But over the occupants of the château there lay a gradually lengthening shadow. It was nearly a month since they had last received news of Gilbert. They had not the least idea in what part of Brittany he might now be, and his long silence, his absence when he must know how much he was needed at home, ended by convincing the Curé that some mishap had befallen him. And when September broke without the letter which he hourly expected, his anxiety, fed by a thousand surmises, became very acute indeed. It gained on Louis too. “Couldn’t I go to Nantes and see if I can trace him?” he asked one evening. “I think that your place is here, Louis,” said M. des Graves, shaking his head. “Here! What atom of good am I doing here?” exclaimed the Vicomte fractiously. “You are giving an old man very charming companionship, for one thing,” replied the priest, smiling at him. “Then there are other reasons.” His tone changed. “Chantemerle must not be without its _seigneur_ in case—in case he is wanted. And . . . you are Gilbert’s heir.” “Oh, don’t!” cried Louis in a smothered voice of horror, and he put his hand before his eyes. “You don’t really think that?” “I try not to,” answered the priest. At the sound of his voice, with the tiny but perceptible shake in it, Louis looked up, and, seeing how pale the speaker had become, threw himself impetuously on his knees beside him and seized his hand. “For God’s sake, don’t! . . . Think rather of the difficulties and delays he may have encountered on his way back. Why, he may easily have written and the letter have miscarried. He might walk in unannounced at any minute!” It was true, and yet Gilbert did not come. And soon a fresh anxiety mingled with their fears for him. On the very day of the relief of Bressuire the National Assembly had confirmed, with aggravations, the proposed decree of May 27th sentencing all non-juring priests to deportation. By the second week in September there were a hundred and fifty awaiting embarkation at Les Sables. It seemed inconceivable that Chantemerle should continue longer to be unswept by the devastation. So indeed thought M. des Graves, and in the quietude of his retreat—for it was now impossible for him to stir outside the gardens—he made ready for exile. But Louis showed an incurable optimism, mingled with what the priest rather feared was a disposition to appeal to force. “They shall not take you out of this house while I am alive, and here to prevent it,” he announced one morning, when they had been discussing the situation. The Curé shook his head, smiling a little sadly. “If they come for me, I must go; if they even suspect that I am here, I must go. Otherwise they will take you as well. You know that they have put several gentlemen under surveillance for concealing priests.” “I know of one,” returned Louis, unmoved; “Guerry de la Vergne. But that was at Challans, a much more patriotic place.”