"Who says old Pierre Laroche doesn't know how to care for his friends? What think you of it, my masters?"
"Plump as the King's confessor," muttered the poet.
"Or your King himself!" said one of the islanders.
"On with the King! Skewer the King!" exclaimed a fierce voice.
"And then we'll eat him!" laughed the girl, showing her white teeth.
"Thoughtless children!" From his place at the table in the small room adjoining, the priest, attracted by the grim merriment of the islanders, looked down to regard them; the red fire; the red gown.
"Here, at least, will you find a safe asylum, Father," said his companion, the Black Seigneur, in an absent tone; "a little rough, perhaps, to suit your calling—"
"The rougher, the more suitable—as I've often had occasion to learn since leaving Verranch."
"Since being driven from it, you mean!" shortly.
"Ah, those revolutionary documents—placed in my garden!"