The Bishop drew back sharply, as though he had been struck a blow.
“Not a priest—and in those clothes!”
“No, Monsignor.”
The fine old face grew set and stern.
“And Francois Aubert, then—where is Father Francois Aubert?”
“Monsignor”—Raymond's lips were white—“he is in the condemned cell at Tournayville—under sentence of death—he is——”
“Condemned—to death! François Aubert—condemned to death!”—the Bishop was grasping with one hand at the back of the seat. And then slowly, still grasping at the seat, he pulled himself up and stood erect, and raised his other hand over Raymond in solemnity and adjuration. “In the name of God, what does this mean? Who are you?”
“I am Raymond Chapelle,” Raymond answered—and abruptly lowered the lantern, and a twisted smile of pain gathered on his lips. “You have heard the name, Monsignor—all French Canada has heard it.” The Bishop's hand dropped heavily to his side.
“Yes, I have heard it,” he said sternly. “I have heard that it was a proud name dishonoured, a princely fortune dissolutely wasted. And you are Raymond Chapelle, you say! I have heard this much, that you had disappeared, but after that——”
Raymond put his head down into his hands, and drew his hands tightly across his face.