“No, lad, not Buhot,” said he, perspiring with his apprehensions, “but the Society. There's one Gordoletti, a pretended Lutheran that hails from Jena, that has been agent between the Society and myself before now, and when I was out there he followed me upon the street with the eyes of a viper. I'll swear the fellow has a poignard and means the letting of blood. I know how 'twill be--a watch set upon this building, Gordoletti upon the steps some evening; a jostle, a thrust, and a speeding shade. A right stout shade too! if spirits are in any relation of measure to the corporeal clay. Oh, lad, what do I say? my sinner's wit must be evincing in the front of doom itself.” I thought he simply havered, but found there was too real cause for his distress. That afternoon the monk walked up and down the street without letting his eyes lose a moment's sight of the entrance to the pilot's house where Father Hamilton abode. I could watch him all the better because I shared a room with Kilbride on the same side of the street, and even to me there was something eerie in the sight of this long thin stooping figure in its monkish garment, slouching on the stones or hanging over the parapet of the bridge, his eyes, lambent black and darting, over his narrow chafts. Perhaps it was but fancy, yet I thought I saw in the side of his gown the unmistakable bulge of a dagger. He paced the street for hours or leaned over the parapet affecting an interest in the barges, and all the time the priest sat fascinated within, counting his sentence come. “Oh, by my faith and it is not so bad as that,” I protested on returning to find him in this piteous condition. “Surely there are two swords here that at the worst of it can be depended on to protect you.” He shook his head dolefully. “It is no use, Paul,” he cried. “The poignard or the phial--'tis all the same to them or Gordoletti, and hereafter I dare not touch a drop of wine or indulge in a meagre soup.” “But surely,” I said, “there may be a mistake, and this Gordoletti may have nothing to do with you.” “The man wears a cowl--a monkish cowl--and that is enough for me. A Jesuit out of his customary _soutane_ is like the devil in dancing shoes--be sure his lordship means mischief. Oh! Paul, I would I were back in Bicêtre and like to die there cleaner than on the banks of a Dutch canal. I protest I hate to think of dying by a canal.”