"Well," began the other, sheepishly, "it wasn't in the fight, that's true. It happened afterwards. I was not with the party, but they say the English clerk stumbled over his own gun."
"Where was he shot?" Dunvegan hurled the query almost ferociously.
"In the back, I heard!"
Bruce spat an oath. Brochet gave a sympathetic murmur. The courier growled inarticulately.
"Mon Dieu," he muttered under his breath, "dat's wan more count for M'sieu' Ferguson, wan more hell fire. I t'ink he be need de pries' for shrive, not for marry heem. Ba gosh, I do!"
The Nor'wester was obviously growing impatient.
"I must be going back if you are ready to move, Father Marcin," he asserted, "for Ferguson will question me as to where I found you, and if he thinks there has been any lagging, I shall pay the price."
Dunvegan's head moved the fraction of an inch in a nod perceptible only to Father Brochet. The latter quickly arose.
"I am ready to make all haste," he averred. "If I delay, I am perhaps permitting sin."
"As for you, my friends," spoke the Nor'wester, turning to the others, "there is nothing to hinder your coming also. They will give you good cheer in La Roche. You may rest there a while and return at your leisure."