Luc felt instantly that his servant spoke the truth, and saw instantly how he had been deceived. There was no back door to the barn; the young man, discovering he was being cheated, had run the poor foreigner through and left him there to die. The priest knew it, and hence his anxiety about the servant: he had dreaded the very thing that had occurred--namely, that the fellow should return to the barn and see the second corpse. The Marquis’s first feeling was one of intense anger that a dissolute young noble had been able so to fool him; he had accepted the tale of the Italian’s escape like any child, and had sat down to bandy words with one who was fresh from a miserable, cowardly murder. “Why did you not tell me before?” he asked. “Monseigneur, I thought you might wish to return, and then we stood a good chance of being murdered.” “Why?” demanded Luc sharply. “We were two to two, and one of them a priest.” “But, Monseigneur, he was armed under his habit, and I saw evil intention in his face--and how could we tell how many more were in hiding? With respect, Monsieur le Marquis, they were dealing with the Devil.” “Are you sure that the man was dead?” asked Luc. “Monseigneur, perfectly sure. He lay in a strange attitude with one leg drawn up, and I crept into the barn and felt him, and he was cold with a hole in his chest and his fingers all cut where he had snatched at the sword--and with the dead frogs and snakes and that other corpse in the chair----” The Marquis cut him short. “You will be silent about this, Jean, until I give you leave to speak. I shall not go back--now, at least.” Jean, only too thankful that his master was not returning to what he feared might be an outpost of hell, promised readily enough. They proceeded along the straight road, looking out for some habitation where they could ask their way. Luc felt depressed, angry, and disgusted. He recalled the Italian’s healthy face, his callous laughter, then the hideous little scene in the barn with the horrid, foolish details of gross superstitions; lastly, the calm serenity and haughtiness of the young man whose careless manner had so deceived him; and the priest, in his mockery of a habit--Luc wondered that he had not made some attempt at a disguise. Evidently all of them had been pretty sure that they were not likely to be interrupted; yet Monsieur Armand, as he called himself, had not seemed very concerned, or even surprised, at being discovered. Luc, riding along in the grey dawn, wearily followed out the consequences of this wretched episode. They would burn or bury the body of the foreigner, who was not likely to be missed; they would probably burn the whole barn--who was to make inquiries?