by the hearth, threw himself down in it as he replied, in a voice by no means remarkable for grateful feeling: “Oh, I was never, that I know of, in real danger. But I suppose one is lucky to be back.” He gave a short laugh devoid of merriment, and leant his head against the back of the chair as if he were weary. “You are tired, my son,” said the priest, looking down for a moment compassionately at his figure, with its air of something deeper than fatigue. “Go to bed now, and we can talk to-morrow morning.”