The abbe
made the party enter it, recommending the strictest prudence, while
he went on in advance to confer with this man, upon whose decision the
safety of the whole party depended.
As the priest approached the house, a small, thin man, with gray hair
and a sunburned face emerged from the stable.
It was Father Poignot.
"What! is this you, Monsieur le Cure!" he exclaimed, delightedly.
"Heavens! how pleased my wife will be. We have a great favor to ask of
you----"
And then, without giving the abbe an opportunity to open his lips, he
began to tell him his perplexities. The night of the revolt he had given
shelter to a poor man who had received an ugly sword-thrust. Neither his
wife nor himself knew how to dress the wound, and he dared not call in a
physician.
"And this wounded man," he added, "is Jean Lacheneur, the son of my
former employer." A terrible anxiety seized the priest's heart.
Would this man, who had already given an asylum to one wounded
conspirator, consent to receive another?
The abbe's voice trembled as he made known his petition.
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