“It will be the endeavor of my life to make her happy, Father,” and Lord Fordyce’s voice was full of feeling.

“Happiness can only be secured in two ways, my son.  Either it comes in the guise of peace, after the flames have burnt themselves out—­or it comes through fusion of love at fever heat——­”

“Yes?” Henry faltered, rather anxiously.

“When there are still some cinders alight—­the peaceful happiness is not quite certain of fulfilment; it becomes an experiment then with some risks.”

“What makes you say this to me?”

The old priest did not look at him, but continued to gaze ahead.

“I have the welfare of our Dame d’Heronac very strongly at heart, Monsieur, as you can guess, and I am not altogether sure that the cinders are not still red.  It would be well for you to ascertain whether this be so or not before you ask her to make fresh bonds.”

“You think she still cares for her husband, then?” Henry was very pale.

“I do not know that she ever cared—­but I do know that even his memory has power to disturb her.  He must have been just such another as your friend, the Seigneur of Arranstoun.  It is his presence which has reminded her of something of the past, since it cannot be he himself.”

“No, of course it cannot be Michael—­” and Henry laughed shortly.  “He is an Englishman.  She had never seen him before yesterday—­You think she seems disturbed?”

“Yes.”

“What would you have me do, then, Father?  I love this woman more than my life and only desire her happiness.”

The Cure of Heronac shrugged his high shoulders slightly.

“It is not for me to give advice to a man of the world—­but had it been in the days when I was Gaston d’Heronac, of the Imperial Guard, I should have told you—­Use your intelligence, search, investigate for yourself.  Make her love you—­leave nothing vague or to chance.  As a priest, I must say that I find all divorces wrong—­and that for me she should remain the wife of the other man.”

“Even when the man is a drunkard or a lunatic, and there have been no children?” Henry demanded.

A strange look came in the old Cure’s eye as he glanced at his companion covertly, and for a second it seemed as though he meant to speak his thought—­but the only words which came were in Latin: 

“Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder,” and then he held out his thin, brown hand; they had reached his door.

“In all cases you have my good wishes, my son, for you seem worthy of her—­my good wishes and my prayers.”

Lord Fordyce mounted the stairs to his lady’s sitting-room with lagging steps.  The Pere Anselme’s advice had caused him to think deeply, and it was necessary that he had speech with Sabine, if she would let him come back into her sitting-room.  He knocked at the door softly, as was his way, and when her voice said “Entrez” rather impatiently he did enter and advance with diffidence.  She was sitting with her back to the light in one of the great window embrasures, so that he could not see the expression upon her face—­and her tone became gentle as she welcomed him.