head drooping forward; whispered so low that even the lean man behind him, listening with greedy ears, failed to follow the meaning of his superior’s words. But that he spoke plainly enough for his hearer Father Pezelay’s face was witness. Astonishment, fear, hope, triumph, the lean pale face reflected all in turn; and, underlying all, a subtle malignant mischief, as if a devil’s eyes peeped through the holes in an opera mask.
When the other was at last silent, Pezelay drew a deep breath.
“’Tis bold! Bold! Bold!” he muttered. “But have you thought? He who bears the”
“Brunt?” the other whispered, with a chuckle. “He may suffer? Yes, but it will not be you or I! No, he who was last here shall be first there! The Archdeacon-Vicar—if we can persuade him—who knows but that even for him the crown of martyrdom is reserved?” The dull eyes flickered with unholy amusement.
“And the alarm that brings him from the Council Chamber?”
“Need not of necessity be real. The pinch will be to make use of it. Make use of it—and the hay will burn!”
“You think it will?”
“What can one man do against a thousand? His own people dare not support him.”
Father Pezelay turned to the lean man who kept the door, and, beckoning to him, conferred a while with him in a low voice.
“A score or so I might get,” the man answered presently, after some debate. “And well posted, something might be done. But we are not in Paris, good father, where the Quarter of the Butchers is to be counted on, and men know that to kill Huguenots is to do God service! Here”—he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously—“they are sheep.”
