“You are not a priest!” cried the executioner. “What, then, are you?” “I am about to tell you, wretched man.” “Oh, _mon Dieu!_” “I am John Francis de Winter.” “I do not know you,” said the executioner. “Wait, wait; you are going to know me. I am John Francis de Winter,” he repeated, “and that woman——” “Well, that woman?” “Was my mother!” The executioner uttered the first cry, that terrible cry which had been first heard. “Oh, pardon me, pardon me!” he murmured; “if not in the name of God, at least in your own name; if not as priest, then as son.” “Pardon you!” cried the pretended monk, “pardon you! Perhaps God will pardon you, but I, never!” “For pity’s sake,” said the executioner, extending his arms. “No pity for him who had no pity! Die, impenitent, die in despair, die and be damned!” And drawing a poniard from beneath his robe he thrust it into the breast of the wounded man, saying, “Here is my absolution!” Then was heard that second cry, not so loud as the first and followed by a long groan. The executioner, who had lifted himself up, fell back upon his bed. As to the monk, without withdrawing the poniard from the wound, he ran to the window, opened it, leaped out into the flowers of a small garden, glided onward to the stable, took out his mule, went out by a back gate, ran to a neighbouring thicket, threw off his monkish garb, took from his valise the complete habiliment of a cavalier, clothed himself in it, went on foot to the first post, secured there a horse and continued with a loose rein his journey to Paris. Chapter XXXIII. Grimaud Speaks. Grimaud was left alone with the executioner, who in a few moments opened his eyes. “Help, help,” he murmured; “oh, God! have I not a single friend in the world who will aid me either to live or to die?” “Take courage,” said Grimaud; “they are gone to find assistance.” “Who are you?” asked the wounded man, fixing his half opened eyes on Grimaud. “An old acquaintance,” replied Grimaud. “You?” and the wounded man sought to recall the features of the person now before him. “Under what circumstances did we meet?” he asked again. “One night, twenty years ago, my master fetched you from Bethune and conducted you to Armentières.” “I know you well now,” said the executioner; “you were one of the four grooms.” “Just so.” “Where do you come from now?” “I was passing by and drew up at this inn to rest my horse. They told me the executioner of Bethune was here and wounded, when you uttered two piercing cries. At the first we ran to the door and at the second forced it open.” “And the monk?” exclaimed the executioner, “did you see the monk?” “What monk?” “The monk that was shut in with me.” “No, he was no longer here; he appears to have fled by the window. Was he the man that stabbed you?” “Yes,” said the executioner. Grimaud moved as if to leave the room. “What are you going to do?” asked the wounded man. “He must be apprehended.”