“The one in the second canoe, Monsieur; the one who roared.”
“Chevet? Hugo Chevet? What has happened to him? Come, speak up, or I’ll slit your tongue!”
The man gulped, gripping the door with one hand, the other pointing outward.
“He is there, Monsieur, beyond the trail, at the edge of the wood. I saw him with his face turned up––Mon Dieu! so white; I dare not touch him, but there was blood, where a knife had entered his back.”
All were on their feet, their faces picturing the sudden horror, yet Cassion was first to recover his wits, and lead the way without. Grasping the soldier’s arm, and bidding him show where the body lay, he thrust him through the door. I lingered behind shrinking from being again compelled to view the sight of the dead man, yet unable to keep entirely away. Cassion stopped, looking down at the object on the grass, but made no effort to touch it with his hands. The soldier bent, and rolled the body over, and one of the priests felt in the pockets of the jacket, bringing forth a paper or two. Cassion took these, gripping them in his fingers, his face appearing gray in the early light.
“Mon Dieu! the man has been murdered,” he exclaimed, “a dastard blow in the back. Look about, and see if you find a knife. Had he quarrel with anyone, Moulin?”
The soldier straightened up.
“No, Monsieur; I heard of none, though he was often rough and harsh of tongue to the men. Ah! now I recall, he had words with Sieur de Artigny on the beach at dusk. I know not the cause, yet the younger man left him angrily, and passed by where I stood, with his hands clinched.”