In an instant he had thrust his hand within his blouse.
Ah, ah! It was so sudden that not even great Gourmel Tenoit, who had him by the coat, could see what he was about.
A click, a flash, a loud report, followed by a shriek from the women.
But Père Mouet did not cry out, though the bullet winged its way straight enough to its mark. Only he staggered a little, threw up both arms, and then sank back upon the ground, at the very foot of the Calvary, his head resting against the rough rock.
It was a terrible silence that followed pistol-shot and screams.
Madame de Quernais was on her knees beside the fallen man; all eyes were upon her.
Presently she rose.
"He is dead," she said, and her voice, low and dull at first, became shrill as she repeated the words "He is dead."
A picture to be remembered, that, by more than one who stood there.
The desolate stretch of moor with its tangle of briar, thistle, and patches of purple heather; the mists broken and fleeing before the rising wind; the smoking glare of torches on the outskirts of the crowd, and the pale glory of moonlight streaming down unmarred upon the great rough-hewn cross, emblem of suffering and death, with its blackened crown of thorns telling its tale of love and victory immortal; whilst below, gathered round the little hillock, the three women, two girls clinging together, yet erect and dauntless, whilst the third knelt by the prostrate figure of the dead man.