“You have done nobly, my son,” and the Pere Anselme lifted his hand in blessing.  “It is very merciful that this has been in time.  You will not be permitted to suffer beyond your strength since you have done well.  The good God is beyond all things, just.  My home is at your service—­And how is she, our dear Dame d’Heronac?  Does she know that her husband will come?”

“She knows nothing.  I told her we should settle all questions to-morrow.  She offered to keep her word to me, the dear child.”

“And she told you the whole story?  She had the courage?  Yes?  That was fine of her, because she has never spoken of all her sorrows directly, even to me.”

“She told me everything, Father.  There are no secrets any more; and her story is a pitiful one, because she was so young.”

“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.