"Well, monsieur," said he, with a sardonic grimace, "suppose that it were so?"
"That Rouvigny is dead!" said I, starting up.
"Moderate your transports, M. le Soldat," said the priest coldly, while grasping my arm with fingers like a vice, and while his eyes glared fiercely into mine. "This Thibaud de Rouvigny—this leader of the mob——"
"Who murdered the venerable Louis de Mazancy in cold blood—well—well—what of him?"
"Is sorely prostrated by a yellow fever, and may never recover."
"Good news for us."
"Tonnerre de Ciel!" grinned the priest, "and for all who love——"
"What?" I demanded furiously.
"Only the cause of royalty, monsieur," he replied, with an extremely low bow.
"We sail for your island in a short time."