“Time presses, and we must come to the point,” said I. “We want your advice as to the weak points of yonder Abbey, and concerning the habits of the rascals who infest it.”
He cried out something which I took to be Latin, with his hands clasped and his eyes upturned. “The prayer of the just availeth much,” said he, “and yet I had not dared to hope that mine would have been so speedily answered. In me you see the unfortunate Abbot of Almeixal, who has been cast out by this rabble of three armies with their heretical leader. Oh! to think of what I have lost!” his voice broke, and the tears hung upon his lashes.
“Cheer up, sir,” said the Bart. “I’ll lay nine to four that we have you back again by tomorrow night.”
“It is not of my own welfare that I think,” said he, “nor even of that of my poor, scattered flock. But it is of the holy relics which are left in the sacrilegious hands of these robbers.”
“It’s even betting whether they would ever bother their heads about them,” said the Bart. “But show us the way inside the gates, and we’ll soon clear the place out for you.”
In a few short words the good Abbot gave us the very points that we wished to know. But all that he said only made our task more formidable. The walls of the Abbey were forty feet high. The lower windows were barricaded, and the whole building loopholed for musketry fire. The gang preserved military discipline, and their sentries were too numerous for us to hope to take them by surprise. It was more than ever evident that a battalion of grenadiers and a couple of breaching pieces were what was needed. I raised my eyebrows, and the Bart began to whistle.
“We must have a shot at it, come what may,” said he.
The men had already dismounted, and, having watered their horses, were eating their suppers. For my own part I went into the sitting-room of the inn with the Abbot and the Bart, that we might talk about our plans.
I had a little cognac in my sauve vie, and I divided it among us—just enough to wet our moustaches.
“It is unlikely,” said I, “that those rascals know anything about our coming. I have seen no signs of scouts along the road. My own plan is that we should conceal ourselves in some neighbouring wood, and then, when they open their gates, charge down upon them and take them by surprise.”
The Bart was of opinion that this was the best that we could do, but, when we came to talk it over, the Abbot made us see that there were difficulties in the way.
“Save on the side of the town, there is no place within a mile of the Abbey where you could shelter man or horse,” said he. “As to the townsfolk, they are not to be trusted. I fear, my son, that your excellent plan would have little chance of success in the face of the vigilant guard which these men keep.”
“I see no other way,” answered I. “Hussars of Conflans are not so plentiful that I can afford to run half a squadron of them against a forty foot wall with five hundred infantry behind it.”
“I am a man of peace,” said the Abbot, “and yet I may, perhaps, give a word of counsel. I know these villains and their ways. Who should do so better, seeing that I have stayed for a month in this lonely spot, looking down in weariness of heart at the Abbey which was my own? I will tell you now what I should myself do if I were in your place.”
“Pray tell us, father,” we cried, both together.
“You must know that bodies of deserters, both French and English, are continually coming in to them, carrying their weapons with them. Now, what is there to prevent you and your men from pretending to be such a body, and so making your way into the Abbey?”
I was amazed at the simplicity of the thing, and I embraced the good Abbot. The Bart, however, had some objections to offer.
“That is all very well,” said he, “but if these fellows are as sharp as you say, it is not very likely that they are going to let a hundred armed strangers into their crib. From all I have heard of Mr. Morgan, or Marshal Millefleurs, or whatever the rascal’s name is, I give him credit for more sense than that.”
“Well, then,” I cried, “let us send fifty in, and let them at daybreak throw open the gates to the other fifty, who will be waiting outside.”
We discussed the question at great length and with much foresight and discretion. If it had been Massena and Wellington instead of two young officers of light cavalry, we could not have weighed it all with more judgment. At last we agreed, the Bart and I, that one of us should indeed go with fifty men, under pretence of being deserters, and that in the early morning he should gain command of the gate and admit the others. The Abbot, it is true, was still of the opinion that it was dangerous to divide our force, but finding that we were both of the same mind, he shrugged his shoulders and gave in.
“There is only one thing that I would ask,” said he. “If you lay hands upon this Marshal Millefleurs—this dog of a brigand—what will you do with him?”
“Hang him,” I answered.
“It is too easy a death,” cried the Capuchin, with a vindictive glow in his dark eyes. “Had I my way with him—but, oh, what thoughts are these for a servant of God to harbour!” He clapped his hands
