At length the poacher paused, and having disentangled a very long worm from the twisted roots of a large clod, he said, "This makes one hundred and thirteen—a holy number. Now I've done, my lad; let us be off."
"Yes—oh, yes!"—for the minutes seemed hours—"let us go instantly;" and I sprang from the tombstone, while Père Séguin proceeded deliberately to fill up the holes, and replace the turf, whistling through his moustache just as if he had been in the middle of his garden.
"One hundred and thirteen!—I like that number."
"So do I, Père Séguin; but do let us be going. If we remain here, they will think that we have killed and buried some one. Do, pray, be off;" and I made for the wall.
"Stop!" he said suddenly, drawing himself up to his full height, six feet three, "Stop!" and throwing out his long arms, which made his shadow on the stones resemble an immense black cross, "Hold there! Look! Do you see that tomb—that large gray stone?"
"I see nothing, Père Séguin, I will see nothing. I close my eyes, and only desire to be gone."
"As you please," said the poacher; "but you are wrong. I could have told you a curious history—a most interesting history."
"Thanks for your histories—much obliged to you; but I have had enough of them." Still Père Séguin would persevere: "A woman, who has appeared to me three times—yes, three following days—spoken to me, pulled me by the fingers and by the beard eight days after her death."
"Yes! yes! I know; but which way are we to get out of this infernal place?"