“Where is the Italian?” asked Luc.
“Escaped,” returned the other carelessly, slipping his weapon into the scabbard.
“The rascal ran out by the back way,” added the priest.
“He hath left his horse,” remarked Luc, glancing at the three beasts.
“Being far too frightened to think of it,” was the answer, and the stranger, with a sudden show of pleasantness, came up to the Marquis and laid his hand on his shoulder.
“Come, my dear fellow,” he said, “do not look so grave. We have been endeavouring to raise the Devil and have made a failure of it, that is all.”
“A stale game,” said Luc scornfully. “And you were profaning the dead, Monsieur.”
“A peasant! A heretic!” cried the other, with an instant return of haughtiness. “And who are you to call me to account?” At this the priest touched him on the arm, and he added in a quiet tone, “You are scarcely a spy, Monsieur.”
“No,” said Luc wearily. His anger had changed into mere disgust. “No—you know you were doing an illegal thing, a foolish thing, and a horrible thing; but I am no judge of your actions. I will forget you, Monsieur. Only I ask you to give that poor creature decent burial.”
He was turning away when the other caught him by the sleeve.