“Where do you purpose going?” ventured the cowed priest, in a subdued tone.

“Straight up the stream.  That’s where your cursed Frenchman has disappeared so swiftly, unless the guard at the North Gate shot him, as they swear to O’Reilly.  So sit there quiet, and hold your tongue—­you may command the Devil, for all I care, but I ’m in charge of this boat.”

The sound of angry controversy died away in the distance.  Cautiously I lifted my eyes to the level of the cane, and peered over.  The Spanish boat, a large one propelled by the vigorous sweep of twelve oars, was already a hundred yards above, swiftly stemming the current.  From their gestures I judged the debate yet raged between the gray-robe crouched in the stern, and the big, burly fellow, resplendent in gold lace, standing up and urging his oarsmen to greater exertion.  Within ten minutes they rounded the upper point, and when they again appeared within vision, the boat was a mere dot floating in the midst of the golden sunshine, where the setting sun gave a good-night kiss to the vast, sombre river.

De Noyan’s boyish face was aglow with unconcealed amusement as I turned toward him.

“Well, Benteen,” he asked, twirling his moustache, and staring after them, “what was it the Dons said? Peste!  I could not make out a word of their lingo, except when the fellows swore.”

I repeated to him the conversation, and he burst into a hearty laugh.

“Indeed, a sweet-scented Frenchman, that Capuchin priest,” he said carelessly.  “I wonder what has so set the drunken fool against me?”

“It is not you, Chevalier,” I acknowledged, feeling a touch of his spirit; “it is rather that lad who landed so heavily behind his ear last night, and who ran such a merry masquerade in monk’s robe as never Spanish war-ship saw before.  I warrant it is I the holy father seeks so savagely.  Faith, it would be pleasant to know how he got out of the pickle in which I left him.  ’T is odd the Dons did not use him in your place.”

“Ay, that will be the cause, for I did nothing to anger the fellow, except it was to laugh at his prayers, with a joke at the quality of his Latin.  But Dieu protect you, Monsieur, if ever he gets whip-hand.  A revengeful priest is more to be feared than a rabid dog.  I stirred one of his breed once at the Cathedral by some wild prank, and carry the scar of it still.  But come, it becomes dusk.  Let’s break our fast, and while eating consider the best plan for the night.  Eloise, do you awaken refreshed?”

She came quickly forward, a smile for us both, looking dainty and sweet, although the heavy mass of brown hair appeared somewhat dishevelled from her unaccustomed pillow.