An animal moved among the rocks, and attracted
their attention.
"Can it be a chamois!" exclaimed Sigismund, whose blood began to quicken
with a hunter's eagerness: "I would I had arms!"
"It is a dog, though not of our mountain breed! The mastiffs of the
convent have failed in hospitality, and the poor beast has been driven to
take refuge in this retired spot, in waiting for his master, who probably
makes one of the party in the refectory. See, they come; their approaching
footsteps have brought the cautious animal from his cover."
Sigismund saw, in truth, that a party of three pedestrians was quitting
the convent, taking the path for Italy. A sudden and painful suspicion
flashed upon his mind. The dog was Nettuno, most probably driven by the
mastiffs, as the monk had suggested, to seek a shelter in this retreat;
and one of those who approached, by his gait and stature was no other than
his master.
"Thou knowest, father," he said, with a clammy tongue, for he was
strangely agitated between reluctance to accuse Maso of such a crime, and
horror at the fate of Jacques Colis, "that there has been a murder on the
mountain?"
The monk quietly assented.
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