De Proballe was obviously enjoying the situation and resolved to make the most of it.
“Who was the monk? Do you know him?” asked the Governor quickly.
“He who came from the Cardinal Archbishop, the delegate. Gerard, it seems, is particular as to who shall shrive him. Our Morvaix priests are not good enough. The conference lasted long, too; at least so Antoine de Cavannes told me.”
The Governor shot a sharp glance at Gerard, who said to Gabrielle—
“The monk is one of those whom I met two days ago in the market place, Gabrielle, when Babillon, the smith, was done to death at my lord’s bidding.” He spoke quietly and calmly. “You may remember him; a dark, swarthy, burly man who helped you. The companion of him who stepped between us and the soldiery.”
“I remember him well,” answered Gabrielle. She was oppressed by a sense of danger, impalpable and invisible, but yet real.
“That is all,” said Gerard, with a smile to reassure her.
“Of what spoke you together?” asked the Governor.
“May not a man speak even with a monk in Morvaix without the Governor’s permission? ’Twould seem not indeed; for even while we were in converse, those two jackals who sought to take your Denys’ life, Gabrielle, came up with flouts and jeers and sneers, as though licensed to insult even men of a religious life. I think in truth this is a matter that concerns you closely, my lord.”
“How dare you say that to me?”