“Perhaps you do not believe in the Gospels?” urged the other maliciously.
Luc gazed at him with a kindling scorn.
“Neither in Gospels, nor Christ, nor God,” he said sternly, “nor any of the symbols superstition uses—nor in anything you and your kind worship.”
The priest was taken aback for a moment and did not answer, but the Italian remarked cheerfully—
“A follower of M. de Voltaire.”
“A follower of no man,” returned Luc wearily. Some minutes passed while the three horsemen seemed to be waiting silently. Then Luc moved his horse away in the direction of the high road; he had seen the soldiers, without their prisoner, and the straggling crowd coming back over the crest of the hill.
The Italian cried after him—
“Are you for Avignon to-night, Monsieur?”
He answered without looking back. When he reached the main road again the dark clouds that had been lowering all day broke and a steady rain began to fall, hastening the short autumn twilight. After perhaps half a league the road branched. The Marquis turned to the left, but soon perceived that he had missed his way, for the dark was descending, and there was no sign of the walls of Avignon on all the wide, gloomy horizon.
The rain was steady, cold, and seemed not likely to cease. The only building in sight was a deserted farmhouse with the roof half gone and weeds and fallen masonry choking garden and yard.