But the priest’s protestations did not convince the wounded man. “Oh, don’t deny it!” he exclaimed. “On the night before last, when you came into my room after I woke up, you were paler than death, and my wife had certainly been crying. What does all this mean?” As a rule, when the cure did not wish to reply to his patient’s questions, it sufficed to tell him that conversation and excitement would retard his recovery; but this time the baron was not so docile. “It will be very easy for you to restore my peace of mind,” he continued. “Confess now, you are afraid they may discover my retreat. This fear is torturing me also. Very well, swear to me that you will not let them take me alive, and then my mind will be at rest.” “I can’t take such an oath as that,” said the cure, turning pale. “And why not?” insisted M. d’Escorval. “If I am recaptured, what will happen? They will nurse me, and then, as soon as I can stand on my feet, they will shoot me down again. Would it be a crime to save me from such suffering? You are my best friend; swear you will render me this supreme service. Would you have me curse you for saving my life?” The abbe offered no verbal reply; but his eye, voluntarily or involuntarily, turned with a peculiar expression to the medicine chest standing upon the table near by. Did he wish to be understood as saying: “I will do nothing myself, but you will find a poison there?” At all events M. d’Escorval understood him so; and it was in a tone of gratitude that he murmured: “Thanks!” He breathed more freely now that he felt he was master of his life, and from that hour his condition, so long desperate, began steadily to improve.