“I do not know”—he was speaking with sober concern. “I found this man lying here as I came along. He has a wound of some sort in his head, and I am afraid that he is dead.”
The man, stepping forward, crossed himself hurriedly.
The girl, with a sharp little cry, knelt down on the other side of the priest—and in the lantern's glimmer Raymond caught a glimpse of great dark eyes, of truant hair, wind-tossed, that blew about a young, sweet face that was full now of troubled sympathy.
“And you,” she said quickly; “you are the new curé, monsieur. The station agent told us you had come, and we drove fast, my uncle and I, to try and catch up with you.”
Raymond's eyes were on the priest's form. There was no need to simulate concern now, it was genuine enough, and it was as if something cold and icy were closing around his heart. He was not sure—great God, it was not possible!—but he thought—he thought the priest had moved. If that were so, he was doubly trapped! Cries came suddenly from the direction of the village, from the direction of old Mother Blondin's house. He heard himself acknowledging her remark with grave deliberation.
“Yes,” he said, “I am Father Aubert.”
CHAPTER VI—THE JAWS OF THE TRAP
VOLEUR! Thief! Murder! Murder!”—it rose a high, piercing shriek, and the wind seemed to catch up the words and eddy them around, and toss them hither and thither until the storm and the night and the woods were full of ghouls chanting and screaming and gibbering their hideous melody: “Voleur! Thief! Murder! Murder!”