"Come in, my son," said the priest, "and try the fare of a poor
old man. It is plain, very plain, but good." He smacked his lips
sincerely and fingered another scone. "Take some, take some."
Farnsworth was not tempted. The acid bouquet of the wine filled
the room with a smack of vinegar, and the smoke from rank
scorching fat and wheat meal did not suggest an agreeable feast.
"Well, well, if you are not hungry, my son, sit down on the stool
there and tell me the news."
Farnsworth took the low seat without a word, letting his eyes
wander over the walls. Alice's rapier, the mate to that now worn
by Hamilton, hung in its curiously engraved scabbard near one
corner. The sight of it inflamed Farnsworth.
"It's an outrage," he broke forth. "Governor Hamilton sent a man
to Roussillon place with orders to bring him the scabbard of Miss
Roussillon's sword, and he now wears the beautiful weapon as if he
had come by it honestly. Damn him!"
"My dear, dear son, you must not soil your lips with such
language!" Father Beret let fall the half of a well bitten cake
and held up both hands.
"I beg your pardon, Father; I know I ought to be more careful in
your presence; but--but--the beastly, hellish scoundrel--"
"Bah! doucement, mon fils, doucement." The old man shook his head
and his finger while speaking.
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