FitzWilliam,
that John Merton came to him and told him that a gentleman was waiting.
He went upstairs and found the priest, a little timorous-looking man,
dressed like a minister, pacing quickly to and fro in the tiny room at
the top of the house where John and he were to sleep. The Frenchman
seized his two hands and began to pour out in an agitated whisper a
torrent of French and English. Robin disengaged himself.
"You must sit down, M. de Preau," he said, "and speak slowly, or I shall
not understand one word. Tell me precisely what I must do. I am here to
obey orders--no more. I have no design in my head at all. I will do what
Mr. Bourgoign and yourself decide."
* * * * *
It was pathetic to watch the little priest. He interrupted himself by a
thousand apostrophes; he lifted hands and eyes to the ceiling
repeatedly; he named his poor mistress saint and martyr; he cried out
against the barbarian land in which he found himself, and the
bloodthirsty tigers with whom, like a second Daniel, he himself had to
consort; he expatiated on the horrible risk that he ran in venturing
forth from the castle on such an errand, saying that Sir Amyas would
wring his neck like a hen's, if he so much as suspected the nature of
his business. He denounced, with feeble venom, the wickedness of these
murderers, who would not only slay his mistress's body, but her soul as
well, if they could, by depriving her of a priest.
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