approaching. At first Count Hannibal supposed with his companion that the travellers were conveying to the grave the corpse of some person of distinction; for the cortége consisted mainly of priests and the like mounted on mules, and clothed for the most part in black. Black also was the small banner which waved above them, and bore in place of arms the emblem of the Bleeding Heart. But a second glance failed to discover either litter or bier; and a nearer approach showed that the travellers, whether they wore the tonsure or not, bore weapons of one kind or another.
Suddenly Madame St. Lo clapped her hands, and proclaimed in great astonishment that she knew them.
“Why, there is Father Boucher, the Curé of St. Benoist!” she said, “and Father Pezelay of St. Magloire. And there is another I know, though I cannot remember his name! They are preachers from Paris! That is who they are! But what can they be doing here? Is it a pilgrimage, think you?”
“Ay, a pilgrimage of Blood!” Count Hannibal answered between his teeth. And, turning to him to learn what moved him, she saw the look in his eyes which portended a storm. Before she could ask a question, however, the gloomy company, which had first appeared in the distance, moving, an inky blot, through the hot sunshine of the summer morning, had drawn near, and was almost abreast of them. Stepping from her side, he raised his hand and arrested the march.
“Who is master here?” he asked haughtily.
“I am the leader,” answered a stout pompous Churchman, whose small malevolent eyes belied the sallow fatuity of his face. “I, M. de Tavannes, by your leave.”
“And you, by your leave,” Tavannes sneered, “are”
“Archdeacon and Vicar of the Bishop of Angers and Prior of the Lesser Brethren of St. Germain, M. le Comte.
