"I know you, François de Grûl," came the reply, gasped from a dry mouth.
"Then further explanation, I think you will allow, is not needed. I will bid you farewell, and a pleasant journey," went on the same civil modulations of Grûl's voice. At the same moment he reached down with his shining blade as if to sever the rope.
"I did not do it! I did not do it!" screamed the Abbé, once more clutching convulsively at the smooth rock. "I swear to you by all the saints!"
Grûl examined the edge of his knife. He tested it with his thumb. I saw him glance along it critically. Then he touched it, ever so lightly, to the rope, so that a single strand parted.
"Swear to me," he said, in the mildest voice, "swear to me, Monsieur l'Abbé, that you had no part in it. Swear by the Holy Ghost, Monsieur l'Abbé!"
But the Abbé was silent.
"Swear me that oath now, good Abbé," repeated the voice, with a kind of courteous insistence.
"I will not swear!" came the ghastly whisper in reply.
At this an astonishing change passed over the face that peered down from the brink. Its sane tranquillity became a very paroxysm of rage. The grotesque cap was dashed aside, and Grûl sprang to his feet, waving his arms, stamping and leaping, his gaudy cloak a-flutter, his long white hair and beard twisting as if with a sentient fury of their own. He was so close upon the brink that I held my breath, expecting him to be plunged headlong. But all at once the paroxysm died out as suddenly as it had begun; and throwing himself down in his former position, Grûl once more touched the knife edge to the rope, severing fibre by fibre, slowly, slowly.
With the first touch upon the rope rose the Abbé's voice again, but no longer in vain entreaty and coward wailings. I listened with a great awe, and a sob broke from Mizpah's lips. It was the prayer for the passing soul. We heard it poured forth in steady tones but swift, against the blank face of the cliff. And we waited to see the rope divided at a stroke.