"Why, 'tis a true Corbet," said he; "the very image of thy mother, dearest Margaret." Then with a sudden change of tone, "I only wish she and thou were safe in the dear old mother's wing, the gray house at Tre Madoc."
My mother's pale cheek flushed a little. "Has anything new happened?" she asked.
"New? Yes! The vultures are gathering to the carcass, Margaret. We are to be left in peace no longer in our quiet corner. The old convent at Sartilly is opened once more with a band of nuns and a black Dominican for a confessor. They call it a hospital—we all know what that means nowadays."
My mother threw an arm round me as if to protect me, and I felt it tremble.
"Then that was what the curé meant," said I, struck with a sudden light. I was a quick child, and the danger which was always in the background sharpened the wits of all children of the Religion. "That was what he meant by the wolves!" And then, struck by the impropriety I had committed in speaking without being addressed, I faltered, "I beg your pardon, monsieur."
"There is no offence, my child; and you must not say monsieur, but my father," said he, sitting down and drawing me to him. "Tell me what was that about the curé and the wolves."
I repeated my story.
"You are a clear-headed little maiden," said he, "and have a quick wit. What did Simon Sablot think of the matter?"
"He said, monsieur—my father," I added, correcting myself, "that the good man meant to give us a warning, and had probably made his errand on purpose."
"More likely to spy out the nakedness of the land," muttered Grace, to whom all priests were alike.