“But where?”
“In yonder town,” said I, pointing.
He laughed provokingly. “You are melodramatic,” he rejoined. “I could hold that town with one thousand men against all your army and five times your fleet.”
“You have ever talked and nothing done,” said I. “Will you tell me the truth of the chaplain?”
“Yes, in private the truth you shall hear,” he said. “The man is dead.”
“If you speak true, he was murdered,” I broke out. “You know well why.”
“No, no,” he answered. “He was put in prison, escaped, made for the river, was pursued, fought, and was killed. So much for serving you.”
“Will you answer me one question?” said I. “Is my wife well? Is she safe? She is there set among villainies.”
“Your wife?” he answered, sneering. “If you mean Mademoiselle Duvarney, she is not there.” Then he added solemnly and slowly: “She is in no fear of your batteries now—she is beyond them. When she was there, she was not child enough to think that foolish game with the vanished chaplain was a marriage. Did you think to gull a lady so beyond the minute’s wildness? She is not there,” he added again in a low voice.
“She is dead?” I gasped. “My wife is dead?”