"This story of Bunting is a goldarned lie," said Plant, hoarsely. Bob did not reply. He was sorry for them all, and relied on the bishop. What he relied on him for he did not know. All he did know was that the bishop seemed fully equal to the situation.
"How many more of you are there, Mr. Plant?" he asked at length.
"Gordon and Goby and De Vere," replied Plant, miserably.
"I must see Mr. Gordon," said Bob. And then they came to the Angel. By this time Rivaulx and the bishop were great friends, for Rivaulx was a clerical in his heart of hearts, and, if there wasn't a Catholic bishop to lean on, a Protestant one was a good substitute. He stopped weeping, and held the bishop's hand.
"You are a good man, sare bishop," he said. "I wish I was a good bishop, but I cannot. Life is a very terrible thing. I wish I could cut my throat. I am weary."
"I should go to bed," said the bishop, "and I'll look in and see you in the morning. Bed is the best place when one is weary. I assure you that I am not wholly ignorant of the world, or of the desire to cut my throat, but I find that after a good night's rest the wish to do so evaporates, and one determines to live for another twelve hours at least. But before you go, I hope you will give me your word that you will cut no one else's."
"I give it," said Rivaulx. "The desire to kill Mr. Plant has left me. I am no longer furious, even with Bramber. I am simply sad and fearfully mournful. I thank you, sare; good night."
"Good night," said the bishop. "Stay, marquis, I think Mr. Plant has the weapons."
The marquis waved them off.
"I have no need of them. I give them you, sare bishop. Take them."