“To a fold of the faithful,” answered Paul. “But I cannot tarry to speak further; for, by my appointment, a man awaits me now, with a horse, at the city-gate. Benedicite!”
“Good morrow!” rejoined Craftall.
The priest had passed out of hearing; and Craftall, now quit of all impediment, rubbed his hands with glee.
He had the day before him, and he failed not to turn it to account. In the first place, he arranged with the captain, whom he had completely bought over to his interests, to have some sailors at hand that night, at an early hour, to carry off his last luggage; and, in the mean time, he spared no effort to get the luggage ready. He laboured so earnestly, that shortly after nightfall, at which time he had appointed the captain to be prepared, his object was achieved, and he only waited the arrival of the sailors to take his departure. It seemed that fortune favoured him, for hardly had he finished packing, when, to his great satisfaction, a knock on the outer door, in his rear, led him to believe that the sailors were at hand.
“Enter!” he cried.
The door opened, and there entered—not the sailors, but Bernard Gray.
Craftall drew back as, after throwing-to the door, Bernard approached him. They had not met since the occasion described in a former chapter; and though, contrary to his expectations, Bernard had never denounced him to the Government, he had lived in constant apprehension of such a result ever since. Bernard’s appearance at this moment, just as he was on the point of absconding, completely took him aback, and he saw him draw nigh without the power of accosting him.
“Be under no fear!” cried Bernard, perceiving his discomposure. “I have kept thy secret, and will never betray thee!”
Craftall was reassured by these words, albeit, judging of Bernard by himself, he had no notion that they sprang from any sentiment of compassion, but supposed that, though it did not appear on the instant, Bernard was making him an overture, under which he sought to advance some interest of his own. At another time he would gladly have associated with Bernard, while it should serve his purpose, on terms so favourable; but his object now was, at any hazard, to get him out of the way, and so have the stage clear for his departure. There was only one way, he thought, in which such an object could be accomplished; and that was, by betraying his ghostly friend, the priest. He would have shrunk from this alternative, indeed, under ordinary circumstances—not from any feeling of honour, but, what weighed more with him, from the scruples of superstition; but his dread of ulterior retribution, if it occurred to him at all, now sank under his apprehension of present detection.