"Peace, my daughter. Have we not sought the protection of G.o.d? Have no fear."

"It is not for myself, father."

Madame's voice trembled a little.

"The lambs of the flock are in His special care. See, let us go forward--yonder."

As he spoke Pere Mouet pointed to where, on a low hillock, a Calvary had been placed.

Over the head of the rugged rock, which had been hewn into a rough cross, hung a blackened crown of thorns.

Nearer and nearer came the trampling of feet, the sound of singing and shouting. The men of Kernak had been drinking at the Golden Merman on their way hither.

It was the wine, quite as much as the words of Jean Floessel, which had made them red republicans that night.

Around the foot of the Calvary knelt the little group of fugitives--waiting.

"Aux armes, citoyens."

Torches flared, killing the white charm of the moonlight with their sickly rays.

"Aux armes----"

A burst of laughter, followed by fierce shouting, checked the song.

The men of Kernak had come in sight of the Calvary, and those who now stood awaiting them there.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

THE CALVARY ON THE MOORS

"A cold night, Mesdames, for a walk. Your blood needs warming."

The mocking voice of their leader evoked another roar of laughter from the rest.

They were new to their role, those others, and Madame de Quernais had always been one to command much respect and awe as the great lady of the place. Now it was strange, and a little awe-inspiring, too, to see her standing there, facing them so quietly.

She did not seem afraid of the Terror, this Madame of theirs.

It was disappointing.

But Jean Floessel knew how to deal with vile aristos. He advanced with a swagger.

"Come," he jeered. "We're on our way to pay you a visit. It's a large party, but there's room enough at the chateau for all. It's absurd for three people to occupy so many apartments when we herd by the dozen in one. But there's an end to that now. Come, Citoyenne, you'll return with us, and we'll have a pleasant evening. If I mistake not, the little one there has a fine pair of eyes and a pretty mouth. Aha! we shall have amus.e.m.e.nt. And you'll be kind, my friends, if you're wise, or there's a citoyenne at St. Malo whose embrace is closer and colder than that of Jean Floessel, and less to your taste, I'll swear."

A hoa.r.s.e shout of laughter greeted the sally.

After all, it was their day now, and, as Jean said, they would amuse themselves. There would be wine as well as dancing at the chateau.

It was at this moment that Pere Mouet stepped forward.

A familiar little figure in brown habit, with a brown, kindly old face.

But, just now, the memories of the men of Kernak were short.

"My children," he cried, raising his arm, "what is this? You would be led by this man into sin? I will not believe it of you. This is not Paris--it is not even France. It is Brittany--our Brittany. We of a good and n.o.ble land will not join hands with murderers; or what will le bon Dieu say to us,--He who guards and protects us in storm and gale, and who brings love and joy to our homes? Go back to those homes now, my children, and thank the blessed saints that you have been saved from crime."

A low murmur died away into silence.

Pere Mouet spoke to his people's hearts.

A harsh laugh interrupted him.

"Be silent, old fool," shouted Jean Floessel, "or I will throttle your whinings in your throat. Malediction! it's always the way of you priests to be greedy; but since there are three of them we can all have our share of the kisses."

He looked round, expecting the coa.r.s.e jest to meet with applause. But none came. The men of Kernak were thinking.

"Silence!" cried Pere Mouet sternly, raising his hand again. "See you not where we stand, fellow? Beware lest Heaven shrivel your foul tongue in your throat in punishment. Repent you of your evil ways ere it is too late, and the fires of Purgatory chastise you for your sins."

Again the murmur rose from the crowd.

Religion and superst.i.tion were too deeply imbedded in these Breton peasants to be easily up-rooted. Already fear of the Church's anathema was at work in their hearts.

But Jean Floessel had been in Paris. He had learnt things there--amongst others how to forget the early lessons his mother had taught him.

He was not afraid of curse or Purgatory. With a scream of rage he flung himself forward with hand outstretched to strike the old man standing there so fearlessly before him.

But one of the peasants--a brawny fisherman of the coast, caught him by the collar, dragging him back.

Pere Mouet was ready to follow up his advantage.

"My children," he cried. "Ah, my children, you will listen to me. You will return to your homes and pray G.o.d and His dear saints to keep you in peace from all the madness and evil of these terrible days."

His voice broke off, quavering with emotion, but the crowd answered by a sigh--a long sigh as of waves receding from impregnable cliffs back into the deep.

Here and there a woman sobbed and a man muttered prayer or oath. They were remembering how this Pere Mouet had indeed a right to call them his children; for had he not been a father to them these forty years and more?

One recalled how he sat up three nights with little Gaston when he had the fever, another of the prayers he offered without payment for the soul of the poor Louis who died unshriven last autumn. Then how good he had been when bad days came during the winter. Pere Mouet had been the only one who had a cheery word then, always cheery, always helpful, always ready to nurse a sick one, or get food for a hungry one. As for the children, there was not one in Kernak who did not adore him.

And now what were they doing?

That was the question many put to themselves, and hung their heads in very shame for answer. But Jean Floessel was quick to see the way in which the wind was blowing.

Nom d'un chien! Was he to have all his eloquence and exertions wasted because these fools were ready to listen to one old man?