“Ha! is it you, bishop of Vannes?” cried Sabre-tout.
“Mercy!” begged the bishop.
“We were informed of your arrival, and were waiting for you.”
“Mercy!” repeated the bishop for the third time.
“Have you your pontifical robes with you?”
“Yes, my friends, I have.”
“Then dress yourself as a prelate; it is long since we have seen one.”
A trunk marked with the prelate’s name was taken from the diligence and opened. They took the bishop’s robes from it, and handed them to Audrein, who put them on. Then, when every vestment was in its place, the peasants ranged themselves in a circle, each with his musket in his hand. The glare of the torches was reflected on the barrels, casting evil gleams.
Two men took the priest and led him into the circle, supporting him beneath his arms. He was pale as death. There was a moment of lugubrious silence.
A voice broke it. It was that of Sabre-tout.