I had not expected to make much headway, so I was not very disappointed, and went on to try and get at what was the real object of my questions.
“I believe you yourself regret the thing,” I said. “You mean, I suppose, that if it rested with you, your decision would be for a truce.”
“Yes, I think it would. But the death of M. Vastic is too heavy a blow for the brotherhood. You will be all held to account for it.”
“All. It was my act alone. You mean I shall be accountable.”
Something in my voice must have betrayed me, for he started, and turning in his saddle looked at me.
“What are the others to you? The mademoiselle, for instance?”
“They are nothing to me,” I answered as if indifferently; “except that I have brought this thing on them and shall see them through it.”
“You give yourself a troublesome commission, monsieur.”
“You’re a lot of damned cowards,” I cried. It was a feeble thing to say, but it relieved my feelings, and soon afterwards I reined up my horse.
“I’m going back,” I said curtly.