Then had come the priest’s attack on him, and that interview which, though only a week old, seemed to be separated from the present by a century of struggle and anguish. . . . And he had been so consumed with wrath at the preposterous suggestion then made to him just because M. des Graves was not really the first to make it. His own heart had once or twice faintly whispered the same thing to him. But now, since one who dwelt within the gates of his desire had said that this was the key to unlock them, what could he do but try it? He did not believe in its efficacy, and yet—must not a sacrifice so bitter, so crushingly repugnant, for it was the immolation of his own intensely stubborn will—must not this offering call down some spark from heaven? . . . To this had the depth of his desire brought him, to the oblation, almost as an experiment, of his inmost personality, and to this, the crisis of all his emotional and moral life, he walked under the cloudy sky, repeating to himself the formula in which he meant to accomplish it. Only in such a way, as an actor speaking a part well conned, could he ever get through it. The Etoile de Vendée, nominally an inn, was in reality half a farmhouse, half a cottage, in front of which the solitary old man who owned it had hung out a signboard, perhaps merely to satisfy a whim, for the building stood by no high-road, and lay at least two miles away from the nearest hamlet. It was all the better as a rendezvous. When Gilbert turned at last into the wavering lane which crawled past it, it suddenly occurred to him how more than likely it was that Louis had not been able to get to the tryst at the time appointed. But the unconfessed hope was vain, for there, tethered in front, was his cousin’s bay horse, who turned his head enquiringly at the sound of steps, and pricked his ears as he recognised the Marquis. The door of the long, low parlour was exactly opposite the hearth, so that the first thing which Château-Foix saw on entering was Louis, sitting in a somewhat dejected attitude by the fire, with his head on his hand. He looked round as the door opened, but did not move from his chair, and the Marquis divested himself of his own hat and cloak without saying anything, and came forward to the hearth. Louis plunged his hand into the breast of his coat. “I met your man at Nantes,” he said. “He gave me this letter for you. But it seems to me that it matters little to us now how much of M. de la Rouërie’s plans for Brittany are discovered. The whole of Northern Vendée is alight.” His tone expressed no elation at the fact—nothing but weariness. The Marquis took the letter. “Nevertheless, I am extremely glad to have this, and I am very much obliged to you for going.” “It was a pleasure,” said Louis curtly.