The contempt died in his eyes, and was replaced by a dreamy ecstasy.
"Death? What is death?" he replied. "And what matters the manner of death? Look at me, monsieur."
He fixed my gaze on each of his infirmities.
"I am but the wreck of a man. These poor, ignorant children of the wilderness have worked their will with me, and because it was best for me God permitted it. Torture never hurt any man. It is excellent for the spirit. It will benefit you. If you must die——"
His voice trailed into nothingness.
De Veulle interposed.
"Reverend father," he said, "I have a letter for you from Jacques Fourier. The rivermen would like you to give them a mass Sunday. 'Tis a long——"
"Give me the letter," he cried eagerly. "Ah, that is good reading! Sometimes I despair for my sons—aye, more than for the miserable children of the wilderness. But now I know that a seed grows in the hearts of some that I have doubted. I shall go gladly."
He turned to depart, retraced his steps and fixed me with his gaze that seemed almost to scorch the skin.
"Remember what I have said, monsieur. Repent, and in the joy which will come to your soul you will rejoice in your agony. You will triumph in it. Your heart will be uplifted by it. Do I not know! I have suffered myself, a whole day at the stake once, and again for half a day."