Part 55 (1/2)

Bah! they had also learnt how to deal with priests in Paris.

In an instant he had thrust his hand within his blouse.

Ah, ah! It was so sudden that not even great Gourmel Tenoit, who had him by the coat, could see what he was about.

A click, a flash, a loud report, followed by a shriek from the women.

But Pere Mouet did not cry out, though the bullet winged its way straight enough to its mark. Only he staggered a little, threw up both arms, and then sank back upon the ground, at the very foot of the Calvary, his head resting against the rough rock.

It was a terrible silence that followed pistol-shot and screams.

Madame de Quernais was on her knees beside the fallen man; all eyes were upon her.

Presently she rose.

”He is dead,” she said, and her voice, low and dull at first, became shrill as she repeated the words ”He is dead.”

A picture to be remembered, that, by more than one who stood there.

The desolate stretch of moor with its tangle of briar, thistle, and patches of purple heather; the mists broken and fleeing before the rising wind; the smoking glare of torches on the outskirts of the crowd, and the pale glory of moonlight streaming down unmarred upon the great rough-hewn cross, emblem of suffering and death, with its blackened crown of thorns telling its tale of love and victory immortal; whilst below, gathered round the little hillock, the three women, two girls clinging together, yet erect and dauntless, whilst the third knelt by the prostrate figure of the dead man.

Moonbeams fell on Madame's silver hair, from which the heavy wrap had slipped back; they fell too, on the wrinkled, kindly face of Pere Mouet.

So small, so helpless he looked lying there, yet never had he been so powerful. No wonder that he was smiling--the glad, sweet smile of one who had gone straight from his life-task to meet the Bridegroom.

But the life-work was not over, even though the worn old hands, which had always been so ready for any labour of love, were stiffening now in death.

The great crowd, gathered round, was swaying first one way, then another. Pere Mouet was dead! Pere Mouet was dead! Yonder stood his murderer.

They were honest men, after all, these humble peasants of Brittany.

Pere Mouet, and the relentless antagonism of the sea, had taught them to fear G.o.d. If they had forgotten, in a sudden burst of mad excitement and intoxication, they were remembering with quick and sharpened stabs of conscience.

And Pere Mouet was dead!

Madame was telling them so, even now, whilst she stood like some accusing spirit before them. Alone, but fearless, telling them this dread news.

Pere Mouet dead! They were realizing it--to the cost of Jean Floessel.

With a yell they would have flung themselves upon him, but Jean had already seen his danger.

If fools must be fools, it was time for wise men to escape.

Wrenching himself free from Gourmel's slackened grasp, he dived under the big man's arm and set off at full speed across the lande.

He must reach Varenac and Marcel Trouet. But the men of Kernak were of another mind.

The tide had turned.