"Your claim I allow, my dear Sir Blair," cried the Frenchman, "but the eternal concerns of the soul come first, and I have been wicked—wicked—so very wicked—or at least as wicked as my health (which is indifferent) would allow. But the holy Prior—the abbot—mine uncle, hath shown me the error of my ways!"
John Mortimer turned directly round till he faced the speaker.
"Odds bobs," he cried, "then after all there is a pair of them. He is this fellow's uncle too!"
The Frenchman gazed at him amazed for a moment. Then he clapped his hand fiercely on the place where his sword-hilt should have been, crying, "I would have you know, Monsieur, that the word of a Saint Pierre is sacred. I carry in my veins the blood of kings!"
And he grappled fiercely for the missing sword-hilt, but his fingers encountering only the great jewelled cross of gold filigree work, he raised it to his lips with a sudden revulsion of feeling.
"Torrentes iniquitatis conturbaverunt me.
Dolóres inferni circumdederunt me."
He spoke these words solemnly, shaking his head as he did so.
"What! still harping on little Dolóres?" cried Blair; "I thought little Concha was your last—before Holy Church, I mean."
The little Frenchman was beneath the lamps and he looked up at the long lean Scot with a peculiarly sweet smile.
"Ah, you scoff," he said, "but you will learn—yes, you will learn. My uncle, the Prior, will teach you. He will show you the Way, as he has done for me!"