“I see,” said the priest, “but answer me—where did you spend last night now?”
“I tould you,” said Raymond, “wid de jolly cocks—sure I mostly roost it; an' better company too than most people, for they're fond o' me. Didn't you see? ha, ha!”
“I believe I understand you now,” said Father Roche; “you've slept near somebody's hen roost, and have stolen the cock—to whom are you carrying it?”
“You won't tell to-morrow; ha, ha, there now, take a rub too—that's one.”
“Poor creature,” said the priest to his companion, “I am told he is affectionate, and where he takes a fancy or has received a kindness, very grateful.”
The parish where the circumstances we are describing occurred, having been that in which Raymond was born, of course the poor fool was familiar to every one in it, as indeed every one in it, young and old, was to him.
During the short dialogue between him and the priest, the female, absorbed in her own heavy sorrow, was observed by Raymond occasionally to wipe the tears from her eyes; a slight change, a shade of apparent compassion came over his countenance, and turning to her, he gently laid his hand upon her shoulder, and said, in a voice different from, his flighty and abrupt manner—
“Don't cry, Mary, he has company, and good things that were brought to him—he has indeed, Mary; so don't be crying now.”
“What do you mean, poor boy?” asked the woman; “I don't understand you, Raymond.”
“It is difficult to do that at all times,” said Father Roche, “but notwithstanding the wildness of his manner, he is seldom without meaning. Raymond will you tell me where you came from now?” he asked.