The other laughed, and slowly moved over to the side of the Abbot.
“And so am I,” he answered. “Do you think I ought to die too?”
The knight gathered the reins in his hands.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
The Abbot interrupted.
“When you were coming up, my lord,” he said turning to the rider, “we were about to uncover. I have a suspicion that I know this man. He tells me that before I die he would like to know me——”
But the knight made a gesture full of wrath.
“We are wasting time!” he cried and put his hand to his visor. “When you drop from your saddle—dead, you will know that it was the Sieur de Marsac who killed you!”
The Abbot laughed, a slow taunting laugh.
“You know me as the Abbot of Chalonnes, my lord de Marsac. My shadow has hovered over these hills and valleys. I have balked your schemes and plans a hundred times,” he said impressively. “But I have worn other garbs than these,—and other faces. I have been a fool, a beggar, a highwayman—a dozen persons in one. I have watched you try trick after trick. I have snapped my fingers under your nose. All the time you thought yourself so clever, you have been but a bungler and a dunce.” He raised his visor inch by inch till his whole face was revealed. “Did you ever dream that you would be confronted, in armor such as this and on a footing equal to yours, your old friend, the Scrivener, the Highwayman of Tours?”