“Your Excellency,” I cried, “it must have been of great importance from his manner. Let me set out at once. It may not be too late. Perchance the patroon was not well enough to go, and has put off the meeting till the morning. The man, whoever he is, may have remained all night at the tavern.” A party of three horsemen was at once got ready, and Bellamont insisted on going with us himself. It was just daylight when we reached the inn. “Yes,” answered the host, in reply to our questions. “There was a stranger here last night, and he had a great spell of impatience, but he would not stir from the room, and he stayed all night, and he is up stairs now asleep. Shall I call him, your Excellency?” “No,” replied Bellamont. “Let us go up to his room.” When we knocked the stranger refused to open the door. We made short work of that and soon the door was beaten down. We all stood agog at what we saw within. The man had not retired. He was fully dressed and the bed had not been slept in. “Body of me!” exclaimed the host. “Look at his head. What is that he has in his hands?” What we saw was a silver crucifix and a close shaven head. The man was a Jesuit priest. “What are you doing here?” asked the Earl, as soon as his first astonishment had worn off a bit. “Body of me,” cried the host; “you’ll be hanged. That is our law.” The priest turned a trifle pale at this, but he was no coward—that I could see at the first glance. “St. Jacques protect me,” he said in a calm voice, crossing himself. “Stop that twiddle-twoddle,” interrupted the host, at the same time catching the priest roughly by the shoulder. “You know the laws of the province?” asked the Earl, sternly. “Yes, I know them,” he replied, proudly. “The agent of Christ is worthy of death in this province if he adhere to the one true faith. Yes, Sir Tyrant, I know your laws.” “Do you call the governor names?” yelled the host in a rage. “Down on your knees in an instant; you’ll hang in the air in an hour.” The priest looked at the host grimly, and then he smiled. “Pardon me, your honor, I mistook you. I thought he was the governor. If you are he, however—” “Take that for your impudence,” cried the host. He had unbuckled his leather belt and struck the priest with it across the face. It was all done so quickly that we could hardly see how it happened; but when I looked again, the landlord was lying on the floor with a bloody nose and the priest was rubbing his knuckles which ached with the sting of the blow he had given him. “That will do,” said Bellamont with dignity. “What is your name?” “Jacques.” That was the word Louis had uttered in the patroon’s study. It had brought on the blow that killed him. “What are you doing here?” “My instructions are secret, sir.” “We’ll draw your secrets out,” whined the host, who was getting upon his feet slowly, and holding his handkerchief to his nose. Bellamont commanded him to be still, and continued talking with the priest.