As he said these words, the commander entered a closet adjoining his chamber, and soon came out dressed in a long robe of black woollen cloth, on which was quartered the white cross of his order.
The figure of Pierre des Anbiez was tall, erect, and robust. His thin, nervous limbs showed, in spite of age, an uncommon vigour. His features were severe and warlike; thick, black eyebrows shaded his deep-set, hollow, burning eyes, which seemed always to glow with the sombre fire of a fever; a deep scar divided his brow, and furrowed his cheek until it was lost in his gray, short, and bushy beard.
Returning to his chamber, he walked back and forth, his hands crossed behind his back, without saying a word to his brother.
Finally he paused and extended to the priest his hand, which had been painfully torn by a gunshot, and said:
“The sign which I had attached to my door ought to have assured my solitude. From the first officer to the last soldier on my galley, no one dares enter here after seeing that sign. I thought myself alone, as much alone as in the depth of a cloister, or the most hidden cell of the great penitentiary of our order. So, my brother, although you have seen, although you have heard, permit me to ask you never to say a word on this subject. Let what has passed here be forgotten,--as sacred as a confession made by a dying man under the seal of the confessional.”
“It shall be as you desire, Pierre,” replied Father Elzear, sadly. “I think of it only with pain that I cannot help you in the sorrows which have burdened you so long.”
“Reassure yourself. It is not given to the power of man to console me,” replied the commander. Then, as if he feared to wound the affection of his brother, he added:
“Yet your fraternal friendship and that of Raimond Digiare very dear to me; but, alas, although the dews of May and the sweet rains of June may fall in the sea, they can never sweeten the bitterness of its deep waters. But what did you come to ask me?”
“Pardon for a poor Moor condemned this morning to the chase-gun.”
“That sentence has been executed, and it could not be, my brother, that I should ever grant you this pardon.” “Thank God, the sentence has not been executed; there is still some hope left me, Pierre.”