“Companion with whom you please,” I retorted savagely.  “But I tell you this, preacher, and once for all,—­you ’ll bear yourself like a human being to this poor lad while I ’m with you, or else make answer to me.  Is that plain?  I care nothing for your dogma, or your hair-splitting, but I know what fair play is between man and man,—­ay, and mean to have it here, even if it costs you a split head.”

“I beg you will both be at peace, Messieurs,” broke in the soft, caressing voice at my elbow.  “There can be no cause for comrades quarrelling over me.  I am not worthy a ruptured friendship.  Yet I fail to understand any occasion for your seeming trouble; has the older man some reason to distrust my robe?”

“Reason!  Saint George! ’tis precious little that ever bothers him.  The fellow is a Puritan preacher—­of the same breed as the Huguenots—­and possesses a head as hard as an oaken plank.”

I nearly laughed at the unrestrained expression of aversion which swept the girlish face.  An instant the black eyes lost their gentleness, the thin fingers clutched the silver cross.

“Mother of God! a heretic! a preacher of that doctrine!  Never before have I met his kind, nor do I care now to make close acquaintance.  A Puritan! Sainte Marie, have mercy!  Yet surely in such stress as this we may for the time overlook our differences in faith, and be as men together?  Is it not God’s will?  But I know little of conditions.  Is there some path open for escape from here?  Then will I let this Puritan be, save for a prayer to the Virgin.”

“I fear there is none, unless you know of some back opening to this rock hole.”

He shook his head sadly, his gaze still on Cairnes.

“None, Monsieur; the passage endeth here.”

“Then the three of us are safely cooped for those savages to work their will upon.  No pleasant thought that, yet little good can arise from losing hope.  For one, I fight it out, and let others do the praying.  Let us retrace our way to the big room, where we can hold council in more comfort; perchance we may find yet some opening to the upper air.  Cairnes, lay hold upon the other side, and help to bear back this lamed man to the altar.”

I doubted greatly his compliance with my order, and determined to settle this affair between us without more delay.  But he came forward, unwillingly enough and muttering.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE TALE OF THE PRIEST

With all possible tenderness we bore the slender form of the helpless priest along the dark, crooked passage, until we found a comfortable resting-place for him against the altar.

“I thank you much, Messieurs,” he said simply, the depth of his gratitude apparent in uplifted dark eyes, glistening in the light of the fire.  “Members of our Order are more accustomed to blows than kindness, so I have no words with which to express thanks for your care.”