Luc mounted and was turning out of the yard when the priest came to his stirrup.
“Swear to me on the Gospels, on the Cross, that you will be silent about what you have seen to-night,” he said, in a low voice.
“You heard my word,” answered Luc coldly. “And I have told you I believe in neither Cross nor Gospels. Stand away—your habit smells rank to me.”
The priest stepped softly back; the servant mounted, and the two rode away.
They had gone perhaps half a league before the Marquis recollected that he still did not know the road to Avignon; in his haste to be rid of his companions he had never thought of this.
Instantly checking his horse, he looked back at his servant.
The dawn was breaking, and the man’s face appeared of a strange pallor.
“We do not know the way,” said Luc.
“Any way, Monseigneur,” answered the servant, “as long as we do not go back.”
“What is the matter?” asked Luc sharply, for the fellow was plainly in a fright.