"He
cannot leave many in the house with the woman. If it were attacked in
his absence--"
"He would return, and--" Father Pezelay shook his head, his cheek turned
a shade paler. Clearly, he saw with his mind's eye more than he
expressed.
"_Hoc est corpus_," the other muttered, his dreamy gaze on the table. "If
he met us then, on his way to the house and we had bell, book, and
candle, would he stop?"
"He would not stop!" Father Pezelay rejoined.
"He would not?"
"I know the man!"
"Then--" but the rest St. Benoist whispered, his head drooping forward;
whispered so low that even the lean man behind him, listening with greedy
ears, failed to follow the meaning of his superior's words. But that he
spoke plainly enough for his hearer Father Pezelay's face was witness.
Astonishment, fear, hope, triumph, the lean pale face reflected all in
turn; and, underlying all, a subtle malignant mischief, as if a devil's
eyes peeped through the holes in an opera mask.
When the other was at last silent, Pezelay drew a deep breath.
"'Tis bold! Bold! Bold!" he muttered. "But have you thought? He who
bears the--"
"Brunt?" the other whispered, with a chuckle. "He may suffer? Yes, but
it will not be you or I! No, he who was last here shall be first there!
The Archdeacon-Vicar--if we can persuade him--who knows but that even for
him the crown of martyrdom is reserved?" The dull eyes flickered with
unholy amusement.
Pages:
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359