Part 55 (2/2)

It was no longer ”a bas les aristocrats,” ”Vive la nation!” but the howl of men who seek vengeance.

Floessel heard the howl, and it added wings to his feet.

The blockheads! the fools! All this outcry because one insignificant priest had been killed! Why! they died like flies in Paris. He himself had been a cursed idiot ever to leave that glorious city.

And behind him came the avengers of Pere Mouet.

He ran well---that Jean Floessel--for over a mile, stumbling, sweating, cursing, whilst anger gave way to growing fear.

And he had reason to fear, for behind him ran Gourmel Tenoit, whose little lad had been nursed back to life by the good priest of Kernak, and beside him was Blaise Fermat, who owed wife and happiness to the same kindly influence.

They caught Jean Floessel just by the great rock where three brave Breton soldiers lie buried, and where the fairies visit the dead on moonlit nights and talk to them. Yes, they caught him there, and he had not even time to cry ”Vive la nation!” ...

Those two were happier as they walked home together, leaving behind them a limp and hideous thing, face downwards amongst the heather.

But many wept that night in Kernak as they whispered Pere Mouet's name in their prayers.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

”MICHAEL! MICHAEL!”

They were alone.

Those three helpless women standing together under the shadow of the Calvary beside their dead. The crowd had gone. Some in pursuit of Floessel, others drifting away, shamed and frightened, as you have seen whipped curs creep back to their kennels.

Here and there a woman had stolen near to the little group, sobbing out a pet.i.tion for pardon; but most of them had gone silently, with doubt and fear in their hearts.

Pere Mouet had bidden them return to their homes, and, at this moment, Pere Mouet's commands were powerful.

So they went--regretfully, perhaps,--when they thought of the chateau, and the fine night's plunder and amus.e.m.e.nt they had promised themselves, but hurriedly when they remembered the woman who stood, crying, scornfully and accusingly, to them that their good priest was dead--murdered.

But it was possible they would come back. Cowed they might be, but they were dangerous still.

None knew that better than Madame.

They had tasted the sweets of momentary power. They had cried ”Vive la nation!”

They would cry it again at the bidding of another Floessel.

”We must not delay,” she said, speaking very quietly, yet with a great effort; ”it is still far to the cave.”

”To the cave! You will leave the good father, Madame Maman?”

Cecile's voice was reproachful.

”He needs no more of our care, my child,” replied her mother gravely.

<script>