Two men lay upon the ground, one bathed in blood and motionless, with his face toward the earth; this one was dead. The other leaned against a tree, supported there by the two valets, and was praying , with clasped hands and eyes raised to Heaven. He had received a ball in his , which had broken the bone. The young men first approached the dead man.
“He is a priest,” said Bragelonne, “he has worn the . Oh, the scoundrels! to lift their hands against a minister of God.”
“Come here, sir,” said Urban, an old soldier who had served under the duke in all his campaigns; “come here, there is nothing to be done with him, whilst we may perhaps be able to save the other.”
The wounded man smiled sadly. “Save me! Oh, no!” said he, “but help me to die, if you can.”
“Are you a priest?” asked Raoul.
“No sir.”
“I ask, as your unfortunate companion appeared to me to belong to the church.”
“He is the curate of Bethune, sir, and was carrying the holy belonging to his church, and the treasure of the chapter, to a safe place, the prince having abandoned our town yesterday; and as it was known that bands of the enemy were prowling about the country, no one dared to accompany the good man, so I offered to do so.
“And, sir,” continued the wounded man, “I suffer much and would like, if possible, to be carried to some house.”
“Where you can be relieved?” asked De Guiche.
“No, where I can confess.”
“But perhaps you are not so dangerously wounded as you think,” said Raoul.
“Sir,” replied the wounded man, “believe me, there is no time to lose; the ball has broken the thigh bone and entered the .”
“Are you a surgeon?” asked De Guiche.
“No, but I know a little about wounds, and mine, I know, is mortal. Try, therefore, either to carry me to some place where I may see a priest or take the trouble to send one to me here. It is my soul that must be saved; as for my body, it is lost.”
“To die whilst doing a good deed! It is impossible. God will help you.”
“Gentlemen, in the name of Heaven!” said the wounded man, collecting all his forces, as if to get up, “let us not lose time in useless words. Either help me to gain the nearest village or swear to me on your that you will send me the first , the first cure, the first priest you may meet. But,” he added in a despairing tone, “perhaps no one will dare to come for it is known that the Spaniards are ranging through the country, and I shall die without absolution. My God! my God! Good God! good God!” added the wounded man, in an accent of terror which made the young men ; “you will not allow that? that would be too terrible!”
“Calm yourself, sir,” replied De Guiche. “I swear to you, you shall receive the that you ask. Only tell us where we shall find a house at which we can demand aid and a village from which we can fetch a priest.”
“Thank you, and God reward you! About half a mile from this, on the same road, there is an inn, and about a mile further on, after leaving the inn, you will reach the village of Greney. There you must find the curate, or if he is not at home, go to the convent of the Augustines, which is the last house on the right, and bring me one of the brothers. Monk or priest, it matters not, provided only that he has received from holy church the power of in articulo mortis.”
“Monsieur d’Arminges,” said De Guiche, “remain beside this unfortunate man and see that he is removed as gently as possible. The vicomte and myself will go and find a priest.”
“Go, sir,” replied the tutor; “but in Heaven’s name do not expose yourself to danger!”
“Do not fear. Besides, we are safe for to-day; you know the axiom, ‘Non bis in idem.’”
“Courage, sir,” said Raoul to the wounded man. “We are going to execute your wishes.”
“May Heaven you!” replied the dying man, with an accent of impossible to describe.
The two young men off in the direction mentioned and in ten minutes reached the inn. Raoul, without dismounting, called to the host and announced that a wounded man was about to be brought to his house and begged him in the meantime to prepare everything needful. He desired him also, should he know in the neighborhood any doctor or chirurgeon, to fetch him, taking on himself the payment of the messenger.
The host, who saw two young noblemen, richly clad, promised everything they required, and our two cavaliers, after seeing that preparations for the reception were actually begun, started off again and proceeded rapidly toward Greney.
They had gone rather more than a league and had begun to the first houses of the village, the red-tiled roofs of which stood out from the green trees which surrounded them, when, coming toward them mounted on a , they perceived a poor monk, whose large hat and gray worsted dress made them take him for an Augustine brother. Chance for once seemed to favor them in sending what they were so assiduously seeking. He was a man about twenty-two or twenty-three years old, but who appeared much older from exercises. His was pale, not of that deadly pallor which is a kind of neutral beauty, but of a , yellow ; his colorless hair was short and scarcely extended beyond the circle formed by the hat around his head, and his light blue eyes seemed of any expression.
“Sir,” began Raoul, with his usual politeness, “are you an ?”
“Why do you ask me that?” replied the stranger, with a coolness which was barely civil.
“Because we want to know,” said De Guiche, .
The stranger touched his mule with his heel and continued his way.
In a second De Guiche had sprung before him and barred his passage. “Answer, sir,” exclaimed he; “you have been asked politely, and every question is worth an answer.”
“I suppose I am free to say or not to say who I am to two strangers who take a fancy to ask me.”
It was with difficulty that De Guiche restrained the intense desire he had of breaking the monk’s bones.
“In the first place,” he said, making an effort to control himself, “we are not people who may be treated anyhow; my friend there is the Viscount of Bragelonne and I am the Count de Guiche. Nor was it from caprice we asked the question, for there is a wounded and dying man who demands the of the church. If you be a priest, I you in the name of humanity to follow me to aid this man; if you be not, it is a different matter, and I warn you in the name of courtesy, of which you appear profoundly ignorant, that I shall you for your .”
The pale face of the monk became so livid and his smile so strange, that Raoul, whose eyes were still upon him, felt as if this smile had struck to his heart like an insult.
“He is some Spanish or Flemish spy,” said he, putting his hand to his pistol. A glance, threatening and transient as lightning, replied to Raoul.
“Well, sir,” said De Guiche, “are you going to reply?”
“I am a priest,” said the young man.
“Then, father,” said Raoul, forcing himself to convey a respect by speech that did not come from his heart, “if you are a priest you have an opportunity, as my friend has told you, of exercising your . At the next inn you will find a wounded man, now being attended by our servants, who has asked the assistance of a minister of God.”
“I will go,” said the monk.
And he touched his mule.
“If you do not go, sir,” said De Guiche, “remember that we have two steeds able to catch your mule and the power of having you seized wherever you may be; and then I swear your trial will be summary; one can always find a tree and a cord.”
The monk’s eye again flashed, but that was all; he merely repeated his phrase, “I will go,”--and he went.
“Let us follow him,” said De Guiche; “it will be the surest plan.”
“I was about to propose so doing,” answered De Bragelonne.
In the space of five minutes the monk turned around to whether he was followed or not.
“You see,” said Raoul, “we have done wisely.”
“What a horrible face that monk has,” said De Guiche.
“Horrible!” replied Raoul, “especially in expression.”
“Yes, yes,” said De Guiche, “a strange face; but these are subject to such degrading practices; their fasts make them pale, the blows of the discipline make them hypocrites, and their eyes become through weeping for the good things of this life we common folk enjoy, but they have lost.”
“Well,” said Raoul, “the poor man will get his priest, but, by Heaven, the appears to me to have a better conscience than the confessor. I confess I am accustomed to priests of a very different appearance.”
“Ah!” exclaimed De Guiche, “you must understand that this is one of those wandering brothers, who go begging on the high road until some day a benefice falls down from Heaven on them; they are mostly foreigners--Scotch, Irish or Danish. I have seen them before.”
“As ugly?”
“No, but reasonably .”
“What a misfortune for the wounded man to die under the hands of such a friar!”
“Pshaw!” said De Guiche. “Absolution comes not from him who administers it, but from God. However, for my part, I would rather die unshriven than have anything to say to such a confessor. You are of my opinion, are you not, viscount? and I see you playing with the pommel of your sword, as if you had a great to break the holy father’s head.”
“Yes, count, it is a strange thing and one which might astonish you, but............