"Open, in the name of God!" said the Abbot; he divined what it was that hung over him and that nothing now could avert.
He stood in the middle of the still convent-yard, immovable as a statue, and the brethren gathered round him as round the pillar which upheld them all.
The Count walked silently up to him, his white lips trembling with such violent agitation that he had to control himself before he could speak. The Abbot quietly awaited what he might say, while the Count included him and the whole circle of monks in one glance of hatred, for which his tongue could find no adequate expression. At last he muttered between his teeth,
"And dare you actually look me in the face--can you bear that I should look at you? You liars and hypocrites--do you not tremble before me?"
"We tremble before no just man," said the Abbot, "for our consciences are pure. As to the unjust--them the Lord will punish."
"Spare your words!" cried the Count. "Every breath of your throat is a falsehood."
"My Lord Count," said the Abbot, "do you believe that we--"
"Believe!" interrupted the Count, "I believe nothing--I know.--Do you understand? Since my visit with the Duke I have lurked round your convent. The nurse whom you maltreated betrayed the track; the old man at Saint Valentine's has confessed. He is dead and he made his last confession to me."
At those words, which fell upon them like a thunderbolt, the brethren turned pale and were dumb. Now was God's judgment come upon them. But with a comprehension of the danger came resignation; if they had sinned, God might punish them--if they had done right, He would surely help them.
"Where is my son?" cried the Count impatiently, glancing round at the whole circle of monks.