"I will call them by their names, if you will tell me what they are."
"I don't know their names," returned the countess, who never troubled herself about such a common thing as a watch-dog's name.
"Then I must shoot them."
"But, father, as gently as you can." By this Theudelinde did not mean to appeal to his compassion for the dogs, but to remind him to spare her sensitive nerves.
The abbé took his revolver and went on his mission; he carried no lantern with him, for daylight had come.
Both the watch-dogs lay one on each side of the doorway. They were chained loosely, so that they could keep well clear of one another, but it was impossible to pass between them to the door, if you escaped being bitten by one, the other was sure to tear you. The abbé, therefore, to get to the door, had to shoot one and wound the other. He then drew the bolt, and saw a man standing before him, a revolver in his hand.
"Who are you? What do you want?" asked the priest.
"Who are you, and what brings you here?" returned the stranger.
"I am the Abbé Samuel, the countess's confessor."
"And I am Ivan Behrend, the countess's next neighbor."