"The Black Abbe," he grunted, the drollness all chased out of the little wrinkles about his eyes. "Well," said I, impatiently. "The Black Abbe; and what of him? He is repenting to-night that he ever tried conclusions with me, I'll wager." I spoke the more confidently because in my heart I was still troubled to know the meaning of the Abbe's glance. "Hein," said Tamin. "He looked--his eyes would lift a scalp! I was standing in the light just under the window, when of a sudden the door closed; and there he stood beside me, with no sound, and still as a heron. He looked at me with those two narrow eyes, as if he would eat my heart out: and I stood there, and shook. Then, of a sudden, his face changed. It became like a good priest's face when he says the prayer for the soul that is passing; and he looked at me with solemn eyes. And I was yet more afraid. 'It is not for me to rebuke you,' he said, speaking so that each word seemed an hour long; 'red runs your blood on the deep snow beneath the apple tree.' And before I could steady my teeth to ask him what he meant, he was gone. 'Red runs your blood beneath the apple tree.' What did he mean by that?" "Oh," said I, speaking lightly to encourage him, though in truth the words fell on me with a chill, "he said it to spoil your sleep and poison your content. It was a cunning revenge, seeing that he dare not lift a hand to punish you otherwise." "To be sure, my Tamin, that is all of it," added Marc. "Who has ever heard that the Black Abbe was a prophet? Faith, 'tis as Father says, a cunning and a devilish revenge. But you can balk it finely by paying no heed to it." Tamin's face had brightened mightily, but he still looked serious. "Do you think so?" he exclaimed with eagerness. "'Tis as you say indeed,--the Black Abbe is no prophet. Had it been Grul, now, that said it, there were something to lie awake for, eh?" "Yes, indeed, if Grul had said it," muttered Marc, contemplating him strangely. But for me, I was something impatient now to be asleep. "Think no more of it, my friend," said I, and dismissed him. Yet sleepy as I was, I thought of it, and even I must have begun to dream of it. The white sheet of moonlight that lay across my couch became a drift of snow with blood upon it, and the patterned shadow upon the wall an apparition leaning over,--when out of an immense distance, as it were, I heard Marc's voice. "Father," he cried softly, "are you awake?" "Yes, dear lad," said I. "What is it?" "I have been wondering," said he, "why the Black Abbe looked at you, not me, in his going. He had such a countenance as warns me that he purposes some cunning stroke. But I fear his enmity has turned from me to you." "Well, lad, it was surely I that balked him. What would you have?" I asked. "Oh," said he, heavily, "that I should have turned that bloodhound onto your trail!"