“Yes, I do remember.  Well?”

“Well, I—­I took the cartridges first to St. Gildas chapel and dipped them in holy water.  You must not laugh, Dick,” said Lys gently, laying her cool hands on my lips.

“Laugh, my darling!”

Overhead the October sky was pale amethyst, and the sunlight burned like orange flame through the yellow leaves of beech and oak.  Gnats and midges danced and wavered overhead; a spider dropped from a twig halfway to the ground and hung suspended on the end of his gossamer thread.

“Are you sleepy, dear?” asked Lys, bending over me.

“I am—­a little; I scarcely slept two hours last night,” I answered.

“You may sleep, if you wish,” said Lys, and touched my eyes caressingly.

“Is my head heavy on your knees?”

“No, Dick.”

I was already in a half doze; still I heard the brook babbling under the beeches and the humming of forest flies overhead.  Presently even these were stilled.

The next thing I knew I was sitting bolt upright, my ears ringing with a scream, and I saw Lys cowering beside me, covering her white face with both hands.

As I sprang to my feet she cried again and clung to my knees.  I saw my dog rush growling into a thicket, then I heard him whimper, and he came backing out, whining, ears flat, tail down.  I stooped and disengaged Lys’s hand.

“Don’t go, Dick!” she cried.  “O God, it’s the Black Priest!”

In a moment I had leaped across the brook and pushed my way into the thicket.  It was empty.  I stared about me; I scanned every tree trunk, every bush.  Suddenly I saw him.  He was seated on a fallen log, his head resting in his hands, his rusty black robe gathered around him.  For a moment my hair stirred under my cap; sweat started on forehead and cheek bone; then I recovered my reason, and understood that the man was human and was probably wounded to death.  Ay, to death; for there at my feet, lay the wet trail of blood, over leaves and stones, down into the little hollow, across to the figure in black resting silently under the trees.

I saw that he could not escape even if he had the strength, for before him, almost at his very feet, lay a deep, shining swamp.

As I stepped forward my foot broke a twig.  At the sound the figure started a little, then its head fell forward again.  Its face was masked.  Walking up to the man, I bade him tell where he was wounded.  Durand and the others broke through the thicket at the same moment and hurried to my side.

“Who are you who hide a masked face in a priest’s robe?” said the gendarme loudly.

There was no answer.

“See—­see the stiff blood all over his robe,” muttered Le Bihan to Fortin.

“He will not speak,” said I.

“He may be too badly wounded,” whispered Le Bihan.

“I saw him raise his head,” I said, “my wife saw him creep up here.”