"Now, hast thou seen two runaways by thy gate this morning, master priest—one a stalwart, dangerous fellow, the other a measly, monkish lad? And, prithee, see thou speak the truth."
I assured them lightly none had passed save the fishers to their boats, and they seemed satisfied, till one, looking more keenly than the rest, came near to me, and, with a suspicious gesture, cried out—
"And thou hast not got them hidden up thy wide sleeve, good priestling? Come, we will search with a good will thy parsonage."
My heart leapt again. But I managed to ring out a laugh that sounded careless—
"Oh yes," said I, "gentlemen galore, and heaps of little beardless monks lie stacked in my poor house yonder. Bring them forth, good sir, and leave more room for me."
He led the way to search, but the others seemed unwilling, having good trust in him that I counterfeited, and all that might afford a hiding-place in the hut was opened and turned about—nay, the very holy rest of the chapel was disturbed as search was made, walls and wainscot rapped, cupboards forced, and stones prised up, the while I stood at ease peeling a light cane that I had cut from the wood.
"Now, good brothers," said I, lightly, as they stood at fault in the midst of the chapel, "are you satisfied I am no concealer of other men's property or persons hereabout?"
"Yea, we will press on," said one of them. "They have taken to the caves like enough, and we shall have a week's 'rabbiting.'"
"Then I wish you good morn," said I, "with a word of thanks for turning out in your zeal much old stuff of mine that I thought was lost and gone."
Glad was I indeed to see my three guests break into the forest opposite. So, with a thick staff for my luggage, I took the path that led straight to St. Pierre Port, six miles away. Without let or hindrance I passed on, imitating as I could the easy gait of Father Augustine, and taking care to greet all I met, of all conditions, who were about on their business that autumn morning, with such jests or merry speeches as I could muster.