The Breton with a sigh bowed his head, while his visitor stood looking at him appalled.
Presently he began to walk back and forth, muttering aloud.
“I did not think it—how can he do it? Gave up everything for him—so beautiful, so beautiful. Thus they throw themselves away; always have done it, always will, all except Mrs. Hook. Now they are going to take off her clothes—before those Frenchmen—cut the skin of her beautiful brow and let it hang down over her eyes—eyes that made men tremble. Then they will cut off her little ears and pieces from her cheeks. Then her lips—and to think he has kissed them. Then her white arms—then her beautiful—beautiful—Oh! oh! oh! And he sleeps here, doubled up like a ground-hog!”
The Reverend Hook’s excitement overcame him, and weeping copiously he pattered over and stood in front of the priest. After several efforts he mumbled lugubriously.
“I am going, but I want to say that I didn’t think it.”
The Breton looked up.
“You are going?”
“And I want to say that I didn’t think it,” he sobbed.
“What?” asked the Breton drearily.
“That you would let them kill her.”