"To be sure, my Tamin, that is all of it," added Marc. "Who has ever heard that the Black Abbé was a prophet? Faith, 'tis as Father says, a cunning and a devilish revenge. But you can balk it finely by paying no heed to it."
Tamin's face had brightened mightily, but he still looked serious.
"Do you think so?" he exclaimed with eagerness. "'Tis as you say indeed,—the Black Abbé is no prophet. Had it been Grûl, now, that said it, there were something to lie awake for, eh?"
"Yes, indeed, if Grûl had said it," muttered Marc, contemplating him strangely.
But for me, I was something impatient now to be asleep.
"Think no more of it, my friend," said I, and dismissed him. Yet sleepy as I was, I thought of it, and even I must have begun to dream of it. The white sheet of moonlight that lay across my couch became a drift of snow with blood upon it, and the patterned shadow upon the wall an apparition leaning over,—when out of an immense distance, as it were, I heard Marc's voice.
"Father," he cried softly, "are you awake?"
"Yes, dear lad," said I. "What is it?"
"I have been wondering," said he, "why the Black Abbé looked at you, not me, in his going. He had such a countenance as warns me that he purposes some cunning stroke. But I fear his enmity has turned from me to you."
"Well, lad, it was surely I that balked him. What would you have?" I asked.