"It is possible it has been well for them," the priest said meditatively, looking into the glowing fire in the stove whose door he had opened. "They were too young and undisciplined at first for happiness--they have come through so much suffering now they will cling to each other and joy and not let it slip from their hands. She is more suited to such a one as the Seigneur of Arranstoun than any other--there is a vigor of youth in her which must find expression. And it is something to be of noble blood, after all." Here he turned and looked contemplatively at Henry. "It makes one able to surmount anguish and remain a gentleman with manners, even at such a cruel crisis as this. You have all my deep understanding and sympathy, my son. I, too, have passed that way, and know your pain. But consolation will come. I find it here in the cure of souls--you will find it in your England, leading your fellow countrymen to finer ends. It is not for all of us, the glory of the dawn or the meridian, but we can all secure a sunset of blessed peace if we will." And then, as Henry wrung his thin old hand, he muttered with tenderness, "Good-night, and _pax vobiscum_," while a moisture glistened in his keen black eyes. And when the door was closed upon his guest he turned back into his little room, this thought going on with him: "A great gentleman--though my Dame d'Heronac will be happier with the fierce one. Youth must have its day, and all is well." But Henry, striding in the dark with the sound of the rushing sea for company, found no consolation. When he got back to the chateau and was going up the chief staircase to his room, he met Moravia coming down. She had just left Sabine and knew the outlines of what had happened. Her astonishment and distress had been great, but underneath, as she was only human, there was some sense of personal upliftment; she could try to comfort the disconsolate lover at least. Sabine had given her to understand that nothing was finally settled between herself and Henry, but Moravia felt there could be only one end; she knew he was too unselfish to hold Sabine for an instant, once he understood that she would rather be free; so it was in the character of fond friend that she put out her hand and grasped his in silent sympathy. "Henry," she whispered with tears in her usually merry eyes, "my heart is breaking for you. Can I do anything?" He would rather that she had not spoken of his sorrow at all, being a singularly reticent person, but he was touched by the love and solicitude in her face, and took and held her white fingers. "You are always so good to me. But there is nothing to be done." She slid her other hand into his arm and drew him on into the little sitting-room which was always set apart for her, close to her room.