“We!” he repeated, shaking his head. “No, no, Paul, thou hast too risky a task before thee to burden thyself with behemoth. Shalt escape by thyself and a blessing with thee, but as for Father Hamilton he knows when he is well-off, and he shall not stir a step out of Buhot's charming and commodious inn until the bill is presented.” In vain I protested that I should not dream of leaving him there while I took flight; he would listen to none of my reasoning, and for that day at least I abandoned the project. Next day Buhot helped me to a different conclusion, for I was summoned before him. “Well, Monsieur,” he said, “is it that we have here a more discerning young gentleman than I had the honour to meet last time?” “Just the very same, M. Buhot,” said I bluntly. He chewed the stump of his pen and shrugged his shoulders. “Come, come, M. Greig,” he went on, “this is a _bêtise_ of the most ridiculous. We have given you every opportunity of convincing yourself whether this Hamilton is a good man or a bad one, whether he is the tool of others or himself a genius of mischief.” “The tool of others, certainly, that much I am prepared to tell you, but that you know already. And certainly no genius of mischief himself; man! he has not got the energy to kick a dog.” “And--and--” said Buhot softly, fancying he had me in the key of revelation. “And that's all, M. Buhot,” said I, with a carriage he could not mistake. He shrugged his shoulders again, wrote something in a book on the desk before him with great deliberation and then asked me how I liked my quarters in Bicêtre. “Tolerably well,” I said. “I've been in better, but I might be in waur.” He laughed a little at the Scotticism that seemed to recall something--perhaps a pleasantry of my uncle's--to him, and then said he, “I'm sorry they cannot be yours very much longer, M. Greig. We calculated that a week or two of this priest's company would have been enough to inspire a distaste and secure his confession, but apparently we were mistaken. You shall be taken to other quarters on Saturday.” “I hope, M. Buhot,” said I, “they are to be no worse than those I occupy now.” His face reddened a little at this--I felt always there was some vein of special kindness to me in this man's nature--and he said hesitatingly, “Well, the truth is, 'tis Galbanon.” “Before a trial?” I asked, incredulous. “The trial will come in good time,” he said, rising to conclude the parley, and he turned his back on me as I was conducted out of the room and back to the cell, where Father Hamilton waited with unwonted agitation for my tidings. “Well, lad,” he cried, whenever we were alone, “what stirs? I warrant they have not a jot of evidence against thee,” but in a second he saw from my face the news was not so happy, and his own face fell. “We are to be separated on Saturday,” I told him. Tears came to his eyes at that--a most feeling old rogue! “And where is't for thee, Paul?” he asked.