The priest turned a trifle pale at this, but he was no coward—that I could see at the first glance.
“St. Jacques protect me,” he said in a calm voice, crossing himself.
“Stop that twiddle-twoddle,” interrupted the host, at the same time catching the priest roughly by the shoulder.
“You know the laws of the province?” asked the Earl, sternly.
“Yes, I know them,” he replied, proudly. “The agent of Christ is worthy of death in this province if he adhere to the one true faith. Yes, Sir Tyrant, I know your laws.”
“Do you call the governor names?” yelled the host in a rage. “Down on your knees in an instant; you’ll hang in the air in an hour.”
The priest looked at the host grimly, and then he smiled.
“Pardon me, your honor, I mistook you. I thought he was the governor. If you are he, however—”
“Take that for your impudence,” cried the host.
He had unbuckled his leather belt and struck the priest with it across the face. It was all done so quickly that we could hardly see how it happened; but when I looked again, the landlord was lying on the floor with a bloody nose and the priest was rubbing his knuckles which ached with the sting of the blow he had given him.