She did not heed him. She did not even look towards him. Her eyes were fixed upon Paul, and he read their message aright.
"This woman wishes to speak to me. Stand aside, and let me go to her!" he exclaimed. "If she be indeed dying, surely you should respect her wishes."
He spoke imperatively, for the priest stood in the way, and prevented his approach; pointing towards the door with a stern, commanding gesture.
"There must be no converse between you and this woman!" he said. "I am no lover of violent deeds; but if you insist upon forcing your way to her bedside, I shall summon the Count, and you will pay for your rashness with your life. Your name and features are a certain death warrant in this house. Escape while you may, and pax vobiscum. Remain and I cannot save you!"
Paul glanced round the room. Two monks were standing with lighted tapers on the further side of the bed, one of whom was mumbling a Latin prayer. The man who had brought him here was gone. There was no one else in the room, except the priest and himself.
"You are inhuman!" he said shortly. "The prayers of a dying woman are more to me than your threats. Stand on one side!"
Paul laid his hand heavily upon the priest's shoulder. He was prepared even to have used force had it been necessary, but it was not. The latter moved away at once, shaking his robes free from Paul's touch with contemptuous gesture, and calling one of the monks to him, Paul sank on one knee by the side of the dying woman, and bent low down over her.
"Madame de Merteuill, you have something to say to me!" he whispered. "What is it?"
Her voice was very low and very faint. She was even then upon the threshold of death. Each word came out with a painful effort, but with a curious distinctness. "I am not Madame de Merteuill at all! I am the daughter of the Count of Cruta!"