Once again M. des Graves sat in the library, and he sat in silence—save for a very cheerful and crackling fire. But he was not alone. By the side of his chair, an elbow on the arm of it, Louis had assumed a rather favourite position on the floor. It was over, the telling of his incredible news, incoherently as it had been done, and now he had no more to say, cast up by that flood of emotion and amazement on to a shore of silence. But at last he shifted his position a little and asked, for the second time: “You are sure that you do not disapprove, Father? You are sure that I may take her?” “Yes, Louis,” came the answer, grave and low; “you may take her.” “I don’t deserve it,” said the young man to himself, and fell to pulling at the bearskin rug on which he lay. Presently he broke the silence again. “It was horrible for him—horrible. And I cannot try to thank him; he would hate it.” The priest’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair. It was difficult to articulate in the throes of a joy so piercing as to be pain. Perhaps if he could betake himself for a little to the prayer which surged up from his inmost soul it would ease the almost intolerable emotion. And perhaps he could then show to Louis his sympathy with his happiness. He said gently: “He will be able to take your thanks some day,” and with that got out of his chair. “Are you going?” asked the Vicomte, jumping to his feet. “Yes; to the chapel for a little while.” “You might say a prayer for me,” murmured Louis, looking away. Then he seemed to get the better of his embarrassment, and seized both M. des Graves’ hands. “I had no right to hope for such a thing as this—no claim to deserve it now,” he said, with deep and real feeling in his voice. “And Gilbert—— What was that?” It was, apparently, some small hard object striking against glass. The two men stood motionless for a second, then Louis abruptly loosed the priest’s hands, and going to the nearest of the long windows tugged aside the curtains and threw it open. There was nothing to be seen, but out of the evening, grown now to the semblance of night, came an ominous sound of voices and of many feet. The noise, thrilling to the nerves and more than a little sinister in suggestion, appeared to come from the front of the house. “Keep back!” whispered Louis over his shoulder. “Who knows what it may be?—perhaps they are come for you.” And slipping out on to the long and narrow balcony he leant over and peered into the darkness. “Who is there?” he shouted. There was no direct answer, but feet shuffled on the gravel, and he caught excited whispers. “It is not he!” “No, it is Monsieur le Vicomte.” “Perhaps he is not here.” “What is it, in God’s name?” cried Louis sharply. “And who is in the avenue?” A couple of rough voices raised themselves. “We want Monsieur le Marquis.” “We saw a light here, so we came this way. . . .” The strong local accent was enough for Louis, and turned his vague fear into a vague hope.