“Monseigneur, we are accursed. It is not given to us to know more than that.”
Was there a faint note of stubbornness, a suggestion of some conscious secret withheld, in this abject reiteration of abasement? Ned was in doubt; but at least it seemed these strange people carried horror with them like a hidden plague-spot.
“Tell me,” said he, “why did you cower when the louts cried ‘Baa’ to you?”
The man looked up furtively.
“It is our ears,” he muttered. “They will call them sheep’s ears, monseigneur.”
“Certainly, it would appear, they are not designed for rings. That is a progressive evolution, my friend.”
The Cagot did not answer. A few steps farther brought them into a little dell traversed by a brook. Here, by the water-side, was stretched a single tent of tattered brown canvas.
“Alone!” said Ned, surprised.
“Alone, monseigneur, save for the woman and the little bien fils de son père. In these days the tribes are much broken up. They wander piecemeal. There are rumours abroad—hopes, prospects, as if it were prelude to the advent of a Messiah. I think, perhaps, I have seen to-day a harbinger—an angel bearing tidings.”
He gazed at the young man with large solemn eyes. His face was full of a wistful patience—not brutalised, but mild and intelligent.