"By St. Michael!" was his oath, "we will find the lance, though we dig to Satan and his imps to pluck it up!"
So for a still longer time they wrought, until their hands were sore, arms and backs lame, and still only dark earth and sandy pebbles. When at last they paused for breath, each one looked in his fellow's face, and saw reflected there his own waning hope. But still Peter urged:—
"Be confident, dear friends and lords; deeper yet was the lance when I saw it. Do not distrust the saint!"
They toiled still longer, until by noting the shortening of the candles on the altar they knew that noon was long past, and the day was speeding. None dared utter his doubts. But at last Count Raymond declared that he could stay no more; it was his turn to go and command the fort before the Gate of St. George. Richard could see the anguish on the face of the great lord of the South.
"What shall I say to the people who are waiting without the church?" demanded he of Peter Barthelmy; "they will be plunged in despair when they know we have failed."
"Ah, Lord Count, do not lose faith in the saint! That were mortal sin! Can St. Andrew lie?" replied Peter, between the strokes of his mattock.
"St. Andrew cannot lie, but Provençal priests can," was the Count's menacing retort. "Think well on your sins, my good clerk. If you have been tempted by the devil to deceive us in this—rest assured the people will pluck you in pieces."
"I do not fear," said Peter, steadily, with the stolid resignation of the peasant born.
"You shall be taught to fear," muttered the Count; then to the others, "My Lord Bishop, my other lords, and you good Christians, I say farewell;" and he added bitterly,—"and let God have mercy upon our souls, for we can hope for nothing more on earth."
The Count was gone. And then for the first time, like the howling of a distant gale, they heard a raging and roaring around the basilica, creeping in through the thick walls and tiny windows.