“Do you know how to write?” asked the president.
“Enough to fill in the three or four missing words.”
“Very well. Then write, ‘one hundred thousand francs.’”
The Breton wrote; then extending the paper to the president, he said: “Here is your receipt; where is the money?”
“Stoop and pick up the bag at your feet; it contains sixty thousand francs.” Then addressing one of the monks, he asked: “Montbard, where are the remaining forty thousand?”
The monk thus interpellated opened a closet and brought forth a bag somewhat smaller than the one Morgan had brought, but which, nevertheless, contained the good round sum of forty thousand francs.
“Here is the full amount,” said the monk.
“Now, my friend,” said the president, “get something to eat and some rest; to-morrow you will start.”
“They are waiting for me yonder,” said the Breton. “I will eat and sleep on horseback. Farewell, gentlemen. Heaven keep you!” And he went toward the door by which he had entered.
“Wait,” said Morgan.