“Do you think I am afraid?” asked the other, languidly raising his bent brows. “We are not very likely to meet again,” he added.
“No,” assented the Marquis. “You interest me, though. I think your priest here would like to kill me. I wish you joy of your holy companion.”
“If I had my way, you would not leave here alive,” said the priest, in a low, calm voice. “You are an atheist and a blasphemer, and a menace to Holy Church.”
“And to your safety, Father,” smiled M. Armand. “But go, Monsieur. You are a noble.”
Luc bowed.
“I will see the heretic is buried,” added M. Armand, “though she would not speak. Adieu. I am sorry you would not have any supper.”
“Adieu,” returned Luc gravely. The priest moved from the door, and he stepped out; the last glimpse he had of M. Armand was the picture of him seated on the table finishing his pie.
On reaching the yard he found the priest had followed him, and was standing a few paces off watching his movements. He called his servant, and the man came round the corner of the farm leading the two horses.
“Where have you been this while?” demanded the priest.
The fellow answered respectfully that he had been making the animals ready.