“Now,” continued the prior, “this religious fervor, which burns so strongly in your heart, will injure you in Paris. I wish you therefore to go and expend it in the provinces.”
“An exile!” cried Gorenflot.
“If you remain here, much worse may happen to you, my dear brother.”
“What?”
“Perpetual imprisonment, or even death.”
Gorenflot grew frightfully pale; he could not understand how he had incurred all this by getting tipsy in an inn, and passing the night out of the convent.
“By submitting to this temporary exile, my dear brother, not only will you escape this danger, but you will plant the banner of our faith in the provinces, where such words are less dangerous than here, under the eyes of the king. Set off at once, then, brother; perhaps the archers are already out to arrest you.”
“The archers, I!” said Gorenflot.
“I advise you to go at once.”
“It is easy to say ‘go,’ but how am I to live?”