‘Fine talking!’ I said, contemptuously. ‘If he were a soldier he might be brought to it. But he is a priest, my friend, and does not fight.’
‘Fight? Who wants him to fight?’ the lad answered, his face dark, his hands moving restlessly. ‘It is the easier done. A blow in the back, and he will trouble us no more.’
‘Who is to strike it?’ I asked drily.
Simon trembled and hesitated; but presently, heaving a deep sigh, he said, ‘I will.’
‘It might not be difficult,’ I muttered, thinking it over.
‘It would be easy,’ he answered under his breath. His eyes shone, his lips were white, and his long dark hair hung wet over his forehead.
I reflected, and the longer I did so the more feasible seemed the suggestion. A single word, and I might sweep from my path the man whose existence threatened mine; who would not meet me fairly, but, working against me darkly and treacherously, deserved no better treatment at my hands than that which a detected spy receives. He had wronged my mother; he would fain destroy my friends!
And, doubtless, I shall be blamed by some and ridiculed by more for indulging in scruples at such a time. But I have all my life long been prejudiced against that form of underhand violence which I have heard old men contend came into fashion in our country in modern times, and which certainly seems to be alien from the French character. Without judging others too harshly, or saying that the poniard is never excusable—for then might some wrongs done to women and the helpless go without remedy—I have set my face against its use as unworthy of a soldier. At the time, moreover, of which I am now writing the extent to which our enemies had lately resorted to it tended to fix this feeling with peculiar firmness in my mind; and, but for the very desperate dilemma in which I stood at the moment—and not I alone—I do not think that I should have entertained Simon’s proposal for a minute.
As it was, I presently answered him in a way which left him in no doubt of my sentiments. ‘Simon, my friend,’ I said—and I remember I was a little moved—‘you have something still to learn, both as a soldier and a Huguenot. Neither the one nor the other strikes at the back.’
‘But if he will not fight?’ the lad retorted rebelliously. ‘What then?’