diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/51983-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/51983-0.txt | 11670 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 11670 deletions
diff --git a/old/51983-0.txt b/old/51983-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index de6e3ec..0000000 --- a/old/51983-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11670 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sin That Was His, by Frank L. Packard - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Sin That Was His - -Author: Frank L. Packard - -Release Date: May 3, 2016 [EBook #51983] -Last Updated: March 13, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SIN THAT WAS HIS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -THE SIN THAT WAS HIS - -By Frank L. Packard - -The Copp Clark Co. Toronto, Canada - -1917 - -THE SIN THAT WAS HIS - - - - -CHAPTER I--THREE-ACE ARTIE - -|OF Arthur Leroy, commonly known throughout the Yukon as Three-Ace -Artie, Ton-Nugget Camp knew a good deal--and equally knew very -little. He had drifted in casually one day, and, evidently finding the -environment remuneratively to his liking, had stayed. He was a bird of -passage--tarrying perhaps for the spring clean-up. - -He was not exactly elegant in his apparel, for the conditions of an -out-post mining camp did not lend themselves to elegance; but he was -immeasurably the best dressed and most scrupulously groomed man that -side of Dawson. His hands, for instance, were very soft and white; but -then, he did no work--that is, of a nature to impair their nicety. - -His name was somewhat confusing. It might be either French or English, -according to the twist that was given to its pronunciation--and -Three-Ace Artie could give it either twist with equal facility. He -confessed to being a Canadian--which was the only confession of any -nature whatsoever that Three-Ace Artie had ever been known to make. He -spoke English in a manner that left no doubt in the world but that it -was his native language--except in the mind of Canuck John, the only -French Canadian in the camp, who was equally positive that in the person -of Three-Ace Artie he had unquestionably found a compatriot born to the -French tongue. - -A few old-timers around Dawson might have remembered, if it had not been -so commonplace an occurrence when it happened, that Leroy, as a very -young man, had toiled in over the White Pass; though that being only a -matter of some four years ago at this time, Leroy was still a very young -man, even if somewhat of a change had taken place in his appearance--due -possibly, or possibly not, to the rigours of the climate. Three-Ace -Artie since then had grown a full beard. But Leroy's arrival, being but -one of so many, the old-timers had found in it nothing to remember. - -Other and more definite particulars concerning Three-Ace Artie, however, -were in the possession of Ton-Nugget Camp. Three-Ace Artie had no -temperance proclivities--but he never drank during business hours. No -one had ever seen a glass at his elbow when there was a pack of cards on -the table! Frankly a professional gambler, he was admitted to be a -good one--and square. He was polished, but not too suave; he was -unquestionably possessed of far more than an ordinary education, but -he never permitted his erudition to become objectionable; and he had a -reputation for coolness and nerve that Ton-Nugget Camp had seen enhanced -on several occasions and belied on none. He was of medium height, broad -shouldered, and muscular; he had black hair and black eyes; under the -beard the jaw was square; unruffled, he was genial; ruffled, he was -known to be dangerous; and, still too young to show the markings of an -ungracious life, his forehead was unwrinkled, and his skin clear and -fresh. - -Also, during his three months' sojourn in Ton-Nugget Camp, he was -credited, not without reason, in having won considerably more than -he had lost. Upon these details rested whatever claim to an intimate -acquaintanceship with Three-Ace Artie the camp could boast; for the -rest, Ton-Nugget Camp, in common with the Yukon in general, was quite -privileged to hazard as many guesses as it pleased! - -In a word, such was Three-Ace Artie's status in Ton-Nugget Camp when -there arrived one afternoon a young man, little more than a boy, -patently fresh from the East. And here, though Ton-Nugget Camp was quick -to take the newcomer's measure, and, ignoring the other's claim to the -self-conferred title of Gerald Rogers, promptly dubbed him the Kid, it -permitted, through lack of observation, a slight detail to escape its -notice that might otherwise perhaps have suggested a new and promising -field for its guesses concerning Three-Ace Artie. - -Though at no more distant a date than a few days previous to his -arrival, the Kid had probably never seen a “poke” in his life before, -much less one filled with currency in the shape of gold dust, he had, in -the first flush of his entry to MacDonald's, and with the life-long -air of one accustomed to doing nothing else, flung a very new and -pleasantly-filled poke in the general direction of the scales at the end -of the bar, and, leaning back against the counter, supporting himself on -his elbows, proceeded to “set them up” for all concerned. MacDonald's, -collectively and individually, which is to say no small portion of -the camp, for MacDonald's was at once hotel, store, bar and general -hang-out, obeyed the invitation without undue delay, and was in the act -of enjoying the newcomer's hospitality when Three-Ace Artie strolled in. - -Some one nearest the bar reached out a glass to the gambler over the -intervening heads, the cluster of men broke away that the ceremony of -introduction with the stranger might be duly performed--and Ton-Nugget -Camp, failing to note the sudden tightening of the gambler's fingers -around his glass, the startled flash in the dark eyes that was instantly -veiled by half dropped, sleepy lids, heard only Three-Ace Artie's, “Glad -to know you, Mr. Rogers,” in the gambler's usual and quietly modulated -voice. - -Following that, however, not being entirely unsophisticated, Ton-Nugget -Camp stuck its tongue in its cheek and awaited developments--meanwhile -making the most of its own opportunities, for the Kid, boisterous, loose -with his money, was obviously too shining a mark for even amateurs -to overlook. Ton-Nugget Camp, therefore, was, while expectant, quite -content that Three-Ace Artie should, through motives which it attributed -to professional delicacy, avoid rather than make any hurried advances -toward intimacy with the newcomer; since, not feeling the restraint of -any professional ethics itself, Ton-Nugget Camp was enabled to take up -a few little collections on its own account via the stud poker route at -the expense of the Kid. - -Two days passed, during which Three-Ace Artie, besides being little -in evidence, refrained entirely from pressing his attentions upon the -stranger; but despite this, thanks to the adroitness of certain members -of the community and his own all too frequent attendance upon the bar, -matters were not flourishing with the Kid. The Kid drank far more than -was good for him, played far more than was good for him, and, flushed -and fuddled with liquor, played none too well. True, there were those -in the camp who offered earnest, genuine and well-meant advice, amongst -them a grim old Presbyterian by the name of Murdock Shaw, who was -credited with being the head of an incipient, and therefore harmless, -reform movement--but this advice the Kid, quite as warmly as it was -offered, consigned to other climes in conjunction with its progenitors; -and, as a result, all that was left of his original poke at the -expiration of those two days was an empty chamois bag from which, -possibly by way of compensation, the offensive newness had been -considerably worn off. - -“If he's got any more,” said the amateurs, licking their lips, “here's -hopin' that Three-Ace Artie 'll keep on overlookin' the bet!” - -And then, the next afternoon, the Kid flashed another poke, quite as new -and quite as pleasantly-nurtured as its predecessor--and Three-Ace Artie -seemed to awake suddenly to the knock of opportunity at his door. - -With just what finesse and aplomb the gambler inveigled the Kid into the -game no one was prepared co say--it was a detail of no moment, except to -Three-Ace Artie, who could be confidently trusted to take care of such -matters, when moved to do so, with the courtly and genial graciousness -of one conferring a favour on the other! But, be that as it may, the -first intimation the few loungers who were in MacDonald's at the time -had that anything was in the wind was the sight of MacDonald, behind the -bar, obligingly exchanging the pokes of both men For poker chips. The -loungers present thereupon immediately expressed their interest by -congregating around the table as Three-Ace Artie and the Kid sat down. - -“Stud?” suggested Three-Ace Artie, with an engaging smile. - -The Kid, already none too sober, nodded his head. - -“And table stakes!” he supplemented, with a somewhat lordly flourish of -the replenished glass that he had carried with him from the bar. - -“Of course!” murmured the gambler. - -It was still early afternoon, but an afternoon of the long-night of the -northern winter, sunless, with only a subdued twilight without, and the -big metal lamps, hanging from the ceiling, were lighted. In the centre -of the room a box-stove alternately crackled and purred, its sheet-iron -sides glowing dull red. The bare, rough-boarded room, save for the -little group, was empty. Behind the bar, with a sort of curious, cynical -smile that supplied no additional beauty to his shrewd, hard-lined -visage, MacDonald himself propped his bullet-head in his hands, elbows -on the counter, to watch the proceedings. - -Three-Ace Artie and the Kid began to play. Occasionally the door opened, -admitting a miner who took a brisk, fore-intentioned step or two -toward the bar--and catching sight of the game in progress, as though -magnet-drawn, immediately changed his direction and joined those already -around the table. But neither Three-Ace Artie nor the Kid appeared to -pay any attention to the constantly augmenting number of spectators. -The game see-sawed, fortune smiling with apparently unbiased fickleness -first on one, then on the other. The Kid grew a little more noisy, a -little more intoxicated--as MacDonald, from a mere spectator, became -an attendant at the Kid's frequent beck and call. Three-Ace Artie was -entirely professional--there was no glass at Three-Ace Artie's elbow, -when he lost he smiled good-humouredly, when he won he smoothed over the -other's discomfiture with self-deprecatory tact; he was unperturbed and -cordial, he bet sparingly and in moderation--to enjoy the game, as -it were, for the game's own sake, the stakes being, as it were again, -simply to supply a little additional zest and tang, and for no other -reason whatever! - -And, then, little by little, the Kid began to force the game; and, as -the stakes grew higher, began to lose steadily, with the result that -an hour of play saw most of the chips, instead of a glass, flanking -Three-Ace Artie's elbow--and saw a large proportion of Ton-Nugget Camp, -to whom the word in some mysterious manner had gone forth, flanking the -table five and six deep. - -The more the Kid lost, the more he drank. Whatever ease of manner, -whatever composure he had originally possessed was gone now. His hair -straggled unkemptly over his forehead, his cheeks were flushed, his lips -worked constantly on the butt of an unlighted cigarette. - -The crowd pressed a little closer, leaned a little further over the -table. There was something almost fascinating in the deftness with which -the soft, white hands of Three-Ace Artie caressed the cards, there was -something almost fascinating, too, in the cool impassiveness of the -gambler's poise, and in the sort of languid selfpossession that lighted -the dark eyes; but Ton-Nugget Camp had lived too long in familiarity -with Three-Ace Artie to be interested in the gambler's personality at -that moment--its interest was centred in the game. The play now had all -the earmarks of a grand finale. There were big stakes on the table--and -the last of the Kid's chips. The crowd raised itself on tiptoes. Both -men turned their “hole” cards. Three-Ace Artie reached out calmly, drew -the chips toward him, smiled almost apologetically, and, picking up the -deck, riffled the cards tentatively--the opposite side of the table was -bare of stakes. - -For a moment the Kid circled his lips with the tip of his tongue, and -flirted his hair back from his forehead with an uncertain, jerky motion -of his hand; then he snatched up his glass, spilled a portion of its -contents, gulped down the remainder, and began to fumble under his vest, -finally wrenching out a money-belt. - -“Go on--what do you think!” he said thickly. “I ain't done yet! I'll -get mine back, an' yours, too! Table stakes--eh? I'll get you this -time--b'God! Table stakes--eh--again? What do you say?” - -“Of course!” murmured Three-Ace Artie politely. - -And then the crowd shuffled its feet uneasily. Murdock Shaw, who had -edged his way close to the table, leaned over and touched the Kid's -shoulder. - -“I'd cut it out, if I was you, son,” he advised bluntly. “You're -drunk--and a mark!” - -A sort of quick, sibilant intake of breath came from the circle around -the table. Like a flash, one of Three-Ace Artie's hands, from the deck -of cards, vanished under the table; and the dark eyes, the slumber gone -from their depths, narrowed dangerously on Murdock Shaw. Then Three-Ace -Artie smiled--unpleasantly. - -“It isn't as though you were _new_ in the Yukon, Murdock”--there was a -deadliness in the quiet, level tones. “What's the idea?” - -Like magic, to right and left, on each side of the table, the crowd -cleared a line behind the two men--then silence. - -The gambler's hand remained beneath the table; his eyes cold, alert, -never wavering for the fraction of a second from the miner's face. - -Perhaps a minute passed. The miner did not speak or move, save that his -lips tightened and the tan of his face took on a deeper hue. - -Then Three-Ace Artie spoke again: - -“Are you _calling_, Murdock?” he inquired softly. - -The miner hesitated an instant, then turned abruptly on his heel. - -“When I call you,” he said evenly, over his shoulder, “it will break you -for keeps--and you won't have long to wait, either!” - -The Kid, who had been alternating a maudlin gaze from the face of one -man to the other, stood up now, and, hanging to the back of his chair, -watched the miner's retreat in a fuddled way. - -“Say, go chase yourself!” he called out, in sudden inspiration--and, -glancing around for approval, laughed boisterously at his own drunken -humour. - -The door closed on Murdock Shaw. The Kid slipped down into his chair, -dumped a handful of American double-eagles out of the money-belt--and, -reaching again for his glass, banged it on the table. - -“Gimme another!” he shouted in the direction of the bar. “Hey--Mac--d'ye -hear! Gimme another drink!” - -Three-Ace Artie's hands were above the table again--the slim, delicate, -tapering fingers shuffling, riffling, and reshuffling the cards. - -MacDonald approached the table, and picked up the empty glass. - -“Wait!” commanded the Kid ponderously, and scowled suddenly in the -throes of another inspiration. He pointed a finger at Three-Ace Artie. -“Say--give him one, too!” He wagged his head sapiently. “If he wants -any more chance at my money, he's got to have one, too! That's what! -Old guy's right about that! I'm the only one that's drunk--you've got to -drink, too! What'll you have--eh?” - -The group had closed in around the table again, and now all eyes were -riveted, curiously, expectantly, upon Three-Ace Artie. If the gambler -had one fixed principle from which, as Ton-Nugget Camp had excellent -reasons for knowing, neither argument nor cajolery had ever moved him, -it was that of refusing to drink while he played--but now, while all -eyes were on Three-Ace Artie, Three-Ace Artie's eyes were on the pile of -American gold that the Kid had displayed. There was a quick little -curve to the gambler's lips, that became a slightly tolerant, slightly -good-natured smile--and then the crowd nodded significantly to itself. - -“Why, certainly!” said Three-Ace Artie pleasantly. “Give me the same, -Mac.” - -“That's the talk!” applauded the Kid. - -Three-Ace Artie pushed the cards across the table. - -“This is a new game!” announced the Kid. “Cut for deal. Table stakes!” - -They cut. Three-Ace Artie won, riffled the cards several times, passed -them over to be cut again, and dealt the first card apiece face down. - -The Kid examined his card in approved fashion by pulling it slightly -over the edge of the table and secretively turning up one corner; then, -still face down, he pushed it back, and, MacDonald, returning with the -glasses from the bar at that moment, reached greedily for his own and -tossed it off. He nodded with heavy satisfaction as Three-Ace Artie -drained the other glass. Again he examined his card as before. - -“That's a pretty good card!” he stated with owlish gravity. “Worth -pretty good bet!” He laid a stack of his gold eagles upon the card. - -Three-Ace Artie placed an equivalent number of chips upon his own card, -and dealt another apiece--face up now on the table. An eight-spot of -spades fell to the Kid; a ten-spot of diamonds to Three-Ace Artie. - -“Worth jus' much as before!” declared the Kid--and laid another stack of -eagles upon the card. - -“Mine's worth a little more this time,” smiled Three-Ace Artie--and -doubled the bet. - -“Sure!” mumbled the Kid. “Sure thing!” - -Again Three-Ace Artie dealt--a king of hearts to the Kid; a deuce of -hearts to himself. - -The Kid's hand seemed to tremble eagerly, as he fumbled with his gold -eagles. He glanced furtively at the gambler--and then, as though trying -to read in Three-Ace Artie's face how far he might safely egg the other -on, he began to drop coin after coin upon his cards. - -The crowd stirred a little uncomfortably. The Kid had undoubtedly the -better hand so far, but he had made a fool play--a blind man could have -read through the back of the card that was so carefully guarded face -down on the table. The Kid had a pair of kings against a possible pair -of tens or deuces on the gambler's side. - -Three-Ace Artie imperturbably “saw” the bet--and coolly dealt the fourth -card. Another king fell to the Kid; another deuce to himself. - -The Kid's eyes were burning feverishly now. He bet again, laughing, -chuckling drunkenly as he swept forward a generous share of his -remaining gold--and with a quiet, unostentatiously appraising glance at -what was left of the pile of eagles, Three-Ace Artie raised heavily. - -Then, for the first time, the Kid hesitated, and a momentary frightened -look flashed across his face. He lifted the corner of his “hole” card -again and again nervously, as though to assure himself that he had made -no mistake--and finally laughed with raucous confidence again, and, -pushing the hair out of his eyes, demanded another drink, and returned -the raise. - -The onlookers sucked in their breath--but this time approved the Kid's -play. The cards showed a pair of deuces and a ten-spot spread out before -Three-Ace Artie, a pair of kings and an eight-spot in front of the Kid. -But the Kid had already given his hand away, and with a king in the -“hole,” making three kings, Three-Ace Artie could not possibly win -unless his “hole” card was a deuce or a ten, and on top of that that his -next and final card should be a deuce or ten as well. It looked all the -Kid's way. - -Three-Ace Artie again “saw” the other's raise--and dealt the last card. - -There was a sudden shuffling of feet, as the crowd leaned tensely -forward. A jack fell face up before the Kid--a ten-spot fell before the -gambler. Three-Ace Artie showed two pairs--it all depended now on what -he held as his “hole” card. - -But the Kid, either because he was too fuddled to take the possibilities -into account, or because he was drunkenly obsessed with the -invincibility of his own three kings, laughed hilariously. - -“I got you!” he cried--and bet half of his remaining gold. - -Three-Ace Artie's smile was cordial. - -“Might as well go all the way then,” he suggested--and raised to the -limit of the Kid's last gold eagle. - -The Kid laughed again. He had played cunningly--quite cunningly. The -gambler had fallen into the trap. All his hand showed was two kings. - -“I'll see you! I'll see you!”--he was lurching excitedly in his chair, -as he pushed the rest of his money forward. “This is the time little old -two pairs are no good!” He turned his “hole” card triumphantly. “Three -kings” he gurgled--and reached for the stakes. - -“Just a minute,” objected Three-Ace Artie blandly. - -He faced his other card. “I've got another ten here. Full house--three -tens and a pair of deuces.” - -A dead silence fell upon the room. The Kid, lurching in his chair, -stared in a dazed, stunned way at the other's cards--and then his face -went a deathly white. One hand crept aimlessly to his forehead and -brushed across his eyes; and after a moment, leaning heavily upon -the table, he stood up, still swaying. But he was not swaying from -drunkenness now. The shock seemed to have sobered him, bringing a -haggard misery into his eyes. The crowd watched, making no comment. -Three-Ace Artie, without lifting his eyes, was calmly engaged in -stacking the gold eagles into little piles in front of him. The Kid -moistened his lips with his tongue, attempted to speak--and succeeded -only in * swallowing hard once or twice. Then, with a pitiful effort to -pull himself together, he forced a smile. - -“I--I can't play any more,” he said. “I'm cleaned out”--and turned away -from the table. - -The crowd made way for him, following him with its eyes as he crossed -the room and disappeared through a back door at the side of the bar, -making evidently for his “hotel” room upstairs. Three-Ace Artie said -nothing--he was imperturbably pocketing the gold eagles now. The crowd -drifted away from the table, dispersed around the room, and some went -out. Three-Ace Artie rose from the table and carried the chips back to -the bar. - -“Guess I'll cash in, Mac,” he drawled. - -The proprietor pushed the two pokes across the bar. - -“Step up, gentlemen!” invited the gambler amiably, wheeling with his -back against the bar to face the room. - -An air of uneasiness, an awkward tension had settled upon the place. -Some few more went out; but the others, as though glad of the relief -afforded the situation by Three-Ace Artie's invitation, stepped promptly -forward. - -Three-Ace Artie's hand encircled a stiff four-fingers of raw spirit. - -“Here's how!” he said--and drained his glass. - -Somebody “set them up” again; Three-Ace Artie repeated the -performance--and MacDonald's resumed its normal poise. - -For perhaps half an hour Three-Ace Artie leaned against the bar, joining -in a dice game that some one had inaugurated; and then, interest in this -lagging, with a yawn and a casual remark about going up to his shack for -a snooze, he put on his overcoat, pulled his fur cap well down over his -ears, sauntered to the door--and, with a cheery wave of his hand, went -out. - -But once outside the door, Three-Ace Artie's nonchalance dropped from -him, and he stood motionless in the dull light of the winter afternoon -peering sharply up and down the camp's single shack-lined street. There -was no one in sight. He turned quickly then, and, treading noiselessly -in the snow, stole along beside the building to a door at the further -end. He opened this cautiously, stepped inside, and, in semidarkness -here, halted again to listen. The sounds from the adjoining barroom -reached him plainly, but that was all. Satisfied that he was unobserved, -he moved swiftly forward to where, at the end of the sort of passageway -which he had entered, a steep, ladder-like stairway led upward. He -mounted this stealthily, gained the landing above, and, groping his way -now along a narrow hallway, suddenly flung open a door. - -“Who's there!” came a quick, startled cry from within. - -“Don't talk so loud--damn it!” growled Three-Ace - -Artie, in a hoarse whisper. “You can hear yourself think through these -partitions!” He struck a match, and lighted a candle which he found on -the combination table and washing-stand near the bed. - -The Kid's face, drawn and colourless, loomed up in the yellow light from -the edge of the bed, as he bent forward, blinking in a kind of miserable -wonder at Three-Ace Artie. - -“You!” he gasped. - -Three-Ace Artie closed the door softly. - -“Some high-roller, you are, aren't you!” he observed caustically. - -The Kid did not answer. - -For a full minute Three-Ace Artie eyed the other in silence--then he -laughed shortly. - -“I don't know which of us is the bigger damn fool--you trying to buy -a through ticket to hell; or yours truly for what I'm going to do now! -Maybe you have learned your lesson, maybe you haven't; but anyway I am -going to take the chance. I'm not here to preach, but I'll push a little -personal advice out of long experience your way. The booze and the -pasteboards won't get you anywhere--except into the kind of mess you are -up against now. If you are hankering for more of it, go to it--that's -all. It's your hunt!” - -He flung the Kid's poke suddenly upon the table, and piled the gold -eagles beside it. - -A flush crept into the Kid's cheeks. He leaned further forward, staring -helplessly, now at Three-Ace Artie, now at the money on the table. - -“W-what do you mean?” he stammered. - -“It isn't very hard to guess, is it?” said Three-Ace Artie quietly. -“Here's your money--but there's just one little condition tied to it. I -can't afford to let the impression get around that I'm establishing -any precedents--see? And if the boys heard of this they'd think I was -suffering from softening of the brain! You get away from here without -saying anything to anybody--and stay away. Bixley, one of the boys, is -going over to the next camp this afternoon--and you go with him.” - -“You--you're giving me back the money?” faltered the Kid. - -“Well, it sort of looks that way,” smiled Three-Ace Artie. - -A certain dignity came to the Kid--and he held out his hand. - -“You're a white man,” he said huskily. “But I can't accept it. I took it -pretty hard down there perhaps, it seemed to get me all of a sudden when -the booze went out; but I'm not all yellow. You won it--I can't take it -back. It's yours.” - -“No; it's not mine”--Three-Ace Artie was still smiling. “That's the way -to talk, Kid. I like that. But you're wrong--it's yours by rights.” - -“By rights?” The Kid hesitated, studying Three-Ace Artie's face. “You -mean,” he ventured slowly, “that the game wasn't on the level--that you -stacked the cards?” - -Three-Ace Artie shook his head. - -“I never stacked a card on a man in my life.” - -“Then I don't understand what you mean,” said the Kid. “How can it be -mine by rights?” - -“It's simple enough,” replied Three-Ace Artie. “I'm paying back a little -debt I owe, that's all. I figured the boys had pecked around about deep -enough on the outskirts of your pile, and that it was about time for me -to sit in and save the rest. I cleaned you out a little faster than I -expected, a little faster perhaps than the next man will if you try it -again--but not any the less thoroughly. It's the 'next man' I'm trying -to steer you away from, Kid.” - -“Yes, I know”--the Kid spoke almost mechanically. “But a debt?”--his -eyes were searching the gambler's face perplexedly now. Then suddenly: -“Who are you?” he demanded. “There's something familiar about you. I -thought there was the first time I saw you the other afternoon. And yet -I can't place you.” - -“Don't try,” said Three-Ace Artie softly. He reached out and laid his -hand on the other's shoulder. “It wouldn't do you or me any good. There -are some things best forgotten. I'm telling you the truth, that's all -you need to know. You're entitled to the money--and another chance. Let -it go at that. You agree to the bargain, don't you? You leave here with -Bixley this afternoon--and this is between you and me, Kid, and no one -else on earth.” - -For a moment the Kid's gaze held steadily on Three-Ace Artie; then his -eyes filled. - -“Yes; I'll go,” he said in a low voice. “I guess I'm not going to forget -this--or you. I don't know what I would have done, and I want to tell -you----” - -“Never mind that!” interrupted Three-Ace Artie with sudden gruffness. -“It's what you do from now on that counts. You've got to hurry now. Any -of the boys will show you Bixley's shack, if you don't know where it is. -Just tell Bixley what you want, and he'll take you along. He'll be glad -of company on the trail. Shake!” He caught the other's hand, wrung it -in a hard grip--and turned to the door. “Good luck to you, Kid!” he -said--and closed the door behind him. - -As cautiously as he had entered, Three-Ace Artie made his way downstairs -again; and, once outside, started briskly in the direction of his shack, -that he had acquired, bag and baggage, shortly after his arrival in -the camp, from a miner who was pulling out. It was some three or four -hundred yards from MacDonald's, and as he went along, feet crunching in -the snow from his swinging stride, he began quite abruptly to whistle a -cheery air. It was too bitterly cold, however, to whistle, so instead he -resorted to humming pleasantly to himself. - -He stamped the snow from his feet as he reached the shack, opened the -door, and went in. A few embers still glowed in the box-stove, and he -threw on a stick of wood and opened the damper. He lighted a lamp, and -stood for a moment looking around him. There was a bunk at one side of -the shack, the table, the stove, a single chair, a few books on a rude -shelf, a kit bag in one corner, a skin of some sort on the floor, and -a small cupboard containing supplies and cooking utensils. Three-Ace -Artie, however, did not appear to be obsessed with the inventory of his -surroundings. There was a whimsical smile on his lips, as he pulled off -his fur cap and tossed it on the bunk. - -“I guess,” said Three-Ace Artie, “it will give the Recording Angel quite -a shock to chalk one up on the other side of the page for me!” - - - - -CHAPTER II--THE TOAST - -|THREE-ACE ARTIE, sprawled comfortably cally at the book he held in his -hand, a copy of Hugo's _Claude Gueux_ in French, tossed it to the foot -of the bunk, and sat up, dangling his legs over the edge. - -A mood that had long been a stranger to him, a mellow mood, as he had -defined it to himself, had kept him away from MacDonald's that night. It -was the glow of self-benediction, as it were, ever since he had left the -boy's room that afternoon, though it had puzzled him to some extent -to explain its effect upon himself--that, for instance, the corollary -should take the form of a quiet evening, a pipe, and Hugo. - -He shrugged his shoulders. It had been so nevertheless. His shoulders -lifted again--it was decidedly an incongruous proceeding for one known -as Three-Ace Artie! - -His thoughts reverted to the Kid. No one had come to the shack since he -had returned from the hotel, but he knew the Kid had left the camp, for -he had watched from the shack window as Bixley and the boy had passed -down the street together. The Kid would not play the fool again for a -while, that was certain--whatever he did eventually. - -Three-Ace Artie stared introspectively at the lamp, out at full length -upon his bunk, yawned, and looked at his watch. It was already after -midnight. He glanced a little quizzically. - -Kid, of course! He had been conscious of an inward flame for a -moment--then for the third time shrugged his shoulders. - -“I guess I'll turn in,” he muttered. - -He bent down to untie a shoe lace--and straightened up quickly again. A -footstep sounded from without, there was a knock upon the door, the door -opened--and with the inrush of air the lamp flared up. Three-Ace Artie -reached out swiftly to the top of the chimney, protecting the flame with -the flat of his hand, and, as the door closed again, stared with cool -surprise at his visitor. The last time he had seen Sergeant Marden, -of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, had been the year before at -Two-Strike-Mountain, where each had followed a gold rush--for quite -different reasons! - -“Hello, sergeant!” he drawled. “I didn't know you were in camp.” - -“Just got in around supper-time,” replied the other. “I've been up on -the Creek for the last few weeks.” - -Three-Ace Artie smiled facetiously. - -“Any luck?” he inquired. - -“I got my man,” said the sergeant quietly. - -“Of course!” murmured Three-Ace Artie softly. “You've got a reputation -for doing that, sergeant.” He laughed pleasantly. “But you haven't -dropped in on _me_ officially, have you?” - -Sergeant Marden, big, thick-set, with a strong, kindly face, with gray -eyes that lighted now in a gravely humorous way shook his head. - -“No,” he answered. “I'm playing the 'old friend' rôle to-night.” - -“Good!” exclaimed Three-Ace Artie heartily. “Peel off your duds then, -and--will you have the bunk, or the chair? Take your choice--only make -yourself at home.” He stepped over to the cupboard, and, while the -sergeant pulled off his cap and mitts, and unbuttoned and threw back his -overcoat, Three-Ace Artie procured a bottle of whisky and two glasses, -which he set upon the table. “Help yourself, sergeant,” he invited -cordially. - -The sergeant shook his head again, as he drew the chair toward him and -sat down. - -“I don't think I'll take anything to-night,” he said. - -“No?”--Three-Ace Artie's voice expressed the polite regret of a perfect -host. “Well, fill your pipe then,” he suggested hospitably, as he -seated himself on the edge of the bunk. He began to fill his own pipe -deliberately, apparently wholly preoccupied for the moment with that -homely operation--but his mind was leaping in lightning flashes back -over the range of the four years that he had spent in the Yukon. What -_exactly_ did Sergeant Marden of the Royal North-West Mounted want with -him to-night? He had known the other for a good while, it was true--but -not in a fashion to warrant the sergeant in making a haphazard social -call at midnight after what must have been a long, hard day on the -trail. - -A match, drawn with a long sweep under the table, crackled; Sergeant -Marden lighted his pipe, and flipped the match-stub stovewards. - -“It looks as though Canuck John wouldn't pull through the night,” he -said gravely. - -“Canuck John!” Three-Ace Artie sat up with a jerk, and glanced sharply -at the other. “What's that you say?” - -Sergeant Marden removed his pipe slowly from his lips. - -“Why, you know, don't you?” he asked in surprise. - -“No, I don't know!” returned Three-Ace Artie quickly. “I haven't been -out of this shack since late this afternoon; but I saw him this morning, -and he was all right then. What's happened?” - -“He shot himself just after supper--accident, of course--old story, -cleaning a gun,” said the sergeant tersely. - -“Good God!” cried Three-Ace Artie, in a low, shocked way--and then he -was on his feet, and reaching for his cap and coat. “I'll go up there -and see him. You don't mind, sergeant, if I leave you here? I guess I -knew Canuck John better than any one else in camp did, and--” His coat -half on, he paused suddenly, his brows gathering in a frown. “After -supper, you said!” he muttered slowly. “Why, that's hours ago!” Then, -his voice rasping: “It's damned queer no one came to tell me about this! -There's something wrong here!” He struggled into his coat. - -“He's been unconscious ever since they found him,” said Sergeant Marden, -his eyes fixed on the bowl of his pipe as he prodded the dottle down -with his forefinger. “The doctor's just come. You couldn't do any good -by going up there, and”--his eyes lifted and met Three-Ace Artie's -meaningly--“take it all around, I guess it would be just as well if you -didn't go. Murdock Shaw and some of the boys are there, and--well, they -seem to feel they don't want you.” - -For a moment Three-Ace Artie stood motionless, regarding the other in a -half angry, half puzzled way; then, his weight on both hands, he leaned -forward over the table toward Sergeant Marden. - -“In plain English, and in as few words as you can put it, what in hell -do you mean by that?” he demanded levelly. - -“All right, if you want it that way, I'll tell you,” said Sergeant -Marden quietly. “I guess perhaps the short cut's best. They've given you -until to-morrow morning to get out of Ton-Nugget Camp.” - -“I beg your pardon?” inquired Three-Ace Artie with ominous politeness. - -Sergeant Marden produced a poke partially filled with gold dust and laid -it on the table. - -“What's that?”--Three-Ace Artie's eyes were hard. - -“It's the price you paid Sam MacBride for this shack and contents when -he went away. The boys say they want to play fair.” - -And then Three-Ace Artie laughed--not pleasantly. Methodically he -removed his overcoat, hung it on its peg, and sat down again on the edge -of the bunk. - -“Let's see the rest of your hand, sergeant”--his voice was deadly quiet. -“I don't quite get the idea.” - -“I wasn't here myself this afternoon,” said Sergeant Marden; “but they -seem to feel that the sort of thing that happened kind of gives the -community a bad name, and that separating a youngster, when he's drunk, -from his last dollar is a bit too raw even for Ton-Nugget Camp. That's -about the size of the way it was put up to me.” - -It seemed to Three-Act Artie that in some way he had not quite heard -aright; or that, if he had, he was being made the object of some, -unknown to its authors, stupendously ironical joke--and then, as -he glanced at the officer's grim, though not altogether unfriendly -countenance, and from Sergeant Marden to the bag of gold upon the table, -a bitter, furious anger surged upon him. His clenched fist reached out -and fell smashing upon the table. - -“So that's it, is it!” he said between his teeth. “This is some of -Murdock Shaw's work--the snivelling, psalm-singing hypocrite! Well, he -can't get away with it! I've a few friends in camp myself.” - -“Fairweather friends, I should say,” qualified the sergeant, busy again -with his pipe bowl. “You said yourself that no one had been near the -shack here. The camp appears to be pretty well of one mind on the -subject.” - -“Including the half dozen or more who started after the Kid to begin -with!”--Three-Ace Artie's laugh was savage, full of menace. “Are they -helping to run me out of camp, too!” - -“You seem to have got a little of _everybody's_ money,” suggested -Sergeant Marden pointedly. “Anyway, I haven't seen any sign of them -putting up a fight for you.” - -“Quite so!” There was a sudden cold self-possession in Three-Ace Artie's -tones. “Well, I can put up quite a fight for myself, thank you. I'm not -going! It's too bad Shaw didn't have the nerve to come here and tell me -this. I----” - -“I wouldn't let him,” interposed the sergeant, with a curious smile. -“That's why I came myself.” - -Three-Ace Artie studied the other's face for an instant. - -“Well, go on!” he jerked out. “What's the answer to that?” - -“That I am going on to Dawson in the morning, and that I thought perhaps -you might be willing to come along.” - -Three-Ace Artie's under jaw crept out the fraction of an inch, and his -eyes narrowed. - -“I thought you said you weren't here officially!” - -“I'm not--at least, not yet.” - -“Well, it sounds mighty like an arrest to me!” snarled Three-Ace Artie. -He stood up abruptly, and once more leaned over the table. His dark eyes -flashed. “But that doesn't go either--not in the Yukon! You can't hold -me for anything I've done, and you ought to know better than to think -you can do any bluffing with me and get away with it! Murdock Shaw is. -evidently running this little game. I gave him a chance to call my hand -this afternoon--and he lay down like a whipped pup! That chance is still -open to him--but he can't do it by proxy! That's exactly where you and I -stand, Marden--don't try the arrest game!” - -“I'm not going to--at least, not yet,” said the sergeant again. “It's -not a question of law. The day may come when the lid goes on out here, -but so far the local millennium hasn't dawned. There's no dispute there. -I told you I came in here on the 'old friend' basis, and I meant it. -I've known you off and on a bit for quite a while; and I always liked -you for the reputation you had of playing square. There's no talk of -crookedness now, though I must confess you've pulled something a little -thinner than I thought it was in you to do. However, let that go. I -don't want to butt in on this unless I have to--and that's why I'm -trying to get you to come away with me in the morning. If you don't, -there'll be trouble, and then I'll have to take a hand whether I want to -or not.” - -“By God!”--the oath came fiercely, involuntarily from Three-Ace Artie's -lips. The irony of it all was upon him again. The injustice of it galled -and maddened him. And yet--tell them the truth of the matter? He would -have seen every last one of them consigned to the bottomless pit first! -The turbulent soul of the man was aflame. “Run out of camp, eh!”---it -was a devil's laugh that echoed around the shack. “That means being run -out of the Yukon! I'd have to get out, wouldn't I--out of the Yukon--ha, -ha!--my name would smell everywhere to high heaven!” - -“I'm not sure but that's exactly what I would do if I were you,” said -Sergeant Marden simply. “The fact you've got to face is that you're -black-balled--and the easiest way to swallow a nasty dose is to swallow -it in a gulp, isn't it?” He got up from his chair and laid his hand -on Three-Ace Artie's shoulder. “Look here, Leroy,” he said earnestly, -“you've got a cool enough head on you not to play the fool, and you're -a big enough sport to stand for the cards whatever way they turn. I want -you to say that you'll come along with me in the morning--I'll get out -of here early before any one is about, or I'll go now if you like, if -that will help any. It's the sensible thing to do. Well?” - -“I don't know, Marden--I don't know!” Three-Ace Artie flung out shortly. - -“Yes, you do,” insisted the sergeant quietly. “You know a fight wouldn't -get you anywhere--if you got one or two of them, Murdock Shaw for -instance, you'd simply be hung for your pains. They mean business, and -I don't want any trouble--why make any for me when it can't do you any -good? I'm putting it to you in a friendly way; and, besides that, it's -common sense, isn't it?” His grip tightened in a kindly pressure on -Three-Ace Artie's shoulder. “I'm right, ain't I? What do you say?” - -“Oh, you're right enough!”--a hard smile twisted Three-Ace Artie's lips. -“There's no argument about that. I'd have to go anyway, I know that--but -I'm not keen on going without giving them a run for their money that -they'd remember for the rest of their lives!” - -“And at the same time put a crimp into your own,” said Sergeant Marden -soberly. He held out his hand. “You'll come, won't you?” - -Twice Three-Ace Artie paced the length of the shack. Logically, as he -had admitted, Marden was right; but battling against logic was a sullen -fury that prompted him to throw consequences to the winds, and, with -his back to the wall, invite Ton-Nugget Camp to a showdown. And then, -abruptly, the gambler's instinct to throw down a beaten hand, when bluff -would be of no avail and holding it would only increase his loss, turned -the scales, and he halted before Sergeant Marden. - -“I'll go,” he said tersely. - -There was genuine relief in the officer's face. - -“And I'll stick to my end of the bargain!” the sergeant exclaimed -heartily. “When do you want to start?” - -“It makes damned little odds to me!” Three-Ace Artie answered gruffly. -“Suit yourself.” - -“All right,” said the sergeant. “In that case I'll put in a few hours' -sleep, and we'll get away before the camp is stirring.” He buttoned up -his overcoat, put on his cap, and moved toward the door. “I've got a -team of huskies, and there's room on the sled for anything you want to -bring along. You can get it ready, and I'll call for you here.” - -Three-Ace Artie nodded curtly. - -Sergeant Marden reached out to open the door, and, with his hand on the -latch, hesitated. - -“Don't go up there, Leroy,” he said earnestly, jerking his head in the -direction of the upper end of the camp. “Canuck John is unconscious, as -I told you--there's nothing you could do.” - -But Three-Ace Artie had turned his back. To Canuck John and Sergeant -Marden he was equally oblivious for the moment. He heard the door close, -heard the sergeant's footsteps outside recede and die away. He was -staring now at the bag of gold upon the table. It seemed to mock and -jeer at him, and suddenly his hands at his sides curled into clenched -and knotted fists--and after a moment he spoke aloud in French. - -“It was the first decent thing I ever did in my life”--he was smiling in -a sort of horrible mirth. “Do you appreciate that, my very dear friend -Raymond? It is exquisite! _Sacré nom de Dieu_, it is magnificent! It was -the first decent thing you ever did in your life--think of that, _mon -brave!_ And see how well you are paid for it! They are running you out -of camp!” - -He turned and flung himself down on the bunk, his hands still fiercely -clenched. Black-balled, Sergeant Marden had called it! Well, it was not -the first time he had been black-balled! Here, in the Yukon, the name -of Three-Ace Artie was to be a stench to the nostrils; elsewhere, in the -city of his birth, he, last of his race, had already dragged an honoured -and patrician name in the mire. - -A red flame of anger swept his cheeks. What devil's juggling with the -cards had brought that young fool across his path, and brought the -memories of the days gone by, and brought him an indulgence in weak, -mawkish sentimentality! A debt, he had told the boy! - -The red flamed into his face again--and yet again. Curse the memories! -Once aroused they would not down. Even the old schooldays crowded -themselves upon him--and at that he jeered out at himself in bitter -raillery. Brilliant, clever in those days, outstripping many beyond his -years, as glib with his Latin as with his own French tongue, his father -had designed him for the Roman Catholic priesthood, and he, Raymond -Chapelle, the son of the rich seigneur, of one of the oldest families in -French Canada, instead of becoming a priest of God had become--Three-Ace -Artie, the pariah of Ton-Nugget Camp! - -Would it not make all hell scream with glee! It brought unholy humour -to himself. He--a priest of God! But he had not journeyed very far along -that road--even before he had finished school he had had a fling or two! -It had been easy enough. There was no mother, and he did not know his -father very well. There had been great style and ceremony in that huge, -old, lumbering, gray-stone mansion in Montreal--but never a home! His -father had seemed concerned about him in one respect only--a sort of -austere pride in his accomplishments at school. Produce proof of that, -and money was unstinted. It had come very easily, that money--and gone -riotously even as a boy. Then he had entered college, and half way -through his course his father had died. He had travelled fast after -that--so fast that only a blur of wreckage loomed up out of those -few years. A passion for gambling, excess without restraint, a _roué_ -life--and his patrimony, large as it was, was gone. Family after family -turned their backs upon him, and his clubs shut their doors in his face! -And then the Yukon--another identity--and as much excitement as he could -snatch out of his new life! - -There was a snarl now on his lips. It had been a furious pace back -there in Montreal, but whose business was it save his own! He was not -whimpering about it. He could swallow his own medicine without asking -anybody else to make a wry face over it for him! Regrets? What should -he regret--save that he had lost the money that would enable him to -maintain the old pace! Regrets! He would not even be thinking of it now -if that young fool had not crossed his path, and he, the bigger fool of -the two, had not tried to play the game of the blind leading the blind! - -Repay a debt! Fie had not even displayed originality--only a sort of -absurd mimicry of the boy's father! He was taunting himself now, mocking -at himself mercilessly. What good had it done! How much different would -it be with young Rogers than it had been with himself when Rogers' -father, an old and intimate friend of his own father's, had taken him -home one night just before the final crash, and had talked till dawn in -kindly earnestness, pleading with him to change his ways before it was -too late! True, it had had its effect. The effect had lasted two days! -But somehow, for all that, he had never been able to forget the old -gentleman's face, and the gray hairs, and the soft, gentle voice, -and the dull glow of the fire in the grate that constantly found a -reflection in the moist eyes fixed so anxiously upon him. - -What imp of perversity had inspired him to consider that a debt, and -prompt him to repay it to the son! Why had he not left well enough -alone! What infernal trick of memory had caused him to recognise the boy -at the moment of their first meeting! He had known the other in the old -days only in the casual way that one of twenty-two would know a boy of -fifteen still in short trousers! - -He started up from the bunk impulsively, walked to the stove, wrenched -the door open, flung in another stick of wood savagely, and began to -pace the shack with the sullen fury of a caged beast. The passion within -the man was rising to white heat. Run out of Ton-Nugget Camp! The -story would spread. A nasty story! It meant that he was run out of the -Yukon--his four years here, and not unprofitable years, at an end! It -was a life he had grown to like because it was untrammelled; a life -in which, at least in intervals, when the surplus cash was in hand, he -could live in Dawson for a brief space at a dizzier pace than ever! - -He was Three-Ace Artie here--or Arthur Leroy--it did not matter -which--one took one's choice! And now--what was he to be next--and -where! - -Tell them what he had done, crawl to them, beg them to let him -stay--never! If he answered them at all, it would be in quite a -different way, and--his eyes fixed again upon the bag of gold that -Sergeant Marden had left on the table. A bone flung to a cur as he was -kicked from the door! The finger nails bit into the palms of Three-Ace -Artie's hands. - -“Damn you!” he gritted, white-lipped. “Damn every one of you!” - -And this was his reward for the only decent thing that he could remember -ever having done in his life--the thought with all its jibing mockery -was back once more. It added fuel to his fury. It was he, not the Kid, -who had had his lesson! And it was a lesson he would profit by! If it -was the only decent thing he had ever done--it would be the last! They -had intended him for a priest of God in the old days! He threw back his -head and laughed until the room reverberated with his hollow mirth. He -had come too damnably near to acting the part that afternoon, it seemed! -A priest of God! Blasphemy, unbridled, unlicensed, filled his soul. He -snatched up the bottle of whisky, and poured a glass full to the brim. - -“A toast!” he cried. “On your feet, Raymond! Up, Monsieur Leroy! Artie, -Three-Ace Artie--a toast! Drink deep, _mes braves!_” He lifted the glass -above his head. “To our liege lord henceforth, praying pardon for our -lapse from grace! To his Satanic Majesty--and hell!” He drained the -glass to its dregs, and bowed satirically. “I can not do honour to the -toast, sire, by snapping the goblet stem.” He held up the glass again. -“It is only a jelly tumbler, and so--” It struck with a crash against -the wall of the shack, as he hurled it from him, and smashed to -splinters. - -For a moment, clawing at his throat as the raw spirit burned him, -staring at the broken glass upon the floor, he stood there; then, with a -short laugh, he pushed both table and chair closer to the stove and sat -down--and it was as though it were some strange vigil that he had set -himself to keep. Occasionally he laughed, occasionally he filled the -other glass and drank in gulps, occasionally he thought of Canuck -John, who spoke English very poorly and whose eager snatching at the -opportunity to speak French had brought about a certain intimacy between -them, and, thinking of Canuck John, there came a sort of wondering frown -as at the intrusion of some utterly extraneous thing, occasionally as -his eyes encountered the bag of gold there came a glitter into their -depths and his lips parted, hard drawn, over set teeth; but for the most -part he sat with a fixed, grim smile, his hands opening and shutting on -his knees, staring straight before him. - -Once he got up, and, making the circuit of the shack, collected his -personal belongings and packed them into his kit bag--and from under a -loose plank in the corner of the room took out a half dozen large and -well-filled pokes, tucked them carefully away beneath the clothing in -the bag, strapped up the bag, replaced the loosened plank, and returned -to his chair. - -Sullen, bitter, desperate, soul reckless with the knowledge that all -men's hands were against him, as his were against them, he sat there. -The hours passed unreckoned and unnoticed. There was no dawn to come, -for there was no sun to rise; but it grew a little lighter. A stillness -as of the dead hung over Ton-Nugget Camp; and then out of the stillness -a dog barked--and became a yapping chorus as others joined in. - -He reached out mechanically for the bottle--it was empty. He stared at -it for a moment in bewildered surprise. It had been full, untouched -when he had placed it on the table. He stood up--steadily, firmly. He -stretched out his hand in front of him, and studied it critically--there -was not a tremor. His hand dropped to his side. One could absorb a good -deal of liquor under mental stress without resultant physical effect! He -was not drunk. Only his nerves were raw and on edge. That bag of gold -on the table! His eyes narrowed again upon it for the hundredth time. -It flaunted itself in his face. It had become symbolic of the unanimous -contempt with which Ton-Nugget Camp bade him be gone! Damn their cursed -insolence! It was an entirely inadequate reply to go away and simply -leave it lying there on the table--and yet what else was there to do? -The dogs were barking again. That would be Marden harnessing up his -huskies. The sergeant would be along now in another minute or two. - -He turned from the table, picked up his overcoat, put it on, and -buttoned it to the throat. He put on his cap, jerked his kit bag up from -the floor, slung one strap over his shoulder, moved toward the door--and -paused to gaze back around the room. The lamp burned on the table, the -empty whisky bottle, the glass, the bag of gold beside it; in the -stove a knot crackled with a report like a pistol shot. Slowly his -eyes travelled around over the familiar surroundings, his home of four -months; and slowly the colour mounted in his cheeks--and suddenly, his -eyes aflame, a low, tigerish cry on his lips, he flung the kit bag from -his shoulder to the ground. - -They would tell the story through the Yukon of how he had fleeced and -robbed a drunken boy of his last cent on earth--but they would never -tell the story of how he had slunk away in the darkness like a whipped -and mangy cur! He feared neither God nor devil, norman, nor beast! That -had been his lifelong boast, his creed. He feared them now no more than -he had ever feared them! He listened. There was a footstep without, but -that was Marden's. Not one of all the camp afoot to risk contamination -by bidding him goodbye! Well, it was not good-bye yet! Ton-Nugget Camp -would remember, his adieu! Passion was rocking the man to the soul, the -sense of bitter injury, smarting like a gaping wound, was maddening him -beyond all self-control. He tore loose the top button of his coat--and -turned sharply to face the door. Here was Marden now. He wanted no -quarrel with Mar-den, but---- - -The door opened. He felt himself mechanically push his cap back on his -forehead, felt a sort of unholy joy sweep in a wild, ungovernable surge -upon him, felt every muscle of his body stiffen and grow rigid in a -fierce and savage elation, and he heard a sound that he meant for a -laugh chortle from his lips. It was not Marden standing there--it was -Murdock Shaw. - -And then he spoke. - -“Come in, and shut the door, Murdock,” he said in a velvet voice. “I -thought my luck was out tonight.” - -“It's not worth while,” the miner answered. “Mar-den's getting ready to -go now, and I only came to bring you a message from Canuck John.” - -“I've got one for you that you'll remember longer!”--Three-Ace Artie's -smile was ghastly, as he moved back toward the table in a kind of -inimical guarantee that the floor space should be equally divided -between them. “Come in, Murdock, if you are a man--_and shut that -door_.” - -The miner did not move. - -“Canuck John is dead,” he said tersely. - -“What's that to do with me--or you and me!”--there was a rasp in -Three-Ace Artie's voice now. “It's you who have started me on the little -journey that I'm going to take, you know, and it's only decent to use -the time that's left in bidding me good-bye.” - -“I didn't come here to quarrel with you,” Shaw said shortly. “Canuck -John regained consciousness for a moment before he died. He couldn't -talk much--just a few words. We don't any of us know his real name, or -where his home is. From what he said, it seems you do. He said: 'Tell -Three-Ace Artie--give goodbye message--my mother and--' And then he -died.” - -Three-Ace Artie's fingers were twisting themselves around the bag of -gold that he had picked up from the table. - -“I thought so!” he snarled. “You were yellow this afternoon. I thought -you hadn't the nerve to come here, unless you figured you were safe some -way or another. And so you think you are going to hide behind a dead man -and the sanctimonious pathos of a dying message! Well, I'll see you -both damned first! Do you hear!” White to the lips with the fury that, -gathering all through the night, was breaking now, he started toward the -other, his hand clutching the bag of gold. - -Involuntarily the miner stepped back still closer to the door. - -“That's not the way out for you!” whispered Three-Ace Artie hoarsely. -“If you take it, I'll drop you in the snow before you're ten yards up -the street! Damn you, we'll play this hand out now for keeps! You've -started something, and we'll finish it. You've rid the camp and rid -Alaska of a tainted smell, have you? You sneaked around behind my back -with your cursed righteousness to give me a push further on the road to -hell! I know your kind--and, by God, I know your breed! Four years ago -on the White Pass you took a man's last dollar for a hunk of bread. He -could pay or starve! You sleek skunk--do you remember? Your conscience -has been troubling you perhaps, and so you went around the camp and -collected this, did you--_this!_” He held up the bag of gold above his -head. “No? You didn't recognise me again? Well, no matter--take it back! -Tell Ton-Nugget Camp I gave it back to you--to keep!” In a flash his arm -swept forward, and, with all his strength behind it, he hurled the bag -at the other's head. - -It struck full on the miner's forehead--and dropped with a soft thud on -the floor. The man reeled backward, swayed, and clawed at the wall of -the shack for support--and while he swayed a red spot dyed his forehead, -and a crimson stream ran zigzag down over eye and cheek. - -And Three-Ace Artie laughed, and stooped, and picked up his kit bag, -and swung one strap over one shoulder as before--Sergeant Marden, -stern-faced, was standing on the threshold of the open door. - -“I guess my luck is out after all. You win, Murdock!” smiled Three-Ace -Artie grimly--and brushed past the sergeant out of the shack. - -The dog-team was standing before the door. He dropped his kit bag on -the sled, and strode on down the street. Here and there lights were -beginning to show from the shack windows. Once a face was pressed -against a pane to watch him go by, but no voice spoke to him. It was -silent, and it was dark. - -Only the snow was white. And it was cold--cold as death. - -Presently Sergeant Marden and the dog-team caught up with him. - -“He'll need a stitch or two in his head,” said the sergeant gruffly. - -Raymond Chapelle, alias Arthur Leroy, alias Three-Ace Artie, made no -reply. In his soul was anarchy; in his heart a bitter mockery that -picked a quarrel with Almighty God. - - - - -CHAPTER III--THE CURÉ - -|RAYMOND CHAPELLE, once known as Three-Ace Artie, and now, if the -cardcase in his pocket could be relied upon for veracity, as one Henri -Mentone--though the cardcase revealed neither when nor where that -metamorphosis had taken place, nor yet again the nature of Monsieur -Henri Mentone's pursuits in life--was engaged in the rather futile -occupation of staring out through the car window into a black and -objectless night. He was not, however, deeply concerned with the night, -for at times he shifted his gaze around the smoking compartment, which -he had to himself, and smiled cynically. The winter of the Yukon had -changed to the springtime of lower French Canada--it was a far cry from -Ton-Nugget Camp, from Dawson and the Pacific, to the little village of -St. Marleau on the banks of the St. Lawrence, where the river in its -miles of breadth was merging with the Atlantic Ocean! - -St. Marleau! That was where Canuck John had lived, where the old folks -were now--if they were still alive. The cynical smile deepened. The only -friend he had was--a dead man! The idea rather pleased him, as it had -pleased him ever since he had started for the East. Perhaps there was a -certain sentimentality connected with what he was about to do, but -not the sickly, fool sentimentality that he had been weak enough to be -guilty of with the Kid in Ton-Nugget Camp! He was through with that! -Here, if it was sentiment at all, it was a sentiment that appealed to -his sporting instincts. Canuck John had put it up to him--and died. It -was a sort of trust; and the only man who trusted him was--a dead man. -He couldn't throw a dead man down! - -He laughed softly, drumming with his carefully manicured fingers on the -window pane. Besides, there was too much gossip circulating between the -Pacific Coast and Alaska to make it profitable for a gambler who -had been kicked out of the Yukon for malpractice to linger in that -locality--even if he had shaved off his beard! The fingers, from the -window pane, felt in a sort of grimly ruminative way over the smooth, -clean-shaven face. So, as well East as anywhere, providing always that -he gave Montreal a wide berth--which he had! - -Canuck John, of course, had not meant to impose any greater trust than -the mere writing of a letter. But, like Murdock Shaw and the rest of -Ton-Nugget Camp, he, Raymond, did not know Canuck John's name. If Canuck -John had ever told him, and he had a hazy recollection that the other -once had done so, he had completely forgotten it. Of St. Marleau, -however, Canuck John had spoken scores of times. That made a letter -still possible, of course--to the postmaster of St. Marleau. But it was -many years since Canuck John had left there; Canuck John could not write -himself and therefore his people would have had no knowledge of his -whereabouts, and to write the postmaster that a man known as Canuck -John had died in Ton-Nugget Camp was, to say the least of it, open -to confusing possibilities in view of the fact that in those many and -intervening years Canuck John was not likely to have been the only one -who had left his native village to seek a wider field. And since he, -Raymond, was coming East in any event, he was rather glad than otherwise -that for the moment he had a definite objective in view. - -Anyway, Canuck John had been a good sort--and that was all there was -to it! And, meanwhile, this filled in, as it were, a hiatus in his own -career, for he had not quite made up his mind exactly in what direction, -or against whom specifically, he could pit his wits in future--to the -best advantage to himself. One thing only was certain, henceforth he -would be hampered by no maudlin consideration of ethics, such, for -instance, as had enabled him to state truthfully to the Kid that he had -never stacked a card in his life. To the winds with all that! He had had -his lesson! Fish to his net, hereafter, would be all that came his way! -If every man's hand was against him, his own would not remain palsied! -For the moment he was in funds, flush, and well provided for; and for -the moment it was St. Marleau and his dead friend's sorry legacy--to -those who might be dead themselves! That remained to be seen! After -that, as far as he was concerned, it was _sauve qui peut_, and-- - -Monsieur Henri Mentone looked up--and, with no effort to conceal his -displeasure, Monsieur Henri Mentone scowled. A young priest had entered -the smoking compartment, and was now in the act of settling himself on -the opposite seat. - -“Good evening,” nodded the other pleasantly. “I think we have been -travelling companions since Quebec.” He produced a cigar, lighted it, -and smiled. “It is not a very pleasant night, is it? There appears to be -a very high wind.” - -Raymond Chapelle rattled a newspaper out of his pocket, rattled it open -brusquely--and retired behind it. - -“It appears to be windy!” he growled uninvitingly. - -He glanced at the remainder of his cigar. It was a very good cigar, and -he did not care to sacrifice it by giving the other all the elbow -room that the entire smoking compartment of the car afforded--as he, -otherwise, would not have hesitated an instant to do! If his soul -had nurtured any one especial hatred in its late period of bitter and -blasphemous fury, it was a hatred of religion and all connected with -it. He detested the sight of a priest. It always made him think of that -night in Ton-Nugget Camp when memories had got the better of him. A -priest of God! He hated them all. And he made no distinction as between -creeds. They were all alike. They were Murdock Shaws! And he, if his -father had had his way, would now be wearing a _soutane_, and dangling -a crucifix from his neck, and sporting one of those damnable round hats -like the man in front of him! - -“Do you know this country at all?” inquired the priest. - -“I do not,” Raymond answered curtly from behind his paper. - -The other did not appear to notice the rebuff. - -“No more do I,” he said engagingly. “I have never been below Quebec -before, and I am afraid, unfortunately, that I am about to suffer for my -ignorance. I am going to St. Marleau.” - -Raymond lowered his paper, and for the first time gave the other more -than a casual glance. He found his _vis-à-vis_ to be dark-eyed, of -rather pleasant features--this he admitted grudgingly--and a young man -of, he judged, about his own age. - -“What is the matter with St. Marleau?” Personal interest prompted him -to ask the question; nothing could prompt him to infuse even a hint of -affability into his tones. - -The priest shrugged his shoulders, and smiled whimsically. - -“The matter with St. Marleau is that it is on the bank of the river, -and that the station is three miles away. I have been talking to the -conductor. I did not know that before.” - -Raymond had not known it before either. The information did not please -him. He had taken it as a matter of course that the railroad would set -him down at the village itself. - -“Well?” he prompted sourly. - -“It was what caused me to take a particular interest in the -weather”--the priest waved his cigar philosophically. “I shall have to -walk, I presume. I am not expected until to-morrow, and the conductor -tells me there is nothing but a small station where we stop.” - -Raymond would have to walk too. - -“It is unfortunate!” he observed sarcastically. “I should have thought -that you would have provided against any such contingencies by making -inquiries before you started.” - -“That is true,” admitted the priest simply. “I am entirely to blame, and -I must not complain. I was pleasurably over-excited perhaps. It is my -first charge, you see. The curé of St. Marleau, Father Allard, went away -yesterday for a vacation--for the summer--his first in many years--he -is quite an old man”--the young priest was waxing garrulous, and was no -longer interesting. Raymond peered out of the car window with a new and -personal concern in the weather. There was no rain, but the howl of the -wind was distinctly audible over the roar of the train. - -“I was to have arrived to-morrow, as I said”--the priest was rattling -on--“but having my preparations all completed to-day and nothing to -detain me, I--well, as you see, I am here.” - -Raymond was picturing realistically, and none too happily, a three-mile -walk on a stormy night over a black, rutted country road. The prospect -was not a soothing one. - -“Monsieur is perhaps a commercial traveller?” ventured the young curé -amiably, by way of continuing the conversation. - -Raymond folded his paper deliberately, and replaced it in his pocket. -There was a quick, twisted smile on his lips, but for the first time his -voice was cordiality itself. - -“Oh, no,” he said. “On the contrary, I make my living precisely as -does Monsieur le Curé, except perhaps that I have not always the same -certainty of success.” - -“Ah!” The young priest leaned forward interestingly. “Then you----” - -“Yes,” said Raymond, and now a snarl crept into his voice. “I let -some one else toil for the money--while I hold out the hat!” He rose -abruptly, and flung his cigar viciously in the general direction of the -cuspidor. “I am a parasite on my fellow men, monsieur--a gambler,” he -said evenly, and walked to the door. - -Over his shoulder he caught the amazement on the young priest's face, -then the quick, deep flush of indignation--and then the corridor shut -him off from the other, and he chuckled savagely to himself. - -He passed on into the main body of the car, took his bag from the rack -over the seat that he had occupied, and went on into the next car in the -rear. The priest, he had noticed, had previously been occupying the -same car as himself. He wanted no more of the other! And as for making -a companion of him on the walk from the station to St. Marleau, he would -sooner have walked with the devil! As a matter of fact, he was prepared -to admit he would not have been wholly averse to the devil's company. -But a priest of God! The cynical smile was back on his lips. They were -all alike--he despised them all. But he nevertheless confessed to a -certain commiseration; he was sorry for God--the devil was much less -poorly served! - - - - - -CHAPTER IV--ON THE ROAD TO ST. MARLEAU - -|RAYMOND descended from the train on the opposite side from the station -platform. He proposed that Monsieur le Curé, _pro tem_., of St. Marleau, -should have a start sufficient to afford a guarantee against the -possibility of any further association with the other that night! - -A furious gust of wind eddied down the length of the train, caught at -his travelling bag, and banged it violently against his knees. He swore -earnestly to himself, as he picked his way further back across the -siding tracks to guard against the chance of being seen from the -platform when the train started on again. It was obviously not going to -be a pleasant experience, that walk! It was bad enough where he stood, -here on the trackside, somewhat sheltered by the train; in the open the -wind promised to attain the ferocity of a young tornado! - -The train pulled out; and across the tracks a light glimmered from a -window, and behind the light a building loomed up black and formless. -The light, filtering out on the platform, disclosed two figures--the -priest, and, evidently, the station agent. - -Raymond sat down on his bag and waited. It was intensely dark, and -he was far enough away to be secure from observation. He grinned -maliciously, as he watched a shadowy sort of pantomime in which the -priest clutched and struggled continually with his _soutane_ as the wind -kept wrapping it around his legs. - -The other might be less infatuated with skirts by the time St. Marleau -was reached! - -The two figures moved down the platform together, and Raymond lost sight -of them in the darkness. He rose, picked up his bag, walked a few yards -along the track in the opposite direction to that which they had taken, -crossed over the mainline, and clambered upon the platform. Here he -stumbled over a trunk. The curé's, presumably! He continued on along the -platform slowly--under the circumstances a little information from the -station agent would not come in amiss. He jammed his slouch hat firmly -down on his head, and yanked the brim savagely over his eyes against the -wind. This was likely to prove considerably more than he had bargained -for! Three miles of it! And for what! He began to call himself a fool. -And then, the station agent returning alone from the lower end of the -platform, head down, buffeting the wind, and evidently making for the -curé's trunk to house it for the night, Raymond stepped forward and -accosted the other. - -The man brought himself up with a jerk. Raymond drew the other into the -shelter of the station wall. In the meagre light from the window a few -yards away, he could make out the man's face but very indistinctly; and -the other, in his turn, appeared equally at a disadvantage, save that, -possibly, expecting it to be an acquaintance from the village, he found -a stranger instead. - -“_'Cré nom!_” ejaculated the man in surprise. “And where did you come -from?” - -“From the train--naturally,” Raymond answered. “You were busy with some -one, and I waited.” - -“Yes, that is so! I see!” The other nodded his head. “It was Father -Aubert, the young curé who is come to the village. He has but just -started, and if you are going to St. Marleau, and hurry, you will have -company over the road.” - -“Never mind about him!” said Raymond shortly. “I am not looking for that -kind of company!” - -“_Tiens!_” exclaimed the man a little blankly. “Not that kind of -company--but that is strange! It is a bad night and a lonely walk--and, -I do not know him of course, but he seemed very pleasant, the young -curé.” - -“I daresay,” said Raymond, and shrugged his shoulders. “But I do not -intend to walk at all if I can help it. Is there no horse to be had -around here?” - -“But, no!”--the other's tones expressed mild reproof at the question. -“If there had been, I would have procured it for the curé. There is -nothing. It is as near to the village as anywhere.” - -“And that is three miles!” muttered Raymond irritably. - -“It is three miles by the road, true, monsieur; but the village itself -is not nearly so far. There is a short cut. If you take the path that -leads straight ahead where the road turns off to the left to circle the -woods, it will bring you to the brow of the hill overlooking the village -and the river, and you will come out just where the road swings in again -at the tavern. You save at least a mile.” - -Raymond brightened. - -“Ah! A tavern!” he cried. “That is better! I was beginning to think the -cursed----” - -“But--wait!” the man laughed suddenly. “It is not what you think! I -should not advise you to go there.” - -“No?” inquired Raymond, “and why not?” - -“She is an old hag, an _excommuniée_, old Mother Blondin, who lives -there--and her son, who is come back for the past week from God knows -where with a scar all over his ugly face, is no better. It is not a -tavern at all. That is a name we have for it amongst ourselves. We call -it the tavern because it is said that she makes her own _whiskey-blanc_ -and sells it on the sly, and that there are some who buy it--though when -her son is back she could not very well have enough for any customers. -He has been drunk for a week, and he is a devil.” - -“Your Mother Blondin is evidently no fool!” observed Raymond ironically. -“And so it is said there are some who buy it--eh? And in turn I suppose -she could buy out every farmer in the village! She should have money, -your Mother Blondin! Hers is a profitable business.” - -“Yes,” said the other. “For me, that is the way I look at it. It is -gossip that her stocking is well lined; but I believe the gossip. It is -perhaps well for her if it is so, for she will need it. She is getting -old and does not see very well, though, _bon Dieu_, she is still sharp -enough with her wits! But”--his shoulders lifted in a shrug--“the way to -the village, eh? Well, whether you take the road or the path, you arrive -at Mother Blondin's. You go down the hill from there, and the village is -on each side of you along the bank of the river. Ask at the first house, -and they will show you the way to Madame Dussault's--that is the only -place to go. She keeps a boarding house whenever there is anybody to -board, for it is not often that any stranger comes to St. Marleau. Are -you going to stay long?” - -“I don't know,” said Raymond pleasantly--and ignored the implied -invitation for further confidences. - -“Well, if you like,” offered the station agent, “you can leave your bag -here, and it can go over with the cure's trunk in the morning. He said -he would send somebody for it then. You won't find it easy carrying that -bag a night like this.” - -“Oh, it's only a small one; I guess I can manage it all right,” said -Raymond lightly. He extended his hand--the priest was far enough along -by now so that he would not overtake the other; and, though it was still -early, not much after eight o'clock, the countryside was not given to -keeping late hours, and, if he was to reach St. Marleau before this -Dussault household, for instance, had retired for the night, it was time -he started. “Much obliged for the information! Goodnight!” he smiled, -and picked up his bag--and a moment later, the station behind him, was -battling in the face of furious wind gusts along the road. - -It was very dark; and the road was execrable, full of ruts and hollows -into which he was continually stumbling. He had a flashlight in his bag; -but, bad as the walking was, it was, after all, he decided, the lesser -of the two evils--if he used the flashlight, he ran a very large risk of -inviting the companionship of the priest ahead of him! Also, he had not -gone very far before he heartily regretted that he had not foregone the -few little conveniences that the bag contained, and had left the thing -behind. The wind, as it was, threatened to relieve him of it a score of -times. Occasionally he halted and turned his back, and stood still for a -breathing spell. His mood, as he went along, became one that combined -a sullen stubbornness to walk ten miles, if necessary, once he had -started, and an acrimonious and savage jeer at himself for having ever -been fool enough to bring about his present discomfiture. - -Finally, however, he reached the turn of the road referred to by the -station agent, and here he stood for a moment debating with himself the -advisability of taking the short cut. His eyes grown accustomed to the -darkness, he could distinguish his surroundings with some distinctness, -and he made out a beaten track that led off in the same direction which, -until then, he had been following; but also, a little beyond this -again, he made out a black stretch of wooded land. He shook his head -doubtfully. The short cut was a mere path at best, and he might, or -might not, be able to follow it through the trees. If he lost it, and it -would be altogether too easy a thing to do, his predicament would not -be enviable. It was simply a question of whether the mile he might -save thereby was worth the risk. He shook his head again--this time -decisively. - -“I'm not much on the 'straight and narrow' anyhow!” he muttered -facetiously--and started on again, following the road. - -Gradually the road and the trees began to converge; and presently, -the road swerving again, this time sharply toward the river, he found -himself travelling through the woods, and injected into the midst of -what seemed like the centre of some unearthly and demoniacal chorus -rehearsing its parts--the wind shrieked through the upper branches of -the trees, and moaned disconsolately through the lower ones; it cried -and sobbed; it screamed, and mourned, and sighed; and in the darkness, -still blacker shapes, like weird, beckoning arms, the limbs swayed to -and fro. And now and then there came a loud, ominous crackle, and then a -crash, as a branch, dried and rotten, came hurtling to the ground. - -“Damn it,” confessed Raymond earnestly to himself, “I don't like this! I -wish St. Marleau was where Canuck John is now!” - -He quickened his pace--or, rather, tried to do so; but it was much -blacker here than out in the open, and besides the road now appeared to -be insanely full of twists and turns, and in spite of his efforts his -progress was no faster. - -It seemed interminable, never-ending. He went on and on. A branch -crashed down louder than before somewhere ahead of him. He snarled in -consonance with the wind-shrieks and the wind-moans that now came to -hold a personal malevolence in their pandemonium for himself. His coat -caught once on a projecting branch and was torn. He cursed Canuck John, -and cursed himself with abandon. And then abruptly, as the road twisted -again, he caught the glimmer of a light through the trees--and his eyes -upon the light, rather than upon the ground to pick his way, he stumbled -suddenly and pitched forward over something that was uncannily soft and -yielding to the touch. - -With a startled cry, Raymond picked himself up. It was the body of a man -sprawled across the road. He wrenched open his bag, and, whipping out -his flashlight, turned it upon the other. - -The man lay upon his back, motionless, inert; the white, ghastly face, -blood-streaked, was twisted at a sharp angle to the body, disclosing a -gaping wound in the head that extended from the temple back across -the skull--and a yard away, mute testimony to its tragic work, lay the -rotten limb of a tree, devoid of leaves, perhaps ten feet in length and -of the thickness of one's two fists, its end jagged and splintered where -it had snapped away from its parent trunk. - -It was the priest--Father Aubert, the young curé of St. Marleau. - - - - -CHAPTER V--THE “MURDER” - -|RAYMOND stooped to the other's side. He called the man's name--there -was no answer. He lifted the priest's head--it sagged limply back again. -He felt quickly for the heart beat--there was no sign of life. And then -Raymond stood up again. - -It was the nature of the man that, the sudden shock of his discovery -once over, he should be cool and unperturbed. His nerves were not easily -put to rout under any circumstances, and a life in the Great North, -where the raw edges were turned only too often, left him, if not -calloused, at least composed and, in a philosophical way, unmoved at the -sight before him. - -“Tough luck--even for a priest!” he muttered, not irreverently. “The -man's dead, right enough.” - -He glanced around him, and his eyes fixed again on the glimmer of -light through the trees. That was the tavern undoubtedly--old Mother -Blondin's, the ex_communiée_. He shrugged his shoulders, and a grim -smile flickered across his lips. She too had her quarrel with the -church, but even so she would hardly refuse temporary sanctuary to a -dead man. The priest couldn't be left here lying in the road, and if -Mother Blondin's son was not too drunk to help carry the body to -the house, it would solve the problem until word could be got to the -village. - -He took up his bag--he could not be cumbered with that when he returned -to get the priest--and, the trees sparser here on what was obviously the -edge of the woods, with the window light to guide him and his flashlight -to open the way, he left the road and began to run directly toward the -light. - -A hundred yards brought him out into a clearing--and then to his disgust -he discovered that, apart possibly from another rent or two in his -clothing, he had gained nothing by leaving the road. It had evidently -swung straight in toward the house from a point only a few yards further -on from where he had left the priest, for he was now alongside of it -again! - -He grinned derisively at himself, slipped his flashlight into his -pocket--and, on the point of starting toward the house, which, with only -a small yard in front of it, was set practically on the edge of the road -itself, he halted abruptly. There was only one lighted window that he -could see, and this was now suddenly darkened by a shadowy form from -within, and indistinctly he could make out a face pressed close against -the window pane. - -Raymond instinctively remained motionless. The face held there, peering -long and intently out into the night. It was rather strange! His own -approach could not have been heard, for the howl of the wind precluded -any possibility of that; and neither could he be seen out here in the -darkness. What was it that attracted and seemed to fascinate the watcher -at the window? Mechanically, he turned his head to look behind and -around him. There was nothing--only the trees swaying in the woods; -the scream and screech, and the shrill whistling of the wind; and, in -addition now, a rumbling bass, low, yet perfectly distinct, the sullen -roar of beating waves. He looked back at the window--the face was gone. - -Raymond moved forward curiously. There was no curtain on the window, -and a step or two nearer enabled him to see within. It was a typical -bare-floored room of the _habitant_ class of smaller house that combined -a living room and kitchen in one, the front door opening directly upon -it. There was a stove at one end, with a box of cordwood beside it; -drawn against the wall was a table, upon which stood a lighted lamp; -and a little distance from the table, also against the wall, was an old, -gray-painted, and somewhat battered _armoire_, whose top was strewn with -crockeryware and glass dishes--there was little else in evidence, save a -few home-made chairs with thong-laced seats. - -Raymond's brows gathered in a puzzled frown. Diagonally across the room -from the window and directly opposite the stove was a closed door, and -here, back turned, the man who had been peering out of the window--for -the man was the only occupant of the room--was crouched with his ear -against the panel. His bewilderment growing, Raymond watched the other. -The man straightened up after a moment, faced around into the room, and, -swaying slightly, a vicious smile of satisfaction on his lips, moved -stealthily in the direction of the table. - -And now Raymond had no difficulty in recognising the man from the -station agent's vivid, if cursory, description. It was Mother Blondin's -son. A devil, the agent had called the other--and the man looked it! An -ugly white scar straggled from cheek bone to twisted lip, the eyes were -narrow and close set, the hair shaggy, and the long arms dangling from a -powerful frame made Raymond think of a gorilla. - -Reaching the table, the man paused, looked furtively all around the -room, and again appeared to be listening intently; then he stretched out -his hand and turned the lamp half down. - -Raymond's frown deepened. The other was undoubtedly more or less drunk, -but that did not explain the peculiar and, as it were, ominous way -in which he was acting. What was the man up to? And where was Mother -Blondin? - -The man moved down the room in the direction of the stove; and, the -light dim now, Raymond stepped close to the window for a better view. -The man halted at the end of the room, once more looked quickly all -about him, gazed fixedly for an instant at the closed door where -previously he had held his ear to the panel--and reached suddenly up -above his head, the fingers of both hands working and clawing in a -sort of mad haste at an interstice in the wall where the rough-squared -timbers came imperfectly together. - -And then Raymond smiled sardonically. He understood now. It was old -Mother Blondin's “stocking”! She had perhaps not been as generous as the -son considered she might have been! The man was engaged in the filial -occupation of robbing his own mother! - -“Worthy offspring--if the old dame doesn't belie her reputation!” - muttered Raymond--and stepped to the front door. “However, it's an ill -wind that blows nobody good, and, if the priest suffered, Mother Blondin -can at least thank my interruption incident thereto for the salvage of -her cash.” He opened the door and walked in coolly. “Good evening!” he -said pleasantly. - -The man whirled from the wall--and with a scream, half of pain and half -of startled, furious surprise, was jerked back against the wall again. -His hand was caught as though in a trap. The hiding place had quite -evidently been intended by Mother Blondin for no larger a hand than her -own! The man had obviously wormed and wriggled his hand in between the -timbers--and his hand would not come out with any greater ease than it -had gone in! He wrenched at it, snarling and cursing now, stamping with -his feet, and hurling his maledictions at Raymond's head. - -“It is not my fault, my friend,” said Raymond calmly. “Shall I help -you?” - -He started forward--and stopped halfway across the room. The man had -torn his hand loose, sending a rain of coin clinking to the floor, and, -fluttering after it like falling leaves, a score or two of banknotes -as well; and now, leaping around, he snatched up a heavy piece of the -cordwood, and, swinging it about his head, his face working murderously, -sprang toward Raymond. - -The bag dropped from Raymond's hand, and his face hardened. He had not -bargained for this, but if---- - -With a snarl and an oath the man was upon him; the cordwood whistled in -its downward sweep, aimed full at his head. He parried the blow with his -forearm, and, with a lightning-like movement, side-stepped and sent his -right fist crashing to the other's jaw. - -It staggered the man for an instant--but only for an instant. Bellowing -with rage, dropping the cordwood, heedless of the blows that Raymond -battered into his face, by sheer bulk and weight he closed, his arms -circling Raymond's neck, his fingers feeling for a throat-hold. - -Around the room they staggered, swaying, lurching. The man was half -drunk, and, caught in the act of thievery, his fury was demoniacal. -Again and again Raymond tried to throw the other off. The man was -too big, too powerful for close quarters, and his only chance was an -opportunity to use his fists. They panted heavily, the breath of the one -hot on the other's cheek; and then, as they swung, Raymond was conscious -that the door of the rear room was open, and that a woman was standing -on the threshold. It was only a glance he got--of an old hag-like face, -of steel-rimmed spectacles, of tumbling and dishevelled gray hair--the -man's fingers at last were tightening like a vise around his throat. - -But the other, too, had seen the woman. - -“_Voleur!_ Thief!” he yelled hoarsely. “Smash him on the head with the -stick, mother, while I hold him!” - -“You devil!” gritted Raymond--and with a wrench, a twist, his strength -massed for the one supreme effort, he tore himself loose, hurling the -other backward and away from him. - -There was a crash of breaking glass as the man smashed into the -_armoire_; a wild laugh from the woman in the doorway--and, for the -first time, a cry from Raymond's lips. The man snatched up a revolver -from the top of the _armoire_. - -But quick as the other was, Raymond was quicker as he sprang and -clutched at the man's hand. His face was sternly white now with the -consciousness that he was fighting for no less than his life. Here, -there, now across the room, now back again they reeled and stumbled, -struggling for possession of the weapon, as Raymond strove to tear it -from his antagonist's grasp. And now the woman, screaming, ran forward -and picked up the piece of cordwood, and circling them, screaming still, -aimed her blows at Raymond. - -One struck him on the head, dazing him a little... his brain began to -whirl... he could not wrench the revolver from the man's hand... it -seemed as though he had been trying through an eternity... his hands -seemed to be losing their strength... another desperate jerk from -the other like that and his hold would be gone, the revolver in the -unfettered possession of this whisky-maddened brute, whose lips, like -fangs, were flecked with slaver, in whose eyes, bloodshot, burned the -light of murder... his fingers were slipping from their grip, and---- - -There was a blinding flash; the roar of the report; the revolver -clattered to the floor; a great, ungainly bulk seemed to Raymond to -waver and sway before him in most curious fashion, then totter and crash -with an impact that shook the house--or was it that ghastly, howling -wind!--to the ground. - -Raymond reeled back against the _armoire_, and hung there gasping, -panting for his breath, sweeping his hand again and again across his -forehead. He was abominably dizzy. The room was swinging around and -around; there were two figures, now on the ceiling, now on the floor--a -man who lay flat on his back with his arms and legs grotesquely -extended, and whose shirt was red-splotched; and a hag with streaming -gray hair, who rocked and crooned over the other. - -“Dead! Dead! Dead!”--the wail rose into a high and piercing falsetto. -The hag was on her feet and running wildly for the front door. “Murder! -Thief! Murder! Murder!” - -The horrible screeching died away; and a gust of wind, swirling in -through the door that blew open after the woman, took up the refrain: -“Murder--murder--_murder!_” - -His head ached and swam. He was conscious that he should set his wits at -work, that he should think--that somehow he was in peril. He groped his -way unsteadily to where his bag lay on the floor. As he reached it, the -wind blew the lamp out. He felt around inside the bag, found his flask, -and drank greedily. - -The stimulant cleared his brain. He stood up, and stared around him in -the darkness. His mind was active enough now--grimly active. If he were -caught, he would swing for murder! He had only acted in self-defence, he -had not even fired the shot, the revolver had gone off in the man's -own hand--but there wasn't a chance for him, if he were caught. The -old hag's testimony that he had come there as a thief--that was what -undoubtedly she believed, and undoubtedly what she would swear--would -damn him. And--cursed irony!--that conversation with the station -agent, innocent enough then, would corroborate her now! Nor had he any -reputation to fall back upon to bolster up his story if he faced the -issue and told the truth. Reputation! He could not even give a plausible -account of himself without making matters worse. A gambler from the -Klondike! The _roué_ of Montreal! Would that save him! - -His only hope was to run for it--and at once. It could not be very far -to the village, and it would not be long before that precious old hag -had alarmed the community and returned with the villagers at her heels. -But where would he go? There were no trains! It would be a man-hunt -through the woods, and with so meagre a start that sooner or later they -would get him. And even if he evaded them at first he would have no -chance to get very far away from that locality, and ultimately he would -have to reckon on the arrival of the police. It was probable that old -Mother Blondin could not recognise him again, for the light had been -turned down and she was partially blind; and he was certain that the -station agent would not know his face again either--but both could, and -would, supply a general description of his dress, appearance and -build that would serve equally as well to apprehend him in that thinly -populated country where, under such circumstances, to be even a stranger -was sufficient to invite suspicion. - -Well, if to run for it was his only chance, he would take it! He stooped -for his bag, and, in the act, stood suddenly motionless in a rigid sort -of way. No! There was perhaps another plan! It seemed to Raymond that -he held his breath in suspense until his brain should pass judgment upon -it. The priest! The dead priest, only a little way off out there on the -road! No--it was not visionary, nor wild, nor mad. If they _found_ the -man that they supposed had murdered the old woman's son, they would -not search any further. That was absurdly obvious! The priest was not -expected until to-morrow. The only person who knew that the priest had -arrived, and who knew of his, Raymond's, arrival, was the station agent. -But the quarry once run to earth, there would be no reason for anybody, -as might otherwise be the case in a far-flung pursuit, going to the -station on a night like this. The priest's arrival therefore would not -become known to the villagers until the next morning at the earliest, -and quite probably not until much later, when some one from the village -should drive over to meet the train by which he was expected to arrive. -As a minimum, therefore, that gave him ten or twelve hours' start--and -with ten or twelve hours free from pursuit, he could take very good care -of the “afterwards”! Yes, it was the way! The only way! From what -the priest had said in the train, it was evident that he was a total -stranger here, and so, being unknown, the deception would not be -discovered until the station agent told his story. Furthermore, the -wound in the priest's head from the falling limb of the tree would be -attributed to the blow the old hag had struck _him_ on the head with the -cordwood! The inference, plausible enough, would be that he had run from -the house wounded, only to drop at last to the ground on the spot -where the priest, _dressed as the murderer_, was found! And -besides--yes--there was other evidence he could add! The revolver, for -instance! - -Quick now, his mind made up, Raymond snatched the flashlight from his -pocket, swept the ray around the floor, located the weapon, and, running -to it, picked it up and put it in his pocket. - -Every second was counting now. It might be five, or ten, or fifteen -minutes before they got back from the village, he did not know--but -every moment was priceless. There was still work to be done out there on -the road, even after he was through here! - -He was across the room now by the rear wall, gathering up the coins -and bills that the dead man had scattered on the floor. These, like the -revolver, he transferred to his pocket. A thief, had been their cry. -That was the motive! Well, he would corroborate it! There would be no -mistake--until to-morrow--about their having found the guilty man! - -His hand was a slimmer hand than Blondin's--it slipped easily into the -chink between the timbers. It was like a hollow bowl inside, and there -was more money there. He scooped it out. Twice his hand went in again, -until the hiding place was empty; and then, running back across the -room, he grabbed up his bag, and rushed from the house. - -An instant he paused to listen as he reached the road; but there was -only the howl of the storm, no sound that he could hear as yet from the -direction of the village--though, full of ominous possibilities, he did -not know how far away the village was! - -He ran on again at top speed, flashing his way along with his light, the -wind at his back aiding him now. It would not matter if a stray gleam -were seen by any one, if he could only complete his work in time--it -would only be proof, instead of inference, that the murderer had run -from the house along the road to the spot where he was found. - -He reached the priest, set down his bag, and, taking up the broken limb -of the tree, carried it ten yards away around the turn of the road, and -flung it in amongst the trees; then he was back once more, and bending -over the priest. He worked swiftly now, but coolly and with grim -composure, removing the priest's outer garments. He noted with intense -relief that there was no blood on the clerical collar--that the blood, -due to the twisted position of the other's head, had trickled from the -cheek directly to the ground. It would have been an awkward thing--blood -on the collar! - -It was not easy work. The limp form seemed a ton-weight in his arms, as -he lifted it now this way, now that, to get off the other's clothes. And -at times he recoiled from it, though the stake he was playing for was -his life. It was unnerving business, and the hideous moaning of the wind -made it worse. And mostly he must work by the sense of touch, for he -could not hold the flashlight and still use both hands. But it was done -at last, and now he took off his own clothes, and hastily donned the -priest's. - -He must be careful now--a single slip, something overlooked in his -pockets perhaps might ruin everything, and the ten or twelve hours' -start, that was all he asked for, would be lost; but, equally, the -pockets must not be too bare! He was hurriedly going through his -discarded garments now. Mother Blondin's money and the revolver, of -course, must be found there. - -The cardcase, yes, that could not do any harm... there were no letters, -no one ever wrote to him... the trifling odds and ends must be left in -the pockets too, they lent colour if nothing else... but his own money -was quite a different matter, and he had the big sum in bills of large -denominations with him that he had exchanged for the pokes of gold dust -which he had brought from the Yukon. He tucked this money securely away -under the _soutane_ he was now wearing, and once more bent over the -priest. - -He had now to dress the priest in his, Raymond's, clothes. It was not -readily accomplished; it was even more difficult than it had been -to undress the man; and besides, as he worked now, he found himself -fighting to maintain his coolness against a sort of reckless haste to -have done with it that was creeping upon him. It seemed that he had been -hours at the work, that with every second now the villagers in full cry -must come upon him. Curse it, could he never button that collar and knot -that tie! Why did the man's head wobble like that! The vest now! Now the -coat! - -He stood up finally at the end, and flirted his hand across his brow. -His forehead was clammy wet. He shivered a little; then, lips tight, he -pulled himself together. He must make certain, absolutely certain that -he had done nothing, or left nothing undone to rob him of those few -precious hours that were so necessary to his escape. - -He nodded after a moment in a kind of ghastly approval--he had even hung -the other's crucifix around his neck! There remained only the exchange -of hats, and--yes, the bag--was there anything in the bag that would -betray him? He dropped his own hat on the ground a yard away from the -priest's head where the other's hat had rolled, picked up the priest's -hat, and put it on--then bent down over the bag. - -He lifted his head suddenly, straining his ears to listen. What was -that! Only the howl and unearthly moaning of the wind? It must have -been, and his nerves were becoming over-strung, for the wind was blowing -from the direction of the village, and it seemed as though the sound he -had thought he heard, that he could not have defined, had come from the -other direction. But the bag! Was there anything in it that he should -not leave? He turned the flashlight into its interior, began to rummage -through its contents--and then, kneeling there, it was as though he were -suddenly frozen into that posture, bereft of all power of movement. - -It was only a lantern--but it seemed as though he were bathed in -a blistering flood of light that poured full upon him, that burst -suddenly, without warning, from around the turn of the road in the -direction away from the village. He felt the colour ebb from his face; -he knew a sickly consciousness of doom. He was caught--caught in the -priest's clothes! Shadowy outlined there, was a horse and wagon. A -woman, carrying the lantern, was running toward him--a man followed -behind. The wind rose in demoniacal derision--the damnable wind that, -responsible for everything that night, had brought this crowning -disaster upon him! - -A girl's voice rang out anxiously: - -“What is it? Oh, what is it? What has happened?” Raymond felt himself -grow unnaturally calm. He leaned solicitously over the priest's form. - -“I do not know”--he was speaking with sober concern. “I found this man -lying here as I came along. He has a wound of some sort in his head, and -I am afraid that he is dead.” - -The man, stepping forward, crossed himself hurriedly. - -The girl, with a sharp little cry, knelt down on the other side of the -priest--and in the lantern's glimmer Raymond caught a glimpse of great -dark eyes, of truant hair, wind-tossed, that blew about a young, sweet -face that was full now of troubled sympathy. - -“And you,” she said quickly; “you are the new curé, monsieur. The -station agent told us you had come, and we drove fast, my uncle and I, -to try and catch up with you.” - -Raymond's eyes were on the priest's form. There was no need to simulate -concern now, it was genuine enough, and it was as if something cold and -icy were closing around his heart. He was not sure--great God, it was -not possible!--but he thought--he thought the priest had moved. If that -were so, he was doubly trapped! Cries came suddenly from the direction -of the village, from the direction of old Mother Blondin's house. He -heard himself acknowledging her remark with grave deliberation. - -“Yes,” he said, “I am Father Aubert.” - - - - -CHAPTER VI--THE JAWS OF THE TRAP - -|VOLEUR! Thief! Murder! Murder!”--it rose a high, piercing shriek, and -the wind seemed to catch up the words and eddy them around, and toss -them hither and thither until the storm and the night and the woods -were full of ghouls chanting and screaming and gibbering their hideous -melody: “_Voleur!_ Thief! Murder! Murder!” - -The girl, from the other side of the prostrate priest, rose in quick -alarm to her feet, and lifted the lantern high above her head to peer -down the road. - -“Listen!” she cried. “What does it mean? See the lights there! Listen!” - -The lantern lifted now, Raymond could no longer see the priest's face. -He slipped his hand in desperately under the man's vest. He had felt -there once before for the heart beat when he had first stumbled upon the -other. In God's name, where was his nerve! He needed it now more than he -had ever needed it in all his dare-devil career before. He had _thought_ -the priest had moved. If the man were alive, he, Raymond, was not only -in a thousandfold worse case than if he had run for it and taken his -chances--he had forfeited whatever chance there might have been. The -mere fact that he had attempted to disguise himself, to assume the -priest's garments as a means of escape, damned him utterly, irrevocably -upon the spot. His hand pressed hard against the other's body. Yes, -there was life there, a faint fluttering of the heart. No--no, it was -only himself--a tremor in his own fingers. And then a miserable sense of -disaster fell upon him. The wind howled, those shrieks still rang out, -there came hoarse shouts and the pound of running feet, but above it -all, distinct, like a knell of doom, came a low moan from the priest -upon the ground. - -Sharply, as though it were being suddenly seared and burned, Raymond -snatched away his hand; and his hand struck against something hard, -and mechanically he gripped at it. The man was _alive!_ The glare of -lanterns, many of them, flashed from the turn of the road. The village -was upon the scene. The impulse seized him to run. There was the horse -and wagon standing there. His lips tightened. Madness! That would be but -the act of a fool! It was his wits, his brain, his nerve that was his -only hope now--that cool, callous nerve that had never failed him in a -crisis before. - -A form, unkempt, with gray, streaming, dishevelled hair, rushed upon him -and the priest, and thrust a lantern into the faces of them both. It was -the old hag, old Mother Blondin. - -“Here he is! Here he is!” she screamed. “It is he!”--her voice kept -rising until, in a torrent of blasphemous invective, it attained an -ear-splitting falsetto. - -It seemed to Raymond that a hundred voices were all talking at once; -that the villagers now, as they closed in and clustered around him, were -as a multitude in their numbers; and there was light now, a blaze of it, -from a host of accursed lanterns jiggling up and down, each striving to -thrust itself a little further forward than its fellow. And then upon -Raymond settled a sort of grim, cold, ironical composure. The stakes -were very high. - -“If you want your life, play for it!” urged a voice within him. - -The old hag, in an abandoned paroxysm of grief, rage and fury, was -cursing, and shaking her lantern and her doubled fist at the priest; -and, not content with that, she now began to kick viciously at the -unconscious form. - -Raymond rose from his knees, and laid one hand quietly upon her arm. - -“Peace, my daughter!” he said softly. “You are in the presence of Holy -Church, and in the presence perhaps of death.” - -She whirled upon him, her wrinkled old face, if possible, contorted more -furiously than before. - -“Holy Church!” she raved. “Holy Church! Ha, ha! What have I to do with -Holy Church that kicked me from its doors! Will Holy Church give me back -my son? And what have you to do with this, you smooth-faced hypocrite! -It is the law I want, not you to stand there and mumble while you smugly -paw your crucifix!” - -It came quick and sharp--an angry sibilant murmur from the crowd, a -threatening forward movement. Mechanically, Raymond's fingers fell away -from the crucifix. It was the crucifix, dangling from his neck, that -he had unconsciously grasped as he had snatched away his hand from the -priest's body--and it was the crucifix that, equally unconscious of it, -he had been grasping ever since. Strange that in his agitation he should -have grasped at a crucifix! Strange that the act and his unconscious -poise, as he held the crucifix, should have lent verisimilitude to the -part he played, the rôle in which he sought sanctuary from death! - -His hand raised again. The murmuring ceased; the threatening stir was -instantly checked. And then Raymond took the old woman by the shoulders, -and with kindly force placed her in the arms of the two nearest men. - -“She does not know what she is saying,” he said gently. “The poor woman -is distraught. Take her home. I do not understand, but she speaks of her -son being given back to her, and----” - -“It is a murder, _mon père_,” broke in one of the men excitedly. “She -came running to the village a few minutes ago to tell us that her -son had been killed. It is this man here in the road who did it. She -recognises him, you see. There is the wound in his head, and she said -she struck him there with a piece of wood while he was struggling with -her son.” - -The old woman was in hysteria now, alternately sobbing and laughing, but -no longer struggling. - -“Murdered! Her son--murdered!” Raymond gasped in a startled way. “Ah, -then, be very good to her! It is no wonder that she is beside herself.” - -They led her laughing and crying away. - -“The law! The law! I demand the law on him!”--her voice, now guttural, -now shrill, quavering, virulent, out of control, floated back. “_Sacré -nom de Dieu_, a life for a life, he is the murderer of my son!” - -And now, save for the howling of the storm, a silence fell upon the -scene. Raymond glanced quickly about him. What was it now, what was -it--ah, he understood! They were waiting for _him_. As though it were -the most obvious thing in the world to do, as though no one would dream -of doing anything else, the villagers, collectively and singly, laid -the burden of initiative upon his clerically garbed shoulders. Raymond -dropped upon his knees again beside the priest, pretending to make a -further examination of the other's wound. He could gain a moment or two -that way, a moment in which to think. The man, though still unconscious, -was moaning constantly now. At any moment the priest might regain his -senses. One thing was crucial, vital--in some way he must manouvre so -that the other should not be removed from his own immediate surveillance -until he could find some loophole of escape. Once the man began to talk, -unless he, Raymond, were beside the other to stop the man's mouth, or at -least to act as interpreter for the other's ramblings--the man was sure -to ramble at first, or at least people could be made to believe so--he, -Raymond, would be cornered like a rat in a trap, and, more to be feared -even than the law, the villagers, in their fury at the sacrilege they -would consider he had put upon them in the desecration of their priest, -would show him scant ceremony and little mercy. - -He was cool enough now, quite cool--with the grim coolness of a man who -realises that his life depends upon his keeping his head. Still he bent -over the priest. He heard a girl's voice speaking rapidly--that would -be the girl with the great dark eyes who had come upon him with the -lantern, for there was no other woman here now since he had got rid -temporarily of that damnable old hag. - -“... It is Father Aubert, the new curé. Labbée, at the station, told us -he had arrived unexpectedly. We have brought his trunk that he was going -to send for in the morning, and we drove fast hoping to catch up with -him so that he would not have to walk all the way. We found him here -kneeling beside that man there, that he had stumbled over as he came -along. Labbée told us, too, of the other. He said the man seemed anxious -to avoid Monsieur le Curé, and hung around the station until Father -Aubert had got well started toward St. Marleau. He must have taken the -path to the tavern, or he would not have been here ahead of Monsieur le -Curé, and----” - -Raymond reached into the open travelling bag on the ground beside him, -took out the first article coming to hand that would at all serve the -purpose, a shirt, and, tearing it, made pretense at binding up the -priest's head. - -“My thanks to you, mademoiselle!” he muttered soberly under his breath. -“If it were not for the existence of that path----!” He shrugged his -shoulders, and, his head lowered, a twisted smile flickered upon his -lips. - -The girl had ceased speaking. They were all clustered around him, -watching him. Short exclamations, bearing little evidence of good will -toward the unconscious man, came from first one and then another. - -“... _Meurtrier!_... He will hang in any case! ... The better for him if -he dies there!... What does it matter, the blackguard!...” - -Raymond rose to his feet. - -“No,” he said reprovingly. “It is not for us to think in that way. For -us, there is only a very badly wounded man here who needs our help and -care. We will give that first, and leave the rest in the hands of those -who have the right to judge him if he lives. See now, some of you lift -him as carefully as possible into the wagon. I will hold his head on my -lap, and we will get to the village as quickly as we can.” - -It was a strange procession then that began to wend its way toward the -village of St. Marleau. The wagon proved to be a sort of buckboard, and -Raymond, clambering upon it, sitting with his back propped against the -seat, held the priest's head upon his knees. Upon the seat itself -the girl and her uncle resumed their places. With the unconscious man -stretched out at full length there was no room for the trunk; but, eager -to be of service to their new curé, so kind and gentle and tender to -even a criminal for whom the law held nothing in reserve but the gallows -and a rope, who was tolerant even of Mother Blondin in her blasphemies, -the villagers quarrelled amongst themselves for the privilege of -carrying it. - -They moved slowly--that the wounded man might not be too severely -jarred. Constantly the numbers around the wagon were augmented. Women -began to appear amongst them. The entire village was aroused. St. -Marleau in all its history had known no such excitement before. A murder -in St. Marleau--and the murderer caught, and dying they said, was being -brought back to the village in the arms of the young curé, who had, -a cause even for added excitement, arrived that evening instead of -to-morrow as had been expected. Tongues clacked and wagged. It was like -a furious humming accompaniment to the howling of the wind. But out of -respect to the curé who held the dying man on his knees, they did not -press too closely about the wagon. - -They passed the “tavern,” which was lighted now in every window, and -some left the wagon at this point and went to the “tavern,” and others -who had collected at the “tavern” joined the wagon. They began to -descend the hill. And now along the road below, to right and left, -lights twinkled from every house. They met people coming up the hill. -There were even children now. - -Head bent over the priest, that twisted smile was back on Raymond's -lips. The man moaned at intervals, but showed no further sign of -returning consciousness. Would the other live--or die? Raymond's hands, -hidden under the priest's head, were clenched. It was a question of his -own life or the other's now--wasn't it? What hell-inspired ingenuity had -flung him into this hideous maze in which at every twist and turn, as -he sought some avenue of escape, he but found, instead, the way barred -against him, his retreat cut off, and peril, like some soulless, -immutable thing, closing irrevocably down upon him! He dared not leave -the priest; he dared not surrender the other for an instant--lest -consciousness should return. _But if the man died!_ - -Raymond's face, as a ghastly temptation came, was as white as the -upturned face between his knees. If the man died it would be simple -enough. For a few days, for whatever time was necessary, he could play -the rôle of priest, and then in some way--his brain was not searching -out details now, there was only the sure confidence in himself that he -would be equal to the occasion if only the chance were his--then in some -way, without attendant hue and cry, without the police of every city in -America loosed upon him, since the “murderer” of the old hag's son -would be dead, he could disappear from St. Marleau. But the man was not -dead--yet. And why should he even think the man would die! Because he -_hoped_ for it? His lips twitched; and his hands, with a slow, curious -movement, unclenched, and clenched again--and then with a sort of -mental wrench, his brain, alert and keen, was coping with the immediate -situation, the immediate danger. - -The girl and her uncle were talking earnestly together on the seat. And -now, for all that he had not thrust himself forward in what had so far -transpired, the man appeared to be of some standing and authority in the -neighbourhood, for, turning from the girl, he called sharply to one of -the crowd. A villager hurried in response to the side of the wagon, and -Raymond, listening, caught snatches of the terse, low-toned instructions -that were given. - -The doctor at Tournayville, and at the same time the police... -yes--to-night... at once.... - -“_Bien sur!_” said the villager briskly, and disappeared in the crowd. - -Then the girl spoke. Raymond could not hear very distinctly, but it was -something about her mother being unprepared, and from that about a room -downstairs, and he guessed that they were discussing where they would -take the wounded man. - -He straightened up suddenly. That was a subject which concerned him very -intimately. There was only one place where the priest could go, and that -was where he, Raymond, went. They were on the village street now, and, -twisting his head around to look ahead, he could make out the shadowy -form of the church steeple close at hand. - -“Monsieur,” he called quietly to the man on the seat, “we will take this -poor fellow to the _presbytère_, of course.” - -“Oh, but, Father Aubert”--the girl turned toward him quickly--“we were -just speaking of that. It would not be at all comfortable for you. You -see, even your own room there will not be ready for you, since you were -not expected to-night, and you will have to take Father Allard's, so -that if this man went there, too, there would be no bed at all for you.” - -“I hardly think I shall need any bed to-night, mademoiselle,” Raymond -said gravely. “The man appears to be in a very critical condition. I -know a little something of medicine, and I could not think of -leaving him until--I think I heard your uncle say they were going to -Tournayville for a doctor--until the doctor arrives.” - -“Yes, Monsieur le Curé,” said the man, screwing around in his seat, -“that is so. I have sent for the doctor, and also for the police--but it -is eight miles to Tournayville, and on a night like this there will be a -long while to wait, even if the doctor is to be found at once.” - -“You have done well, monsieur,” commended Raymond--but under his breath, -with a savage, ironical jeer at himself, he added: “And especially about -the police, curse you!” - -“But, Monsieur le Curé,” insisted the girl anxiously, “I am sure -that----” - -“Mademoiselle is very kind, and it is very thoughtful of her,” Raymond -interposed gratefully; “but under the circumstances I think the -_presbytère_ will be best. Yes; I think we must decide on the -_presbytère_. - -“But, yes, certainly--if that is Monsieur le Curé's wish,” agreed the -man. “Monsieur le Curé should know best. Valérie, jump down, and run on -ahead to tell your mother that we are coming.” - -Valérie! So that was the girl's name! It seemed a strangely incongruous -thought that here, with his back against the wall, literally fighting -for his life, the name should seem somehow to be so appropriate to that -dark-eyed face, with its truant, wind-tossed hair, that had come upon -him so suddenly out of the darkness; that face, sweet, troubled, in -distress, that he had glimpsed for an instant in the lantern's light. -Valérie! But what was her other name? What had her mother to do with the -_presbytère_, that the uncle should have sent her on with that message? -And who was the uncle, this man here, and what was his name? And how -much of all this was he, as Father Aubert, supposed already to know? The -curé of the village, Father Allard--what correspondence, for instance, -had passed between him and Father Aubert? A hundred questions were on -his lips. He dared not ask a single one. They had turned in off the road -now and were passing by the front of the church. He lowered his head -close down to the priest's. The man still moaned in that same low and, -as it were, purely mechanical way. Some one in the crowd spoke: - -“They are taking him to the _presbytère_.” - -At the rear of the wagon, amongst the bobbing lanterns, surrounded by -awe-struck children and no less awe-struck women, he saw the trunk being -trundled along by two men, each grasping one end by the handle. The -crowd took up its spokesman's lead. - -... To the _presbytère_.... They are going to the _presbytère_.... The -curé is taking him to the _presbytère_... - -“Yes, damn you!” gritted Raymond between his teeth. “To the -_presbytère_--for the devil's masquerade!” - - - - -CHAPTER VII--AT THE PRESBYTÈRE - - -|IT was Valerie who held the lamp; and beside her in the doorway stood -a gentle-faced, silverhaired, slim little old lady--and the latter was -another Valerie, only a Valerie whom the years in their passing had -touched in a gentle, kindly way, as though the whitening hair and the -age creeping upon her were but a crowning. And Raymond, turning to -mount the stoop of the _presbytère_, as some of the villagers lifted the -wounded priest from the wagon, drew his breath in sharply, and for an -instant faltered in his step. It was as though, framed there in the -doorway, those two forms of the women, those two faces that seemed to -radiate an innate sanctity, were like guardian angels to bar the way -against a hideous and sacrilegious invasion of some holy thing within. -And Valerie's eyes, those great, deep, dark eyes burned into him. -And her face, that he saw now for the first time plainly, was very -beautiful, and with a beauty that was not of feature alone--for her -expression seemed to write a sort of creed upon her face, a creed that -frankly mirrored faith in all around her, a faith that, never having -been startled, or dismayed, or disillusioned, and knowing no things for -evil, accepted all things for good. - -And Raymond's step faltered. It seemed as though he had never seen a -woman's face like that--that it was holding him now in a thrall that -robbed his surroundings momentarily of their danger and their peril. - -And then, the next instant, that voice within him was speaking again. - -“You fool!” it whispered fiercely. “What are you doing! If you want your -life, play for it! Look around you! A false move, a rational word from -the lips of that limp thing they are carrying there behind you, and -these people, who believe where you mock, who would kneel if you but -lifted your hand in sign of benediction, would turn upon you with the -merciless fury of wild beasts! You fool! You fool! Do you like the feel -of hemp, as it tightens around your neck!” - -And then Raymond lifted his head, and his eyes, and with measured pace -walked forward up the steps to where the two women stood. - -Valérie's introduction was only another warning to him to be upon his -guard--she seemed to imply that he naturally knew her mother's name. - -“Father Aubert, this is my mother,” she said. - -With a sort of old-world grace, the elder woman bowed. - -“Ah, Monsieur le Curé,” she said quickly, “what a terrible thing to have -happened! Valérie has just told me. And what a welcome to the parish for -you! Not even a room, with that _pauvre_ unfortunate, _misérable_ -and murderer though he is, and----” - -“But it is a welcome of the heart, I can see that,” Raymond interposed, -and smiled gravely, and took both of the old lady's hands in his own. -“And that is worth far more than the room, which, in any case, I -shall hardly need to-night. It is you, not I, who should have cause -to grumble, for, to my own unexpected arrival, I bring you the added -trouble and inconvenience of this very badly wounded and, I fear, dying -man.” - -“But--that!” she exclaimed simply. “But Monsieur le Curé would never -have thought of doing otherwise! Valérie meant only kindness, but she -should not have made any other suggestion. It is for nothing else, if -not this, the _presbytère! Le pauvre misérable_”--she crossed herself -reverently--“even if he has blood that thought of doing otherwise! -Valérie meant only kindness, but she should not have made any other -suggestion. It is for nothing else, if not this, the _presbytère! Le -pauvre misérable_”--she crossed herself reverently--“even if he has -blood that is not his own upon him.” - -They were coming up the steps, carrying the wounded priest. - -“This way!” said the little old lady softly. “Valérie, dear, hold your -lamp so that they can see. Ah, _le pauvre misérable_; ah, Monsieur le -Curé!” - -The girl leading, they passed down a short hallway, entered a bedroom at -the rear of the house, and Valérie set the lamp upon the table. - -Raymond motioned to the men to lay the priest upon the bed. He glanced -quietly about him, as he moved to the priest's side. He must get these -people away--there were reasons why he should be alone. Alone! His brain -was like some horrible, swirling vortex. Why alone? For what reasons? -Not that hellish purpose that had flashed so insidiously upon him -out there on the ride down to the _presbytère!_ Not that! Strange how -outwardly calm, how deadly calm, how composed and self-possessed he was, -when such a thought had even for an instant's space found lodgment in -his soul. It was well that he was calm, he would need to be calm--he -was doing what that inner monitor had told him to do--he was playing the -game--he was playing for his life. Well, he had only to dismiss these -men now, who hung so curiously awe-struck about the bed, and then get -rid of the women--no, they had gone now; Valérie, with her beautiful -face, and those great dark eyes; and the mother, whose gray hair did -not seem to bring age with it at all, and--no, they were back again--no, -they were not--those were not women's steps entering the room. - -He had been making pretence at loosening the priest's collar, and he -looked up now. The trunk! He had forgotten all about the trunk. The -newcomers were two men carrying the trunk. They set it down against the -wall near the door. It was a little more than probable that they had -seized the opportunity afforded by the trunk to see what was going on -in the room. They would be favoured amongst their fellows without! They, -too, hats in hand, stared, curious and awe-struck, toward the bed. - -“Thank you, all of you,” Raymond heard himself saying in a low tone. -“But go now, my friends, go quietly; madame and her daughter will give -me any further assistance that may be needed.” - -They filed obediently from the room--on tiptoe--their coarse, heavy -boots squeaking the more loudly therefor. Raymond's hands sought the -priest's collar again, to loosen it this time with a definite object in -view. He had changed only his outer garments with the other. He dared -not have the priest undressed until he had made sure that there were no -tell-tale marks on the underclothing; a laundry number, perhaps, that -the police would pounce instantly upon. He found himself experiencing -a sort of facetious soul-grin--detectives always laid great stress upon -laundry marks! - -Again he was interrupted. With the collar in his hand, his own collar, -that he had removed now from the priest's neck, he turned to see Valérie -and her mother entering the room. They were very capable, those two--too -capable! They were carrying basins of water, and cloths that were -obviously intended for bandages. He had not meant to use any bandages, -he had meant to--what? - -He forced a grave smile of approval to his lips, and nodded his head. - -The elder woman glanced about her a little in surprise. - -“Oh, are the men gone!” she exclaimed. “_Tiens!_ The stupids! But I will -call one of them back, and he will help you undress _le pauvre_, Father -Aubert.” - -It was only an instant before Raymond answered; but it seemed, before he -did so, that he had been listening in a kind of panic for long minutes -dragged out interminably to that inner voice that kept telling him to -play the game, play the game, and that only fools lost their heads at -insignificant little unexpected denouements. She was only suggesting -that the man should be undressed; whereas the man must under no -circumstances be undressed until--until---- - -“I think perhaps we had better not attempt it in his condition until -the doctor arrives, madame,” he said slowly, thoughtfully, as though his -words were weighted with deliberation. “It might do far more harm than -good. For the present, I think it would be better simply to loosen his -clothing, and make him as comfortable as possible in that way.” - -“Yes; I think so, too,” said Valérie--she had moved a little table to -the bedside, and was arranging the basins of water and the cloths upon -it. - -“Of course!” agreed the little old lady simply. “Monsieur le Curé knows -best.” - -“Yes,” said Valérie, speaking in hushed tones, as she cast an anxious -look at the white, blood-stained face upon the bed, “and I think it is -a mercy that Father Aubert knows something about medicine, for -otherwise the doctor might be too late. I will help you, Monsieur le -Curé--everything is ready.” - -He knew nothing about medicine--there was nothing he knew less about! -What fiend had prompted him to make such a claim! - -“I am afraid, mademoiselle,” he said soberly, “that my knowledge is far -too inadequate for such a case as this.” - -“We will be able to do something at least, father”--there was a brave, -troubled smile in her eyes as she lifted them for an instant to his; and -then, bending forward, with deft fingers she removed the torn piece of -shirt from the wounded man's head. - -And then, between them, while the mother watched and wrung out the -cloths, they dressed the wound, a ghastly, unsightly thing across the -side of the man's skull--only it was Valerie, not he, who was efficient. -And strangely, as once before, but a little while before, when out there -in front of the house, it was Valerie, and not the man, and not the -wound, and not the peril in which he stood that was dominant, swaying -him for the moment. There was a wondrous tenderness in her hands as -she worked with the bandages, and sometimes her hands touched his; and -sometimes, close together, as they leaned over the bed together, her -hair, dark, luxuriant, brushed his cheek; and the low-collared blouse -disclosed a bare and perfect throat that was white like ivory; and the -half parted lips were tender like the touch of her fingers; and in her -face at sight of the gruesome wound, bringing an added whiteness, -was dismay, and struggling with dismay was a wistful earnestness and -resolution that was born of her woman's sympathy; and she seemed to -steal upon and pervade his senses as though she were some dream-created -vision, for she was not reality at all since his subconsciousness told -him that in actual reality no one existed at all except that -moaning thing upon the bed--that moaning thing upon the bed and -himself--himself, who seemed to be swinging by a precarious hold, from -which even then his fingers were slipping away, over some bottomless -abyss that yawned below him. “Valérie! Valérie!” He was repeating her -name to himself, as though calling to her for aid from the edge of that -black gulf, and---- - -“Fool!” jeered that inner voice. “Have you never seen a pretty girl -before? She'd be the first to turn upon you, if she knew!” - -“You lie!” retorted another self. - -“Where's Three-Ace Artie gone?” inquired the voice with cold contempt. - -Raymond straightened up. Valérie, turning from the bed, gathered the -basins and soiled cloths together, and moved quietly from the room. - -“Will he live, father?”--it was the little gray-haired woman, Valérie's -mother, Valérie's older self, who was looking up into his face so -anxiously, whose lips quivered a little as she spoke. - -Would the man _live!_ A devil's laugh seemed suddenly to possess -Raymond's soul. They would be alone together, that gasping, white-faced -thing on the bed, and himself; they would be alone together before -the doctor came--he would see to that. There had been interruption, -confusion... his brain itself was confusion... extraneous thoughts had -intervened... but they would be _alone_ presently. And--great God!--what -hellish mockery!--she asked _him_ if this man would _live!_ - -“I am afraid”--he was not looking at her; his hand, clutching at the -skirt of the _soutane_ he wore, closed and tightened and clenched--“I am -afraid he will not live.” - -“Ah, _le pauvre!_” she whispered, and her eyes filled with tears. “Ah, -Monsieur le Curé, I do not know these things so well as you. It is true -that he is a very guilty man, but is not God very good and tender and -full of compassion, father? Oh, I should not dare to say these things, -for it is you who know what is right and best”--she had caught his -sleeve, and was leading him across the room. “And Mother Church, -Monsieur le Curé, is very merciful and very tender and very -compassionate too--and, oh--and, oh--can there not be mercy and love -even for such as he--must he lose his soul too, as well as his life?” - -Raymond, in a blind, wondering way, stared at her. The tears -were streaming down her cheeks now. They had halted before a low, -old-fashioned cupboard, an _armoire_ much like the _armoire_ in the old -hag's house, and now she opened the doors in the lower portion, and took -out a worn and rusty black leather bag, and set it upon the top of the -_armoire_. - -“It is only to show you where it is, father, if--if it might be so--even -for him--the Sacrament”--and, turning, she crossed the room, and meeting -Valérie upon the threshold drew the girl away with her, and closed the -door softly. - -It was a bag such as the parish priests carried with them on their -visits to the sick and dying. Raymond eyed it sullenly. The Sacrament! - -“What have I to do with that!” he snarled beneath his breath. - -“Are you not a priest of God?” - -He whirled like a flash, startled, sweeping his glances around the room. -And then he laughed in smothered, savage relief. It was only that voice -within that chose a cursed mockery this time to put him upon his guard. - -He was staring now at the sprawled form on the bed, at a red stain that -was already creeping through the fresh bandages. His face grew hard and -set; a flush came and died away, leaving it an ashen gray. - -And then he stepped to the door--and listened--and locked it. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII--THOU SHALT NOT KILL - -|IT seemed as though the stillness of death were already in the room; -a stillness that was horrible and unnerving in contrast with the shrill -swirling of the wind without, and the loud roar and pound of the waves -breaking upon the shore close at hand beneath the windows. - -His face still set as in a rigid mould, features drawn in hard, sharp -lines, then ashen gray now even upon the lips, Raymond crossed from the -door to the nearer of the two windows. It was black outside, inky black, -unnaturally black, relieved only by a wavering, irregular line of white -where the waves broke into foam along the rocky beach--and this line, -as it wavered, and wriggled, and advanced, and receded seemed to lend an -uncanny ghostlike aspect to the blackness, and, as he strained his eyes -out of the window, he shuddered suddenly and drew back. But the next -instant he snarled fiercely to himself. Was he to lose his nerve because -it was black outside, and because the waves were running high and -creaming along the shore! He would have something shortly that would -warrant him in losing his nerve if he faltered now--the hemp around -his neck, rasping, chafing at his throat, the horrible prickling as the -rough strands grew taut! - -He clutched at his throat mechanically, rubbing it with his fingers -mechanically--and, as fiercely as before, snarled again. Enough of -this! He was neither fool nor child. There was a sure way out from that -dangling noose, cornered, trapped though he was--and he knew the way -now. He reached up and drew down the window shade, and passed quickly to -the other window and drew down the shade there as well. - -And then he turned, and stepped to the bed, and bent over the priest. - -There was the underclothing first. He must make sure of that--that there -would be no marks of identification--that there would be nothing to rise -up against him, a mute and mocking witness to his undoing. He loosened -the man's clothing. It would not be necessary to take off the outer -garments. It was much easier here with the man on a bed, and a light -in the room than it had been out there on the road, and--ah! Lips -compressed, he nodded sharply to himself. The undergarments were new. -That precluded laundry marks--unless the man had had some marking put -upon them himself. No, there was nothing--nothing but the maker's tag -sewn in on the shirt at the back of the neck. He turned the priest over -on the bed to complete his examination. There was nothing on any -other part of the garments. The socks, then, perhaps? He pulled up -the trousers' legs hurriedly. No, there was nothing there, either. He -reached out to turn the priest over again--and paused. He could snip -that maker's tag from the neck of the shirt just as easily in the -position in which the man now lay, and--and the man's face would not -be staring up at him. There was a cursed, senseless accusation in that -white face, and the lip muscles twitched as though the man were about -to shout aloud, to scream out--_murder!_ If only the fool had died out -there in the woods, and would stop that infernal low moaning noise, and -those strangling inhalations as he gasped for breath! - -Automatically, Raymond's fingers sought his penknife in its accustomed -place in his vest pocket--and slipped down a smooth, unobstructed -surface. His eyes followed his fingers in a sort of dazed, perplexed -way, and then he laughed a little huskily. The _soutane!_ He had -forgotten for the moment that he was a priest of God! It was the other -who wore the vest, it was in the other's pocket that the knife was to be -found. He had forgotten the devil's masquerade in the devil's whispering -that was in his soul! - -He snatched the knife from the vest pocket, opened it, cut away the -cloth tag, and with infinite pains removed the threads that had held the -tag in place. He returned the knife to the vest pocket, and tucked the -little tag away in one of his own pockets; then hastily rearranged -the other's clothing again, and turned the man back into his original -position upon the bed. - -And now! He glanced furtively all around the room. His hands crept out, -and advanced toward the priest. It was a very easy thing to do. No one -would know. No one but would think the man had died naturally. _Died!_ -It was the first time he had allowed his mind to frame a concrete -expression that would fit the black thing that was in his soul. - -A bead of sweat spurted out from his forehead. His hands somehow would -not travel very fast, but they were all the time creeping nearer to the -priest's throat. He had only to keep on forcing them on their way... -and it was not very far to go... and, once there, it would only take an -instant. God, if that white face would not stare up at him like that... -the eyes were closed of course... but still it stared. - -Raymond touched his lips with the tip of his tongue, and again and again -circled the room with his eyes. Was that somebody there outside the -window? Was that a step out there in the passageway? Were those -_voices_ that chattered and gibbered from everywhere? - -He jerked back his hands, and they fell to his sides, and he shivered. -What was it? What was the matter? What was it that he had to do? It -wasn't murder. That was a lie! The man wouldn't live anyhow, but he -might live long enough to talk. It was his life or the other's, wasn't -it? If he were caught now, there was no power on earth could save him. -On earth? What did he mean by that? What other power was there? It was -only a trite phrase he had used. - -What was he hesitating about? It was the only chance he had. - -“Get it done! Get it done, and over with, you squeamish fool!” prodded -that inner voice savagely. - -His hands crept out again. Of course! Of course! He knew that. He must -get it done and over with. Only--only, great God, why did his hands -tremble so! He lifted one of them to his forehead and drew it away -dripping wet. What did that voice want to keep nagging him for! He knew -what he had to do. It was the only way. If the priest were dead, -he, Raymond, would be safe. There would be no question as to who the -murderer of Blondin was--and the priest would be buried and that would -be the end of it. And--yes! He had it all now. It was almost too simple! -He, Raymond, as the curé of the village, after a day or two, would meet -with an accident. A boating accident--yes, that was it! They would find -an upturned boat and his hat floating on the water perhaps--but they -would never find the body! He need only, in the interval of those few -days, gather together from somewhere some clothes into which he could -change, hide in the woods after the “accident,” and at night make his -final escape. - -“Of course!” snapped the voice impatiently. “I've been telling you that -all along! There would be no further investigation as to the murder; and -only a sorrowful search along the shore, free from all suspicion, for -the body of Father Aubert. Well, why don't you act? Are you going to -fling your life away? Are you afraid? Have you forgotten that it is -growing late, that very soon now the doctor and the police will be -here?” - -Afraid! No; he wasn't afraid of God or devil, or man or beast--that was -his creed, wasn't it? Only that damnable face still stared up at him, -and he couldn't get his hands near enough to--to do the work. - -Slowly, inch by inch, his face as white and set as chiselled marble, his -hands crept forward again. How soft the bare, exposed throat looked that -was almost at his finger tips now. Would it _feel_ soft to the touch, -or--he swayed unsteadily, and crouched back, that cold shiver passing -over him. It was strange that he should shiver, that he should find it -cold. His brain was afire, and it whirled, and whirled, and whirled; -and devils laughed in his soul--and yet he stood aghast at the abhorrent -deed. - -Wait! He would be able to think clearly in an instant. He must do it--or -die himself. Yes, yes; it was the _touch_ of his flesh against the -other's flesh from which he shrank, the _feel_ of his fingers on the -other's throat that held him back--that was it! Wait! He would remedy -that. That would have been a crude, mad way in any case. What had he -been thinking of! It would have left a mark. It would have been sure to -have left a mark. Perhaps they would not have noticed it, but it would -have invited the risk. There was a better way, a much better way--and a -way in which that face wouldn't be able to stare up at him any more, a -way in which he wouldn't hear that moaning, and that rattling, and -that struggling for breath. The man was almost dead now. It was only -necessary to take that other pillow there, and hold it tightly over -the other's face. _That_ wouldn't leave any mark. Yes, the pillow! Why -hadn't he thought of that before! It would have been all over by now. - -Once more his hands began to creep up and outward. He leaned far over -the bed, reaching for the pillow--and something came between the -pillow and his hands. He glanced downward in a startled way. It was the -crucifix hanging from his neck. With a snarl, he swung it away. It came -back and struck against his knuckles. He tried to wrench it from his -neck. It would not come--but, instead, one hand slipped through the -chain, and pushed the crucifix outward, and for an instant held it there -between him and that white, staring face. He pulled his hand away. And -the crucifix swung backward and forward. And he reached again for the -pillow, and the crucifix was still between. And his hands, trembling, -grew tangled in the chain. - -“Thou shalt not kill!”--it was not that inner voice; it was a voice like -the girl's, like Valerie's, soft and full of a divine compassion. And -her fingers in tenderness seemed to be working with that bandaged head; -and the dark eyes, deep and steadfast, were searching his soul. “Thou -shalt not kill!” - -And with a low, horror-stricken cry, Raymond staggered backward from the -bed, and dropped into a chair, and buried his face in his hands. - - - - -CHAPTER IX--UNTIL THE DAWN - -|THE man upon the bed moaned continuously now; the wind swirled around -the corners of the house; the waves pounded in dull, heavy thuds upon -the shore without--but Raymond heard none of it. It seemed as though he -were exhausted, spent, physically weak, as from some Titanic struggle. -He did not move. He sat there, head bowed, his hands clasped over his -face. - -And then, after a long time, a shudder shook his frame--and he rose -mechanically from his chair. The door was locked, and subconsciously he -realised that it should not be found locked when that somebody--who -was it?--yes, he remembered now--the doctor from Tournayville, and the -police--it should not be found locked when the doctor and the police -arrived, because they would naturally ask him to account for the reason -of it. He crossed to the door, unlocked it, and returned to the chair. - -And now he stared at the crucifix upon his breast. For the second time -that night it had played a strange and unaccountable rôle. He lifted -his hand to his head. His head still ached from the blow the old hag -had struck him with the piece of wood. That was what was the matter. -His head ached and he could not therefore think logically, otherwise -he would not be fool enough to hold the crucifix responsible for--for -preventing him from what he had been about to do a little while ago. - -His face grew cynical in its expression. The crucifix had nothing to -do with it, nor had the vision of the girl's eyes, nor had the imagined -sound of Valérie's voice--those things were, all of them, but the form -his true self had taken to express itself when he had so madly tormented -himself with that hellish purpose. If it had not been things like that, -it would have been something else. He could not have struck down a -wounded and defenceless man, he could not have committed murder in cold -blood like that. He had recoiled from the act, because it was an act -that was beyond him to perform, that was all. That man there on the bed -was as safe, as far as he, Raymond, was concerned, as though they were -separated by a thousand miles. - -“Sophistry!” sneered that inner voice. “You are a weak-kneed fool, and -very far from a heroic soul that has been tried by fire! Well, you will -pay for it!” Raymond cast a quick startled glance at the bed, and half -rose from his seat. What--again? Was that thought back again? He sank -back in the chair, gripping the chair-arms until his knuckles cracked. - -“I won't!” he mumbled hoarsely. “By God--I won't! Maybe--maybe the man -will die.” - -And then impulsively he was on his feet, and pacing the room, a sweep of -anger upon him. - -“What had I to do with all this!” he cried, in low, fierce tones. “And -look at me!”--he had halted before the dresser, and was glaring into the -mirror. “_Look at me!_” A face whose pallor was enhanced by the black -clerical garb gazed contortedly back at him; the crucifix, symbol -of peace, hung from about his neck. He tucked it hastily inside the -_soutane_. “Look at me!” he cried, and clenched his fist and shook it at -the mirror. “Three-Ace Artie! That's you there, Three-Ace Artie! God or -the devil has stacked the cards on you, and----” - -He swung sharply about--listening; and, on the instant, with grave -demeanour, his face soberly composed, faced the doorway. - -The door opened, and two men stepped into the room. One was a big -man, bearded, with a bluff and hearty cast of countenance that seemed -peculiarly fitting to his immense breadth of shoulder; the other, a sort -of foil as it were, was small, sharp featured, with roving black eyes -that, as he stood on the threshold and on tiptoe impatiently peered over -the big man's shoulder, darted quick little glances in all directions -about him. The small man closed the door with a sort of fussily -momentous air. - -“_Tiens_, Monsieur le Curé”--the big man extended his hand to Raymond. -“I am Doctor Arnaud. And this is Monsieur Dupont, the assistant chief -of police of Tournayville. Hum!”--he glanced toward the bed. “Hum!”--he -dropped Raymond's hand, and moved quickly to the bedside. - -Raymond shook hands with the little man. - -“Bad business! Bad business!”--the assistant chief of police of -Tournayville continued to send his darting glances about the room, and -the while he made absurd clucking noises with his tongue. “Yes, very -bad--very bad! I came myself, you see.” - -There was much about the man that afforded Raymond an immense sense of -relief. He was conscious that he infinitely preferred Monsieur Dupont, -assistant chief of the Tournayville police, to Sergeant Marden, of the -Royal North-West Mounted. - -“Yes,” said Raymond quietly, “I am afraid it is a very serious matter.” - -“Not at all! Not at all!” clucked Monsieur Dupont, promptly -contradicting himself. “We've got our man--eh--what?” He jerked his hand -toward the bed. “That's the main thing. Killed Théophile Blondin, did -he? Well, quite privately, Monsieur le Curé, he might have done worse, -though the law does not take that into account--no, not at all, not at -all. Blondin, you understand, Monsieur le Curé, was quite well known to -the police, and he was”--Monsieur Dupont pinched his nose with his thumb -and forefinger as though to escape an unsavoury odour--“you understand, -Monsieur le Curé?” - -“I did not know,” replied Raymond. “You see, I only----” - -“Yes, yes!” interrupted Monsieur Dupont. “Know all that! Know all that! -They told me on the drive out. You arrived this evening, and found this -man lying on the road. Rude initiation to your pastorate, Monsieur le -Curé. Too bad!” He raised his voice. “Well, Doctor Arnaud, what is the -verdict--eh?” - -“Come here and help me,” said the doctor, over his shoulder. He was -replacing the bandage, and now he looked around for an instant at -Raymond. “I can't improve any on that. It was excellent--excellent, -Monsieur le Curé.” - -“The credit is not mine,” Raymond told him. “It was Mademoiselle -Valérie. But the man, doctor?” - -“Not a chance in a thousand”--the doctor shook his head. “Concussion of -the brain. We'll get his clothes off, and make him comfortable. That's -about all we can do. He'll probably not last through the night.” - -“I will help you,” offered Raymond, stepping forward. - -“It's not necessary, Monsieur le Curé,” said the doctor. “Monsieur -Dupont here can----” - -“No,” interposed Monsieur Dupont. “Let Monsieur le Curé help you. We -will kill two birds with one stone that way. We have still to visit the -Blondin house. We do not know this man's name. We know nothing about -him. While you are undressing him, I will search through his clothing. -Eh? Perhaps we shall find something. I do not swallow whole all the -story I have heard. We shall see what we shall see.” - -Raymond glanced swiftly at Monsieur Dupont. Because the man clucked with -his tongue and had an opinion of himself, he was perhaps a very long way -from being either stupid or a fool. Monsieur Dupont might not prove so -preferable to Sergeant Marden as he had been so quick to imagine. - -“Yes,” agreed Raymond. “Monsieur Dupont is right, I am sure. I will -assist you, doctor, while he makes his search.” - -Monsieur Dupont stepped briskly around to the far side of the bed, -and peered intently into the unconscious man's face, as he waited for -Raymond and the doctor to hand him the first article of clothing. He -kept clucking with his tongue, and once his eyes narrowed significantly. - -Raymond experienced a sense of disquiet. Was the man simply posing for -effect, or was he acting naturally--or was there something that had -really aroused the other's suspicions. He handed the priest's coat, or, -rather, his own, to Monsieur Dupont. - -Monsieur Dupont began to go through the pockets--like one accustomed to -the task. - -“Hah, hah!” he ejaculated suddenly. “Monsieur le Curé, Monsieur le -Docteur, I call you both to witness! All this loose money in the side -pocket! The side pocket, mind you, and the money loose! It bears out the -story that they say Mother Blondin tells about the robbery. I was not -quite ready to believe it before. See!” He dumped the money on the bed. -“You are witnesses.” He gathered up the money again and replaced it -in the pocket. “And here”--from another pocket he produced the -revolver--“you are witnesses again.” He broke the revolver. -“Ah--h'm--one shot fired! You see for yourselves? Yes, you see. Very -well! Continue, messieurs! There may be something more, though it would -certainly appear that nothing more was necessary.” He nodded crisply at -both Raymond and the doctor. - -The vest yielded up the cardcase. Monsieur Dupont shuffled over the -dozen or so of neatly printed cards that it contained. - -“_Là, là!_” said he sharply. “Our friend is evidently a smooth one. One -of the clever kind that uses his brains. Very nice cards--very plausible -sort of thing, eh? Yes, they are. Very! Henri Mentone, eh? Henri -Mentone, alias something--from nowhere. Well, messieurs, is there still -by any chance something else?” - -There was nothing else. Monsieur Dupont, however, was not satisfied -until he had examined, even more minutely than Raymond had previously -done, the priest's undergarments. The doctor turned from the bed. -Monsieur Dupont rolled all the clothing into a bundle, and tucked it -under his arm. - -“Well, let us go, doctor!” jerked out Monsieur Dupont. “If he dies, he -dies--eh? In any case he can't run away. If he dies, there is Mother -Blondin to consider, eh? She struck the blow. They would not do much to -her perhaps, but she would have to be held. It is the law. If he does -not die, that is another matter. In any case I shall remain in the -village to keep an eye on them both--yes? Well then, well then--eh? ---let us go!” - -The doctor glanced hesitantly toward the bed. - -“I have done all that is possible for the moment,” he said; “but perhaps -I had better call madame. She and mademoiselle have insisted on sitting -up out there in the front room.” - -Raymond's head was bowed. - -“Do not call them,” he said gravely. “If the man is about to die, it is -my place to stay, doctor.” - -“Yes--er--yes, that is so,” acquiesced the doctor. “Very well then, I'll -pack them off to bed. I shan't be long at Mother Blondin's. Must pay an -official visit--I'm the coroner, Monsieur le Curé. I'll be back as soon -as possible, and meanwhile if he shows any change”--he nodded in the -direction of the bed--“send for me at once. I'll arrange to have some -one of the men remain out there within call.” - -“Very well,” said Raymond simply. “You will be gone--how long, doctor?” - -“Oh, say, an hour--certainly not any longer.” - -“Very well,” said Raymond again. - -He accompanied them to the door, and closed it softly behind them -as they stepped from the room. And now he experienced a sort of cool -complacency, an uplift, the removal as of some drear foreboding that had -weighed him down. The peril in a very large measure had vanished. The -policeman had swallowed the bait, hook and all; and the doctor had said -there was not one chance in a thousand that the man would live until -morning. Therefore the problem resolved itself simply into a matter of -two or three days in which he should continue in the rôle of curé--after -that the “accident,” and this accursed St. Marleau could go into -mourning for him, if it liked, or do anything else it liked! He would be -through with it! - -But those two or three days! It was not altogether a simple affair, -that. If only he could go now--at once! Only that, of course, would -arouse suspicion--even if the man did not regain consciousness, and did -not blurt out something before he died. But why should he keep harping -on that point? Any fool could see that his safest game was to play the -hand he held until the “murderer” was dead and buried, and the matter -legally closed forever. He had already decided that a dozen times, -hadn't he? Well then, these two or three days! He must plan for these -two or three days. There were things he should know, that he would be -expected to know--not mere church matters; his Latin, the training of -the old school days, a prayer-book, and his wits would carry him through -anything of such a nature which might intervene in that short time. But, -for instance, the mother of Valérie--who was she? How did she come to -be in charge of the _presbytère?_ What was her name--and Valérie's? It -would be very strange indeed if, coming there for the summer to supply -for Father Allard, he was not acquainted with all such details. - -Raymond's glance fell upon the trunk. The next instant he was hunting -through his pockets, but making an awkward business of it thanks to the -unaccustomed skirt of his _soutane_. A bunch of keys, however, rewarded -his efforts. He stepped over to the trunk, trying first one key and -then another. Finally, he found the right one, unlocked the trunk--and, -suddenly, his hand upon the uplifted lid, the blood left his face, -and he stood as though paralysed, staring at the doorway. He was -caught--caught in the act. True, she had knocked, but she had opened -the door at the same time. The little old lady, Valerie's mother, was -standing there looking at him--and the trunk was open. - -“Monsieur le Curé,” she said, “it is only to tell you that we have made -up a couch for you in the front room that you can use when the doctor -returns.” - -He found his voice. Somehow she did not seem at all surprised that he -had the trunk open. - -“It is very kind and thoughtful of you, madame.” - -“_Mais, non!_” she exclaimed, with a smile. “But, no! And if you need -anything before the doctor gets back, father, you have only to call. We -shall hear you.” - -“I will call if I need you”--Raymond was conscious that he was speaking, -but that the words came only in a queer, automatic kind of a way. - -She poked her head around the door for a sort of anxious, pitying, -quick-flung glance at the bed; then looked questioningly at Raymond. - -Raymond shook his head. - -“_Ah, le pauvre! Le pauvre misérable!_” she whispered. “Good-night, -Monsieur le Curé. Do not fail to call if you want us.” - -The door closed. As once before in a night of vigil, in that far-north -shack, Raymond stretched out his hand before him to study it. It was not -steady now--it trembled and shook. He looked at the trunk--and then a -low, hollow laugh was on his lips. A fool and a child he was, and his -nerves must be near the breaking point. Was there anything strange, was -there anything surprising in the fact that Monsieur le Curé should be -discovered in the act of opening Monsieur le Curé's trunk! And it had -brought a panic upon him--and his hand was shaking like an old man's. -He was in a pretty state, when coolness was the only thing that stood -between him and--the gallows! Damn that cursed moaning from the bed! -Would it never cease! - -For a time he stood there without moving; and then, his composure -regained, the square jaw clamped defiantly against his weakness, he drew -up a chair, and, sitting down, began to rummage through the trunk. - -“François Aubert--eh?” he muttered, as he picked up a prayerbook and -found the fly-leaf autographed. “So my name is François! Well, that is -something!” He opened another book, and, on the fly-leaf again, read an -inscription. “'To my young friend'--eh? and from the Bishop! The Bishop -of Montigny, is it? Well, that also is something! I am then personally -acquainted with this Monsignor Montigny! I will remember that! And--ha, -these!--with any luck, I shall find what I want here.” - -He took up a package of letters, ran them over quickly--and frowned in -disappointment. They were all addressed in a woman's hand. He was not -interested in that. It was the correspondence from Father Allard that he -wanted. He was about to return the letters to the trunk and resume his -search, when he noticed that the topmost envelope bore the St. Marleau -postmark. He opened it hurriedly--and his frown changed to a nod of -satisfaction. It was, after all, what he wanted. Father Allard was -blessed with the services of a secretary, that was the secret--Father -Allard's signature was affixed at the bottom of the neatly written page. - -Raymond leaned back in his chair, and proceeded to read the letters. -Little by little he pieced together, from references here and there, the -information that he sought. It was a sort of family arrangement, as it -were. The old lady was Father Allard's sister, and her name was Lafleur; -and the husband was dead, since, in one instance, Father Allard referred -to her as the “Widow Lafleur,” instead of his customary “my sister, -Madame Lafleur.” And the uncle, who it now appeared was the notary and -likewise the mayor of the village, was Father Allard's brother. - -Raymond returned the letters to the trunk, and commenced a systematic -examination of the rest of its contents, which, apart from a somewhat -sparse wardrobe, consisted mainly of books of a theological nature. He -was still engaged in this occupation, when he heard the front door open -and close. He snatched the prayer-book out of the trunk, shut down the -lid, and, with a finger between the closed pages of the book, stood up -as the doctor came briskly into the room. - -“I'm back a little ahead of time, you see,” announced Doctor Arnaud with -a pleasant nod, and stepped at once across the room to the wounded man. - -For perhaps five minutes the doctor remained at the bedside; then, -closing his little black bag, he laid it upon the table, and turned to -Raymond. - -“Now, father,” he said cheerily, “I understand there's a couch all ready -for you in the front room. I'll be here for the balance of the night. -You go and get some sleep.” - -Raymond motioned toward the bed. - -“Is there any change?” he asked. - -The doctor shook his head. - -“Then,” said Raymond quietly, “my place is still here.” He smiled -soberly. “The couch is for you, doctor.” - -“But,” protested the doctor, “I----” - -“The man is dying. My place is here,” said Raymond again. “If you are -needed, I have only to call you from the next room. There is no reason -why both of us should sit up.” - -“Hum--_tiens_--well, well!”--the doctor pulled at his beard. “No, of -course, not--no reason why both should sit up. And if you insist----” - -“I do not insist,” interposed Raymond, smiling again. “It is only that -in any case I shall remain.” - -“You are a fine fellow, Monsieur le Curé,” said the bluff doctor -heartily. He clapped both hands on Raymond's shoulders. “A fine fellow, -Monsieur le Curé! Well, I will go then--I was, I confess it, up all last -night.” He moved over to the door--and paused on the threshold. “It is -quite possible that the man may revive somewhat toward the end, in which -case--Monsieur Dupont has suggested it--a little stimulation may enable -us to obtain a statement from him. You understand? So you will call me -on the instant, father, if you notice anything.” - -“On the instant,” said Raymond--and as the door closed behind the -doctor, he went back to his seat in the chair. - -The man would die, the doctor had said so again. That was assured. -Raymond fingered the prayer-book that he still held abstractedly. That -was assured. It seemed to relieve his brain from any further necessity -of thinking, thinking, thinking--his brain was very weary. Also he was -physically weary and tired. But he was safe. Perhaps a few days of this -damnable masquerade, but then it would be over. - -He began to turn the pages of the prayer-book--and then, with a -whimsical shrug of his shoulders, he began to read. He must put the -night in somehow, therefore why not put it in to advantage? To refresh -his memory a little with the ritual would be a safeguard against those -few days that he must still remain in St. Marleau--as Father François -Aubert! - -He read for a little while, then got up and went to the bed to look at -the white face upon it, to listen to the laboured breathing that stood -between them both--and death. He could see no change. He returned to his -chair, and resumed his reading. - -At intervals he did the same thing over again--only at last, instead -of reading, he dozed in his chair. Finally, he slept--not heavily, -but fitfully, lightly, a troubled sleep that came only through bodily -exhaustion, and that was full of alarm and vague, haunting dreams. - -The night passed. The morning light began to find its way in through the -edges of the drawn window shades. And suddenly Raymond sat upright -in his chair. He had heard a step along the hall. The prayer-book had -fallen to the floor. He picked it up. What was that noise--that low -moaning from the bed? Not dead! The man wasn't dead yet! And--yes--it -was daylight! - -The door opened. It was Valerie. How fresh her face was--fresh as the -morning dew! What a contrast to the wan and haggard countenance he knew -he raised to hers! - -And she paused in the doorway, and looked at him, and looked toward -the bed, and back again to him, and the sweet face was beautiful with a -woman's tenderness. - -“Ah, how good you are, Monsieur le Curé, and how tired you must be,” she -said. - - - - -CHAPTER X--KYRIE ELEISON - -|ST. MARLEAU was agog. St. Marleau was hysterical. St. Marleau was -on tiptoe. It was in the throes of excitement, and the excitement was -sustained by expectancy. It wagged its head in sapient prognostication -of it did not quite know what; it shook its head in a sort of amazed -wonder that such things should be happening in its own midst; and it -nodded its head with a profound respect, not unmixed with veneration, -for its young curé--the good, young Father Aubert, as St. Marleau, -old and young, had taken to calling him, since it would not have been -natural to have called him anything else. - -The good, young Father Aubert! Ah, yes--was he not to be loved and -respected! Had he not, for three nights and two days now, sacrificed -himself, until he had grown pale and wan, to watch like a mother at the -bedside of the dying murderer, who did not die! It was very splendid of -the young curé; for, though Madame Lafleur and her daughter beseeched -him to take rest and to let them watch in his stead, he would not listen -to them, saying that he was stronger than they and better able to stand -it, and that, since it was he who had had the stranger brought to the -_presbytère_, it was he who should see that no one else was put to any -more inconvenience than could be avoided. - -Ah, yes,--it was most certainly the good, young Father Aubert! For, on -the short walks he took for the fresh air, the very short walks, always -hurrying back to the murderer's bedside, did he not still find time for -a friendly and cheery word for every one he met? It was a habit, that, -of his, which on the instant twined itself around the heart of St. -Marleau, that where all were strangers to him, and in spite of his own -anxiety and weariness, he should be so kindly interested in all the -little details of each one's life, as though they were indeed a part of -his own. How could one help but love the young curé who stopped one on -the village street, and, man, woman or child, laid his hand in frank and -gentle fashion upon one's shoulder, and asked one's name, and where one -lived, and about one's family, and for the welfare of those who were -dear to one? And did not both Madame Lafleur and her daughter speak -constantly of how devout he was, that he was never without a prayer-book -in his hand? Ah, indeed, it was the good, young Father Aubert! - -But this in no whit allayed the hysteria, the excitement and the -expectancy under which St. Marleau laboured. A murder in St. Marleau! -That alone was something that the countryside would talk about for years -to come. And it was not only the murder; it was--what was to happen -next! It was Mother Blondin's son who had been murdered by the stranger, -and Mother Blondin, though not under arrest, was being watched by the -police, who waited for the man in the _presbytère_ to die. It was Mother -Blondin who had struck the murderer, and if the murderer died then she -would be responsible for the man's death. What, then, would they do with -Mother Blondin? - -St. Marleau, not being well versed in the law, did not know; it knew -only that the assistant chief of the Tournayville police had installed -himself in the Tavern where he could see that Mother Blondin did not -run away, since the man at the _presbytère_ did not need any police -watching, and that this assistant chief of the Tournayville police was -as dumb as an oyster, and looked only very wise, like one who has great -secrets locked in his bosom, when questions were put to him. - -And then, another thing--the funeral of Théophile Blondin. It was only -this morning--the third morning after the murder--that that had been -decided. Mother Blondin had raved and cursed and sworn that she would -not let the body of her son enter the church. But Mother Blondin was -not, perhaps, as much heretic as she wanted, or pretended, to be. Mother -Blondin, perhaps, could not escape the faith of the years when she -was young; and, while she scoffed and blasphemed, in her soul God was -stronger than she, and she was afraid to stand between her dead son and -the rites of Holy Church in which, through her own wickedness, she could -not longer participate. But, however that might be, the people of St. -Marleau, that is those who were good Christians and had respect for -themselves, were concerned little with such as Mother Blondin, or, -for that matter, with her son--but the funeral of a man who had been -murdered right in their midst, and that was now to take place! Ah, that -was quite another matter! - -And so St. Marleau gathered in a sort of breathless unanimity that -morning to the tolling of the bell, as the funeral procession of -Théophile Blondin began to wend its way down the hill--and within the -sacred precincts of the church the villagers, as best they might, hushed -their excitement in solemn and decorous silence. - -And at the church door, in surplice and stole, the altar boy beside -him, as the cortège approached, stood Raymond Chapelle--the good, young -Father Aubert. - -He was very pale; the dark eyes were sunk deep in their sockets from -three sleepless nights, and from the torment of constant suspense, where -each moment in the countless hours had been pregnant with the threat -of discovery, where each second had swung like some horrible pendulum -hesitating between safety--and the gallows. He could not escape this -sacrilege that he was about to commit. There was no escape from it. They -had thought it strange, perhaps, that he had not said mass on those two -mornings that were gone. It was customary; but he knew, too, that it was -not absolutely obligatory--and so, through one excuse and another, he -had evaded it. And even if it had been obligatory, he would still have -had to find some way out, to have taken the law temporarily, as it were, -into his own hands--for he would not have dared to celebrate the mass. -Dared? Because of the sacrilege, the meddling with sacred things? Ah, -no! What was his creed--that he feared neither God nor devil, nor man -nor beast! What was that toast he had drunk that night in Ton-Nugget -Camp--he, and Three-Ace Artie, and Arthur Leroy, and Raymond Chapelle! -No; it was not _that_ he feared--it was this sharp-eyed altar boy, this -lad of twelve, who at the mass would be always at his elbow. But he was -no longer afraid of the boy, for now he was ready. He had realised -that he could not escape performing some of the offices of a priest, no -matter what happened to that cursed fool lying over yonder there in the -_presbytère_ upon the bed, who seemed to get better rather than worse, -and so--he had overheard Madame Lafleur confide it to the doctor--he -had been of a devoutness rarely seen. Through the nights and through the -days, spurred on by a sharper, sterner prod than his father's gold in -the old school days had been, he had poured and studied over the ritual -and the theological books that he had found in the priest's trunk, until -now, committing to memory like a parrot, he was thoroughly master of -anything that might arise--especially this burial of Théophile Blondin -which he had foreseen was not likely to be avoided, in spite of the -attitude of that miserable old hag, the mother. - -Raymond's head was slightly bowed, his eyes lowered--but his eyes, -nevertheless, were allowing nothing to escape them. They were extremely -clumsy, and infernally slow out there in bringing the casket into -the church! He would see to it that things moved with more despatch -presently! There was another reason why he had not dared to act as a -priest in the church before--that man over there in the _presbytère_ -upon the bed. He had, on that first morning, not dared to leave the -other, and it had been the same yesterday morning. True, to avert -suspicion, he had gone out sometimes, but never far, never out of call -of the _presbytère_--which was a very different matter from being caught -in the midst of a service where his hands would have been tied and he -could not have instantly returned. It was strange, very strange about -the wounded priest, who, instead of dying, appeared to be stronger, -though he lay in a sort of comatose condition--and now the doctor even -held out hopes of the man's recovery! Suppose--suppose the priest should -regain consciousness now, at this moment, while he was in the act of -conducting the funeral, in the other's stead, over the body of the man -for whose murder, in _his_, Raymond's, stead, the other was held -guilty! He was juggling with ghastly dice! But he could not have escaped -this--there was no way to avoid this funeral of the son of that old hag -who had run screaming, “murder--murder--murder,” into the storm that -night. - -He raised his head. It was the gambler now, steel-nerved, accepting the -chances against him, to all outward appearances impassive, who stood -there in the garb of priest. He was cool, possessed, sure of himself, -cynical of all things holy, disdainful of all things spiritual, -contemptuous of these villagers around him that he fooled--as he would -have been contemptuous of himself to have hesitated at the plunge, -desperate though it was, that was his one and only chance for liberty -and life. - -Ha! At last--eh? They had brought Théophile Blondin to the door! - -And then Raymond's voice, rich, full-toned, stilled that queer, subdued, -composite sound of breathings, of the rustle of garments, of slight, -involuntary movements--of St. Marleau crowded in the pews in strained, -tense waiting. - -_“'Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine; Domine quis sustinebit?_--If -Thou, O Lord, wilt mark iniquities; Lord, who shall abide it?” - -It was curious that the service should begin like that, curious that he -had not before found any meaning or significance in the words. He had -learned them like a parrot. “If Thou, O Lord, wilt mark iniquities....” - He bowed his head to hide the tightening of his lips. Bah, what was -this! Some inner consciousness inanely attempting to suggest that there -was not only significance in the words, but that the significance was -personal, that the very words from his lips, performing the office of -priest, desecrating God's holy place, was iniquity, black, blasphemous -and abhorrent in God's sight--if there were a God! - -Ah, that was it--if there were a God! He was reciting now the _De -Profundis_ in a purely mechanical way. “Out of the depths....” - -If there were a God--yes, that was it! He had never believed there was, -had he? He did not believe it now--but he would make one concession. -What he was doing was not in intent blasphemous, neither was it to -mock--it was to save his life. He was a man with a halter strangling -around his neck. And if there was a God, who then had brought all -this about? Who then was responsible, and who then should accept the -consequences? Not he! He had not sought from choice to play the part of -priest! He had not sought the life of this dead man in the coffin there -in front of him! He had not sought to--yes, curse it, it was the word to -use--kill the drunken, besotted, worthless fool! - -A cold anger came, steadying his nerves. It was too bad that in some -way he could not wreck a vengeance on the corpse for all this--the -miserable, rum-steeped hound who had got him into this hellish fix. - -They were bearing the body into the church toward the head of the nave. -He was at the _Subvenite_ now. “'...Kyrie eleison.” - -The boyish treble, hushed yet clear, of young Gauthier Beaulieu, the -altar boy, rose from beside him in the responses: - -“'Christe eleison” - -“Lord, have mercy.... From the gate of hell,” - -“Deliver his soul, O Lord.” - -Again! That sense of solemnity, that personal implication in the words! -It was coincidence, nothing more. No; it was not even that! He was -simply twisting the meaning, allowing himself to be played with by a -warped imagination. He was not a weak fool, was he, to let this get the -better of him? And, besides, he would hurry through with it, and since -he would say neither office nor mass it would not take long. It must be -hot this summer morning, though he had not noticed it particularly when -he had left the _presbytère_. The church seemed heavy and oppressive. -Strange how the pews were all lined with eyes staring at him! - -The tread of feet up the aisle died away. The bier was set at the head -of the nave, and lighted candles placed around it. There fell a silence, -utter and profound. - -Why was it now that his lips scarcely moved, that his voice was scarcely -audible; why that sudden foreboding, intangible yet present everywhere, -at his temerity, at his unhallowed, hideous perversion of sanctity in -that he should pray as a priest of God, in the habiliments of one of -God's ministers, in God's church--ay, it was a devil's masquerade, for -he, if never before, stood branded now, sealing that blasphemous toast, -a disciple of hell. - -“'_Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine_....' Enter not into -judgment with Thy servant, O Lord....” - -And so he denied God, did he? And so he was callous and indifferent, and -scoffed at the possibility of a church, simply because it was a church, -being the abiding place of a higher, holier, omnipotent presence? Why, -then, that hoarseness in his throat--why, then, did he not shout his -parrot words high to the vaulted roof in triumphant defiance? Why that -struggle with his will to finish the prayer? - -From the little organ loft in the gallery over the door, floated now the -notes of the _Responsory_, and the voices of the choir rolled solemnly -through the church: - -“'_Libera me, Domine, de morte æterna...._' Deliver me, O Lord, from -eternal death....” - -Death! Eternal death! What was death? There was a dead man there in the -casket--dead because he and the man had fought together, and the other -had been killed. And he was burying, in a church, as a priest, he, who -was the one upon whom the law would set its claws if it but knew, the -man that he had killed! It came suddenly, with terrific force, blotting -out those wavering candle flames around the coffin, the scene of that -night. The wind was howling; that white-scarred face was cheek to cheek -with him; they lunged and staggered around that dimly lighted room, he -and the man who lay dead there in the coffin. They struggled for the -revolver; that old hag circled about them like a swirling hawk--that -blinding flash--the acrid smell of powder--the room revolving around -and around--and the dead man, who was here in the coffin now, had -lain sprawled out there on the floor. He shivered--and cursed himself -fiercely the next instant--it seemed as though the casket suddenly -opened, and that ugly, venomous, scarred face lifted up and leered at -him. - -“'_Dies ilia, dies iræ...,'_” came the voices of the choir. “That day, a -day of wrath....” - -His jaws clenched. He pulled himself together. That was Valerie up there -playing the little organ; Valerie with the great, dark eyes, and the -beautiful face; Valerie, who thought it so unselfish of him because he -had had a couch made up in the room in order that he might not leave -the wounded man. The wounded man! Following the order of the service, -Raymond was putting incense into the censer while the _Responsory_ was -being sung, and his fingers gripped hard upon the vessel. Again that -thought to torture and torment him! Had he not enough to do to go -through with this! Who was with the wounded man now? That -officious, nosing fool, who preened himself on the strength of being -assistant-chief of police of some pitiful little town that no one -outside of its immediate vicinity had ever heard of before? Or was it -Madame Lafleur? But what, after all, did it matter who was there--if -the man should happen to regain his senses? Ha, ha! Would it not be a -delectable sight if that police officer should arrest him, strip these -priestly trappings from him just as he left the church! It would be -quite a dramatic scene, would it not--quite too damnably dramatic! He -was swinging with that infernal pendulum between liberty and death. He -was, at that moment, if ever a man was, or had been, the sport of fate. -He had not liked the looks of the wounded priest half an hour ago when -he had left the _presbytère_ for the sacristy--it had seemed as though -the man were beginning to look _healthy._ - -“'_Kyrie eleison....'_” The _Responsory_ was over. In a purely -mechanical way again he was proceeding with the service. As the ritual -prescribed, he passed round the bier with sprinkler and censer--and -presently he found himself reciting the last prayer of that part of the -service held within the church; and then the bier was being lifted and -borne down the aisle again. - -Out into the sunlight, to the smell of the fields, to the breeze from -the river wafting upon his cheek! He drew in a deep breath--and almost -at the same instant passed his hand heavily across his eyes. He had -thought that stifling heat, that overwhelming oppressiveness all in -the atmosphere of the church; but here was the sunlight, and here the -fields, and here the soft breeze blowing from the water--yet that sense -of foreboding, a prescience, a weight upon him that sank deep to the -soul, remained with him still. - -Slowly the procession passed around the green in front of the church, -and through the gate of the whitewashed fence into the little burial -ground beyond on the river's bank. They were chanting _In Paradisum_, -but Valerie was no longer with the choir, for now, as they passed -through the gate, he saw her, a slim figure all in white, hurry across -the green toward the _presbytère._ - -What was this before him! It was not the smell of fields, but the smell -of freshly turned earth--a grave. The grave of Théophile Blondin, the -man whom he had fought with--and killed. And he was a priest of God, -burying Théophile Blondin. What ghastly, hellish travesty! What were -those words returning to his memory, coming to him out of the dim past -when he was still a boy, and still susceptible to the teachings of the -fathers who had sought to guide him into the church--God is not mocked. - -“God is not mocked! God is not mocked!”--the words seemed to echo -and reverberate around him, they seemed to be thundered in a voice of -vengeance. “God is not mocked!”--and he was _blessing_ the grave of -Théophile Blondir! - -Did these people, gathered, clustered about him, not hear that voice! -Why did they not hear it? It was not the _Benedictus_ that was being -sung that prevented them from hearing it, for he could scarcely hear the -_Benedictus._ - -Raymond's lips moved. “I am not mocking God,” he whispered. “I do not -believe in God, but I am not mocking. I am asking only for my life. I am -taking only the one chance I have. I did not intend to kill the fool--he -killed himself. I am no murderer. I----” He shivered suddenly again, as -once in the church he had shivered before. His hands outstretched seemed -to be creeping again toward a bare throat that lay exposed upon a bed, -the feel of soft, pulsing flesh seemed upon his finger tips. And then -a diabolical chortle seemed to rattle in his ears. So murder was quite -foreign to him, eh? And he did not believe in God? And he was quite -above and apart from all such nonsense? And therein, of course, lay the -reason why the tumbling of this dead thing into a grave left him so -cool and imperturbable; and why the solemn words of the service had no -meaning; and why it was a matter of supreme unconcern to him, provided -he was not caught at it, that he took God's words upon his lips, and -God's garb upon his shoulders! - -White-faced, Raymond lifted his head. The _Benedictus_ was ended, -and now the words came slowly from his lips in a strange, awed, almost -wondering way. - -“_'Requiem oternam.... Ego sum resurrectio et vita....'_ I am the -Resurrection and the Life: he that believeth in Me, although he be dead, -shall live: and every one who liveth, and believeth in Me, shall never -die.” - -His voice faltered a little, steadied by a tremendous effort of will, -and went on again, low-toned, through the responses and short prayer -that closed the service. “'_Kyrie eleison'..._ not into temptation.... -'_Requiem oternam_.'... '_Requiescat in pace'..._ through the mercy of -God.... 'Amen.'” - -Forgotten for the moment was that grim pendulum that hovered over the -bed in the _presbytère_ yonder, and by the side of the grave Raymond -stood and looked down on the coffin of Théophile Blondin. The people -began to disperse, but he was scarcely conscious of it. It seemed that -he had run the gamut of every human emotion since he had met the -funeral procession at the church door; but here was another now--an -incomprehensible, quiet, chastened, questioning mood. They were very -beautiful words, these, that he was repeating to himself. He did not -believe them, but they were very beautiful, and to one who did believe -they must offer more than all of life could hold. - -“'I am the resurrection and the life... he that be-lieveth in Me... -shall never die.'” - -There was another gateway in the little whitewashed fence, a smaller one -that gave on the sacristy at the side and toward the rear of the church. -Slowly, head bowed, absorbed, unconscious of the rôle he played so -well, Raymond walked toward the gate, and through it, and, raising his -head, paused. A shrivelled and dishevelled form crouched there against -the palings. It was old Mother Blondin. - -And Raymond stared--and suddenly a wave of immeasurable pity, mingling -a miserable sense of distress, swept upon him. In there was forbidden -ground to her; and in there was her son--killed in a fight with him. She -had come around here to the side, unobserved, unless Dupont were lurking -somewhere about, to be as near at the last as she could. An old hag, -wretched, dissolute--but human above all things else, huddling before -the dying embers of mother-love. She did not look up; her forehead was -pressed close against the fence as she peered inside; a withered, dirty -hand clutched fiercely at a paling on each side of her face. - -Raymond stepped toward her, and spontaneously laid his hand upon her -shoulder. And strange words were on his lips, but they were sincere -words out of a heart torn and troubled and dismayed, out of a soul that -had recoiled as before some tremendous cataclysm. And his words were the -words he had been repeating over and over to himself. - -“'I am the resurrection and the life...' My poor, poor woman, let me -help you. See, you must not mourn that way alone. Come, let me take you -back to your home----” - -She rose to her feet, and looked at him, and for an instant the hard, -set, wrinkled face seemed to soften, and into the blear eyes seemed to -spring a mist of tears--then her face contorted into livid fury, and she -struck at his hand, flinging it from her shoulder. - -“You go to hell!” she snarled. “You, and all like you, you go to hell!” - -She was gone--shuffling around the corner of the church. - -And then Raymond laughed a little. It was like a dash of cold water in -the face. He had been a fool--a fool all morning, a fool to let -mere words, mere environment have any influence upon him, a fool -to sentimentality in talking to her like that, mawkish to have used -the words! He would have said what she had said to any one else, if he -had been in her place--only more bitterly, more virulently, if that were -possible. - -He shrugged his shoulders, and moved on toward the sacristy to divest -himself of his surplice and stole--and again he paused, this time in the -doorway, and turned around, as a voice cried out his name. - -“Father Aubert!” - -It was Valérie, running swiftly toward him from the _presbytère_. - -And Raymond stood still and waited. Intuitively he knew. Something had -happened in the _presbytère_ at last. He was the gambler again, cool, -imperturbable, steel-nerved, with the actual crisis upon him. It was the -turn of the card, the throw of the dice, that was all. Was it life--or -death? It was Valérie who was to pronounce the sentence. She reached -him, breathless, flushed. He smiled at her. - -“Monsieur le Curé--Father Aubert,” she panted, “come quickly! He can -speak! He has regained consciousness!” - - - - -CHAPTER XI--“HENRI MENTONE” - -|VALERIE'S flushed face was lifted eagerly to his. She had caught -impetuously at the sleeve of his _soutane_, and was urging him forward. -And yet he was walking with deliberate measured tread across the green -toward the _presbytère_. Strange how the blood seemed to be hammering -feverishly at his temples! Every impulse prompted him to run, as a man -running for his life, to reach the _presbytère_, to reach that room, to -shut the door upon himself and that man whose return to consciousness -meant--what? But it was too late to run now. Too late! Already the news -seemed to have spread. Those who had been the last to linger at the -grave of Théophile Blondin were gathering, on their way out from the -little burying ground, around the door of the _presbytère_. It would -appear bizarre, perhaps, that the curé should come tearing across -the green with vestments flying simply because a man had regained -consciousness! Ha, ha! Yes, very bizarre! Why should their curé run like -one demented just because a man had regained consciousness! If the -man were at his last gasp now, were just about to die--that would be -different! He found a bitter mirth in that. Yes, decidedly, they would -understand that! But as it was, they would think their curé had gone -suddenly mad, perhaps, or they would think, perhaps--something else. - -The dice were thrown, the card was turned--against him. His luck was -out. It was like walking tamely to where the noose dangled and awaited -his neck to walk toward those gaping people clustered around the door, -to walk into the _presbytère_. But it was his only chance. Yes, there -was a chance--one chance left. If he could hold out until evening, until -darkness! - -Until evening, until darkness--with the night before him in which to -attempt his escape! But there were still eight hours or more to -evening. There were only a few more steps to go before he reached the -_presbytère_. The distance was pitifully short. In those few steps he -must plan everything; plan that that accursed noose swaying before his -eyes should---- - -“_Dies illa, dies iræ_--that day, a day of wrath.” What brought those -words flashing through his mind! He had said them once that morning--but -a little while ago--in church--as a priest--at Théophile Blondin's -funeral. Damn it, they were not meant for him! They did not mean to-day. -They were not premonitory. He was not beaten yet! - -In the shed behind the _presbytère_ there was a pair of the old -sacristan's overalls, and an old coat, and an old hat. He had noticed -them yesterday. They would serve his purpose--a man in a pair of -overalls and a dirty, torn coat would not look much like a priest. Yes, -yes; that would do, it was the way--when night came. He would have the -darkness, and he would hide the next day, and the day after, and travel -only by night. It invited pursuit of course, the one thing that next -to capture itself he had struggled and plotted to avoid, but it was the -only chance now, and, if luck turned again, he might succeed in making -his way out of the country--when night came. - -But until then! What until then? That was where his danger lay now--in -those hours until darkness. - -“Yes!” whispered Raymond fiercely to himself. “Yes--if only you keep -your head!” - -What was the matter with him? Had he forgotten! It was what he had -been prepared to face that night when he had brought the priest to the -_presbytère_, should the man then have recovered sufficiently to speak. -It should be still easier now to make any one believe that the man was -wandering in his mind, was not yet lucid or coherent after so long a -lapse from consciousness. And the very story that the man would tell -must sound like the ravings of a still disordered mind! He, Raymond, -would insist that the man be kept very quiet during the day; he, -Raymond, would stay beside the other's bed. Was he not the curé! Would -they not obey him, show deference to his judgment and his wishes--until -night came! - -They were close to the _presbytère_ now, close to the little gaping -crowd that surrounded the door; and, as though conscious for the first -time that she was clinging to his arm, Valérie, in sudden embarrassment -at her own eagerness, hurriedly dropped her hand to her side. And, -at the act, Raymond looked at her quickly, in an almost startled way. -Strange! But then his brain was in turmoil! Strange that extraneous -things, things that had nothing to do with the one grim purpose of -saving his neck should even for an instant assert themselves! But then -they--no, she--had done that before. He remembered now... when they were -putting on that bandage. - -When that crucifix had tangled up his hands, and she had seemed to stand -before him to save him from himself... those dark eyes, that pure, -sweet face, the tender, womanly sympathy--the antithesis of himself! And -to-night, when night came, when the night he longed for came, when -the night that meant his only chance for life came, he--what was -this!--this sudden pang of yearning that ignored, with a most curious -authority, as though it had the right to ignore, the desperate, almost -hopeless peril that was closing down upon him, that seemed to make the -coming of the night now a thing he would put off, a thing to regret and -to dread, that bade him search for some other way, some other plan that -would not necessitate-- - -“A fool and a pretty face!”--it was the gibe and sneer and prod of that -inward monitor. “See all these people who are so reverently making way -for you, and eying you with affection and simple humility, see the rest -of them coming back from all directions because the _murderer_ is about -to tell his story--well, see how they will make way for you, and with -what affection and humility they will eye you when you come out of that -house again, if all the wits the devil ever gave you are not about you -now!” - -He spoke to her quietly, controlling his voice: - -“You have not told me yet what he said, mademoiselle?” - -She shook her head. - -“He did not say much--only to ask where he was and for a drink of -water.” - -He had no time to ask more. They had reached the group before the -_presbytère_ now, and the buzz of conversation, the eager, excited -exchange of questions and answers was hushed, as, with one accord, men -and women made way for their curé. And Raymond, lifting his hand in -a kindly, yet authoritative gesture, cautioning patience and order, -mounted the steps of the _presbytère_. - -And then, inside the doorway, Raymond quickened his step. From the -closed door at the end of the short hallway came the low murmur of -voices. It was Madame Lafleur probably who was there with the other now. -How much, how little had the man said--since Valérie had left the room? -Raymond's lips tightened grimly. It was fortunate that Madame Lafleur -had so great a respect for the cloth! He had nothing to fear from -her. He could make her believe anything. He could twist her around his -finger, and--he opened the door softly--and stood, as though turned -suddenly rigid, incapable of movement, upon the threshold--and his hand -upon the doorknob closed tighter and tighter in a vise-like grip. Across -the room stood, not Madame Lafleur, but Monsieur Dupont, the assistant -chief of the Tournayville police, and in Monsieur Dupont's hand was -a notebook, and upon Monsieur Dupont's lips, as he turned and glanced -quickly toward the door, there played an enigmatical smile. - -“Ah! It is Monsieur le Curé!” observed Monsieur Dupont smoothly. “Well, -come in, Monsieur le Curé--come in, and shut the door. I promise you, -you will find it interesting. What? Yes, very interesting!” - -“Oh, Monsieur Dupont is here!”--the words seemed to come to Raymond as -from some great distance behind him. - -He turned. It was Valérie. Of course, it was Valérie! He had forgotten. -She had naturally followed him along the hall to the door. What did this -Dupont mean by what he had said? What had Dupont already learned--that -was so _interesting!_ It would not do to have Valérie here, if--if he -and Dupont---- - -“Perhaps, Mademoiselle Valérie,” he said gravely, “it would be as -well if you did not come in. Monsieur Dupont appears to be officially -engaged.” - -“But, of course!” she agreed readily. “I did not know that any one was -here. I left the man alone when I ran out to find you. I will come back -when Monsieur Dupont has gone.” - -And Raymond smiled, and stepped inside the room, and closed the door, -and leaned with his back against it. - -“Well, Monsieur le Curé”--Monsieur Dupont tapped with his pencil on the -notebook--“I have it all down here. All! Everything that he has said.” - -Raymond had not even glanced toward the bed--his eyes, cool, steady now, -were on the officer, watching the other like a hawk. - -“Yes?” he prompted calmly. - -“And”--Monsieur Dupont made that infernal clucking noise with his -tongue--“I have--nothing! Did I not tell you it was interesting? Yes, -very interesting! Very!” - -Was the man playing with him? How clever was this Dupont? No fool, at -any rate! He had already shown that, in spite of his absurd mannerisms. -Raymond's hand began to toy with the crucifix on his breast, while his -fingers surreptitiously loosened several buttons of his _soutane_. - -“Nothing?”--Raymond's eyebrows were raised in mild surprise. “But -Mademoiselle Valérie told me he had regained consciousness.” - -“Yes,” said Monsieur Dupont, “I heard her say so to some one as she -left the house. I was keeping an eye on that _vieille sauvage_, Mother -Blondin. But this--ah! Quite a more significant matter! Yes--quite! -You will understand, Monsieur le Curé, that I lost no time in reaching -here?” - -And now for the first time Raymond looked swiftly toward the bed. It was -only for the barest fraction of a second that he permitted his eyes to -leave the police officer; but in that glance he had met coal black eyes, -all pupils they seemed, fixed in a sort of intense penetration upon him. -The man was still lying on his back, he had noticed that--but it was the -eyes, disconcerting, full of something he could not define, boring into -him, that dominated all else. He stepped nonchalantly toward Monsieur -Dupont. - -“It is astonishing that he has said nothing,” he murmured softly. “Will -you permit me, Monsieur Dupont”--he held out his hand--“to see your -book?” - -“The book? H'm! Well, why not?” Monsieur Dupont shrugged his shoulders -as he placed the notebook in Raymond's hand. “It is not customary--but, -why not!” - -And then upon Raymond came relief. It surged upon him until he could -have laughed out hysterically, laughed like a fool in this Monsieur -Dupont's face--this Monsieur Dupont who was the assistant chief of the -police force of Tournayville. It was true! Dupont had at least told the -truth. So far Dupont had learned nothing. Raymond's face was impassive -as he scrutinised the page before him. Written with a flourish on the -upper line, presumably to serve as a caption, were the words: - -“The Murderer, Henri Mentone,” and beneath: “Evades direct answers. -Hardened type--knows his way about. Pretends ignorance. Stubborn. Wily -rascal--yes, very!” - -Raymond handed the notebook back to Monsieur Dupont. - -“It is perhaps not so strange after all, Monsieur Dupont,” he remarked -with a thoughtful air. “We must not forget that the poor fellow has but -just recovered consciousness. He is hardly likely to be either lucid or -rational.” - -“Bah!” ejaculated Monsieur Dupont grimly. “He is as lucid as I am. But I -am not through with him yet! He is not the first of his kind I have had -upon my hook!” He leaned toward the bed. “Now, then, my little Apache, -you will answer my questions! Do you understand? No more evasions! None -at all! They will do you no good, and----” - -Raymond's hand fell upon Monsieur Dupont's shoulder. Though he had not -looked again until now, he was conscious that those eyes from the -bed had never for an instant swerved from his face. Now he met them -steadily. He addressed Monsieur Dupont, but he spoke to the man on the -bed. - -“Have you warned him, Monsieur Dupont,” he said soberly, “that anything -he says will be used against him? And have you told him that he is not -obliged to answer? He is weak yet and at a disadvantage. He would be -quite justified in waiting until he was stronger, and entirely competent -to weigh his own words.” - -Monsieur Dupont was possessed of an inconsistency all his own. - -“_Tonnerre!_” he snapped. “And what is the use of warning him when he -will not answer at all?” - -“You appear not quite to have given up hope!” observed Raymond dryly. - -“H'm!” Monsieur Dupont scowled. “Very well, then”--he leaned once more -over the bed, and addressed the man--“you understand? It is as Monsieur -le Curé says. I warn you. You are not obliged to answer. Now then--your -name, your age, your birthplace?” - -Raymond shifted his position to the foot of the bed. - -Damn those eyes! Move where he would, they never left his face. The man -had paid no attention to Monsieur Dupont. Why, in God's name, why did -the man keep on staring and gazing so fixedly at him--and why had the -man refused to answer Dupont's questions--and why had not the man with -his first words poured out his story eagerly! - -“Well, well!” prodded Monsieur Dupont. “Did you not hear--eh? Your -name?” - -The man's eyes followed Raymond. - -“Where am I?” he asked faintly. - -It was too querulous, that tone, too genuinely weak and peevish to smack -of trickery--and suddenly upon Raymond there came again that nervous -impulse to laugh out aloud. So that was the secret of it, was it? There -was a sort of sardonic humour then in the situation! The suggestion, -the belief he had planned to convey to shield himself--that the man -was still irrational--was, in fact, the truth! But how long would that -condition last? He must put an end to this--get this cursed Dupont away! - -“Where am I?” muttered the man again. - -“_Tiens!_” clucked Monsieur Dupont. “You see, Monsieur le Curé! You see? -Yes, you see. He plays the game well--with finesse, eh?” He turned to -the man. “Where are you, eh? Well, you are better off where you are -now than where you will be in a few days! I promise you that! Now, -again--your name?” - -The man shook his head. - -“Monsieur Dupont,” said Raymond, a little severely. “You will arrive -at nothing like this. The man is not himself. To-morrow he will be -stronger.” - -“Bah! Nonsense! Stronger!” jerked out Monsieur Dupont derisively. “Our -fox is quite strong enough! Monsieur le Curé, you are not a police -officer--do not let your pity deceive you. And permit me to continue!” - He slipped his hand into his pocket, and adroitly flashed a visiting -card suddenly before the man's eyes. “Well, since you cannot recall -your name, this will perhaps be of assistance! You see, Monsieur Henri -Mentone, that you get yourself nowhere by refusing to answer!” Once more -the man shook his head. - -“So!” Monsieur Dupont complacently returned the card to his pocket. “Now -we will continue. You see now where you stand. Your age?” - -Again the man shook his head. - -“He does not know!” remarked Monsieur Dupont caustically. “Very -convenient memory! Yes--very! Well, will you tell us where you came -from?” - -For the fourth time the man shook his head--and at that instant Raymond -edged close to Monsieur Dupont's side. What was that in those eyes -now--that something that was creeping into them--that _dawning_ light, -as they searched his face! - -“He does not know that, either!” complained Monsieur Dupont -sarcastically. “Magnificent! Yes--very! He knows nothing at all! He----” - -With a low cry, the man struggled to his elbow, propping himself up in -bed. - -“Yes, I know!”--his voice, high-pitched, rang through the room. “I know -now!” He raised his hand and pointed at Raymond. “_I know you!_” - -Raymond's hand was thrust into the breast of his _soutane_, where he had -unbuttoned it beneath the crucifix--and Raymond's fingers closed upon -the stock of an automatic in his upper left-hand vest pocket. - -“Poor fellow!” murmured Raymond pityingly. “You see, Monsieur -Dupont”--he moved still a little closer--“you have gone too far. You -have excited him. He is incoherent. He does not know what he is saying.” - -Monsieur Dupont was clucking with his tongue, as he eyed the man -speculatively. - -“Yes, yes; I know you now!” cried the man again. “Oh, monsieur, -monsieur!”--both hands were suddenly thrust out to Raymond, and there -was a smile on the trembling lips, an eager flush dyeing the pale -cheeks. “It is you, monsieur! I have been very sick, have I not? It--it -was like a dream. I--I was trying to remember--your face. It is your -face that I have seen so often bending over me. Was that not it, -monsieur--monsieur, you who have been so good--was that not it? You -would lift me upon my pillow, and give me something cool to drink. And -was it not you, monsieur, who sat there in that chair for long, long -hours? It seems as though I saw you there always--many, many times.” - -It was like a shock, a revulsion so strong that for the moment it -unnerved him. Raymond scarcely heard his own voice. - -“Yes,” he said--his forehead was damp, as he brushed his hand across it. - -Monsieur Dupont blew out his cheeks. - -“_Nom d'un nom!_” he exploded. “Ah, your pardon, Monsieur le Curé! -But it is mild, a very mild oath, is it not--under the circumstances? -Yes--very! I admire cleverness--yes, I do! The man has a head! What -an appeal to the emotions! Poignant! Yes, that's the word--poignant. -Looking for sympathy! Trying to make an ally of you, Monsieur le Curé!” - -“Get rid of the fool! Get rid of the fool!” prompted that inward monitor -impatiently. - -Raymond, with a significant look, plucked at Monsieur Dupont's sleeve, -and led the other across the room away from the bed. - -“Do you think so?” he asked, in a lowered voice. - -“Eh?” inquired Monsieur blankly. “Think what?” - -“What you just said--that he is trying to make an ally of me.” - -“Oh, that--_zut!_” sniffed Monsieur Dupont. “But what else?” - -“Then suppose”--Raymond dropped his voice still lower--“then suppose you -leave him with me until tomorrow. And meanwhile--you understand?” - -Monsieur Dupont pondered the suggestion. - -“Well, very well--why not?” decided Monsieur Dupont. “Perhaps not a bad -idea--perhaps not. And if it does not succeed”--Monsieur Dupont shrugged -his shoulders--“well, we know everything anyhow; and I will make him -pay through the nose for his tricks! But he is under arrest, Monsieur le -Curé, you understand that? There is a cell in the jail at Tournayville -that----” - -“Naturally--when he is able to be moved,” agreed Raymond readily. “We -will speak to the doctor about that. In the meantime he probably could -not walk across this room. He is quite safe here. I will be responsible -for him.” - -“And I will put a flea in the doctor's ear!” announced Monsieur Dupont, -moving toward the door. “The assizes are next week, and after the -assizes, say, another six weeks and”--Monsieur Dupont's tongue clucked -eloquently several times against the roof of his mouth. “We will not -keep him waiting long!” Monsieur Dupont opened the door, and, standing -on the threshold where he was hidden from the bed, laid his forefinger -along the side of his nose. “You are wrong, Monsieur le Curé”--he had -raised his voice to carry through the room. “But still you may be right! -You are too softhearted; yes, that is it--soft-hearted. Well, he has you -to thank for it. I would not otherwise consider it--it is against my -best judgment. I bid you good-bye, Monsieur le Curé!” - -Raymond closed the door--but it was a moment, standing there with his -back to the bed, before he moved. His face was set, the square jaws -clamped, a cynical smile flickering on his lips. It had been close--but -of the two, as between Monsieur Dupont and himself and the gallows, -Monsieur Dupont had been the nearer to death! He saw Monsieur Dupont in -his mind's-eye sprawled on the floor. It would not have been difficult -to have stopped forever any outcry from that weak thing upon the bed. -And then the window; and after that--God knew! And it would have been -God's affair! It was God Who had instituted that primal law that lay -upon every human soul, the law of self-preservation; and it was God's -choosing, not his, that he was here! Who was to quarrel with him if he -stopped at nothing in his fight for life! Well, Dupont was gone now! -That danger was past. He had only to reckon now with Valérie and her -mother--until night came. He raised his hand heavily to his forehead and -pushed back his hair. Valérie! Until night came! Fool! What was Valérie -to him! And yet--he jeered at himself in a sort of grim derision--and -yet, if it were not his one chance for life, he would not go to-night. -He could call himself a fool, if he would; that ubiquitous and caustic -other self, that was the cool, calculating, unemotional personification -of Three-Ace Artie, could call him a fool, if it would--those dark eyes -of Valérie's--no, not that--it was not eyes, nor hair, nor lips, they -were only part of Valérie--it was Valérie, like some rare fragrance, -fresh and pure and sweet in her young womanhood, that---- - -“Monsieur!”--the man was calling from the bed. - -And then Raymond turned, and walked back across the room, and drew a -chair to the bedside, and sat down. And Raymond smiled--but not at the -bandaged, outstretched form before him. A fool! Well, so be it! The -fool would sit here for the rest of the morning, and the rest of the -afternoon, and listen to the babbling wanderings of another fool who -had not had sense enough to die; and he would play this cursed rôle of -saint, and fumble with his crucifix, and mumble his * Latin, and -keep this Mademoiselle Valérie, who meant nothing to him, from the -room--until to-night. And--what was this other fool saying? - -“Monsieur--monsieur, who was that man who just went out?” - -Raymond answered mechanically: - -“It was Monsieur Dupont, the assistant chief of the Tournayville -police.” - -“What was he doing here?” asked the other slowly, as though trying to -puzzle out the answer to his own question. “Why was he asking me all -those questions?” - -Raymond, tight-lipped, looked the man in the eyes. - -“We've had enough of this, haven't we?” he challenged evenly. “I thought -at first you were still irrational. You're not--that is now quite -evident. Well--we are alone--what is your object? You had a chance to -tell Dupont your story!” - -A pitiful, stunned look crept into the man's face. He stretched out his -hand over the coverlet toward Raymond. “You--you, too, monsieur!” he -said numbly. “What does it mean? What does it mean?” - -It startled Raymond. There was trickery here, it could be nothing -else--and yet there was sincerity too genuine to be assumed in the -other's words and acts. Raymond sat back in his chair, and for a long -minute, brows knitted, studied the man. It was possible, of course, that -the other might not have recognised him--they had only been together for -a few moments in the smoking compartment of the train, and, dressed -now as a priest, that might well be the case--but why not the story -then?--why not the simple statement that he was the new curé coming to -the village, that he had been struck down and--bah! What was the man's -game! Well, he would force the issue, that was all! He leaned over the -bed; and, his hand upon the other's, his fingers closed around the -man's wrist until, beneath their tips, they could gauge the throb of the -other's pulse. And his eyes, steel-hard, were on the other. - -“I am the curé,” he said, in a low, level tone, “of St. Marleau--while -Father Allard is away. My name is--_François Aubert_.” - -“And mine,” said the man, “is”--he shook his head--“mine is”--his face -grew piteously troubled--“it is strange--I do not remember that either.” - -There had been no tell-tale nervous flutter of the man's pulse. -Raymond's hand fell away from the other's wrist. What was this curious, -almost uncanny presentiment that was creeping upon him! Was it possible -that the man was telling the _truth!_ Was it possible that--his own -brain was whirling now--he steadied himself, forcing himself to speak. - -“Did you not read the card that Dupont showed you?” - -“Yes,” said the other. “Henri Mentone--is that my name?” - -“Do you not know!”--Raymond's tone was suddenly sharp, incisive. - -“No,” the other answered. “No, I cannot remember.” He reached out his -arms imploringly to Raymond again. “Oh, monsieur, what does it mean? I -do not know where I am--I do not know how I came here.” - -“You are in the _presbytère_ at St. Marleau,” said Raymond, still -sharply. Was it true; or was the man simply magnificent in duplicity? -No--there could be no reason, no valid reason for the man to play a -part?--no reason why he should have withheld his story from Dupont. It -was not logical. He, Raymond, who alone knew all the story, knew -that. It must be true--but he dared not yet drop his guard. He must -be sure--his life depended on his being sure. He was speaking -again--uncompromisingly: “You were picked up unconscious on the road by -the tavern during the storm three nights ago--you remember the storm, of -course?” - -Again that piteously troubled look was on the other's face. - -“No, monsieur, I do not remember,” he said tremulously. - -“Well, then,” persisted Raymond, “before the storm--you surely remember -that! Where you came from? Where you lived? Your people?” - -“Where I came from, my--my people”--the man repeated the words -automatically. He swept his hand across his bandaged head. “It is gone,” - he whispered miserably. “I--it is gone. There--there is nothing. I do -not remember anything except a girl in this room saying she would run -for the curé, and then that man came in.” A new trouble came into his -eyes. “That man--you said he was a police officer--why was he here? -And--you have not told me yet--why should he ask me questions?” - -There was still a card to play. Raymond leaned again over the man. - -“All this will not help you,” he said sternly. “Far better that you -should confide in me! The proof against you is overwhelming. You are -already condemned. You murdered Théophile Blondin that night, and stole -Mother Blondin's money. Mother Blondin struck you that blow upon the -head as you ran from the house. You were found on the road; and in your -pockets was Mother Blondin's money--and her son's revolver, with which -you shot him. In a word, you are under arrest for murder.” - -“Murder!”--the man, wide-eyed, horror-stricken, was staring at -Raymond--and then he was clawing himself frantically into an -upright position in the bed. “No, no! Not that! It cannot be true! -Not--_murder!_” His voice rose into a piercing cry, and rang, and rang -again through the room. He reached out his arms. “You are a priest, -monsieur--by that holy crucifix, by the dear Christ's love, tell me that -it is not so! Tell me! Murder! It is not true! It cannot be true! No, -no--no! Monsieur--father--do you not hear me crying to you, do you -not--” His voice choked and was still. His face was buried in his hands, -and great sobs shook his shoulders. - -And Raymond turned his head away--and Raymond's face was gray and drawn. -There was no longer room for doubt. That blow upon the skull had blotted -out the man's memory, left it--a blank. - - - - -CHAPTER XII--HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER - -|FATHER ALLARD'S desk had been moved into the front room. Raymond, on -a very thin piece of paper, was tracing the signature inscribed on the -fly-leaf of the prayer-book--François Aubert. Before him lay a number of -letters written that morning by Valérie--parish letters, a letter to the -bishop--awaiting his signature. Valérie, who had been private secretary -to her uncle, was now private secretary to--François Aubert! - -The day before yesterday he had signed a letter in this manner, -and Valérie, who was acquainted with the signature from her uncle's -correspondence, had had no suspicions. Raymond placed his tracing over -the bottom of one of the letters, and, bearing down heavily as he wrote, -obtained an impression on the letter itself. The impression served as a -guide, and he signed--François Aubert. - -It was simple enough, this expedient in lieu of a piece of carbon -paper that he had no opportunity to buy, and for which, from the notary -perhaps, Valérie's other uncle, who alone in the village might be -expected to have such a thing, he had not dared to make the request; but -it was tedious and laborious--and besides, for the moment, his mind was -not upon his task. - -He signed another, and still another, his face deeply lined as he -worked, wrinkles nesting in strained little puckers around the corners -of his eyes--and suddenly, while there were yet two of the letters to -be signed, he sat back in his chair, staring unseeingly before him. From -the rear room came that footstep, slow, irregular, uncertain. It was -Henri Mentone. Dupont's “flea” in the doctor's ear had had its effect. -Henri Mentone was taking his exercise--from the bed to the window, from -the window to the door, from the door to the bed, and over again. In the -three days since the man had recovered consciousness, he had made rapid -strides toward recovering his strength as well, though he still spent -part of the day in bed--this afternoon, for instance, he was to be -allowed out for a little while in the open air. - -Raymond's eyes fixed on the open window where the morning sunlight -streamed into the room. Yes, the man was getting on his feet rapidly -enough to suit even Monsieur Dupont. The criminal assizes began at -Tournayville the day after to-morrow. And the day after to-morrow Henri -Mentone was to stand his trial for the murder of Théophile Blondin! - -Raymond's fingers tightened upon the penholder until it cracked -warningly, recalling him to himself. He had not gone that night. Gone! -He laughed mockingly. The man had lost his memory! Who would have -thought of that--and what it meant? If the man had died, or even if the -man had talked and so _forced_ him to accept pursuit as his one and only -chance, the issue would have been clear cut. But the man, curse him, had -not died; nor had he told his story--and to all appearances at least, -except for still being naturally a little weak, was as well as any one. -Gone! Gone--that night! Great God, they would _hang_ the fool for this! - -The sweat beads crept out on Raymond's forehead. No, no--not that! They -thought the man was shamming now, but they would surely realise before -it was too late that he was not. They would convict him of course, the -evidence was damning, overwhelming, final--but they would not hang a man -who could not remember. No, they wouldn't hang him. But what they would -do was horrible enough--they would sentence the man for life, and keep -him in the infirmary perhaps of some penitentiary. For life--that was -all. - -The square jaw was suddenly out-thrust. Well, what of it! He, Raymond, -was safe as it was. It was his life, or the other's. In either case -it would be an innocent man who suffered. As far as actual murder was -concerned, he was no more guilty than this priest who had had nothing -to do with it. Besides, they would hang him, Raymond, and they wouldn't -hang the other. Of course, they didn't believe the man now! Why should -they? They did not know what he, Raymond, knew; they had only the -evidence before them that was conclusive enough to convict a saint from -Heaven! Ha, ha! Why, even the man himself was beginning to believe in -his own guilt! Sometimes the man was as a caged beast in an impotent -fury; and--and sometimes he would cling like a frightened child with his -arms around his, Raymond's, neck. - -It was warm here in the room, warm with the bright, glorious sunlight of -the summer morning. Why did he shiver like that? And this--why _this?_ -The smell of incense; those organ notes rising and swelling through the -church; the voices of the choir; the bowed heads everywhere! He surged -up from his chair, and, rocking on his feet, his hands clenched upon the -edge of the desk. Before what dread tribunal was this that he was being -called suddenly to account! Yesterday--yesterday had been Sunday--and -yesterday he had celebrated mass. His own voice seemed to sound again -in his ears: “_Introibo ad altare Dei_--I will go in unto the Altar of -God.... _Ab homme iniquo et dolosoerue me_--Deliver me from the unjust -and deceitful man.... _In quorum manibus iniquitates sunt_--In whose -hands are iniquities.... _Hic est enim Calix sanguinis mei novi et -æterni testamenti: mysterium fidei_--For this is the Chalice of My Blood -of the new and eternal testament: the mystery of faith....” No--no, no! -He had not profaned those holy things, those holy vessels. He had not -done it! It was a lie! He had fooled even Gauthier Beaulieu, the altar -boy. - -He sank back into his chair like a man exhausted, and drew his hand -across his eyes. It was nothing! He was quite calm again. Those words, -the church, those holy things had nothing to do with Henri Mentone. If -any one should think otherwise, that one was a fool! Had Three-Ace Artie -ever been swayed by “mystery of faith”--or been called a coward! Yes, -that was it--a coward! It was true that he had as much right to life -as that pitiful thing in the back room, but it was he who had put that -other's life in jeopardy! That creed--that creed of his, born of the far -Northland where men were men, fearing neither God nor devil, nor man, -nor beast--it was better than those trembling words which had just been -upon his lips. True, he was safe now, if he let them dispose of this -Henri Mentone--but to desert the other would be a coward's act. Well, -what then--what then! Confess--and with meek, uplifted eyes, like some -saintly martyr, stand upon the gibbet and fasten the noose around his -own neck? _No!_ Well then, what--_what?_ The tormented look was back in -Raymond's eyes. There was a way, a way by which he could give the man -a chance, a way by which they both might have their chance, only the -difficulties so far had seemed insurmountable--a problem that he had not -yet been able to solve--and the time was short. Yes, the way was there, -if only----. - -With a swift movement, incredibly swift, alert in an instant, his hand -swept toward the desk. Some one was knocking at the door. His fingers -closed on the thin piece of paper that had served him in tracing the -signature of Francois Aubert, and crushed it into a little ball in the -palm of his hand. The door opened. There were dark eyes there, dark -hair, a slim figure, a sweet, quiet smile, a calm, an untroubled peace, -a pervading radiance. It was unreal. It could not exist. There was only -a ghastly turmoil, agony, dismay and strife everywhere--his soul told -him so! This was Valérie. God, how tired he was, how weary! Once he had -seen those arms supporting that wounded man's head so tenderly--like a -soothing caress. If he might, just for a moment, know that too, it would -bring him--rest. - -She came lightly across the room and stood before the desk. - -“It is for the letters, Monsieur le Curé,” she smiled. “I am going down -to the post-office.” She picked up the little pile of correspondence; -and, very prettily business-like, began to run through it. - -Impulsively Raymond reached out to take the letters from her--and, -instead, his hand slipped inside his _soutane_, and dropped the crushed -ball of paper into one of his pockets. It was too late, of course! She -would already have noticed the omission of the two signatures. - -“There are two there that I have not yet signed,” observed Raymond -casually. - -“Yes; so I see!” she answered brightly. “I was just going to tell you -how terribly careless you were, Monsieur le Curé! Well, you can sign -them now, while I am putting the others in their envelopes. Here they -are.” - -He took the two letters from her hand--and laid them deliberately aside -upon the desk. - -“It was not carelessness,” he said laughingly; “except that I should -not have allowed them to get mixed up with the others. There are some -changes that I think I should like to make before they go. They are not -important--to-morrow will do.” - -“Of course!” she said. Then, in pretended consternation: “I hope the -mistakes weren't mine!” - -“No--not yours”--he spoke abstractedly now. He was watching her as she -folded the letters and sealed the envelopes. How quickly she worked! In -a minute now she would go and leave him alone again to listen to those -footfalls from the other room. He wanted rest for his stumbling brain; -and, yes--he wanted her. He could have reached out and caught her hands, -and drawn that dark head bending over the desk closer to him, and held -her there--a prisoner. He brushed his hands hurriedly over his forehead. -A prisoner! What did he mean by that? Oh, yes, the thought was born of -the idea that he was already a jailor. He had been a jailor for three -days now--of that man there, who was too weak to get away. He had -appointed himself jailor--and Monsieur Dupont had confirmed the -appointment. What had that to do with Valérie? He only wanted her to -stay because--a fool, was he!--because he wanted to torture himself -a little more. Well, it was exquisite torture then, her presence, her -voice, her smile! Love? Well, what if he loved! Days and days their -lives had been spent together now. How long was it? A week--no, it must -be more than a week--it seemed as though it had been as long as he could -remember. Yes, he loved her! He knew that now--scoff, sneer and gibe if -that inner voice would! He loved her! He loved Valérie! Madness? Well, -what of that, too! Did he dispute it! Yes, it was madness--and in more -ways than one! He was fighting for his life in this devil's masquerade, -and he might win; but he could not fight for or win his love. That -was just dangled before his eyes as the final Satanic touch to this -hell-born conspiracy that engulfed him! He was in the garb of a priest! -How those hell demons must shake their very souls out with laughter in -their damnable glee! He could not even touch her; he could say no word, -his tongue was tied; nor look at her--he was in the garb of a priest! -He--what was this! A fire seemed in his veins. Her hand in his! Across -the desk, her hand had crept softly into his! - -“Monsieur--Monsieur le Curé--you are ill!” she cried anxiously. - -And then Raymond found himself upon his feet, his other hand laid over -hers--and he forced a smile. - -“I--no”--Raymond shook his head--“no, Mademoiselle Valérie, I am not -ill.” - -“You are worn out, then!” she insisted tremulously. “And it is our -fault. We should have made you let us help you more. You have been up -night after night with that man, and in the daytime there was the parish -work, and you have never had any rest. And yesterday in the church you -looked so tired--and--and----” - -The dark eyes were misty; the sweet face was very close to his. If he -might bend a little, just a very little, that glad wealth of hair would -brush his cheek. - -“A little tired, perhaps--yes--mademoiselle,” he said, in a low voice. -“But it is nothing!” He released her hand, and, turning abruptly from -the desk, walked to the window. - -She had followed him with her eyes, turned to look after him--he sensed -that. There was silence in the room. He did not speak. He did not dare -to speak until--ah!--this should bring him to his senses quickly enough! - -He was staring out through the window. A buck-board had turned in from -the road, and was coming across the green toward the _presbytère_. -Dupont and Doctor Arnaud! They were coming for Henri Mentone now--_now!_ -He had let the time slip by until it was too late--because he had not -been able to fight his way through the odds against him! And then there -came a wan smile to Raymond's lips. No! His fears were groundless. -Three-Ace Artie would have seen that at once! The buckboard was -single-seated, there was room only for two--and Monsieur Dupont could be -well trusted to look after his own comfort when he took the man away. - -He drew back from the window, and faced around--and the thrill that had -come from the touch of her hand was back again, as he caught her gaze -upon him. What was it that was in those eyes, that was in her face? -She had been looking at him like that, he knew, all the time that he -had been standing at the window. They were still misty, those eyes--she -could not hide that, though she lowered them hurriedly now. And that -faint flush tinging her cheeks! Did it mean that she--Fool! He knew what -it meant! It meant that if he cared to seek for any added self-torture -with his madman's imaginings, he could find it readily to hand. She--to -have any thought but that prompted by her woman's sympathy, her tender -anxiety for another's trouble! She--who thought him a priest, and, pure -in her faith as in her soul, would have recoiled in horror from---- - -He steadied his voice. - -“Monsieur Dupont and the doctor have just arrived,” he said. - -She looked up, her face serious now. - -“They have come for Henri Mentone?” - -“No, not yet, I imagine,” he answered; “since they have only a -one-seated buckboard.” - -“I will be glad when he has gone!” she exclaimed impulsively. - -“Glad?” - -“Yes--for your sake,” she said. “He has brought you to the verge of -illness yourself.” She was looking down again, shuffling the sealed -envelopes abstractedly. “And it is not only I who say so--it is all St. -Marleau. St. Marleau loves you for it, for your care of him, Monsieur le -Curé--but also St. Marlbau thinks more of its curé than it does of one -who has taken another's life.” - -Raymond did not reply--he was listening now to the footsteps of Monsieur -Dupont and the doctor, as they passed by along the hallway outside. Came -then a sharp, angry voice raised querulously from the rear room--that -was Henri Mentone. Monsieur Dupont's voice snapped in reply; and then -the voices merged into a confused buzz and murmur. He glanced quickly at -Valérie. She, too, was listening. Her head was turned toward the door, -he could not see her face. - -He walked slowly across the room to her side by the desk. - -“You do not think, mademoiselle,” he asked gravely, “that it is possible -the man is telling the truth, that he really cannot remember anything -that happened that night--and before?” - -She shook her head. - -“Every one knows he is guilty,” she said thoughtfully. “The evidence -proves it absolutely. Why, then, should one believe him? If there was -even a little doubt of his guilt, no matter how little, it might be -different, and one might wonder then; but as it is--no.” - -“And it is not only you who say so”--he smiled, using her own words--“it -is all St. Marleau?” - -“Yes, all St. Marleau--and every one else, including Monsieur le Curé, -even if he has sacrificed himself for the man,” she smiled in return. -Her brows puckered suddenly. “Sometimes I am afraid of him,” she said -nervously. “Yesterday I ran from the room. He was in a fury.” - -Raymond's face grew grave. - -“Ah! You did not tell me that, mademoiselle,” he said soberly. - -“And I am sorry I have told you now, if it is going to worry you,” she -said quickly. “You must not say anything to him. The next time I went in -he was so sorry that it was pitiful.” - -In a fury--at times! Was it strange! Was it strange if one did not sit -unmoved to watch, fettered, bound, impotent, a horrible doom creeping -inexorably upon one! Was it strange if at times, all recollection -blotted out, conscious only that one was powerless to avert that -creeping terror, one should experience a paroxysm of fury that rocked -one to the very soul--and at times in anguish left one like a helpless -child! He had seen the man like that--many times in the last few days. -And he, too, had seen that same terror creep like a dread thing out -of the night upon himself to hover over him; and he could see it now -lurking there, ever present--but he, Raymond, could fight! - -The door of the rear room opened and closed; and Monsieur Dupont's voice -resounded from the hall. - -“Where is Monsieur le Curé? Ho, Monsieur le Curé!” - -Valérie looked toward him inquiringly. - -“Shall I tell them you are here?” she asked. - -Raymond nodded mechanically. - -“Yes--if you will, please.” - -He leaned against the desk, his hands gripping its edge behind his back. -What was it now that this Monsieur Dupont wanted? He was never sure of -Dupont. And this morning his brain was fagged, and he did not want to -cope with this infernal Monsieur Dupont! He watched Valérie walk across -the room, and disappear outside in the hall. - -“Monsieur le Curé is here,” he heard her say. “Will you walk in?” And -then, at some remark in the doctor's voice which he did not catch: “No; -he is not busy. I was just going to take his letters to the postoffice. -He heard Monsieur Dupont call.” - -And then, as the two men stepped in through the doorway, Raymond spoke -quietly: - -“Good morning, Monsieur Dupont! Good morning, Doctor Arnaud!” - -“Hah! Monsieur le Curé!” Monsieur Dupont wagged his head vigorously. “He -is in a very pretty temper this morning, our friend in there--eh? Yes, -very pretty! You have noticed it? Yes, you have noticed it. It would -seem that he is beginning to realise at last that his little tricks are -going to do him no good!” - -Raymond waved his hand toward chairs. - -“You will sit down?” he invited courteously. - -“No”--Doctor Arnaud smiled, as he answered for them both. “No, not this -morning, Monsieur le Curé. We are returning at once to Tournayville. I -have an important case there, and Monsieur Dupont has promised to have -me back before noon.” - -“Yes,” said Monsieur Dupont, “we stopped only to tell you”--Monsieur -Dupont jerked his hand in the direction of the rear room--“that we will -take him away to-morrow morning. Doctor Arnaud says he will be quite -able to go. We will see what the taste of a day in jail will do for him -before he goes into the dock--what? He is very fortunate! Yes, very! -There are not many who have only one day in jail before they are tried! -Yes! To-morrow morning! You look surprised, Monsieur le Curé, that it -should be so soon. Yes, you look surprised!” - -“On the contrary,” observed Raymond impassively, “when I saw you drive -up a few minutes ago, I thought you had come to take him away at once.” - -“But, not at all!” Monsieur Dupont indulged in a significant smile. -“No--not at all! I take not even that chance of cheating the court out -of his appearance--I do not wish to house him for months until the next -assizes. I take no chances on a relapse. He has been quite safe here. -Yes--quite! He will be quite safe for another twenty-four hours in your -excellent keeping, Monsieur le Curé--since he is still too weak to run -far enough to have it do him any good!” - -“You pay a high compliment to my vigilance, Monsieur Dupont,” said -Raymond, with a faint smile. - -“Hah!” cried Monsieur Dupont. “Hah!”--he began to chuckle. “Do you hear -that, Monsieur le Docteur Arnaud? I thought it had escaped him! He has a -sense of humour, our estimable curé! You see, do you not? Yes, you see. -Well, we will go now!” He pushed the doctor from the room. “_Au -revoir_ Monsieur le Curé! It is understood then? To-morrow morning! _Au -revoir_--till to-morrow!” - -Monsieur Dupont bowed, and whisked himself out of sight. Raymond went -to the door, closed it, and mechanically began to pace up and down -the room. He heard Monsieur Dupont and the doctor clamber into the -buckboard, and heard the buckboard drive off. There was moisture upon -his forehead again. He swept it away. To-morrow morning! He had until -to-morrow morning in which to act--if he was to act at all. But the way! -He could not see the way. It was full of peril. The risk was too great -to be overcome! He dared not even approach that man in there with any -plan. There was something horribly sardonic in that! If he was to act, -he must act now, at once--there was only the afternoon and the night -left. - -“You are safe as it is,” whispered that inner voice insidiously. “The -man's condemnation by the law will dispose of the killing of Théophile -Blondin forever. It will be as a closed book. And then--have you -forgotten?--there is your own plan for getting away after a little -while. It cannot fail, that plan. Besides, they will not sentence the -man to hang, they will be sure to see that his memory is really gone; -whereas they will surely hang you if you are caught--as you will be, if -you are fool enough to attempt the impossible now. What did you ever get -out of being quixotic? Do you remember that little affair in Ton-Nugget -Camp?” - -“My God, what shall I do?” Raymond cried out aloud. “If--if only I could -see the way!” - -“But you can't!” sneered the voice viciously. “Haven't you tried hard -enough to satisfy even that remarkably tender conscience that you seem -to have picked up somewhere so suddenly! You--who were going to kill the -man with your own hands! Let well enough alone!” - -It was silent now in the rear room. Raymond halted in the centre of the -floor and listened. There were no footsteps; no sound of voice--only -silence. He laughed a little harshly. What was the man doing? Planning -his _own_ escape! Again Raymond laughed in bitter mirth. God speed to -the man in any such plans--only the man, as Monsieur Dupont had most -sagaciously suggested, would not get very far alone. But still it would -be humorous, would it not, if the man should succeed alone, where he, -Raymond, had utterly failed so far to work out any plan that would -accomplish the same end! There was the open window to begin with, the -man had been told now probably that he was to be taken away to-morrow -morning, and--why was there such absolute stillness from that other -room? The partitions were very thin, and--Raymond, as mechanically as he -had set to pacing up and down the room, turned to the door, passed out -into the hall, and walked softly along to the door of the rear room. -He listened there again. There was still silence. He opened the door, -stepped across the threshold--and a strange white look crept into his -face, and he stood still. - -Upon the floor at the bedside knelt Henri Mentone, and at the opening -of the door the man did not look up. There was no fury now; it was the -child, helpless in despair and grief. His hands were outflung across the -coverlet, his head was buried in his arms--and there was no movement, -save only a convulsive tremor that shook the thin shoulders. And there -was no sound. - -And the whiteness deepened in Raymond's face--and, as he looked, -suddenly the scene was blurred before his eyes. - -And then Raymond stepped back into the hall, and closed the door again, -and on Raymond's lips was a queer, twisted smile. - -“To-morrow morning, I think you said, Monsieur Dupont,” he whispered. -“Well, to-morrow morning, Monsieur Dupont--he will be gone.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIII--THE CONFEDERATE - -|THERE had been a caller, there had been parish matters, there had -been endless things through endless hours which he had been unable to -avoid--except in mind. He had attended to them subconsciously, as it -were; his mind had never for an instant left Henri Mentone. And it was -beginning to take form now, a plan whereby he might effect the other's -escape. - -Sitting at his desk, he looked at his watch as he heard Valérie and -her mother go upstairs. It was a quarter past three. Later on in the -afternoon, in another hour or thereabouts Madame Lafleur would take -Henri Mentone for a few steps here and there about the green, or sit -with him for a little fresh air on the porch of the _presbytère_. -Raymond smiled ironically. As jailor he had delegated the task to -Madame Lafleur--since, as he had told both Valérie and her mother at the -noonday meal, he was going out to make pastoral visits that afternoon. -Meanwhile--he had just looked into Henri Mentone's room--the man was -lying on his bed asleep. If he worked quickly now--while Valérie and her -mother were upstairs, and the man was lying on his bed! - -He picked up a pen, and drew a piece of paper toward him. Everything -hinged on his being able to procure a confederate. He, the curé of St. -Marleau, must procure a confederate by some means, and naturally without -the confederate knowing that Monsieur le Curé was doing so--and, almost -as essential, a confederate who had no love for Monsieur le Curé! It was -not a very simple matter! That was the problem with which he had racked -his brains for the last three days. Not that the minor details were -lacking in difficulties either; he, as the curé, must not appear even -remotely in the plan; he, as the curé, dared not even suggest escape to -Henri Mentone--but he could overcome all that if only he could secure a -confederate. That was the point upon which everything depended. - -His pen poised in his hand, he stared across the room. Yes, he saw it -now--a gambler's chance. But the time was short now, short enough to -make him welcome any chance. He would go to Mother Blondin's. He -might find a man there such as he sought, one of those who already had -offended the law by frequenting the dissolute old hag's illicit still. -He could ask, of course, who these men were without exciting any -suspicion, and if luck failed him that afternoon he would do so, and it -would be like a shot still left in his locker; but if, in his rôle of -curé, he could actually trap one of them drinking there, and incense -the man, even fight with him, it would make success almost certain. Yes, -yes--he could see it all now--clearly--afterwards, when it grew dark, he -would go to the man in a far different rôle from that of a curé, and -the man would be at his disposal. Yes, if he could trap one of them -there--but before anything else Henri Mentone must be prepared for the -attempt. - -Raymond began to write slowly, in a tentative sort of way, upon the -paper before him. Henri Mentone, remembering nothing of the events of -that night, must be left in no doubt as to the genuineness and good -faith of the note, or of the vital necessity of acting upon its -instructions. At the expiration of a few minutes, Raymond read over -what he had written. He scored out a word here and there; and then, on -another sheet of paper, in a scrawling, illiterate hand, he wrote out -a slangy, ungrammatical version of the original draft. He read it again -now: - -“The memory game won't go, Henri. They've got you cold, but they don't -know there was two of us in it at the old woman's that night, so keep up -your nerve, for I ain't for laying down on a pal. I got it fixed for a -getaway for you to-night. Keep the back window open, and be ready at any -time after dark--see? Leave-the rest to me. If that mealy-mouthed priest -gets in the road, so much the worse for him. I'll take care of him so he -won't be any trouble to any one except a doctor, and mabbe not much to a -doctor--get me? I'd have been back sooner, only I had to beat it for you -know where to get the necessary coin. Here's some to keep you going in -case we have to separate in a hurry to-night.----Pierre.” - -Raymond nodded to himself. Henri Mentone might not relish the suggestion -of any violence offered to the “mealy-mouthed priest,” for he had come -to look upon Father François Aubert as his only friend, and, except in -his fits of fury, to cling dependently upon him; but then there would -be no violence offered to Father François Aubert, and the suggestion -supplied a final touch of authenticity to the note, since Henri Mentone -would realise that escape was impossible unless in some way the curé -could be got out of the road. - -Raymond destroyed the original draft, and took out his pocketbook. He -smiled curiously, as he examined its contents. It was the gold of the -Yukon, the gold of Ton-Nugget Camp, that he had changed into banknotes -of large denominations. He selected two fifty-dollar bills. It was not -enough to carry the man far, or to take care of the man until he was on -his feet, nor were fifty-dollar bills the most convenient denomination -for a man under the present circumstances; but that was not their -purpose--they would act as a guarantee of one “Pierre” and “Pierre's” - plan, and to-night he would give the man more without stint, and -supplement it with some small bills from his roll of “petty cash.” He -folded the money in the note, found a small piece of string in one of -the drawers of the desk, stood up, took his hat, tiptoed softly across -the room, out into the hall, and from the hall to the front porch. - -Here, he stood quietly for a moment, looking about him; and then, -satisfied that he was unobserved, that neither Valérie nor her mother -had noticed his exit, he walked quickly around to the back of the -house--and paused again, this time beneath the open window of Henri -Mentone's room. Here, too, but even more sharply now, he looked about -him--then stooped ana picked up a small stone. He tied the note around -this, and, crouched low by the window, called softly: “Henri! Henri!” - -He heard a rustle, the creak of the bed, as though the man, startled and -suddenly roused, were jerking himself up into an upright position. - -“It is Pierre!” Raymond called again. “_Courage, mon vieux!_ Have no -fear! All is arranged for tonight. But do not come to the window--we -must be careful. Here--_voici!_”--he tossed the note in over the sill. -“Until dark--tu comprends, Henri? I will be back then. Be ready!” - -He heard the man cry out in a low voice, and the creak of the bed again, -and the man's step on the floor--and, stooping low, Raymond darted -around the corner of the house. - -A moment later he was standing again in the hallway of the _presbytère_. - -“Oh, Madame Lafleur!” he called up the stairs. “It is only to tell you -that I am going out now.” - -“Yes, Monsieur le Curé--yes. Very well, Monsieur le Curé,” she answered. - -Raymond closed the front door behind him, and, walking sedately across -the green and past the church, gained the road. It was Mother Blondin's -now, but he would not go by the station road--further along the village -street, where the houses thinned out and were scattered more apart, -he could climb up the little hill without being seen, and by walking -through the woods would come out on the path whose existence had once -already done him such excellent service. And the path, as an approach -to Mother Blondin's this afternoon, offered certain very important -strategical advantages. - -But now for the moment he was in the heart of the village, and from -the doorways and garden patches of the little squat, curved-roof, -whitewashed houses of rough-squared logs that flanked the road on either -side, voices called out to him cheerily as he walked along. He answered -them--all of them. He was even conscious, in spite of the worry of his -mind, of a curious and not altogether unwelcome wonder. They were simple -folk, these people, big-hearted and kindly, free and open-handed with -the little they had, and they appeared to have grown fond of him in the -few days he had been in St. Marleau, to look up to him, to trust him, -to have faith in him, and to accept him as a friend, offering a frank -friendship in return. - -His hands were clasped behind his back as he walked along, and suddenly -his fingers laced tightly over one another. The pleasurable wonder of -it was gone. He was playing well this rôle of saint! He was a -gambler--Three-Ace Artie of Ton-Nugget Camp; a gambler--too unclean even -for the Yukon. But he was no hypocrite! He would have liked to have torn -these saintly trappings from his body, wrenched off his _soutane_ -and hurled it in the faces of these people, and bade them keep their -friendship and their trust--tell them that he asked for nothing that -they gave because they believed him other than he was. He was no -hypocrite--he was a man fighting desperately for that for which every -one had a right to fight, for which instinct bade even an insect -fight--his life! He did not despise this proffered friendship, the smile -of eye and lip, the ring of genuine sincerity in the voices that called -to him--but they were not his, they were not meant for Three-Ace Artie, -they were not meant for Raymond Chapelle. Somehow--it was a grotesque -thought--he envied himself in the rôle of curé for these things. But -they were not his. It was strange even that he, in whose life there had -been naught but riot and ruin, should still be able to simulate so well -the better things, to carry through, not the rôle of priest, that was -a matter of ritual, a matter of keeping his head and his nerve, but the -far kindlier and intimate rôle of _father_ to the parish! Yes, it was -very strange, and---- - -“_Bon jour_, Monsieur le Curé!” - -Raymond halted. It was Madame Bouchard, the carpenter's wife. With a -sort of long-handled wooden paddle, she was removing huge loaves of -bread from the queer-looking outdoor oven which, though built of a -mixture of stone and brick, resembled very much, through being rounded -over at the top, an exaggerated beehive. A few yards further in from the -edge of the road Bouchard himself was at work upon a boat in front of -his shop. Above the shop was the living quarters of the family, and -here, on a narrow veranda, peering over, a half dozen scantily clad and -very small children clung to the railings. - -Raymond sniffed the air luxuriously. - -“_Tiens_, Madame Bouchard!” he cried. “Your husband is to be envied! The -smell of the bread is enough to make one hungry!” - -The carpenter laid down his tools, and looked up, laughing. - -“_Salut_, Monsieur le Curé!” he called. - -“If Monsieur le Curé would like one”--Madame Bouchard's cheeks had grown -a little rosy--“I--I will send one to the _presbytère_ for him.” - -Raymond had eaten of St. Marleau bread before. The taste was sour, and -it required little short of a deftly wielded axe to make any impression -upon the crust. - -“You are too good, too generous, Madame Bouchard,” he said, shaking his -forefinger at her chidingly. “And yet”--he smiled broadly--“if there is -enough to spare, there is nothing I know of that would delight me more.” - -“Of course, she can spare it!” declared the carpenter heartily, coming -forward. “Stanislaus will carry you two presently. And, _tiens_, -Monsieur le Curé, you like to row a boat--eh?” - -Raymond, on the point of shaking his head, checked himself. A boat! -One of these days--soon, if this devil's trap would only open a -little--there was his own escape to be managed. He had planned that -carefully... a boating accident... the boat recovered... the curé's body -swept out somewhere in those twenty-five miles of river breadth that -stretched away before him now, and from there--who could doubt it!--to -the sea. - -“Yes,” he said; “I am very fond of it, but as yet I have not found -time.” - -“Good!” exclaimed the carpenter. “Well, in two or three days it will -be finished, the best boat in St. Marleau--and Monsieur le Curé will be -welcome to it as much as he likes. It is a nice row to the islands -out there--three miles--to gather the sea-gull eggs--and the islands -themselves are very pretty. It is a great place for a picnic, Monsieur -le Curé.” - -“Excellent!” said Raymond enthusiastically. “That is exactly what -I shall do.” He clapped the carpenter playfully upon the shoulder. -“So--eh, Monsieur Bouchard,--you will lose no time in finishing the -boat!” He turned to Madame Bouchard. “_Au revoir_, madame--and very many -thanks to you. I shall think of you at supper to-night, I promise you!” - He waved his hand to the children on the veranda, and once more started -along the road. - -Madame Bouchard's voice, speaking to her husband, reached him. The words -were not intended for his ears, and he did not catch them all. It was -something about--“the good, young Father Aubert.” - -A wan smile crept to Raymond's lips. For the moment at least, he was in -a softened, chastened mood. “The good, young Father Aubert”--well, let -it be so! They would never know, these people of St. Marleau. Somehow, -he was relieved at that. He did not want them to know. Somehow, he, too, -wanted for himself just what they would have--a memory--the memory of a -good, young Father Aubert. - -At a bend in the road, where the road edged in against the slope of the -hill, hiding him from view, Raymond clambered up the short ascent. In a -clump of small cedars at the top, he paused and looked back. The great -sweep of river, widening into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, with no breath -of air to stir its surface, shimmered like a mirror under the afternoon -sun. A big liner, outward bound, and perhaps ten miles from shore, -seemed as though it were painted there. To the right, close in, was the -little group of islands, with bare, rounded, rocky peaks, to which -the carpenter had referred. About him, from distant fields, came the -occasional voice of a man calling to his horses, the faint whir of a -reaper, and a sort of pervading, drowsy murmur of insect life. Below -him, nestled along the winding road, were the little whitewashed houses, -quiet, secure, tranquil, they seemed to lie there; and high above them -all, as though to typify the scene, to set its seal upon it, from the -steeple of the church there gleamed in the sunlight a golden cross, the -symbol of peace--such as he wore upon his breast! - -With a quick intake of his breath, a snarl smothered in a low, confused -cry, as he glanced involuntarily downward at his crucifix, he gathered -up the skirts of his _soutane_, and, as though to vent his emotion in -physical exertion, began to force his way savagely through the bushes -and undergrowth. - -He had other things to do than waste time in toying with visionary -sentiment! There was one detail in that scene of _peace_ he had not -seen--that man in the rear room of the _presbytère_ who was going to -trial for the murder of Théophile Blondin, because he was decked out in -the clothes of one Raymond Chapelle, alias Henri Mentone. It would be -well perhaps for Raymond Chapelle to remember that, and to remember -nothing else for the remainder of the afternoon! - -He went on through the woods, heading as nearly as he could judge in a -direction that would bring him out at the rear of the tavern. And now -he laughed shortly to himself. Peace! There would be a peace that would -linger long in somebody's memory at Mother Blondin's this afternoon, if -only luck were with him! He was on a priestly mission--to console, bring -comfort to the old hag for the loss of her son--and, quite incidentally, -to precipitate a fight with any of the loungers who might be burying -their noses in Mother Blondin's home-made _whiskey-blanc!_ He laughed -out again. St. Marleau would talk of that, too, and applaud the -righteousness of the good, young Father Au^ bert--but he would attain -the object he sought. He, the good, young Father Aubert, the man with a -rope around his neck, whose hands were against everyman's, had too many -friends in St. Marleau--he needed an _enemy_ now! It was the one thing -that would make the night's work sure. - -He reached the edge of the wood to find himself even nearer the tavern -than he had expected--and to find, too, that he would not have to lie -long in wait for a visitor to Mother Blondin's. There was one there -already. So far then, he could have asked for no better luck. He caught -the sound of voices--the old hag's, high-pitched and querulous; a man's, -rough and domineering. Looking cautiously through the fringe of trees -that still sheltered him, Raymond discovered that he was separated from -Mother Blondin's back door by a matter of but a few yards of clearing. -The door was open, and a man, heavy-built, in a red-checkered shirt, -a wide-brimmed hat of coarse straw, was forcing his way past the -shrivelled old woman. As the man turned his head sideways, Raymond -caught a glimpse of the other's face. It was not a pleasant face. The -eyes were black, narrow and shifty under a low brow; and a three days' -growth of black stubble on his jaws added to his exceedingly dirty and -unkempt appearance. - -Mother Blondin's voice rose furiously. - -“You will pay first!” she screamed. “I know you too well, Jacques -Bourget! Do you understand? The money! You will pay me first!” - -“Or otherwise you will tell the police, eh?” the man guffawed -contemptuously. He pushed his way inside the house, and pushed a table -that stood in the centre of the room roughly back against the wall. “You -shut your mouth!” he jeered at her--and, stooping down, lifted up a trap -door in the floor. “Now trot along quick for some glasses, so you can -keep count of all we both drink!” - -“You are a thief, a robber, a _crapule_, a--” she burst into a stream -of blasphemous invective. Her wrinkled face grew livid with ungovernable -rage. She shook a bony fist at him. “I will show you what you will get -for this! You think I am alone--eh? You think I am an old woman that you -can rob as you like--eh? You think my whisky is for your guzzling throat -without pay--eh? Well, I will show you, you----” - -The man made a threatening movement toward her, and she retreated back -out of Raymond's sight--evidently into an inner room, for her voice, -as virago-like as ever, was muffled now. - -“Bring me a glass, and waste no time about it!” the man called after -her. “And if you do not hold your tongue, something worse will happen to -you than the loss of a drop out of your bottle!” - -The man turned, and descended to the cellar through the trapdoor. - -“Yes,” said Raymond softly to himself. “Yes, I think Monsieur Jacques -Bourget is the man I came to find.” - -He stepped out from the trees, walked noiselessly across to the house, -and, reaching the doorway, remained standing quietly upon the threshold. -He could hear the man moving about in the cellar below; from the inner -room came Mother Blondin's incessant mutterings, mingled with a savage -rattling of crockery. Raymond smiled ominously--and then Raymond's face -grew stern with well-simulated clerical disapproval. - -The man's head, back turned, showed above the level of the floor. Into -the doorway from the inner room came Mother Blondin--and halted there, -her withered old jaw sagging downward in dumfounded surprise until it -displayed her almost toothless gums. The man gained his feet, turned -around--and, with a startled oath, dropped the bottle he was carrying. -It crashed to the floor, broke, and the contents began to trickle back -over the edge of the trapdoor. - -“_Sacristi!_” shouted the man, his face flaring up into an angry red. -He thrust his head forward truculently from his shoulders, and glared at -Raymond. “_Sacré nom de Dieu_, it is the saintly priest!” he sneered. - -“My son,” said Raymond gravely, “do not blaspheme! And have respect for -the Church!” - -“Bah!” snarled the man. “Do you think I care for you--or your church!” - He looked suddenly at Mother Blondin. “Hah!”--he jumped across the room -toward her. “So that is what you meant by not being alone--eh? I did not -understand! You would trick me, would you! You would sell me out for the -price of a drink--and--ha, ha--to a priest! Well”--he had her now by the -shoulders--“I will take a turn at showing you what I will do! Eh--why -did you not warn me he was here?” He caught her head, and banged it -brutally against the wall. “Eh--why did----” - -Raymond, too, was across the room. It was strange! Most strange! He had -intended to seek an occasion to quarrel. The occasion was made for -him. He had no longer any desire to quarrel--he was possessed of an -overwhelming desire to get his fingers around the throat of this cur who -banged that straggling, dishevelled gray hair against the wall. He was -not quite sure that it was himself who spoke. No, of course, it was not! -It was Monsieur le Curé--the good, young Father Aubert. He was between -them now, only Mother Blondin had fallen to the floor. - -“My son,” he said placidly, “since you will not respect the Church for -one reason, I will teach you to respect it for another.” He pointed to -old Mother Blcndin, who, more terrified than hurt perhaps, was getting -to her knees, moaning and wringing her hands. “You have heard, though I -fear you may have forgotten it, of the Mosaic law. An eye for an eye, my -son. I intend to do to you exactly what you have done to this woman.” - -The man, drawn back, eyed him first in angry bewilderment, and then with -profound contempt. - -“You'd better get out of here!” he said roughly. - -“Presently--when I have thrown you out”--Raymond was calmly tucking up -the skirts of his _soutane_. “And”--the flat of his hand landed with a -stinging blow across the other's cheek--“you see that I do not take even -you off your guard.” - -The man reeled back--and then, with a bull-like roar of rage, head down, -rushed at Raymond. - -It was not Monsieur le Curé now--it was Raymond Chapelle, alias Arthur -Leroy, alias Three-Ace Artie, cold, contained, quick and lithe as a -panther, and with a panther's strength. A crash--a lightning right -whipped to the point of Bourget's jaw--and Bourget's head jolted back -quivering on his shoulders like a tuning fork. And like a flash, before -the other could recover, a left and right smashed full again into -Bourget's face. - -With a scream, Mother Blondin crawled and scuttled into the doorway -of the inner room. The man, bellowing with mad dismay, his hands -outstretched, his fingers crooked to tear at Raymond's flesh if they -could but reach it, rushed again. - -And now Raymond, wary of the other's strength and bulk, gave ground; and -now he side-stepped and swung, battering his blows into Bourget's face; -and now he ran craftily from the other. Chairs and table crashed to the -floor; their heels crunched in the splinters of the broken bottle. The -man's face began to bleed profusely from both nose and a cut lip. They -were not tactics that Bourget understood. He clawed, he kept his head -down, he rushed in blind clumsiness--and always Raymond was just beyond -his reach. - -Again and again they circled the room, Bourget, big, lumbering, awkward, -futilely expending his strength, screaming oaths with gasping breath. -And again and again, springing aside as the man charged blindly by, -Raymond with a grim fury rained in his blows. It was something like that -other night--here in Mother Blon-din's. She was shrieking again now from -the doorway: - -“Kill him! The _misérable!_ Hah, Jacques Bourget, are you a -jack-in-the-box only to bob your head backward every time you are hit! -I did not bring the priest here! _Sacré nom_, you cannot blame me! I had -nothing to do with it! _Sacré nom--sacré nom--sacré nom--kill him!_” - -Kill who? Who did she mean--the man or himself? Raymond did not know. -She was just a blurred object of rage and tumbled hair dancing in a -frenzy up and down there in the doorway. He ran again. Bourget, like a -stunned fool, was covering his face with his arms as he dashed forward. -Ah, yes, Bourget was trying to crush him back into the corner there, -and--no!--the maniacal rush had faltered, the man was swaying on his -feet. And then Raymond, crouched to elude the man, sprang instead at the -other's throat, his hands closed like a vise, and with the impact of his -body both lurched back against the wall by the rear doorway. - -“My son,” panted Raymond, “you remember--an eye for an eye”--he smashed -the man's head back against the wall--and then, gathering all his -strength, flung the other from him out through the open door. - -The fight was out of the man. For a moment he lay sprawled on the grass. -Then he raised himself up, and got upon his knees. His face was bruised -and blood-stained almost beyond recognition. He shook both fists at -Raymond. - -“By God, I'll get you for this!”--the man's voice was guttural with -unbridled passion. “I'll get you, you censer-swinging devil! I'll twist -your neck with the chain of your own crucifix! Damn you to the pit! -You're not through with me!” - -“Go!” said Raymond sternly. “Go--and be glad that I have treated you no -worse!” - -He shut the door in the man's face; and, turning abruptly, walked across -the floor to where Mother Blondin, quiet for the moment, gaped at him -from the threshold of the other room. - -“He will not trouble you any more, Madame Blondin, I imagine,” he said -quietly. “See, it is over!” He smiled at her reassuringly--he needed to -know now only where the man lived. “I should be sorry to think he was -one of my parishioners. Where does he come from?” - -“He is a farmer, and he lives in the house on the point a mile and -a quarter up the road”--the answer had come automatically; she was -listening, without looking at Raymond, to the threats and oaths that -Jacques Bourget, as he evidently moved away for his voice kept growing -fainter, still bawled from without. And then hate and sullen viciousness -was in her face again. Her hair had tumbled to her shoulders and -straggled over her forehead. She jabbed at it with both hands, sweeping -it from her eyes, and leered at him fiercely. “You dirty spy!” she -croaked hoarsely. “I know you--I know all of you priests! You are all -alike! Sneaks! Sneaks! Meddlers and sneaks! But you'll get to hell some -day--like the rest of us! Ha, ha--to hell! You can't fool the devil! -I know you. That's what you sneaked up here for--to spy on me, to find -something against me that the police weren't sharp enough to find, so -that you could get rid of me, get me out of St. Marleau! I know! They've -been trying that for a long time!” - -“To turn you over to the police,” said Raymond gently, “would never save -you from yourself. I came to talk to you a little about your son--to see -if in any way I could help you, or be of comfort to you.” - -She stared at him for an instant, wondering and perplexed; and then the -snarl was on her lips again. - -“You lie! No priest comes here for that! I am an _excommuniée_.” - -“You are a woman in sorrow,” Raymond said simply. - -She did not answer him--only drew back into the other room. - -Raymond followed her. It was the room where he had fought that -night--with Théophile Blondin. His eyes swept it with a hurried glance. -There was the _armoire_ from which Théophile Blondin had snatched the -revolver--and there was the spot on the floor where the dead man had -fallen. And here was the old hag with the streaming hair, as it had -streamed that night, who had run shrieking into the storm that he had -murdered her son. And the whole scene began to live itself over again in -his mind in minute detail. It seemed to possess an unhealthy fascination -that bade him linger, and at the same time to fill him with an impulse -to rush away from it. And the impulse was the stronger; and, besides, it -would be evening soon, and there was that man in the _presbytère_, -and there was much to do, and he had his confederate now--one Jacques -Bourget. - -“I shall not stay now”--he smiled, as he turned to Mother Blondin, and -held out his hand. “You are upset over what has happened. Another time. -But you will remember, will you not, that I would like to help you in -any way I can?” - -She reached out her hand mechanically to take his that was extended to -her, and suddenly, muttering, jerked it back--and Raymond, appearing not -to notice, smiled again, and, crossing the room, went out through the -front door. - -He went slowly across the little patch of yard, and on along the road in -the direction of the village, and now his lips thinned in a grim smile. -Yes, St. Marleau would hear of this, his chivalrous protection of Mother -Blondin--and place another halo on his head! The devil's sense of humour -was of a brand all its own! - -The more he twisted and squirmed and wriggled to get out of the trap, -desperate to the extent that he would hesitate at nothing, the more -he became--the good, young Father Aubert! Even that dissolute old -hag, whose hatred for the church and all pertaining to it was the most -dominant passion in her life, was not far from the point where she would -tolerate a priest--if the priest were the good, young Father Aubert! - -He reached the point where the road began to descend the hill, and, -pausing, looked back. Yes--even Mother Blondin, the _excommuniée!_ She -was standing in the doorway, dirty, unkempt, disreputable, and, shading -her eyes with her hand, was gazing after him. Yes, even she--whose son -had been killed in a fight with him. - -And Raymond, fumbling suddenly with his hat, lifted it to Mother -Blondin, and went on down the hill. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV--THE HOUSE ON THE POINT - -|IT was late, a good half hour after the usual supper time, when Raymond -returned to the _presbytère_. He had done a very strange thing. He had -gone into the church, and sat there in the silence and the quiet of -the sacristy--and twilight had come unnoticed. It was the quiet he had -sought, respite for a mind that had suddenly seemed nerve-racked to the -breaking point as he had come down the hill from Mother Blondin's. It -had been dim, and still, and cool, and restful in there--in the church. -There was still Valerie, still the priest who had not died, still his -own peril and danger, and still the hazard of the night before him; all -that had not been altered; all that still remained--but in a measure, -strangely, somehow, he was calmed. He was full of apologies now to -Madame Lafleur, as he sat down to supper. - -“But it is nothing!” she said, placing a lamp upon the table. She sat -down herself; and added simply, as though, indeed, no reason could be -more valid: “I saw you go into the church, Monsieur le Curé.” - -“Yes,” said Raymond, his eyes now on Valerie's empty seat. “And where is -Mademoiselle Valerie? Taking our _pauvre_ Mentone his supper?” - -“Oh, no!” she answered quickly. “I took him his supper myself a little -while ago--though I do not know whether he will eat it or not. Valerie -went over to her uncle's about halfpast five. She said something about -going for a drive.” - -Raymond cut his slice of cold pork without comment. He was conscious of -a dismal sense of disappointment, a depression, a falling of his spirits -again. The room seemed cold and dead without Valérie there, without -her voice, without her smile. And then there came a sense of pique, of -irritation, unreasonable no doubt, but there for all that. Why had she -not included him in the drive? Fool! Had he forgotten? He could not have -gone if she had--he had other things to do than drive that evening! - -“Yes,” said Madame Lafleur, significantly reverting to her former -remark, as she handed him his tea, “yes, I do not know if the poor -fellow will eat anything or not.” - -Raymond glanced at her quickly. What was the matter? Had anything been -discovered! And then his eyes were on his plate again. Madame Lafleur's -face, whatever her words might be intended to convey, was genuinely -sympathetic, nothing more. - -“Not eat?” he repeated mildly. “And why not, Madame Lafleur?” - -“I am sure I do not know,” she replied, a little anxiously. “I have -never seen him so excited. I thought it was because he was to be taken -away to-morrow morning. And so, when we went out this afternoon, -I tried to say something to him about his going away that would cheer -him up. And would you believe it, Monsieur le Curé, he just stared at -me, and then, as though I had said something droll, he--fancy, Monsieur -le Curé, from a man who was going to be tried for his life--he laughed -until I thought he would never stop. And after that he would say nothing -at all; and since he has come in he has not been for an instant still. -Do you not hear him, Monsieur le Curé?” - -Raymond heard very distinctly. His ears had caught the sounds from the -moment he had entered the _presbytère_. Up and down, up and down, from -that back room came the stumbling footfalls; then silence for a moment, -as though from exhaustion the man had sunk down into a chair; and then -the pacing to and fro again. Raymond's lips tightened in understanding, -as he bent his head over his plate. Like himself, the man in there was -waiting--for darkness! - -“He is over-excited,” he said gravely. “And being still so weak, the -news that he is to go to-morrow, I am afraid, has been too much for him. -I have no doubt he was verging on hysteria when he laughed at you like -that, Madame Lafleur.” - -“I--I hope we shall not have any trouble with him,” said Madame Lafleur -nervously. “I mean that I hope he won't be taken sick again. He did not -look at the tray at all when I took it in; he kept his eyes on me all -the time, as though he were trying to read something in my face.” - -“Poor fellow!” murmured Raymond. - -Madame Lafleur nodded her gray head in sympathetic assent. - -“Ah, yes, Monsieur le Curé--the poor fellow!” she sighed. “It is a -terrible thing that he has done; but it is also terrible to think of -what he will have to face. Do you think it wrong, Monsieur le Curé, to -wish almost that he might escape?” - -Escape! Curse it--what was the matter with Madame Lafleur to-night? Or -was it something the matter with himself? - -“Not wrong, perhaps,” he said, smiling at her, “if you do not connive at -it.” - -“Oh, but, Monsieur le Curé!” she exclaimed reprovingly. “What a thing -to say! But I would never do that! Still, it is all very sad, and I am -heartily glad that I am not to be a witness at the trial like you and -Valérie. And they say that Madame Blondin, and Monsieur Labbée, the -station agent, and a lot of the villagers are to go too.” - -“Yes, I believe so,” Raymond nodded. - -Madame Lafleur, in quaint consternation, suddenly changed the subject. - -“Oh, but I forgot to tell you!” she cried. “The bread! Madame Bouchard -sent you two loaves all fresh and hot. Do you like it?” - -The bread! He had been conscious neither that the bread was sour, nor -that the crust was unmanageable. He became suddenly aware that the -morsel in his mouth was not at all like the baking of Madame Lafleur. - -“You are all too good to me here in St. Marleau,” he protested. - -He checked her reply with a chiding forefinger, and a shake of his -head--and presently, the meal at an end, pushed back his chair, and -strolled to the window. He stood there for a moment looking out. It was -dark now--dark enough for his purpose. - -“It is a beautiful night, Madame Lafleur,” he said enthusiastically. “I -am almost tempted to go out again for a little walk.” - -“But, yes, Monsieur le Curé--why not!” Madame Lafleur was quite anxious -that he should go. Madame Lafleur was possessed of that enviable -disposition that was instantly responsive to the interests and pleasures -of others. - -“Yes--why not!” smiled Raymond, patting her arm as he passed by her on -his way to the door. “Well, I believe I will.” - -But outside in the hall he hesitated. Should he go first to the man in -the rear room? He had intended to do so before he went out--to probe the -other, as it were, to satisfy himself, perhaps more by the man's acts -and looks than by words, that Henri Mentone had entered into the plans -for the night. But he was satisfied of that now. Madame Lafleur's -conversation had left no doubt but that the man's unusual restlessness -and excitement were due to his being on the _qui vive_ of expectancy. -No, there was no use, therefore, in going to the man now, it would only -be a waste of valuable time. - -This decision taken, Raymond walked to the front door and down the steps -of the porch. Here he turned, and, choosing the opposite side of -the house from the kitchen and dining room, where he might have been -observed by Madame Lafleur, yet still moving deliberately as though he -were but sauntering idly toward the beach, made his way around to the -rear of the _presbytère_. It was quite dark. There were stars, but no -moon. Behind here, between the back of the house and the shed, there -was no possibility of his being seen. The only light came from Henri -Mentone's room, and the shades there were drawn. - -He opened the shed door silently, stepped inside, and closed the door -behind him. He struck a match, held it above his head--and almost -instantly extinguished it, as he located the sacristan's overalls, and -the old coat and hat. - -And now Raymond worked quickly. He stripped off his _soutane_, drew on -the overalls, turning the bottoms well up over his own trousers, slipped -on the coat, tucked the hat into one of the coat pockets, and put on his -_soutane_ again. It was very simple--the _soutane_ hid everything. He -smiled grimly, as he, stepped outside again--the Monsieur le Curé who -came out, was the Monsieur le Curé who had gone in. - -Raymond chose the beach. The village street meant that he would be -delayed by being forced to stop and talk with any one he might meet, to -say nothing of the possibility of having the ruinous, if well meaning, -companionship of some one foisted upon him--while, even if seen, there -would be nothing strange in the fact that the curé should be taking an -evening walk along the shore. - -He started off at a brisk pace along the stretch of sand just behind -the _presbytère_. It was a mile and a quarter to the point--to Jacques -Bourget's. At the end of the sandy stretch Raymond went more slowly--the -shore line as a promenade left much to be desired--there was a seemingly -interminable ledge of slate rock over which he had need to pick his way -carefully. He negotiated this, and was rewarded with another short sandy -strip--but only to encounter the slate rocks again with their ubiquitous -little pools of water in the hollows, which he must avoid warily. - -Sometimes he slipped; once he fell. The grim smile was back on his lips. -There seemed to be something ironical even in these minor difficulties -that stood between him and the effecting of the other's escape! There -seemed to be a world of irony in the fact that he who sought escape -himself should plan another's rather than his own! It was the devil's -toils, that was all, the devil's damnable ingenuity, and hell's -incomparable sense of humour! He had either to desert the man; or stand -in the man's place himself, and dangle from the gallows for his -pains; or get the man away. Well, he had no desire to dangle from the -gallows--or to desert the man! He had chosen the third and only course -left open to him. If he got the man away, if the man succeeded in making -his escape, it would not only save the man, but he, Raymond, would have -nothing thereafter to fear--the Curé of St. Marleau in due course would -meet with his deplorable and fatal accident! True, the man would always -live in the shadow of pursuit, a thing that he, Raymond, had been -willing to accept for himself only as a last resort, but there was no -help for that in the other's case now. He would give the man more money, -plenty of it. The man should be across the border and in the States -early to-morrow, then New York, and a steamer for South America. Yes, it -should unquestionably succeed. He had worked out all those details while -he was still racking his brain for a “Jacques Bourget,” and he would -give the man minute instructions at the last moment when he gave him -more money--that hundred dollars was only an evidence of good faith and -of the loyalty of one “Pierre.” The only disturbing factor in the -plan was the man's physical condition. The man was still virtually an -invalid--otherwise the police would have been neither justified in -so doing, nor for a moment have been willing to leave him in the -_presbytère_, as they had. Monsieur Dupont was no fool, and it was -perfectly true that the man had not the slightest chance in the world -of getting away--alone. But, aided as he, Raymond, proposed to aid the -other, the man surely would be able to stand the strain of travelling, -for a man could do much where his life was at stake. Yes, after all, -why worry on that score! It was only the night and part of the next day. -Then the man could rest quietly at a certain address in New York, while -waiting for his steamer. Yes, unquestionably, the man, with his life in -the balance, would be able to manage that. - -Raymond was still picking his way over the ledges, still slipping and -stumbling, and now, recovering from a fall that had brought him to his -knees, he gave his undivided attention to his immediate task. It seemed -a very long mile and a quarter, but at the expiration of perhaps another -twenty minutes he was at the end of it, and halted to take note of his -surroundings. He could just distinguish the village road edging away -on his left; while ahead of him, but a little to his right, out on the -wooded point, he caught the glimmer of a light through the trees. That -would be Jacques Bourget's house. - -He now looked cautiously about him. There was no other house in sight. -His eyes swept the road up and down as far as he could see--there was no -one, no sign of life. He listened--there was nothing, save the distant -lapping of the water far out, for the tide was low on the mud flats. - -A large rock close at hand suggested a landmark that could not be -mistaken. He stepped toward it, took off his _soutane_, and laid the -garment down beside the rock; he removed his clerical collar and his -clerical hat, and placed them on top of the _soutane_, taking care, -however, to cover the white collar with the hat--then, turning down -the trouser legs of the overalls, and turning up the collar of the -threadbare coat, he took the battered slouch hat from his pocket and -pulled it far down over his eyes. - -“Behold,” said Raymond cynically, “behold Pierre--what is his other -name? Well, what does it matter? Pierre--Desforges. Desforges will do as -well as any--behold Pierre Desforges!” - -He left the beach, went up the little rise of ground that brought -him amongst the trees, and made his way through the latter toward the -lighted window of the house. Arrived here, he once more looked about -him. - -The house was isolated, far back from the road; and, in the darkness -and the shadows cast by the trees, would have been scarcely discernible, -save that it was whitewashed, and but for the yellow glow diffused -from the window. He approached the door softly, and listened. A woman's -voice, and then a man's, snarling viciously, reached him. “... _le sacré -maudit curé!_” - -Raymond laughed low. Jacques Bourget and his wife appeared to have -an engrossing topic of conversation, if they had been at it since -afternoon! Also Jacques Bourget appeared to be of an unforgiving nature! - -There was no veranda, not even a step, the door was on a level with the -ground; and, from the little Raymond could see of the house now that -he was close beside it, it appeared to be as down-at-the-heels and as -shiftless as its proprietor. He leaned forward to avail himself of -the light from the window, and, taking out a roll of bills, of smaller -denominations than those which he carried in his pocketbook, he counted -out five ten-dollar notes. - -Jacques Bourget from within was still in the midst of a blasphemous -tirade. Raymond rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles. Bourget's -voice ceased instantly, and there was silence for a moment. Raymond -rapped again--and then, as a chair leg squeaked upon the floor, and -there came the sound of a heavy tread approaching the door, he drew -quickly back into the shadows at one side. - -The door was flung open, and Bourget's face, battered and cut, an eye -black and swollen, his lip puffed out to twice its normal size, peered -out into the darkness. - -“Who's there?” he called out gruffly. - -“S-sh! Don't talk so loud!” Raymond cautioned in a guarded voice. “Are -you Jacques Bourget?” - -The man, with a start, turned his face in the direction of Raymond's -voice. Mechanically he dropped his own voice. - -“Mabbe I am, and mabbe I'm not,” he growled suspiciously. “What do you -want?” - -“I want to talk to you if you are Jacques Bourget,” Raymond answered. -“And if you are Jacques Bourget I can put you in the way of turning a -few dollars tonight, to say nothing of another little matter that will -be to your liking.” - -The man hesitated, then drew back a little in the doorway. - -“Well, come in,” he invited. “There's no one but the old woman here.” - -“The old woman is one old woman too many,” Raymond said roughly. “I'm -not on exhibition. You come out here, and shut the door. You've nothing -to be afraid of--the only thing I have to do with the police is to keep -away from them, and that takes me all my time.” - -“I ain't worrying about the police,” said Bourget shrewdly. - -“Maybe not,” returned Raymond. “I didn't say you were. I said I was. -I've got a hundred dollars here that----” - -A woman appeared suddenly in the doorway behind Bourget. - -“What is it? Who is it, Jacques?” she shrilled out inquisitively. - -Bourget, for answer, swore at her, pushed her back, and, slamming the -door behind him, stepped outside. - -“Well, what is it? And who are you?” he demanded. - -“My name is Desforges--Pierre Desforges,” said Raymond, his voice still -significantly low. “That doesn't mean anything to you--and it doesn't -matter. What I want you to do is to drive a man to the second station -from here to-night--St. Eustace is the name, isn't it?--and you get a -hundred dollars for the trip.” - -“What do you mean?” Bourget's voice mingled incredulity and avarice. “A -hundred dollars for that, eh? Are you trying to make a fool of me?” - -Raymond held the bills up before the man's face. “Feel the money, if you -can't see it!” he suggested, with a short laugh. “That's what talks.” - -“_Bon Dieu!_” ejaculated Bourget. “Yes, it is so! Well, who am I to -drive? You? You are running away! Yes, Î understand! They are after -you--eh? I am to drive you, eh?” - -“No,” said Raymond. He drew the man close to him in the darkness, and -placed his lips to Bourget's ear. “_Henri Mentone_.” - -Bourget, startled, sprang back. - -“_What! Who!_” he cried out loudly. - -“I told you not to talk so loud!” snapped Raymond. “You heard what I -said.” - -Bourget twisted his head furtively about. - -“No, '_cré nom--no!_” he said huskily. “It is too much risk! If one were -caught at that--eh? _Bien non, merci!_” - -“There's no chance of your being caught”--Raymond's voice was smooth -again. “It is only nine miles to St. Eustace--you will be back and in -bed long before daylight. Who is to know anything about it?” - -“Yes, and you!”--Bourget was still twisting his head about furtively. -“What do I know about you? What have you to do with this?” - -“I will tell you,” said Raymond, and into the velvet softness of his -voice there crept an ominous undertone; “and at the same time I will -tell you that you will be very wise to keep your mouth shut. You -understand? If I trust you, it is to make you trust me. Henri Mentone is -my pal. I was there the night Théophile Blondin was killed. But I made -my escape. I do not desert a pal, only I had no money. Well, I have the -money now, and I am back. And I am just in time--eh? They say he is well -enough to be taken away in the morning.” - -“_Mon Dieu_, you were there at the killing!” muttered Bourget hoarsely. -“No--I do not like it! No--it is too much risk!” His voice grew suddenly -sharp with undisguised suspicion. “And why did you come to me, eh? Why -did you come to me? Who sent you here?” - -“I came because Mentone must be driven to St. Eustace--because he is not -strong enough to walk,” said Raymond coolly. “And no one sent me here. -I heard of your fight this afternoon. The curé is telling around the -village that if he could not change the aspect of your heart, there was -no doubt as to the change in the aspect of your face.” - -“_Sacré nom!_” gritted Bourget furiously. “He said that! I will show -him! I am not through with him yet! But what has he to do with this that -you come here? Eh? I do not understand.” - -“Simply,” said Raymond meaningly, “that Monsieur le Curé is the one with -whom we shall have to deal in getting Mentone away.” - -“Hah!” exclaimed Bourget fiercely. “Yes--I am listening now! Well?” - -“He sits a great deal of the time in the room with Mentone,” explained -Raymond, with a callous laugh. “Very well. Mentone has been warned. If -this fool of a curé knows no better than to sit there all night tonight, -I will find some reason for calling him outside, and in the darkness -where he will recognise no one we shall know what to do with him, and -when we are through we will tie him and gag him and throw him into the -shed where he will not be found until morning. On the other hand, if we -are able to get Mentone away without the curé knowing it, you will -still not be without your revenge. He is responsible for Mentone, and if -Mentone gets away through the curé's negligence, the curé will get into -trouble with the police.” - -“I like the first plan better,” decided Bourget, with an ugly sneer. “He -talks of my face, does he! _Nom de Dieu,_ he will not be able to talk of -his own! And a hundred dollars--eh? You said a hundred dollars? Well, -if there is no more risk than that in the rest of the plan, _sacré nom_, -you can count on Jacques Bourget”. . . - -“There is no risk at all,” said Raymond. “And as to which plan--we shall -see. We shall have to be guided by the circumstances, eh? And for the -rest--listen! I will return by the beach, and watch the _presbytère_. -You give me time to get back, then harness your horse and drive down -there--drive past the _presbytère_. I will be listening, and will hear -you. Then after you have gone a little way beyond, turn around and come -back, and I will know that it is you. If you drive in behind the church -to where the people tie their horses at mass on Sundays, you can wait -there without being seen by any one passing by on the road. I will come -and let you know how things are going. We may have to wait a while after -that until everything is quiet, but in that way we will be ready to act -the minute it is safe to do so.” - -“All that is simple enough,” Bourget grunted in agreement. “And then?” - -“And then,” said Raymond, “we will get Mentone out through the window of -his room. There is a train that passes St. Eustace at ten minutes after -midnight--and that is all. The St. Eustace station, I understand, is -like the one here--far from the village, and with no houses about. He -can hide near the station until traintime; and, without having shown -yourself, you can drive back home and go to bed. It is your wife only -that you have to think of--she will say nothing, eh?” - -“_Baptême!_” snorted Bourget contemptuously. “She has learned before now -when to keep her tongue where it belongs! And you? You are coming, too?” - -“Do you think I am a fool, Bourget?” inquired Raymond shortly. -“When they find Mentone is gone, they will know he must have had an -accomplice, for he could not get far alone. They will be looking for two -of us travelling together. I will go the other way. That makes it safe -for Mentone--and safe for me. I can walk to Tournayville easily before -daylight; and in that way we shall both give the police the slip.” - -“_Diable!_” grunted Bourget admiringly. “You have a head!” - -“It is good enough to take care of us all in a little job like -to-night's,” returned Raymond, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Well, -do you understand everything? For if you do, there's no use wasting any -time.” - -“Yes--I have it all!” Bourget's voice grew vicious again. “That _sacré -maudit curé!_ Yes, I understand.” - -Raymond thrust the banknotes he had been holding into Bourget's hand. - -“Here are fifty dollars to bind the bargain,” he said crisply. “You get -the other fifty at the church. If you don't get them, all you've got to -do is drive off and leave Mentone in the lurch. That's fair, isn't it?” - -Bourget shuffled back to the edge of the lighted window, counted the -money, and shoved it into his pocket. - -“_Bon Dieu!_” Bourget's puffed lip twisted into a satisfied grin. “I do -not mind telling you, my Pierre Desforges, that it is long since I have -seen so much.” - -“Well, the other fifty is just as good,” said Raymond in grim -pleasantry. He stepped back and away from the house. “At the church -then, Bourget--in, say, three-quarters of an hour.” - -“I will be there,” Bourget answered. “Have no fear--I will be there!” - -“All right!” Raymond called back--and a moment later gained the beach -again. - -At the rock, he once more put on his _soutane_; and, running now where -the sandy stretches gave him opportunity, scrambling as rapidly as -he could over the ledges of slate rock, he headed back for the -_presbytère_. - -It was as good as done! There was a freeness to his spirits now--a -weight and an oppression lifted from him. Henri Mentone would stand in -no prisoner's dock the day after to-morrow to answer for the murder of -Théophile Blondin! And it was very simple--now that Bourget's aid had -been enlisted. He smiled ironically as he went along. It would not even -be necessary to pommel Monsieur le Curé into a state of insensibility! -Madame Lafleur retired very early--by nine o'clock at the latest--as did -Valérie. As soon as he heard Bourget drive up to the church, he would -go to the man to allay any impatience, and as evidence that the plan was -working well. He would return then to the _presbytère_--it was a matter -only of slipping on and off his _soutane_ to appear as Father Aubert to -Madame Lafleur and Valérie, and as Pierre Desforges to Jacques Bourget. -And the moment Madame Lafleur and Valérie were in bed, he would -extinguish the light in the front room as proof that Monsieur le Curé, -too, had retired, run around to the back of the house, get Henri -Mentone out of the window, and hand him over to Bourget, explaining that -everything had worked even more smoothly than he had hoped for, that all -were in bed, and that there was no chance of the escape being discovered -until morning. Bourget, it was true, was very likely to be disappointed -in the measure of the revenge wrecked upon the curé, but Bourget's -feelings in the matter, since Bourget then would have no choice but to -drive Henri Mentone to St. Eustace, were of little account. - -And as far as Henri Mentone was concerned, it was very simple too. The -man would have ample time and opportunity to get well out of reach. He, -Raymond, would take care that the man's disappearance was not discovered -any earlier than need be in the morning! It would then be a perfectly -natural supposition--a supposition which he, Raymond, would father--that -the man, in his condition, could not be far away, but had probably only -gone restlessly and aimlessly from the house; and at first no one would -even think of such a thing as escape. They would look for him around -the _presbytère_, and close at hand on the beach. It would be impossible -that, weak as he was, the man had gone far! The search would perhaps -be extended to the village by the time Monsieur Dupont arrived for his -vanished prisoner. Then they would extend the search still further, to -the adjacent fields and woods, and it would certainly be noontime before -the alternative that the man, aided by an accomplice, had got away -became the only tenable conclusion. But even then Monsieur Dupont would -either have to drive three miles to the station to reach the telegraph, -or return to Tournayville--and by that time Henri Mentone would long -since have been in the United States. - -And after that--Raymond smiled ironically again---well after that, it -would be Monsieur Dupont's move! - - - - -CHAPTER XV--HOW HENRI MENTONE RODE WITH JACQUES BOURGET - -|IT was eight o'clock--the clock was striking in the kitchen--as Raymond -entered the _presbytère_ again. He stepped briskly to the door of the -front room, opened it, and paused--no, before going in there to wait, -it would be well first to let Madame Lafleur know that he was back, -to establish the fact that it was _after_ his return that the man had -escaped, that his evening walk could in no way be connected with what -would set all St. Marleau by the ears in the morning. And so he passed -on to the dining room, which Madame Lafleur used as a sitting room as -well. She was sewing beside the table lamp. - -“Always busy, Madame Lafleur!” he called out cheerily, from the -threshold. “Well, and has Mademoiselle Valérie returned?” - -“Ah, it is you, Monsieur le Curé!” she exclaimed, dropping her work on -her knees. “And did you enjoy your walk? No, Valérie has not come back -here yet, though I am sure she must have got back to her uncle's by now. -Did you want her for anything, Monsieur le Curé--to write letters? I can -go over and tell her.” - -“But, no--not at all!” said Raymond hastily. He indicated the rear room -with an inclination of his head. “And our _pauvre_ there?” - -Madame Lafleur's sweet, motherly face grew instantly troubled. - -“You can hear him tossing on the bed yourself, Monsieur le Curé. I have -just been in to see him. He has one of his bad moods. He said he wanted -nothing except to be left alone. But I think he will soon be quiet. Poor -man, he is so weak he will be altogether exhausted--it is only his mind -that keeps him restless.” - -Raymond nodded. - -“It is a very sad affair,” he said slowly, “a very sad affair!” He -lifted a finger and shook it playfully at Madame Lafleur. “But we must -think of you too--eh? Do not work too late, Madame Lafleur!” - -She answered him seriously. - -“Only to finish this, Monsieur le Curé. See, it is an altar cloth--for -next Sunday.” She held it up. “It is you who work too hard and too -late.” - -It was a cross on a satin background. He stared at it. It had been -hidden on her lap before. He had not been thinking of--a cross. For the -moment, assured of Henri Mentone's escape, he had been more light of -heart than at any time since he had come to St. Mar-leau; and, for the -moment, he had forgotten that he was a meddler with holy things, that -he was--a priest of God! It seemed as though this were being flaunted -suddenly now as a jeering reminder before his eyes; and with it he -seemed as suddenly to see the chancel, the altar of the church where the -cloth was to play its part--and himself kneeling there--and, curse -the vividness of it! he heard his own lips at their sacrilegious work: -“_Lavabo inter innocentes manus meas: et circumdabo altare tuum, -Domine_.... I will wash my hands among the innocent: and I will compass -Thine altar, O Lord.” And so he stared at this cross she held before -him, fighting to bring a pleased and approving smile to the lips that -fought in turn for their right to snarl a defiant mockery. - -“Ah, you like it, Monsieur le Curé!” cried Madame Lafleur happily. “I am -so glad.” - -And Raymond smiled for answer, and went from the room. - -And in the front room he lighted the lamp upon his desk, and stood -there looking down at the two letters that still awaited the signature -of--Francois Aubert. “I will wash my hands among the innocent”--he -raised his hands, and they were clenched into hard and knotted fists. -Words! Words! They were only words. And what did their damnable -insinuations matter to him! Others might listen devoutly and believe, as -he mouthed them in his surplice and stole--but for himself they were -no more than the mimicry of sounds issuing from a parrot's beak! It was -absurd then that they should affect him at all. He would better laugh -and jeer at them, and all this holy entourage with which he cloaked -himself, for these things were being made to serve his own ends, were -being turned to his own account, and--it was Three-Ace Artie now, and -he laughed hoarsely under his breath--for once they were proving of some -real and tangible value! Madame Lafleur, and her cross, and her altar -cloth! He laughed again. Well, while she was busy with her churchly -task, that she no doubt fondly believed would hurry her exit through the -purgatory to come, he would busy himself a little in getting as speedily -as possible out of the purgatory of the present. These letters now. -While he was waiting, and there was an opportunity, he would sign them. -It would be easier to say that he had decided not to make any changes -in them after all, than to have new ones written and then have to -find another opportunity for signing the latter. He reached for -the prayer-book to make a tracing of the signature that was on the -fly-leaf--and suddenly drew back his hand, and stood motionless, -listening. - -From the road came the rumble of wheels. The sound grew louder. -The vehicle passed by the _presbytère_, going in the direction of -Tournayville. The sound died away. Still Raymond listened--even more -intently than before. Jacques Bourget did not own the only horse and -wagon in St. Marleau, but Bourget was to turn around a little way down -the road, and return to the church. A minute, two passed, another; -and then Raymond caught the sound of a wheel-tire rasping and grinding -against the body of a wagon, as though the latter were being turned in a -narrow space--then presently the rattle of wheels again, coming back now -toward the church. And now by the church he heard the wagon turn in from -the road. - -Raymond relaxed from his strained attitude of attention. Jacques -Bourget, it was quite evident, intended to earn the balance of his -money! Well, for a word then between Pierre Desforges and Jacques -Bourget--pending the time that Madame Lafleur and her altar cloth should -go to bed. The letters could wait. - -He moved stealthily and very slowly across the room. Madame Lafleur must -not hear him leaving the house. He would be gone only a minute--just to -warn Bourget to keep very quiet, and to satisfy the man that everything -was going well. He could strip off his _soutane_ and leave it under the -porch. - -Cautiously he opened the door, an inch at a time that it might not -creak, and stepped out into the hall on tiptoe--and listened. Madame -Lafleur's rocking chair squeaked back and forth reassuringly. She had -perhaps had enough of her altar cloth for a while! How could one do fine -needle work--and rock! And why that fanciful detail to flash across -his mind! And--his face was suddenly set, his lips tight-drawn -together--_what was this!_ These footsteps that had made no sound in -crossing the green, but were quick and heavy upon the porch outside! He -drew back upon the threshold of his room. And then the front door -was thrust open. And in the doorway was Dupont, Monsieur Dupont, the -assistant chief of the Tournayville police, and behind Dupont was -another man, and behind the man was--yes--it was Valerie. - -“_Tiens! 'Cré nom d'un chien!_” clucked Monsieur Dupont. “Ha, Monsieur -le Curé, you heard us--eh? But you did not hear us until we were at the -door--and a man posted at the back of the house by that window there, -eh? No, you did not hear us. Well, we have nipped the little scheme in -the bud, eh?” - -Dupont _knew!_ Raymond's hand tightened on the door jamb--and, as once -before, his other hand crept in under his crucifix, and under the breast -of his _soutane_ to his revolver. - -“I do not understand”--he spoke deliberately, gravely. “You speak of a -scheme, Monsieur Dupont? I do not understand.” - -“Ah, you do not understand!”--Monsieur Duponts face screwed up into a -cryptic smile. “No, of course, you do not understand! Well, you will in -a moment! But first we will attend to Monsieur Henri Mentone! Now -then, Marchand”--he addressed his companion, and pointed to the rear -room--“that room in there, and handcuff him to you. You had better stay -where you are, Monsieur le Curé. Come along, Marchand!” - -Dupont and his companion ran into Henri Mentone's room. Raymond heard -Madame Lafleur cry out in sudden consternation. It was echoed by a cry -in Henri Mentone's voice. But he was looking at Valérie, who had stepped -into the hall. She was very pale. What had she to do with this? What did -it mean? Had she discovered that he--no, Dupont would not have rushed -away in that case, but then--His lips moved: “You--Valérie!” How very -pale she was--and how those dark eyes, deep with something he could not -fathom, sought his face, only to be quickly veiled by their long lashes. - -“Do not look like that, Monsieur le Curé--as though I had done wrong.” - she said in a low, hurried tone. “I am sorry for the man too; but the -police were to have taken him away to-morrow morning in any case. And if -I went for Monsieur Dupont to-night, it was----” - -“You went for Monsieur Dupont?”--he repeated her words dazedly, as -though he had not heard aright. “It was you who brought Monsieur Dupont -here just now--from Tournayville! But--but, I do not understand at all!” - -“Valérie! Valérie!”--it was Madame Lafleur, pale and excited, who had -rushed to her daughter's side. “Valérie, speak quickly! What are they -doing? What does all this mean?” - -Valérie's arm stole around her mother's shoulder. - -“I--I was just telling Father Aubert, mother,” she said, a little -tremulously. “You--you must not be nervous. See, it was like this. -You had just taken the man for a little walk about the green this -afternoon--you remember? When I came out of the house a few minutes -later to join you, I saw what I thought looked like some money sticking -out from one end of a folded-up piece of paper that was lying on the -grass just at the bottom of the porch steps. I was sure, of course, that -it was only a trick my imagination was playing on me, but I stooped down -and picked it up. It was money, a great deal of money, and there was -writing on the paper. I read it, and then I was afraid. It was from some -friend of that man's in there, and was a plan for him to make his escape -to-night.” - -“Escape!”--Madame Lafleur drew closer to her daughter, as she glanced -apprehensively toward the rear room. - -Dupont's voice floated menacingly out into the hall--came a gruff -oath from his companion--the sound of a chair over-turned--and Henri -Mentone's cry, pitched high. - -In a curiously futile way Raymond's hand dropped from the breast of -his _soutane_ to his side. Valérie and her mother seemed to be swirling -around in circles in the hall before him. He forced himself to speak -naturally: - -“And then?” - -Valérie's eyes were on her mother. - -“I did not want to alarm you, mother,” she went on rapidly; “and so I -told you I was going for a drive. I ran to uncle's house. He was out -somewhere. I could go as well as any one, and if Henri Mentone had a -friend lurking somewhere in the village there would be nothing to arouse -suspicion in a girl driving alone; and, besides, I did not know who this -friend might be, and I did not know who to trust. I told old Adèle that -I wanted to go for a drive, and she helped me to harness the horse.” - -And now, as Raymond listened, those devils, that had chuckled and -screeched as the lumpy earth had thudded down on the lid of Théophile -Blondin's coffin, were at their hell-carols again. It was not just luck, -just the unfortunate turn of a card that the man had dropped the -money and the note. It was more than that. It seemed to hold a grim, -significant premonition--for the future. Those devils did well to -chuckle! Struggle as he would, they had woven their net too cunningly -for his escape. It was those devils who had torn his coat that night in -the storm, as he had tried to force his way through the woods. It was -_his_ coat that Henri Mentone was wearing. He remembered now that the -lining of the pocket on the inside had been ripped across. It was those -devils who had seen to that--for this--knowing what was to come. A -finger seemed to wag with hideous jocularity before his eyes--the finger -of fate. He looked at Valerie. It was nothing for her to have driven to -Tournayville, she had probably done it a hundred times before, but it -seemed a little strange that Henri Mentone's possible escape should have -been, apparently, so intimate and personal a matter to her. - -“You were afraid, you said, Mademoiselle Valerie,” he said slowly. -“Afraid--that he would escape?” - -She shook her head--and the colour mounted suddenly in her face. - -“Of what then?” he asked. - -“Of what was in the note,” she said, in a low voice. “I knew I had time, -for nothing was to be done until the _presbytère_ was quiet for the -night; but the plan then was to--to put you out of the way, and----” - -His voice was suddenly hoarse. - -“And you were afraid--for me? It was for me that you have done this?” - -She did not answer. The colour was still in her cheeks--her eyes were -lowered. - -“The blessed saints!” cried Madame Lafleur, crossing herself. “The -devils! They would do harm to Father Aubert! Well, I am sorry for that -man no longer! He----” - -They were coming along the hall--Henri Mentone handcuffed to Monsieur -Dupont's companion, and Monsieur Dupont himself in the rear. - -“Monsieur le Curé!” Henri Mentone called out wildly. “Monsieur le Curé, -do not----” - -“Enough! Hold your tongue!” snapped Monsieur Dupont, giving the man a -push past Raymond toward the front door. “Do you appeal to Monsieur le -Curé because he has been good to you--or because you intended to knock -Monsieur le Curé on the head to-night! Bah! Hurry him along, Marchand!” - Monsieur Dupont paused before Valérie and her mother. “You will do me a -favour, mesdames? A very great favour--yes? You will retire instantly to -bed--instantly. I have my reasons. Yes, that is right--go at once.” - He turned to Raymond. “And you, Monsieur le Curé, you will wait for me -here, eh? Yes, you will wait. I will be back on the instant.” - -The hall was empty. In a subconscious sort of way Raymond stepped back -into his room, and, reaching the desk, stood leaning heavily against it. -His brain would tolerate no single coherent thought. Valérie had done -this for fear of harm to him, Valérie had... there was Jacques Bourget -who if he attempted now to... it was no wonder that Henri Mentone had -been restless all evening, knowing that he had lost the note, and not -daring to question... the day after to-morrow there was to be a trial at -the criminal assizes... Valérie had not met his eyes, but there had been -the crimson colour in her face, and she had done this to save _him_... -were they still laughing, those hell-devils... were they now engaged in -making Valérie love him, and making her torture her soul because she -was so pure that no thought could strike her more cruelly than that -love should come to her for a priest? Ah, his brain was logical now! His -hands clenched, and unclenched, and clenched again. Impotent fury was -upon him. If it were true! Damn them to the everlasting place from -whence they came! But it was not true! It was but another trick of -theirs to make him writhe the more--to make _him_ believe she cared! - -A footstep! He looked up. Monsieur Dupont was back. - -“_Tiens!_” cried Monsieur Dupont. “Well, you have had an escape, -Monsieur le Curé! An escape! Yes, you have! But I do not take all the -credit. No, I do not. She is a fine girl, that Valérie Lafleur. If she -were a man she would have a career--with the police. I would see to it! -But you do not know yet what it is all about, Monsieur le Curé, eh?” - -“There was a note and money that Mademoiselle Valérie said she -found”--Raymond's voice was steady, composed. - -“_Zut!_” Monsieur Dupont laid his forefinger along the side of his nose -impressively. “That is the least of it! There is an accomplice--two of -them in it! You would not have thought that, eh, Monsieur le Curé? No, -you would not. Very well, then--listen! I have this Mentone safe, and -now I, Dupont, will give this accomplice a little surprise. There will -be the two of them at the trial for the murder of Théophile Blondin! The -grand jury is still sitting. You understand, Monsieur le Curé? Yes, you -understand. You are listening?”... - -“I am listening,” said Raymond gravely--and instinctively glanced toward -the window. It might still have been Jacques Bourget who had turned -down there on the road; or, if not, then the man would be along at any -minute. In either case, he must find some way to warn Bourget. “I am -listening, Monsieur Dupont,” he said again. “You propose to lay a trap -for this accomplice?” - -“It is already laid,” announced Monsieur Dupont complacently. “They -will discover with whom they are dealing! I returned at once with -Mademoiselle Valérie. I brought two men with me; but you will observe, -Monsieur le Curé, that I did not bring two teams--nothing to arouse -suspicion--nothing to indicate that I was about to remove our friend -Mentone to-night. It would be a very simple matter to secure a team here -when I was ready for it. You see, Monsieur le Curé? Yes, you see. Very -well! My plans worked without a hitch. Just as we approached the church, -we met a man named Jacques Bourget driving alone in a buckboard. Nothing -could be better. It was excellent. I stopped him. I requisitioned him -and his horse and his wagon in the name of the law. I made him turn -around, and told him to follow us back here after a few minutes. You -see, Monsieur le Curé? Yes, you see. Monsieur Jacques Bourget is now on -his way to Tournayville with one of my officers and the prisoner.” - -Raymond's fingers were playing nonchalantly with the chain of his -crucifix. Raymond's face was unmoved. It was really funny, was it not! -No wonder those denizens of hell were shrieking with abandoned glee in -his ears. This time they had a right to be amused. It was really very -funny--that Jacques Bourget should be driving Henri Mentone away from -St. Marleau! Well, and now--what? - -“You are to be congratulated, Monsieur Dupont,” he murmured. “But the -accomplice--the other one, who is still at large?” - -“Ah, the other one!” said Monsieur Dupont, and laid his hand -confidentially on Raymond's arm. “The other--heh, _mon Dieu_, Monsieur -le Curé, but you wear heavy clothes for the summertime!” - -It was the bulk of the sacristan's old coat! There was a smile in -Raymond's eyes, a curious smile, as he searched the other's face. One -could never be sure of Monsieur Dupont. - -“A coat always under my _soutane_ in the evenings”--Raymond's voice was -tranquil, and he did not withdraw his arm. - -“A coat--yes--of course!” Monsieur Dupont nodded his head. “Why not! -Well then, the other--listen. All has been done very quietly. No alarm -raised. None at all! I have sent Madame Lafleur and her daughter to -bed. The plan was that the accomplice should come to the back window for -Mentone. But they would not make the attempt until late--until all in -the village was quiet. That is evident, is it not? Yes, it is evident. -Very good! You sleep here in this room, Monsieur le Curé? Yes? Well, you -too will put out your light and retire at once. I will go into Mentone's -room, and wait there in the dark for our other friend to come to the -window. I will be Henri Mentone. You see? Yes, you see. It is simple, is -it not? Yes, it is simple. Before morning I will have the man in a -cell alongside of Henri Mentone. Do you see any objections to the plan, -Monsieur le Curé?” - -“Only that it might prove very dangerous--for you,” said Raymond -soberly. “If the man, who is certain to be a desperate character, -attacked you before you----” - -“Dangerous! Bah!” exclaimed Monsieur Dupont. “That is part of my -business. I do not consider that! I have my other officer outside there -now by the shed. As soon as the man we are after approaches the window, -the officer will leap upon him and overpower him. And now, Monsieur le -Curé, to bed--eh? And the light out!” - -“At once!” agreed Raymond. “And I wish you every success, Monsieur -Dupont! If you need help you have only to call; or, if you like, I will -go in there and stay with you.” - -“No, no--not at all!” Monsieur Dupont moved toward the door. “It is not -necessary. Nothing can go wrong. We may have to wait well through the -night, and there is no reason why you should remain up too. _Tiens!_ -Fancy! Imagine! Did I not tell you that Mentone was a hardened rascal? -Two of them! Well, we will see if the second one can remember any better -than the first? The light, Monsieur le Curé--do not forget! He will not -come while there is a sound or a light about the house!” Monsieur Dupont -waved his hand, and the door closed on Monsieur Dupont. - -Raymond, still leaning against the desk, heard the other walk along the -hall, and enter the rear room--and then all was quiet. He leaned over -and blew out the lamp. Nothing must be allowed to frustrate Monsieur -Dupont's plans! - -And then, in the darkness, for a long time Raymond stood there. And -thinking of Monsieur Dupont's dangerous vigil in the other room, he -laughed; and thinking of Valérie, he knew a bitter joy; and thinking -of Henri Mentone, his hands knotted at his sides, and his face grew -strained and drawn. And after that long time was past, he fumbled with -his hands outstretched before him like a blind man feeling his way, and -flung himself down upon the couch. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI--FOR THE MURDER OF THÉOPHILE BLONDIN - -|THEY sat on two benches by themselves, the witnesses in the trial -of Henri Mentone for the murder of Théophile Blondin. On one side of -Raymond was Valérie, on the other was Mother Blondin; and there was -Labbée, the station agent, and Monsieur Dupont, and Doctor Arnaud. And -on the other bench were several of the villagers, and two men Raymond -did not know, and another man, a crown surveyor, who had just testified -to the difference in time and distance from the station to Madame -Blondin's as between the road and the path--thus establishing for the -prosecution the fact that by following the path there had been ample -opportunity for the crime to have been committed by one who had left the -station after the curé had already started toward the village and yet -still be discovered by the curé on the road near the tavern. The counsel -appointed by the court for the defence had allowed the testimony to go -unchallenged. It was obvious. It did not require a crown surveyor to -announce the fact--even an urchin from St. Marleau was already aware -of it. The villagers too had testified. They had testified that Madame -Blondin had come running into the village screaming out that her son had -been murdered; and that they had gone back with her to her house and had -found the dead body of her son lying on the floor. - -It was stiflingly hot in the courtroom; and the courtroom was crowded to -its last available inch of space. - -There were many there from Tournayville--but there was all of St. -Marleau. It was St. Marleau's own and particular affair. Since early -morning, since very early morning, Raymond had seen and heard the -vehicles of all descriptions rattling past the _presbytère_, the -occupants dressed in their Sunday clothes. It was a _jour de fête_. -St. Marleau did not every day have a murder of its own! The fields were -deserted; only the very old and the children had not come. They were not -all in the room, for there was not place for them all--those who had -not been on hand at the opening of the doors had been obliged to content -themselves with gathering outside to derive what satisfaction they could -from their proximity to the fateful events that were transpiring within; -and they had at least seen the prisoner led handcuffed from the jail -that adjoined the courthouse, and had been rewarded to the extent of -being able to view with intense and bated interest people they had -known all their lives, such as Valérie, and Mother Blondin, and the more -privileged of their fellows who had been chosen as witnesses, as these -latter disappeared inside the building! - -Raymond's eyes roved around the courtroom, and rested upon the judge -upon the bench. His first glance at the judge, taken at the moment the -other had entered the room, had brought a certain, quick relief. Far -from severity, the white-haired man sitting there in his black gown had -a kindly, genial face. He found his first impressions even strengthened -now. His eyes passed on to the crown prosecutor; and here, too, he -found cause for reassurance. The man was middle-aged, shrewd-faced, -and somewhat domineering. He was crisp, incisive, and had been even -unnecessarily blunt and curt in his speech and manner so far--he was -not one who would enlist the sympathy of a jury. On the other -hand--Raymond's eyes shifted again, to hold on the clean-cut, smiling -face of the prisoner's counsel--Lemoyne, that was the lawyer's name he -had been told, was young, pleasant-voiced, magnetic. Raymond experienced -a sort of grim admiration, as he looked at this man. No man in the -courtroom knew better than Lemoyne the hopelessness of his case, and yet -he sat there confident, smiling, undisturbed. - -Raymond's eyes sought the floor. It was a foregone conclusion that the -verdict would be guilty. There was not a loophole for defence. But they -would not hang the man. He clung to that. Lemoyne could at least fight -for the man's life. They would not hang a man who could not remember. -They had beaten him, Raymond, the night before last; and at first he had -been like a man stunned with the knowledge that his all was on the table -and that the cards in his hand were worthless--and then had come a sort -of philosophical calm, the gambler's optimism--the hand was still to be -played. They would sentence the man for life, and--well, there was time -enough in a lifetime for another chance. Somehow--in some way--he -did not know now--but in some way he would see that there was another -chance. He would not desert the man. - -Again he raised his eyes, but this time as though against his will, as -though they were impelled and drawn in spite of himself across the room. -That was Raymond Chapelle, alias Arthur Leroy, alias Three-Ace Artie, -alias Henri Mentone, sitting there in the prisoner's box; at least, that -gaunt, thin-faced, haggard man there was dressed in Raymond Chapelle's -clothes--and _he_, François Aubert, the priest, the curé, in his -_soutane_, with his crucifix around his neck, sat here amongst the -witnesses at the trial of Raymond Chapelle, who had killed Théophile -Blondin in the fight that night. One would almost think the man _knew!_ -How the man's eyes burned into him, how they tormented and plagued him! -They were sad, those eyes, pitiful--they were helpless--they seemed to -seek him out as the only _friend_ amongst all these bobbing heads, and -these staring, gaping faces. - -“Marcien Labbée!”--the clerk's voice snapped through the courtroom. -“Marcien Labbée!” The clerk was a very fussy and important short -little man, who puffed his cheeks in and out, and clawed at his white -side-whiskers. “Marcien Labbée!” - -The station agent rose from the bench, entered the witness box, and was -sworn. - -With a few crisp questions, the crown prosecutor established the time of -the train's arrival, and the fact that the curé and another man had got -off at the station. The witness explained that the curé had started to -walk toward the village before the other man appeared on the platform. - -“And this other man”--the crown prosecutor whirled sharply around, and -pointed toward Henri Mentone--“do you recognise him as the prisoner at -the bar?” - -Labbée shook his head. - -“It was very dark,” he said. “I could not swear to it.” - -“His general appearance then? His clothes? They correspond with what you -remember of the man?” - -“Yes,” Labbée answered. “There is no doubt of that.” - -“And as I understand it, you told the man that Monsieur le Curé had -just started a moment before, and that if he went at once he would have -company on the walk to the village?” - -“Yes.” - -“What did he say?” - -“He said that he was not looking for that kind of company.” - -There was a sudden, curious, restrained movement through the courtroom; -and, here and there, a villager, with pursed lips, nodded his head. It -was quite evident to those from St. Marleau at least that such as Henri -Mentone would not care for the company of their curé. - -“You gave the man directions as to the short cut to the village?” - -“Yes.” - -“You may tell the court and the gentlemen of the jury what was said -then.” - -Labbée, who had at first appeared a little nervous, now pulled down his -vest, and looked around him with an air of importance. - -“I told him that the path came out at the tavern. When I said 'tavern,' -he was at once very interested. I thought then it was because he was -glad to know there was a place to stay--it was such a terrible night, -you understand? So I told him it was only a name we gave it, and that it -was no place for one to go. I told him it was kept by an old woman, who -was an _excommuniée_, and who made whisky on the sly, and that her son -was----” - -“_Misérable!_”--it was Mother Blondin, in a furious scream. Her eyes, -under her matted gray hair, glared fiercely at Labbée. - -“Silence!” roared the clerk of the court, leaping to his feet. - -Raymond's hand closed over the clenched, bony fist that Mother Blondin -had raised, and gently lowered it to her lap. - -“He will do you no harm, Madame Blondin,” he whispered reassuringly. -“And see, you must be careful, or you will get into serious trouble.” - -Her hand trembled with passion in his, but she did not draw it away. It -was strange that she did not! It was strange that he felt pity for her -when so much was at stake, when pity was such a trivial and inconsequent -thing! This was a murder trial, a trial for the killing of this woman's -son. It was strange that he should be holding the _mother's_ hand, -and--it was Raymond who drew his hand away. He clasped it over his other -one until the knuckles grew white. - -“And then?” prompted the crown prosecutor. - -“And then, I do not remember how it came about,” Labbée continued, “he -spoke of Madame Blondin having money--enough to buy out any one around -there. I said it was true that it was the gossip that she had made a -lot, and that she had a well-filled stocking hidden away somewhere.” - -“_Crapule!_”--Mother Blondin's voice, if scarcely audible this time, had -lost none of its fury. - -The clerk contented himself with a menacing gesture toward his -own side-whiskers. The crown prosecutor paid no attention to the -interruption. - -“Did the man give any reason for coming to St. Marleau?” - -“None.” - -“Did you ask him how long he intended to remain?” - -“Yes; he said he didn't know.” - -“He had a travelling bag with him?” - -“Yes.” - -“This one?”--the crown prosecutor held up Raymond's travelling bag from -the table beside him. - -“I cannot say,” Labbée replied. “It was too dark on the platform.” - -“Quite so! But it was of a size sufficient, in your opinion, to cause -the man inconvenience in carrying it in such a storm, so you offered to -have it sent over with Monsieur le Curé's trunk in the morning?” - -“Yes.” - -“What did he say?” - -“He said he could carry it all right.” - -“He started off then with the bag along the road toward St. Marleau?” - -“Yes.” - -The crown prosecutor glanced inquiringly toward the prisoner's counsel. -The latter shook his head. - -“You may step down, Monsieur Labbée,” directed the crown prosecutor. -“Call Madame Blondin!” There was a stir in the courtroom now. Heads -craned forward as the old woman shuffled across the floor to the witness -box--Mother Blondin was quite capable of anything--even of throwing to -the ground the Holy Book upon which the clerk would swear her! Mother -Blondin, however, did nothing of the sort. She gripped at the edge of -the witness box, mumbling at the clerk, and all the while straining her -eyes through her steel-bowed spectacles at the prisoner across the -room. And then her lips began to work curiously, her face to grow -contorted--and suddenly the courtroom was in an uproar. She was shaking -both scranny fists at Henri Mentone, and screaming at the top of her -voice. - -“That is the man! That is the man!”--her voice became ungovernable, -insensate, it rose shrilly, it broke, it rose piercingly again. “That is -the man! The law! The law! I demand the law on him! He killed my son! He -did it! I tell you, he did it! He----” - -Chairs and benches were scraping on the floor. Little cries of nervous -terror came from the women; involuntarily men stood up the better to -look at both Mother Blondin and the accused. It was a sensation! It was -something to talk about in St. Marleau over the stoves in the coming -winter. It was something of which nothing was to be missed. - -“Order! Silence! Order!” bawled the clerk. - -Valérie had caught Raymond's sleeve. He did not look at her. He was -looking at Henri Mentone--at the look of dumb horror on the man's -face--and then at a quite different figure in the prisoner's dock, whose -head was bent down until it could scarcely be seen, and whose face was -covered by his hands. He tried to force a grim complacence into his -soul. It was absolutely certain that _he_ had nothing to fear from the -trial. Nothing! The other Henri Mentone, the other priest, was answering -for the killing of that night, and--who was this speaking? The crown -prosecutor? He had not thought the man could be so suave and gentle. - -“Try and calm yourself, Madame Blondin. You have a perfect right to -demand the punishment of the law upon the murderer of your son, and that -is what we are here for now, and that is why I want you to tell us just -as quietly as possible what happened that night.” - -She stared truculently. - -“Everybody knows what happened!” she snarled at him. “He killed my son!” - -“How did he kill your son?” inquired the crown prosecutor, with a -sudden, crafty note of scepticism in his voice. “How do you know he -did?” - -“I saw him! I tell you, I saw him! I heard my son shout '_voleur_' and -cry for help”--Mother Blon-din's words would not come fast enough now. -“I was in the back room. When I opened the door he was fighting my son. -He tried to steal my money. Some of it was on the floor. My son cried -for help again. I ran and got a stick of wood. My son tried to get his -revolver from the _armoire_. This man got it away from him. I struck the -man on the head with the wood, then he shot my son, and I ran out for -help.” - -“And you positively identify the prisoner as the man who shot your son?” - -“Yes, yes! Have I not told you so often enough!” - -“And this”--the crown prosecutor handed her a revolver--“do you identify -this?” - -“Yes; it was my son's.” - -“You kept your money in a hiding place, Madame Blondin, I understand--in -a hollow between two of the logs in the wall of the room? Is that so?” - -“Yes; it is so!”--Mother Blondin's voice grew shrill again. “But I will -find a better place for it, if I ever get it back again! The police are -as great thieves as that man! They took it from him, and now they keep -it from me!” - -“It is here, Madame Blondin,” said the lawyer soothingly, opening a -large envelope. “It will be returned to you after the trial. How much -was there?” - -“I know very well how much!” she shrilled out suspiciously. “You cannot -cheat me! I know! There were all my savings, years of savings--there was -more than five hundred dollars.” - -A little gasp went around the courtroom. Five hundred dollars! It was a -fortune! Gossip then had not lied--it had been outdone! - -“Now this hiding place, Madame Blondin--you had never told any one about -it? Not even your son?” - -“No.” - -“It would seem then that this man must have known about it in some way. -Had you been near it a short time previous to the fight?” - -“I told you I had, didn't I? I told Monsieur Dupont all that once.” - Mother Blondin was growing unmanageable again. “I went there to put some -money in not five minutes before I heard my son call for help.” - -“Your son then was not in the room when you went to put this money -away?” - -“No; of course, he wasn't! I have told that to Monsieur Dupont, too. I -heard him coming downstairs just as I left the room.” - -“That is all, Madame Blondin, thank you, unless----” The crown -prosecutor turned again toward the counsel for the defence. - -Lemoyne rose, and, standing by his chair without approaching the witness -box, took a small penknife from his pocket, and held it up. - -“Madame Blondin,” he said gently, “will you tell me what I am holding in -my hand?” - -Mother Blondin squinted, set her glasses further on her nose, and shook -her head. - -“I do not know,” she said. - -“You do not see very well, Madame Blondin?”--sympathetically. - -“What is it you have got there--eh? What is it?” she demanded sharply. - -Lemoyne glanced at the jury--and smiled. He restored the penknife to his -pocket. - -“It is a penknife, Madame Blondin--one of my own. An object that any one -would recognise--unless one did not see very well. Are you quite sure, -Madame Blondin--quite sure on second thoughts--that you see well enough -to identify the prisoner so positively as the man who was fighting with -your son?” - -The jury, with quick meaning glances at one another, with a new -interest, leaned forward in their seats. There was a tense moment--a -sort of bated silence in the courtroom. And then, as Mother Blondin -answered, some one tittered audibly, the spell was broken, the point -made by the defence swept away, turned even into a weapon against -itself. - -“If you will give me a stick of wood and come closer, close enough so -that I can hit you over the head with it,” said Mother Blondin, and -cackled viciously, “you will see how well I can see!” - -Madame Blondin stepped down. - -And then there came upon Raymond a thrill, a weakness, a quick -tightening of his muscles. The clerk had called his name. He walked -mechanically to the witness stand. It was coming now. He must be on his -guard. But he had thought out everything very carefully, and--no, almost -before he knew it, he was back in his seat again. He had been asked only -if he had followed the road all the way from the station, to describe -how he had found the man, and to identify the prisoner as that man. He -was to be recalled. Le-moyne had not asked him a single question. - -“Mademoiselle Valérie Lafleur!” called the clerk. - -“Oh, Monsieur le Curé!” she whispered tremulously. “I--I do not want to -go. It--it is such a terrible thing to _have_ to say anything that would -help to send a man to death--I---” - -“Mademoiselle Valérie Lafleur!” snapped the clerk. “Will the witness -have the goodness to----” - -Raymond did not hear her testimony; he knew only that she, too, -identified the man as the one she had seen lying unconscious in -the road, and that the note she had found was read and placed in -evidence--in his ears, like a dull, constant dirge, were those words of -hers with which she had left him--“it is such a terrible thing to have -to say anything that would help to send a man to death.” Who was it that -was sending the man to death? Not he! He had tried to save the man. -It wasn't death, anyway. The man's guilt would appear obvious, of -course--Lemoyne, the lawyer, could not alter that; but he had still -faith in Lemoyne. Lemoyne would make his defence on the man's condition. -Lemoyne would come to that. - -“My son!” croaked old Mother Blondin fiercely, at his side. “My son! -What I know, I know! But the law--the law on the man who killed my -son!” - -“Pull yourself together, you fool!” rasped that inner voice. “Do -you want everybody in the courtroom staring at you. Listen to the -incomparable Dupont telling how clever he was!” - -Yes, Dupont was on the stand now. Dupont was testifying to finding the -revolver and money in the prisoner's pockets. He verified the amount. -Dupont had his case at his fingers' tips, and he sketched it, with an -amazing conciseness for Monsieur Dupont, from the moment he had been -notified of the crime up to the time of the attempted escape. He was -convinced that, in spite of all precautions, the prisoner's accomplice -had taken alarm--since he, Dupont, had sat the night in the room waiting -for the unknown's appearance, and neither he nor his deputy, who had -remained until daylight hiding in the shed where he could watch the -prisoner's window, had seen or heard anything. On cross-examination he -admitted that pressure had been brought to bear upon the prisoner in -an effort to trip the man up in his story, but that the prisoner had -unswervingly held to the statement that he could remember nothing. - -The voices droned through the courtroom. It was Doctor Arnaud now -identifying the man. They were always identifying the man! Why did not -he, the saintly curé of St. Marleau--no, it was Three-Ace Artie--why did -not he, Three-Ace Artie, laugh outright in all their faces! It was not -hard to identify the man. He had seen to that very thoroughly, more -thoroughly than even he had imagined that night in the storm when all -the devils of hell were loosed to shriek around him, and he had changed -clothes with a _dead_ man. A dead man--yes, that was the way it should -have been! Did he not remember how limply the man's neck and head wagged -on the shoulders, and how the body kept falling all over in grotesque -attitudes instead of helping him to get its clothes off! Only the dead -man had come to life! That was the man over there inside that box -with the little wood-turned decorations all around the railing--no, he -wouldn't look--but that man there who was the colour of soiled chalk, -and whose eyes, with the hurt of a dumb beast in them, kept turning -constantly in this direction, over here, here where the witnesses sat. - -“Doctor Arnaud”--it was the counsel for the defence speaking, and -suddenly Raymond was listening with strained attention--“you have -attended the prisoner from the night he was found unconscious in the -road until the present time?” - -“Yes, monsieur.” - -“You have heard me in cross-examination ask Mademoiselle Lafleur and -Monsieur Dupont if at any time during this period the prisoner, by -act, manner or word, swerved from his statement that he could remember -nothing, either of the events of that night, or of prior events in his -life. You have heard both of these witness testify that he had not done -so. I will ask you now if you are in a position to corroborate their -testimony?” - -“I am,” replied Doctor Arnaud. “He has said nothing else to my -knowledge.” - -“Then, doctor, in your professional capacity, will you kindly tell the -court and the gentlemen of the jury whether or not loss of memory could -result from a blow upon the head.” - -“It could--certainly,” stated Doctor Arnaud. “There is no doubt of that, -but it depends on the----” - -“Just a moment, doctor, if you please; we will come to that”--Lemoyne, -as Raymond knew well that Le-moyne himself was fully aware, was treading -on thin and perilous ice, but on Lemoyne's lips, as he interrupted, was -an engaging smile. “This loss of memory now. Will you please help us to -understand just what it means? Take a hypothetical case. Could a man, -for example, read and write, do arithmetic, say, appear normal in all -other ways, and still have lost the memory of his name, his parents, his -friends, his home, his previous state?” - -“Yes,” said Doctor Arnaud. “That is quite true. He might lose the memory -of all those things, and still retain everything he has acquired by -education.” - -“That is a medical fact?” - -“Yes, certainly, it is a medical fact.” - -“And is it not also a medical fact, doctor, that this condition has been -known to have been caused by a blow--I will not say so slight, for that -would be misleading--but by a blow that did not even cause a wound, and -I mean by wound a gash, a cut, or the tearing of the flesh?” - -“Yes; that, too, is so.” - -Lemoyne paused. He looked at Henri Mentone, and suddenly it seemed as -though a world of sympathy and pity were in his face. He turned and -looked at the jury--at each one of the twelve men, but almost as though -he did not see them. There was a mist in his eyes. It was silent again -in the courtroom. His voice was low and grave as he spoke again. - -“Doctor Arnaud, are you prepared to state professionally under oath -that it is impossible that the blow received by the prisoner at the bar -should have caused him to lose his memory?” - -“No.” Doctor Arnaud shook his head. “No; I would not say that.” - -Lemoyne's voice was still grave. - -“You admit then, Doctor Arnaud, that it is possible?” - -Doctor Arnaud hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “It is possible, of course.” - -“That is all, doctor”--Lemoyne sat down. - -“One moment!”--the crown prosecutor, crisp, curt, incisive, was on his -feet. “Loss of memory is not insanity, doctor?” - -“No.” - -“Is the prisoner in your professional judgment insane?” - -“No,” declared Doctor Arnaud emphatically. “Most certainly not!” - -With a nod, the crown prosecutor dismissed the witness. - -A buzz, whisperings, ran around the room. Raymond's eyes were fixed -sombrely on the floor. Relief had come with Lemoyne's climax, but now in -Doctor Arnaud's reply to the crown prosecutor he sensed catastrophe. -A sentence for life was the best that could be hoped for, but -suppose--suppose Lemoyne should fail to secure even that! No, no--they -would not hang the man! Even Doctor Arnaud had been forced to admit that -he might have lost his memory. That would be strong enough for any jury, -and--they were calling his name again, and he was rising, and walking -a second time to the witness stand. Surely all these people _knew_. Was -not his face set, and white, and drawn! See that ray of sunlight -coming in through that far window, and how it did not deviate, but came -straight toward him, and lay upon the crucifix on his breast, to draw -all eyes upon it, upon that Figure on the Cross, the Man Betrayed. -God, he had not meant this! He had thought the priest already dead that -night. It was a dead man he had meant should answer for the killing of -that ugly, scarred-faced, drunken blackguard, Théophile Blondin. That -couldn't do a dead man any harm! It was a dead man, a dead man, a dead -man--not this living, breathing one who---- - -“Monsieur le Curé,” said the crown prosecutor, “you were present in the -prisoner's room with Monsieur Dupont and Doctor Arnaud, when Monsieur -Dupont made a search of the accused's clothing?” - -“Yes,” Raymond answered. - -“Do you identify this revolver as the one taken from the prisoner's -pocket?” - -What was it Valérie had said--that it was such a terrible thing to have -to say anything that would help to send a man to death? But the man was -not going to death. It was to be a life sentence--and afterwards, after -the trial, there would be time to think, and plot, and plan. - -“It is the same one,” said Raymond in a low voice. - -“You also saw Monsieur Dupont take a large number of loose bills from -the prisoner's pocket?” - -“Yes.” - -“Do you know their amount?” - -“No. Monsieur Dupont did not count them at the time.” - -“There were a great many, however, crumpled in the pocket, as though -they had been hastily thrust there?” - -“Yes.” - -Why did that man in the prisoner's dock look at him like that--not -in accusation--it was worse than that--it was in a sorrowful sort of -wonder, and a numbed despair. Those devils were laughing in his ears--he -was telling the _truth!_ - -“That is all, I think, Monsieur le Curé,” said the crown prosecutor -abruptly. - -All! There came a bitter and abysmal irony. Puppets! All were puppets -upon a set stage--from the judge on the bench to that dismayed thing -yonder who wrung his hands before the imposing majesty of the law! All! -That was all, was it--the few words he had said? Who then was the author -of every word that had been uttered in the room, who then had pulled the -strings that jerked these automatons about in their every movement! Ah, -here was Lemoyne this time, the prisoner's counsel. This time there was -to be a cross-examination. Yes, certainly, he would like to help Lemoyne, -but Lemoyne must not try to trap him. Lemoyne, too, was a puppet, and -therefore Lemoyne could not be expected to know how very true it was -that “Henri Mentone” was on trial for his life, and that “Henri Mentone” - would fight for that life with any weapon he could grasp, and that -Lemoyne would do the prisoner an ill turn to put “Henri Mentone” on the -defensive! Well--he brushed his hand across his forehead, and fixed his -eyes steadily on Lemoyne--he was ready for the man. - -“Monsieur le Curé”--Lemoyne had come very close to the witness stand, -and Lemoyne's voice was soberly modulated--“Monsieur le Curé, I have -only one question to ask you. You have been with this unfortunate man -since the night you found him on the road, you have nursed him night and -day as a mother would a child, you have not been long in St. Marleau, -but in that time, so I am told, and I can very readily see why, you -have come to be called the good, young Father Aubert by all your parish. -Monsieur le Curé, you have been constantly with this man, for days and -nights you have scarcely left his side, and so I come to the question -that, it seems to me, you, of all others, are best qualified to answer.” - Lemoyne paused. He had placed his two hands on the edge of the witness -box, and was looking earnestly into Raymond's face. “Monsieur le Curé, -do you believe that when the prisoner says that he remembers nothing of -the events of that night, that he has no recollection of the crime -of which he is accused--do you believe, Monsieur le Curé, that he is -telling the truth?” - -There had been silence in the courtroom before--it was a silence now -that seemed to palpitate and throb, a _living_ silence. Instinctively -the crown prosecutor had made as though to rise from his chair; and -then, as if indifferent, had changed his mind. No one else in the -room had moved. Raymond glanced around him. They were waiting--for -his answer. The word of the good, young Father Aubert would go far. -Lemoyne's eyes were pleading mutely--for the one ground of defence, the -one chance for his client's life. But Lemoyne did not need to plead--for -that! They must not hang the man! They were waiting--for his answer. -Still the silence held. And then Raymond raised his right hand solemnly. - -“As God is my judge,” he said, “I firmly believe that the man is telling -the truth.” - -Benches creaked, there was the rustle of garments, a sort of unanimous -and involuntary long-drawn sigh; and it seemed to Raymond that, as all -eyes turned on the prisoner, they held a kindlier and more tolerant -light. And then, as he walked back to the other witnesses and took his -seat, he heard the crown prosecutor speak--as though disposing of the -matter in blunt disdain: - -“The prosecution rests.” - -Valérie laid her hand over his. - -“I am so glad--so glad you said that,” she whispered. - -Monsieur Dupont leaned forward, and clucked his tongue very softly. - -“Hah, Monsieur le Curé!” He wagged his head indulgently. “Well, I -suppose you could not help it--eh? No, you could not. I have told you -before that you are too soft-hearted.” - -There were two witnesses for the defence--Doctor Arnaud's two -fellow-practitioners in Tournayville. Their testimony was virtually -that of Doctor Arnaud in cross-examination. To each of them the crown -prosecutor put the same question--and only one. Was the prisoner insane? -Each answered in the negative. - -And then, a moment later, Lemoyne, rising to sum up for the defence, -walked soberly forward to the jury-box, and halted before the twelve -men. - -“Gentlemen of the jury,” he began quietly, “you have heard the -professional testimony of three doctors, one of them a witness for the -prosecution, who all agree that the wound received by the prisoner might -result in loss of memory. You have heard the testimony of that good man, -the curé of St. Marleau, who gave his days and nights to the care and -nursing of the one whose life, gentlemen, now lies in your hands; you -have heard him declare in the most solemn and impressive manner that he -believed the prisoner had no remembrance, no recollection of the night -on which the crime was committed. Who should be better able to form -an opinion as to whether, as the prosecution pretends, the prisoner is -playing a part, or as to whether he is telling the truth, than the one -who has been with him from that day to this, and been with him in the -most intimate way, more than any one else? And I ask you, too, to weigh -well and remember the character of the man, whom his people call the -good, young Father Aubert, who has so emphatically testified to this -effect. His words were not lightly spoken, and they were pure in -motive. You have heard other witnesses--all witnesses for the defence, -gentlemen--assert that they have seen nothing, heard nothing, that would -indicate that the prisoner was playing a part. Gentlemen, every scrap -of evidence that has been introduced but goes to substantiate the -prisoner's story. Is it possible, do you believe for an instant, that a -man could with his first conscious breath assume such a part, and, sick -and wounded and physically weak, play it through without a slip, or -sign, or word, or act that would so much as hint at duplicity? But that -is not all. Gentlemen, I will ask you to come with me in thought to a -scene that occurred this morning an hour before this trial began, and I -would that the gift of words were mine to make you see that scene as I -saw it.” He turned and swept out his hand toward the prisoner. “That man -was in his cell, on his knees beside his cot. He did not look up as I -entered, and I did not disturb him. We were alone together there. After -a few minutes he raised his head. There was agony in his face such as -I have never seen before on a human countenance. I spoke to him then. -I told him that professional confidence was sacred, I warned him of the -peril in which he stood, I pleaded with him to help me save his life, to -tell me all, everything, not to tie my hands. Gentlemen of the jury, do -you know his answer? It was a simple one--and spoken as simply. 'When -you came in I was asking God to give me back my memory before it was too -late.' That is what he said, gentlemen.” - -There were tears in Lemoyne's eyes--there were tears in other eyes -throughout the courtroom. There was a cry in Raymond's heart that went -out to Le-moyne. He had not failed! He had not failed! Le-moyne had not -failed! - -“Gentlemen, he did not know.” Lemoyne's voice rose now in impassioned -pleading--and he spoke on with that eloquence that is born only of -conviction and in the soul. It was the picture of the man's helplessness -he drew; the horror of an innocent man entangled in seemingly -incontrovertible evidence, and doomed to a frightful death. He played -upon the emotions with a master touch--and as the minutes passed sobs -echoed back from every quarter of the room--and in the jury box men -brushed their hands across their eyes. And at the end he was very quiet -again, and his words were very low. - -“Gentlemen of the jury, I believe in my soul that this man is innocent. -I ask you to believe that he is innocent. I ask you to believe that if -he could tell of the events of that night he would stand before you a -martyr to a cruel chain of circumstance. And I ask you to remember the -terrible responsibility that rests upon you of passing judgment upon a -man, helpless, impotent, and alone, and who, deprived of all means of -self-defence, has only you to look to--for his life.” - -There was buoyancy in Raymond's heart. Lemoyne had not failed! He had -been magnificent--triumphant! Even the judge was fumbling awkwardly with -the papers on his desk. What did it matter now what the crown prosecutor -might say? No one doubted perhaps that the man was guilty, but the spell -that Lemoyne had cast would remain, and there would be mercy. A chill -came, a chill like death--if it were not so, what would he have to face! - -“Gentlemen of the jury”--the crown prosecutor was speaking now--“I -should do less than justice to my learned friend if I did not admit that -I was affected by his words; but I should also do less than justice to -the laws of this land, to you, and to myself if I did not tell you that -emotion has no place in the consideration of this case, and that fact -alone must be the basis of your verdict. I shall not keep you long. I -have only a few words to say. The court will instruct you that if the -prisoner is sane he is accountable to the law for his crime. We are -concerned, not with his loss of memory, though my learned friend has -made much of that, but with his sanity. The court will also instruct -you on that point. I shall not, therefore, discuss the question of the -prisoner's mental condition, except to recall to your minds that the -medical testimony has been unanimous in declaring that the accused -is not insane; and except to say that, in so far as loss of memory is -concerned, it is plainly evident that he was in full possession of -all his faculties at the time the murder was committed, and that I am -personally inclined to share the opinion of his accomplice in crime--a -man, gentlemen, whom we may safely presume is even a better judge of the -prisoner's character than is the curé of St. Marleau--who, from the note -you have heard read, has certainly no doubt that the prisoner is not -only quite capable of attempting such a deception, but is actually -engaged in practising it at the present moment. - -“I pass on to the facts' brought out by the evidence. On the night -of the crime, a man answering the general description of the prisoner -arrived at the St. Marleau station. It was a night when one, and -especially a stranger, would naturally be glad of company on the -three-mile walk to the village. The man refused the company of the curé. -Why? He, as it later appears, had very good reasons of his own! It was -such a night that it would be all one would care to do to battle against -the wind without being hampered by a travelling bag. He refused the -station agent's offer to keep the bag until morning and send it over -with the curé's trunk. Why? It is quite evident, in view of what -followed, that he did not expect to be there the next morning! He -drew from the station agent, corroborating presumably the information -previously obtained either by himself or this unknown accomplice, the -statement that Madame Blondin was believed to have a large sum of money -hidden away somewhere in her house. That was the man, gentlemen, who -answers the general description of the prisoner. Within approximately -half an hour later Madame Blondin's house is robbed, and, in an effort -to protect his mother's property, Théophile Blondin is shot and killed. -The question perhaps arises as to how the author of this crime knew the -exact hiding place where the money was kept. But it is not material, in -as much as we know that he was in a position to be in possession of that -knowledge. He might have been peering in through the window when Madame -Blondin, as she testified, was at the hiding place a few minutes before -he broke into her house--or his accomplice, still unapprehended, may, as -I have previously intimated, already have discovered it. - -“And now we pass entirely out of the realm of conjecture. You have -heard the testimony of the murdered man's mother, who both saw and -participated in the struggle. The man who murdered Théophile Blondin, -who was actually seen to commit the act, is identified as the prisoner -at the bar. He was struck over the head by Madame Blondin with a stick -of wood, which inflicted a serious wound. We can picture him running -from the house, after Madame Blondin rushed out toward the village to -give the alarm. He did not, however, get very far--he was himself too -badly hurt. He was found lying unconscious on the road a short distance -away. Again the identification is complete--and in his pocket is found -the motive for the crime, Madame Blondin's savings--and in his pocket -is found the weapon, Théophile Blondin's revolver, with which the murder -was committed. Gentlemen, I shall not take up your time, or the time of -this court needlessly. No logical human being could doubt the prisoner's -guilt for an instant. I ask you, gentlemen of the jury, to return a -verdict in accordance with the evidence.” - -Raymond did not look up, as the crown prosecutor sat down. “No logical -human being could doubt the prisoner's guilt for an instant.” That was -true, wasn't it? No human being--save only _one_. Well, he had expected -that--it was even a tribute to his own quick wit. Puppets! Yes, -puppets--they were all puppets--all but himself. But if there was guilt, -there was also mercy. They would show mercy to a man who could not -remember. How many times had he said that to himself! Well, he had been -right, hadn't he? He had more reason to believe it now than he had -had to believe it before. Lemoyne had, beyond the shadow of a doubt, -convinced every one in the courtroom that the man could not remember. - -“Order! Attention! Silence!” rapped out the clerk pompously. - -The judge had turned in his seat to face the jury. - -“Gentlemen of the jury,” he said impassively, “it is my province to -instruct you in the law as it applies to this case, and as it applies -to the interpretation of the evidence before you. There must be no -confusion in your minds as to the question of the prisoner's mental -condition. The law does not hold accountable, nor does it bring to trial -any person who is insane. The law, however, does not recognise loss of -memory as insanity. There has been no testimony to indicate that the -prisoner is insane, or even that he was not in an entirely normal -condition of mind at the time the crime was committed; there has been -the testimony of three physicians that he is not insane. You have -therefore but one thing to consider. If, from the evidence, you believe -that the prisoner killed Théophile Blondin, it is your duty to bring in -a verdict of guilty; on the other hand, the prisoner is entitled to the -benefit of any reasonable doubt as to his guilt that may exist in your -minds. You may retire, gentlemen, for your deliberations.” - -There was a hurried, whispered consultation amongst the twelve men in -the jury box. It brought Raymond no surprise that the jury did not leave -the room. It brought him no surprise that the figure with the thin, pale -face, who was dressed in Raymond Chapelle's clothes, should be ordered -to stand and face those twelve men, and hear the word “guilty” fall from -the foreman's lips. He had known it, every one had known it--it was the -judge now, that white-haired, kindly-faced man, upon whom he riveted his -attention. A sentence for life... yes, that was terrible enough... but -there was a way... there would be some way in the days to come... he had -fastened this crime upon a dead man to save his own life... not on this -living one whose eyes now he could not meet across the room, though -he could feel them upon him, feel them staring, staring at his naked -soul... he would find some way... there would be time, there was all -of time in a sentence for life... he would not desert the man, he -would----- - -“Henri Mentone”--the judge was speaking again--“you have been found -guilty by a jury of your peers of the murder of one Théophile Blondin. -Have you anything to say why the sentence of this court should not be -passed upon you?” - -There was no answer. What was the man doing? Was he crying? Trembling? -Was there that old nameless horror in the face? Were his lips quivering -as a child's lips quiver when it is broken-hearted? Raymond dared -not look; dared not look anywhere now save at the white-haired, -kindly-faced--yes, he was kindly-faced--judge. And then suddenly he -found himself swaying weakly, and his shoulder bumped into old Mother -Blondin. Not that--great God--not that! That kindly-faced man was -putting a _black hat_ on his head, and standing up. Everybody was -standing up. He, too, was standing up, only he was not steady on his -feet. Was Valérie's hand on his arm in nervous terror, or to support -him! Some one was speaking. The words were throbbing through his brain. -Yes, throbbing--throbbing and clanging like hammer blows--that was why -he could not hear them all. - -“... the sentence of this court... place of confinement... thence to the -place of execution... hanged by the neck until you are dead, and may God -have mercy on your soul.” - -And then Raymond looked; and through the solemn silence, and through the -doom that hung upon the room, there came a cry. It was Henri Mentone. -The man's hands were stretched out, the tears were streaming down -his cheeks. And was this mockery--or a joke of hell! Then why did not -everybody howl and scream with mirth! The man was calling upon himself -to save himself! No, no--he, Raymond, was going mad to call it mockery -or mirth. It was ghastly, horrible, pitiful beyond human understanding, -it tore at the heart and the soul--the man was doing what that Figure -upon the Cross had once been bade to do--his own name was upon his own -lips, he was calling upon himself to save himself. And the voice in -agony rang through the crowded room, and people sobbed. - -“Father--Father Francois Aubert, help me, do not leave me! I do not -know--I do not understand. Father--_Father François Aubert_, help me--I -do not understand!” - -And Raymond, groping out behind him, flung his arm across the back of -the bench, and, sinking down, his head fell forward, and his face was -hidden. - -“_Tiens_,” said Mother Blondin sullenly, as though forced to admit it -against her will, “he has a good heart, even if he is a priest.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII--THE COMMON CUP - -|IT seemed as though it were an immeasurable span of time since that -voice had rung through the courtroom. He could hear it yet--he was -hearing it always. “Father--Father François Aubert--help me--I do not -know--I do not understand.” And sometimes it was pitiful beyond that -of any human cry before; and sometimes it was dominant in its ghastly -irony. And yet that was only yesterday, and it was only the afternoon of -the next day now. - -There were wild roses, and wild raspberries growing here along the side -of the road, and the smoke wreathed upward from the chimneys of the -whitewashed cottages, and the water lapped upon the shore--these things -were unchanged, undisturbed, unaffected, untouched. It seemed curiously -improper that it should be so--that the sense of values was somehow -lost. - -He had come from the courtroom with his brain in a state of numbed -shock, as it were, like a wound that has taken the nerve centres by -surprise and had not yet begun to throb. It was instinct, the instinct -to fight on, the instinct of self-preservation that had bade him grope -his way to Lemoyne, the counsel for the defence. “I have friends who -have money,” he had said. “Appeal the case--spare no effort--I will see -that the expenses are met.” And after that he had driven back to St. -Marleau, and after that again he had lived through a succession of -blurred hours, obeying mechanically a sense of routine--he had talked to -the villagers, he had eaten supper with Valérie and her mother, he -had gone to bed and lain awake, he had said mass in the church that -morning--mass! - -Was it the heat of the day! His brow was feverish. He took off his hat, -and turned to let the breeze from the river fan his face and head. It -was only this afternoon, a little while ago, that he had emerged from -that numbed stupor, and now the hurt and the smarting of the wound had -come. His brain was clear now--_terribly_ clear. Better that the stupor, -which was a kindly thing, had remained! He had said mass that morning. -“_Lavabo inter innocentes manus meas_--I will wash my hands among the -innocent.” In the sight of holy God, he had said that; at God's holy -altar as he had spoken, symbolising his words, he had washed his fingers -in water. It had not seemed to matter so much then, he had even mocked -cynically at those same words the night that Madame Lafleur had shown -him the altar cloth--but that other voice, those other words had -not been pounding at his ears then, as now. And now they were joined -together, his voice and that other voice, his words and those other -words: “I will wash my hands among the innocent--hanged by the neck -until you are dead, and may God have mercy on your soul.” - -He stood by the roadside hatless. Through the open doorway of a -cottage a few yards away he could see old grandmother Frenier, who was -exceedingly poor, and deaf, and far up in the eighties, contentedly at -work with her spinning-wheel; on the shore, where the tide was half -out and the sand of the beach had merged into oozy mud, two bare-footed -children overturned the rocks of such size as were not beyond their -strength, laughing gleefully as they captured the sea-worms, whose -nippers could pinch with no little degree of ferocity, and with which, -later, no doubt, they intended to fish for tommy-cods; also there was -sunlight, and sparkling water, and some one driving along the road -toward him in a buckboard; and he could hear Bouchard in the carpenter -shop alternately hammering and whistling--the whistling was out of tune, -it was true, but what it lacked in melody it made up in spirit. This was -reality, this was actuality, happiness and peace, and contentment, and -serenity; and he, standing here on the road, was an integral part of the -scene--no painter would leave out the village curé standing hatless -on the road--the village curé would, indeed, stand out as the central -figure, like a benediction upon all the rest. Why then should he not in -truth, as in semblance, enter into this scene of tranquillity? Where did -they come from, those words that were so foreign to all about him, where -had they found birth, and why were they seared into his brain so that -he could not banish them? Surely they were but an hallucination--he had -only to look around him to find evidence of that. Surely they had no -basis in fact, those words--“hanged by the neck until you are dead, and -may God have mercy on your soul.” - -They seemed to fade slowly away, old grandmother Frenier and her -spinning-wheel, and the children puddling in the mud, and the buckboard -coming along the road; and he no longer heard the whistling from the -carpenter shop--it seemed to fade out like a picture on a cinema -screen, while another crept there, at first intangible and undefined, -to supplant the first. It was sombre and dark, and a narrow space, and -a shadowy human form. Then there came a ray of light--sunlight, only -the gladness and the brightness were not in the sunlight because it had -first to pass through an opening where there were iron bars. But the ray -of light, nevertheless, grew stronger, and the picture took form. There -were bare walls, and bare floors, and a narrow cot--and it was a cell. -And the shadowy form became more distinct--it was a man, whose back -was turned, who stood at the end of the cell, and whose hands were each -clutched around one of the iron bars, and who seemed to be striving to -thrust his head out into the sunlight, for his head, too, was pressed -close against the iron bars. And there was something horribly familiar -in the figure. And then the head turned slowly, and the sunlight, that -was robbed of its warmth and its freedom, slanted upon a pale cheek, and -ashen lips, and eyes that were torture-burned; and the face was the face -of the man who was--to be hanged by the neck until he was dead, and upon -whose soul that voice had implored the mercy of God. - -Raymond stared at his hat which was lying in the road. How had it got -there? He did not remember that he had dropped it. He had been holding -it in his hand. This buckboard that was approaching would run over it. -He stooped and picked it up, and mechanically began to brush away the -dust. That figure in the buckboard seemed to be familiar, too. Yes, of -course, it was Monsieur Dupont, the assistant chief of the Tournayville -police--the man who always answered his own questions, and clucked with -his tongue as though he were some animal learning to talk. But Monsieur -Dupont mattered little now. It was not old grandmother Frenier and her -spinning-wheel that was reality--it was Father François Aubert in the -condemned cell of the Tournayville jail, waiting to be hanged by the -neck until he was dead for the murder of Théophile Blondin. - -Raymond put on his hat with forced calmness. He must settle this with -himself; he could not afford to lose his poise--either mentally or -physically. He laid no claim to the heroic or to the quixotic--he did -not want to die in the stead of that man, or in the stead of any other -man. Neither was he a coward--no man had ever called Raymond Chapelle, -or Arthur Leroy, or Three-Ace Artie a coward. He was a gambler--and -there was still a chance. There was the appeal. He was gambling now for -both their lives. He would lay down no hand, he would fight as he had -always fought--to the end--while a chance remained. There was still -a chance--the appeal. It was long odds, he knew that--but it was a -chance--and he was a gambler. He could only wait now for the turn of the -final card. He would not tolerate consideration beyond that point--not -if with all his might he could force his brain to leave that -“afterwards” alone. It was weeks yet to the date set for the execution -of Henri Mentone for the murder of Théophile Blondin, and it would -be weeks yet before the appeal was acted upon. He could only wait -now--here--here in St. Marleau, as the good young Father Aubert. He -could not run away, or disappear, like a pitiful coward, until -that appeal had had its answer. Afterwards--no, there was no -“afterwards”--not _now!_ Now, it was the ubiquitous Monsieur Dupont, the -short little man with the sharp features, and the roving black eyes that -glanced everywhere at once, who was calling to him, and clambering out -of the buckboard. - -“You are surprised to see me, eh, Monsieur le Curé?” clucked Monsieur -Dupont. “Yes, you are surprised. Very well! But what would you say, eh, -if I told you that I had come to arrest Monsieur le Curé of St. Marleau? -Eh--what would you say to that?” - -Arrest! Curious, the cold, calculating alertness that swept upon him at -that word! What had happened? - -Was the game up--now? Curious, how he measured appraisingly--and almost -contemptuously--the physique of this man before him. And then, under his -breath, he snarled an oath at the other. Curse Monsieur Dupont and his -perverted sense of humour! It was not the first time Monsieur Dupont had -startled him. Monsieur Dupont was grinning broadly--like an ape! - -“I imagine,” said Raymond placidly, “that what I would say, Monsieur -Dupont, would be to inquire as to the nature of the charge against -Monsieur le Curé of St. Marleau.” - -“And I,” said Monsieur Dupont, “would at once reply--assault. -Assault--bodily harm and injury--assault upon the person of one Jacques -Bourget.” - -“Oh!” said Raymond--and smiled. “Yes, I believe there have been rumours -of it in the village, Monsieur Dupont. Several have spoken to me about -it, and I even understand that the Curé of St. Marleau pleads guilty.” - -And then Monsieur Dupont puckered up his face, and burst into a guffaw. - -“_'Cré nom_--ah, pardon--but it is excusable, one bad little word, -eh? Yes, it is excusable. But imagine--fancy! The good, young Father -Aubert--and Jacques Bourget! I would have liked to have seen it. Yes, -I would! Monsieur le Curé, you do not look it, but you are magnificent. -Monsieur le Curé, I lift my hat to you. _Bon Dieu_--ah, pardon -again--but you were not gentle with Jacques Bourget, whom one would -think could eat you alive! And you told me nothing about it--you are -modest, eh? Yes, you are modest.” - -“I have had no opportunity to be modest.” Raymond laughed, “since, so -I understand, Bourget encountered some of the villagers on his way home -that afternoon, and gave me a reputation that, to say the least of it, -left me with little to be modest about.” - -“I believe you,” chuckled Monsieur Dupont. “I believe you, Monsieur -le Curé, since I, too, got the story from Jacques Bourget himself. -He desired to swear out a warrant for your arrest. You have not seen -Bourget for several days, eh, Monsieur le Curé? No, you have not seen -him. But I know very well how to handle such as he! He will swear out -no warrant. On the contrary, he would very gladly feed out of anybody's -hand just now--even yours, Monsieur le Curé. I have the brave Jacques -Bourget in jail at the present moment.” - -“In jail?” Raymond's puzzled frown was genuine. “But----” - -“Wait a minute, Monsieur le Curé”--Monsieur Dupont's smile was suddenly -gone. He tapped Raymond impressively on the shoulder. “There is more in -this than appears on the surface, Monsieur le Curé. You see? Yes, -you see. Well then, listen! He talked no longer of a warrant when I -threatened him with arrest for getting whisky at Mother Blondin's. I had -him frightened. And that brings us to Mother Blondin, which is one -of the reasons I am here this afternoon--but we will return to Mother -Blondin's case in a moment. You remember, eh, that I caught Bourget -driving on the road the night Mentone tried to escape, and that I made -him drive the prisoner to Tournayville? Yes, you remember. Very good! -This morning his wife comes to Tournayville to say that he has not been -seen since that night. We make a search. He is not hard to find. He has -been drunk ever since--we find him in a room over one of the saloons -just beginning to get sober again. Also, we find that since that night -Bourget, who never has any money, has spent a great deal of money. Where -did Bourget get that money? You begin to see, eh, Monsieur le Curé? Yes, -you begin to see.” Monsieur Dupont laid his forefinger sagaciously along -the side of his nose. “Very good! I begin to question. I am instantly -suspicious. Bourget is very sullen and morose. He talks only of a -warrant against you. I seize upon that story again to threaten him with, -if he does not tell where he got the money. I put him in jail, where -I shall keep him for two or three days to teach him a lesson before -letting him go. It is another Bourget, a very lamblike Bourget, Monsieur -le Curé, before I am through; though I have to promise him immunity for -turning king's evidence. Do you see what is coming, Monsieur le Curé? -No, you do not. Most certainly you do not! Very well then, listen! I am -on the track of Mentone's accomplice. Bourget was in the plot. It was -Bourget who was to drive Mentone away that night--to the St. Eustace -station--after they had throttled you. Now, Monsieur le Curé”--Monsieur -Dupont's eyes were afire; Monsieur Dupont assumed an attitude; Monsieur -Dupont's arms wrapped themselves in a fold upon his breast--“now, -Monsieur le Curé, what do you say to that?” - -“It is amazing!”--Raymond's hands, palms outward, were lifted in a -gesture eminently clerical. “Amazing! I can hardly credit it. Bourget -then knows who this accomplice is?” - -“No--_tonnerre_--that is the bad luck of it!” scowled Monsieur Dupont. -“But there is also good luck in it. I am on the scent. I am on the -trail. I shall succeed, shall I not? Yes, certainly, I shall succeed. -Very well then, listen! It was dark that night. The man went to -Bourget's house and called Bourget outside. Bourget could not see what -the fellow looked like. He gave Bourget fifty dollars, and promised -still another fifty as soon as Bourget had Mentone in the wagon. And it -was on your account, Monsieur le Curé, that he went to Bourget.” - -Raymond was incredulous. - -“On mine?” he gasped. - -“Yes, certainly--on yours. It was to offer Bourget a chance to revenge -himself on you. You see, eh? Yes, you see. He said he had heard of -what you had done to Bourget. Very well! We have only to analyse that a -little, and instantly we have a clue. You see where that brings us, eh, -Monsieur le Curé?” Raymond shook his head. - -“No, I must confess, I don't,” he said. - -“Hah! No? _Tiens!_” ejaculated Monsieur Dupont almost pityingly. “It -is easy to be seen, Monsieur le Curé, that you would make a very poor -police officer, and an equally poor criminal--the law would have its -fingers on you while you were wondering what to do. It is so, is it not? -Yes, it is so. You are much better as a priest. As a priest--I pay -you the compliment, Monsieur le Curé--you are incomparable. Very good! -Listen, then! I will explain. The fellow said he had heard of your fight -with Bourget. Splendid! Excellent! He must then have heard of it from -_some one_. Therefore he has been seen in the neighbourhood by some one -besides Bourget. Who is that 'some one' who has talked with a stranger, -and who can very likely tell us what that stranger looks like, where -Bourget cannot? I do not say that it is certain, but that it is likely. -It may not have been so dark when he talked to this 'some one'--eh? In -any case it is enough to go on. Now, you see, Monsieur le Curé, why I am -here--I shall begin to question everybody; and for your part, Monsieur -le Curé, you can do a great deal in letting the parish know what we are -after.” - -Raymond looked at Monsieur Dupont with admiration. Monsieur Dupont had -set himself another “vigil”! - -“Without doubt, Monsieur Dupont!” he assured the other heartily. -“Certainly, I will do my utmost to help you. I will have a notice posted -on the church door.” - -“Good!” cried Monsieur Dupont, with a gratified smile. “And now another -matter--and one that will afford you satisfaction, Monsieur le Curé. -In a day or so, I will see that Mother Blondin is the source of no more -trouble in St. Marleau--or anywhere else.” - -“Mother Blondin?” repeated Raymond--and now he was suddenly conscious -that he was in some way genuinely disturbed. - -“Yes,” said Monsieur Dupont. “Twice in the past we have searched her -place. We knew she sold whisky. But she was too sharp for us--and those -who bought knew how to keep their mouths shut. But with Bourget as a -witness, it is different, eh? You see? Yes, you see. She is a fester, -a sore. We will clean up the place; we will put her in jail. The air -around here will be the sweeter for it, and----” - -“No,” said Raymond soberly. “No, Monsieur Dupont”--his hands reached -out and clasped on Monsieur Dupont's shoulders. He knew now what was -disturbing him. It was that surge of pity for the proscribed old woman, -that sense of miserable distress that he had experienced more than once -before. The scene of that morning, when she had clung to the palings of -the fence outside the graveyard while they shovelled the earth upon the -coffin of her son, rose vividly before him. And it was he again who was -bringing more trouble upon her now through his dealings with Jacques -Bourget. Yes, it was pity--and more. It was a swiftly matured, but none -the less determined, resolve to protect her. “No, Monsieur Dupont, I beg -of you”--he shook his head gravely--“no, Monsieur Dupont, you will not -do that.” - -“Heh! No? And why not?” demanded Monsieur Dupont in jerky astonishment. -“I thought you would ask for nothing better. She is already an -_excommuniée_, and-----” - -“And she has suffered enough,” said Raymond earnestly. “It would seem -that sorrow and misery had been the only life she had ever known. She is -too old a woman now to have her home taken from her, and herself sent -to jail. She is none too well, as it is. It would kill her. A little -sympathy, a little kindness, Monsieur Dupont--it will succeed far -better.” - -“Bah!” sniffed Monsieur Dupont. “A little sympathy, a little kindness! -And will that stop the whisky selling that the law demands shall be -stopped, Monsieur le Curé?” - -“I will guarantee that,” said Raymond calmly. - -“You!” Monsieur Dupont clucked vigorously with his tongue. “You will -stop that! And besides other things, do you perform miracles, Monsieur -le Curé? How will you do that?” - -“You must leave it to me”--Raymond's hands tightened in friendly fashion -on Monsieur Dupont's shoulders--“I will guarantee it. If that is a -miracle, I will attempt it. If I do not succeed I will tell you so, and -then you will do as you see fit. You will agree, will you not, Monsieur -Dupont?--and I shall be deeply grateful to you.” - -Monsieur Dupont shrugged his shoulders helplessly. - -“I have to tell you again that you are too soft-hearted, Monsieur le -Curé. Yes, there is no other name for it--soft-hearted. And you will be -made a fool of. I warn you! Well--very well! Try it, if you like. I -give you a week. If at the end of a week--well, you understand? Yes, you -understand.” - -“I understand,” said Raymond; and, with a final dap on Monsieur Dupont's -shoulders, he dropped his hands. “And I am of the impression that -Monsieur le Curé is not the only one who is--soft-hearted.” - -“Bah! Nothing of the sort! Nothing of the sort!” snorted Monsieur Dupont -in a sort of pleased repudiation, as he climbed back into the buckboard. -“It is only to open your eyes.” He picked up the reins. “I shall spend -the rest of the day around here on that other business. Do not forget -about the notice, Monsieur le Curé.” - -“It shall be posted on the church door this afternoon,” Raymond -promised. - -He stood for a moment looking after Monsieur Dupont, as the other drove -off; and then, turning abruptly, he walked rapidly along in the opposite -direction, and, reaching the station road that led past old Mother -Blondin's door, began to climb the hill. Yes, decidedly he would post -a notice on the church door for Monsieur Dupont! If in any way he could -aid Monsieur Dupont to lay hands on this accomplice of Henri Mentone, -he--the derision that had crept to his lips faded away, and into the -dark eyes came a sudden weariness. There was humour doubtless in the -picture of Monsieur Dupont buttonholing every one he met, as he flitted -indefatigably all over the country in pursuit for his mare's nest; but, -somehow, he, Raymond, was not in the mood for laughter--for even a grim -laughter. - -There was a man waiting to be hanged; and, besides the man waiting to be -hanged, there was--Valérie. - -There was Valérie who, come what would, some day, near or distant, -whether he escaped or not, must inevitably know him finally for the man -he was. Not that it would change her life, it was only those devils of -hell who tried to insinuate that she cared; but to him it was a thought -pregnant with an agony so great that he could _pray_--he who had thought -never to bow the knee in sincerity to God--yes, that he could pray, -without mimicry, without that hideous profanation upon his lips, that -he might not stand despised, a contemptuous thing, a sacrilegious -profligate, in the eyes of the woman whom he loved. - -He clenched his hands. He was not logical. If he cared so much as that -why--no, here was specious argument! He _was_ logical. His love for -Valerie, great as it might be, great as it was, in the final analysis -was hopeless. If he escaped, he could never return to the village, he -could never return to her--to be recognised as the good, young Father -Aubert; if he did not escape, if he--no, that was the “afterwards,” - he would not consent to think of that--only if he did not escape there -would be more than the hopelessness of this love to concern him, there -would be death. Yes, he was logical. The love he knew for Valérie was -but to mock him, to tantalise him with a vista of what, under other -circumstances, he might have claimed by right of his manhood's -franchise--if he had not, years ago, from a boy almost, bartered away -that franchise to the devil. Well, was he to whimper now, and turn, like -a craven thing, from the bitter dregs that, while the cup was still full -and the dregs yet afar off, he had held in bald contempt and incredulous -raillery! The dregs were here now. They were not bitter on his -lips, they were bitter in his soul; they were bitter almost beyond -endurance--but was he to whimper! Yes, he was logical. - -All else might be hopeless; but it was not hopeless that he might save -his life. He had a right to fight for that, and he would fight for it as -any man would fight--to the last. - -He had climbed the hill now, and was approaching old Mother Blondin's -door. Logical! Yes, he was logical--but life was not all logic. In the -abstract logic was doubtless a panacea that was all-embracing; in the -presence of the actual it shrank back a futile thing from the dull -gnawing of the heart and the misery of the soul. Perhaps that was why -he was standing here at Mother Blondin's door now. God knew, she was -miserable enough; God knew, that the dregs too were now at her lips! -They were not unlike--old Mother Blon-din and himself. Theirs was a -common cup. - -He knocked upon the door--and, as he knocked, he caught sight of the -old woman's shrivelled face peering at him none too pleasantly from the -window. And then her step, sullen and reluctant, crossed the floor, -and she held the door open grudgingly a little way; and the space thus -opened she blocked completely with her body. - -“What do you want?” she demanded sourly. - -“I would like to come in, Madame Blondin,” Raymond answered pleasantly. -“I would like to have a little talk with you.” - -“Well, you can't come in!” she snarled defiantly. “I don't want to talk -to you, and I don't want you coming here! It is true I may have been -fool enough to say you had a good heart, but I want nothing to do with -you. You are perhaps not as bad as some of them; but you are all full of -tricks with your smirking mouths! No priest would come here if he were -not up to something. I am an _excommuniée_--eh? Well, I am satisfied!” - Her voice was beginning to rise shrilly. “I don't know what you want, -and I don't want to know; but you can't wheedle around me just because -Jacques Bourget knocked me down, and you----” - -“It is on account of Jacques Bourget that I want to speak to you,” - Raymond interposed soothingly. “Bourget has been locked up in jail.” - -She stared at him, blinking viciously behind her glasses. - -“Ah! I thought so! That is like the whole tribe of you! You had him -arrested!” - -“No,” said Raymond. “I did not have him arrested. You remember the note -that was read out at the trial, Madame Blcndin--about the attempted -escape of Henri Mentone?” - -“Well?”--Madame Blondin's animosity at the sight of a _soutane_ was -forgotten for the moment in a newly aroused interest. “Well--what of it? -I remember! What of it?” - -“It seems,” said Raymond, “that Monsieur Dupont has discovered that -Bourget was to help in the escape.” - -Madame Blondin cackled suddenly in unholy mirth. “And so they arrested -him, eh? Well, I am glad! Do you hear? I am glad! I hope they wring his -neck for him! He would help the murderer of my son to escape, would he? -I hope they hang him with the other!” - -“They will not hang him,” Raymond replied. “He has given all the -information in his possession to the police, and he is to go free. But -it was because of that afternoon here that he was persuaded to help in -the escape. He expected to revenge himself on me: and that story, too, -Madame Blondin, is now known to the police. Bourget has confessed to -buying whisky here, and is ready to testify as a witness against you.” - -“_Le maudit!_” Mother Blondin's voice rose in a virulent scream. “I will -tear his eyes out! Do you hear? I will show Jacques Bourget what he will -get for telling on me! He has robbed me! He never pays! Well, he will -pay for this! He will pay for this! I will find some one who will cut -his tongue out! They are not all like Jacques Bourget, they are----” - -“You do not quite understand, Madame Blondin,” Raymond interrupted -gravely. “It is not with Jacques Bourget that you are concerned now, -it is with the police. Monsieur Dupont came to the village this -afternoon--indeed, he is here now. He said he had evidence enough at -last to close up this place and put you in jail, and that he was going -to do so. You are in a very serious situation, Madame Blondin”--he made -as though to step forward--“will you not let me come in, as a friend, -and talk it over with you, and see what we can do?” - -Mother Blondin's hand was like a claw in its bony thinness, as it -gripped hard over the edge of the door. - -“No, you will not come in!” she shouted. “You, or your Monsieur Dupont, -or the police--you will not come in! Eh--they will take my home from -me--all I've got--they will put me in jail”--she was twisting her head -about in a sort of pitiful inventory of her surroundings. “They have -been trying to run me out of St. Marleau for a long time--all the _good_ -people, the saintly people--you, and your hypocrites. They cross to the -other side of the road to get out of old Mother Blondin's way! And so -at last, between you, you have beaten an old woman, who has no one to -protect her since you have killed her son! It is a victory--eh! Go -tell them to ring the church bells--go tell them--go tell them! And on -Sunday, eh, you will have something to preach about! It will make a fine -sermon!” - -And somehow there came a lump into Raymond's throat. There was something -fine in this wretched, tattered, unkempt figure before him--something of -the indomitable, of the unconquerable in her spirit, misapplied though -it was. Her voice fought bravely to hold its defiant, infuriated ring, -to show no sign of the misery that had stolen into the dim old eyes, -and was quivering on the wrinkled lips, but the voice had broken--once -almost in a sob. - -“No, no, Madame Blondin”--he reached out his hand impulsively to lay it -over the one that was clutched upon the door--“you must not----” - -She snatched her hand away--and suddenly thrust her head through the -partially open doorway into his face. - -“It is not Bourget, it is not Jacques Bourget!” she cried fiercely. “It -is you! If you had not come that afternoon when you had no business to -come, this would not have happened. It is you, who----” - -“That is true,” said Raymond quietly. “And that is why I am here now. -I have had a talk with Monsieur Dupont, and he will give you another -chance.” - -She still held her face close to his. - -“I do not believe you!” she flung out furiously. “I do not believe you! -It is some trick you are trying to play! I know Monsieur Dupont! I know -him! He would give no one a chance if he could help it! I have been too -much for him for a long time, and if he had evidence against me now he -would give me not a minute to sell any more of--of what he thinks I sell -here!” - -“That also is true,” said Raymond, as quietly as before. “He could not -very well permit you to go on breaking the law if he could prevent it. -But in exchange for his promise, I have given him a pledge that you will -not sell any more whisky.” - -She straightened up--and stared at him, half in amazement, half in -crafty suspicion. - -“Ah, then, so it is you, and not Monsieur Dupont, who is going to stop -it--eh?” she exclaimed, with a shrill laugh. “And how do you intend to -do it--eh? How do you intend to do it? Tell me that!” - -“I think it will be very simple,” said Raymond--and his dark eyes, full -of a kindly sympathy, looked into hers. “To save your home, and you, -I have pledged myself to Monsieur Dupont that this will stop, and -so--well, Madame Blondin, and so I have come to put you upon your honour -to make good my pledge.” She craned her head forward again to peer into -his face. She looked at him for a long minute without a word. Her -lips alternately tightened and were tremulous. The fingers of her -hand plucked at the door's edge. And then she threw back her head in a -quavering, jeering laugh. - -“Ha, ha! Old Mother Blondin upon her honour--think of that! You, a -smooth-tongued priest--and me, an _excommuniée!_ Ha, ha! Think of that! -And what did Monsieur Dupont say, eh--what did Monsieur Dupont say?” - -“He said what I know is not true,” said Raymond simply. “He said you -would make a fool of me.” - -“Ah, he said that!”--she jerked her head forward again sharply. “Well, -Monsieur Dupont is wrong, and you are right. I would not do that, -because I could not--since you have already made one of yourself! Ha, -ha! Old Mother Blondin upon her _honour!_ Ha, ha! It is a long while -since I have heard that--and from a priest--ha, ha! How could any one -make a fool of a fool!” Her voice was high-pitched again, fighting for -its defiance; but, somehow, where she strove to infuse venom, there -seemed only a pathetic wistfulness instead. “And so you would trust old -Mother Blondin--eh? Well”--she slammed the door suddenly in his face, -and her voice came muffled through the panels--“well, you are a fool!” - -The bolt within rasped into place--and Raymond, turned away, and began -to descend the hill. - -Mother Blondin for the moment was in the grip of a sullen pride that -bade her rise in arms against this fresh outlook on life; but Mother -Blondin would close and bolt yet another door, unless he was very -much mistaken--the rear door, and in the faces of her erstwhile and -unhallowed clientele! - -Yes, he had pity for the old woman who had no kin now, and who had no -friends. Pity! He owed her more than that! So then--there came a sudden -thought--so then, why not? He would not long be curé of St. Marleau, but -while he was--well, he was the curé of St. Marleau! He could not remove -the ban of excommunication, that was beyond the authority of a mere -curé, it would require at least Monsignor the Bishop to do that; but -he could remove the ban--of ostracism! Yes, decidedly, the good, young -Father Aubert could do that! He was vaguely conscious that there were -degrees of excommunication, and he seemed to remember that Valérie had -said it was but a minor one that had been laid upon Mother Blondin, and -that the villagers of their own accord had drawn more and more aloof. It -would, therefore, not be very difficult. - -He quickened his step, and, reaching the bottom of the hill, made his -way at once toward the carpenter shop. He could see Madame Bouchard -hoeing in the little garden patch between the road and the front of the -shop. It was Madame Bouchard that he now desired to see. - -“_Tiens! Bon jour_, Madame Bouchard!” he called out to her, as he -approached. “I am come a penitent! I did not deserve your bread! I am -sure that you are vexed with me! But I have not seen you since to thank -you.” - -She came forward to where Raymond now leaned upon the fence. - -“Oh, Monsieur le Curé!” she exclaimed laughingly. “How can you say such -things! Fancy! The idea! Vexed with you! It is only if you really liked -it?” - -“H'm!” drawled Raymond teasingly, pretending to deliberate. “When do you -bake again, Madame Bouchard?” - -She laughed outright now. - -“To-morrow, Monsieur le Curé--and I shall see that you are not -forgotten.” - -“It is a long way off--to-morrow,” said Raymond mournfully; and then, -with a quick smile: “But only one loaf this time, Madame Bouchard, -instead of two.” - -“Nonsense!” she returned. “It is a great pleasure. And what are two -little loaves!” - -“A great deal,” said Raymond, suddenly serious. “A very great deal, -Madame Bouchard; and especially so if you send one of the two loaves to -some one else that I know of.” - -“Some one else?” - -“Yes,” said Raymond. “To Mother Blondin.” - -“To--Mother Blondin!”--Madame Bouchard stared in utter amazement. -“But--but, Monsieur le Curé, you are not in earnest! She--she is an -_excommuniée_, and we--we do not----” - -“I think it would make her very glad,” said Raymond softly. “And Mother -Blondin I think has----” - -It was on the tip of his tongue to say that Mother Blondin was not -likely now to sell any more whisky at the tavern, but he checked -himself. It was Mother Blondin who must be left to tell of that herself. -If he spread such a tale, she would be more likely than not to rebel at -a situation which she would probably conceive was being thrust forcibly -down her throat; and, in pure spite at what she might also conceive to -be a self-preening and boastful spirit on his part for his superiority -over her, sell all the more, no matter what the consequences to herself. -And so he changed what he was about to say. “And Mother Blondin I think -has known but little gladness in her life.” - -“But--but, Monsieur le Curé,” she gasped, “what would the neighbours -say?” - -“I hope,” said Raymond, “that they would say they too would send her -loaves--of kindness.” - -Madame Bouchard leaned heavily upon her hoe. - -“It is many years, Monsieur le Curé, since almost I was a little girl, -that any one has willingly had anything to do with the old woman on the -hill.” - -“Yes,” said Raymond gently. “And will you think of that, Madame -Bouchard, when you bake to-morrow--the many years--and the few that are -left--for the old woman on the hill.” - -The tears had sprung to Madame Bouchard's eyes. He left her standing -there, leaning on the hoe. - -He went on along the road toward the _presbytère_. It had been a strange -afternoon--an illogical one, an imaginary one almost. It seemed to have -been a jumble of complexities, and incongruities, and unrealities--there -was the man who was to be hanged by the neck until he was dead; and -Monsieur Dupont who, through a very natural deduction and not because he -was a fool, for Monsieur Dupont was very far from a fool, was now vainly -engaged like a dog circling around in a wild effort to catch his own -tail; and there was Mother Blondin who had another window to gaze from; -and Madame Bouchard who had still another. Yes, it had been a strange -afternoon--only now that voice in the courtroom was beginning to ring -in his ears again. “Father--Father François Aubert--help me--I do not -understand.” And the gnawing was at his soul again, and again his hat -was lifted from his head to cool his fevered brow. - -And as he reached the church there came to him the sound of organ notes, -and instead of crossing to the _presbytère_ he stepped softly inside to -listen--it would be Valérie--Valérie, and Gauthier Beaulieu, the altar -boy, probably, who often pumped the organ for her when she was at -practice. But as he stepped inside the music ceased, and instead he -heard them talking in the gallery, and in the stillness of the church -their voices came to him distinctly. - -“Valérie”--yes, that was the boy's voice--“Valérie, why do they call him -the good, young Father Aubert?” - -“Such a question!” Valérie laughed. “Why do you call him that yourself?” - -“I don't--any more,” asserted the boy. “Not after what I saw at mass -this morning.” - -Raymond drew his breath in sharply. What was this! What was this that -Gauthier Beaulieu, the altar boy, had seen at mass! He had fooled the -boy--the boy could not have seen anything! He drew back, opening the -door cautiously. They were coming down the stairs now--but he must -hear--hear what it was that Gauthier Beaulieu had seen. - -“Why, what do you mean, Gauthier?” Valérie asked. - -“I mean what I say,” insisted the boy doggedly. “It is not right to call -him that! When he was kneeling there this morning, and I guess it was -the bright light because the stained window was open, for I never saw it -before, I saw his hair all specked with white around his temples. And -a man with white in his hair isn't young, is he! And I saw it, -Valérie--honest, I did!” - -“Your eyes should have been closed,” said Valérie. “And----” - -Raymond was crossing the green to the _presbytère_. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII--THE CALL IN THE NIGHT - -|IT was very dark here in the front room, and somehow the darkness -seemed tangible to the touch, like something oppressive, like the folds -of a pall that was spread over him, and which he could not thrust aside. -And it was still, and very quiet--save for the voices, and save that it -seemed he could hear that faltering, irregular step from the rear room, -where there was no longer any step to hear. - -Surely it would be daylight soon--the merciful daylight. The darkness -and the night were meant only for sleep, and it was an eternity since he -had slept--no, not an eternity, only a week--it was only a week since he -had slept. No, that was not true either--there had been hours, not many -of them, but there had been hours when his eyes had been closed and he -had not been conscious of his surroundings, but those hours had been -even more horrible than when he had tossed on his bed awake. They had -brought neither rest nor oblivion--they were full of dreams that were -hideous--and the dreams would not leave him when he was awake--and the -sleep when it came was a curse because the dreams remained to cast -an added blight upon his wakefulness--and he had come even to fight -against sleep and to resist it because the dreams remained. - -Dreams! There was always the dream of the Walled Place which--no! Not -that--_now!_ Not that! Yes! The dream of the Walled Place. See--it went -like this: He was in a sort of cavernous gloom in which he could not see -very distinctly, but he was obsessed with the knowledge that there were -hidden things from which he must escape. So he would run frantically -around and around, following four square walls which were so high that -the tops merged into the gloom; and the walls, as he touched them with -his hands, seeking an opening, were wet with a slime that grew upon -them. Then, looming out of the centre of this place, he would suddenly -see what it was that he was running away from. There was a form, a human -form, with something black over its head, that swayed to and fro, and -was suspended from a bar that reached across from one wall to another; -and on the top of this bar there roosted a myriad winged creatures like -gigantic bats, only their eyes blazed, and they had enormous claws--and -suddenly these vampires would rise with a terrifying crackling of their -wings, and shrill, abominable screams, and swirl and circle over him, -drawing nearer and nearer until his blood ran cold--and then, shrieking -like a maniac, he would run again around and around the walls, beating -at the slime until his hands bled. And the screaming things with -outstretched talons followed him, and he stumbled and fell, and fell -again, and shrieked out in his terror of these inhuman vultures that had -roosted above the swaying thing with the black-covered head--and just as -they were settling upon him there was an opening in the wall where there -had been no opening before, and with his last strength he struggled -toward it--and the way was blocked. The opening had become a gate that -was all studded with iron spikes which if he rushed upon it would impale -him, and which Valerie was closing--and as she closed it her head was -averted, and one hand was thrown across her eyes, its palm toward him, -as though she would not look upon his face. - -Raymond's hands were wet with perspiration. They slipped from the arms -of his chair, and hung downward at his sides. What time was it? It had -been midnight when he had risen fully dressed from his bed in the rear -room--that he occupied now that they had taken the man away to jail--and -had come in here to sit at the desk. Since then the clock had struck -many times, the half hours, and the hours. Ah--listen! It was striking -again. One--two--three! Three o'clock! It was still a long way off, -the daylight--the merciful daylight. The voices did not plague him so -constantly in the warmth of the sunshine. Three o'clock! It would be -five o'clock before the dawn came. - -They had changed, those voices, in the last week--at least there was -a new voice that had come, and an old one that did not recur so -insistently. “Father--Father François Aubert--help me--I do not -understand”--yes, that was still dinning forever in his ears; but, -instead of that voice which said some one was to be hanged by the neck -until dead, the new voice had quite a different thing to say. It was the -voice of the “afterwards.” Hark! There it was now: “What fine and subtle -shade of distinction is there between being hanged and imprisoned for -life; what difference does it make, what difference could it make, what -difference will it make--why do you temporise?” - -He had fought with all his strength against that “afterwards”--and it -was stronger than he. He could not evade the issue that was flung at -him, and flung again and again until his brain writhed in agony with it. -He was a gambler, but he was not a blind gambler. He did not want the -man to lose his life, or his freedom for all of life--he did not want -to lose his own life. While the appeal was pending _something_ might -happen, a thousand things might happen, there was always, always a -chance. He would not throw away that chance--only a fool who had lost -his nerve would do that. But he was not blind. The chance was one where -the odds against him staggered him--there was so little chance that, -fight as he would to escape it, logic and plain common sense had forced -upon him the “afterwards.” And these days while the appeal was pending -were like remorseless steps that led on and on to end only upon the -brink of a yawning chasm, whose depth and whose blackness were as the -depth and blackness of hell, and over which he sprang suddenly erect, -his head flung back, the strong jaws clamped like a vise. Who had -brought this torture upon him? He could not sleep! He knew no repose! -God, or devil, or power infernal--who was it? Neither sleep nor repose -might be his, but he was unbroken yet, and he could still fight! He -asked only that--that the author of this torment stand before him--and -fight! Why should he, unless the one meagre hope that something might -happen in the meantime be fulfilled, why should he stand faced with the -choice of swinging like a felon from the gallows, or of allowing that -other innocent man to go to his doom? Yes, why should he submit to this -torture, when that scarred-faced blackguard had brought his death upon -himself--why should he submit to it, when it was so easy to escape it -all! Once, that night in Ton-Nugget Camp, he had flung down the gauntlet -in the face of God, and in the face of hell, and in the face of man, and -in the face of beast. Was he a weakling and a fool now who had not sense -enough to seize his opportunity to be quit of this, and to go his way, -and live again the full, red-blooded, reckless life that he had lived -since he was a boy, and that now, a young man still, beckoned to -him with allurements as yet untasted! To-morrow--no, to-day when the -daylight came--he had only to borrow Bouchard's boat, and the boat -upturned would be found, and St. Mar-leau would mourn the loss of the -good, young Father Aubert whose body had been swept out to sea, and -the law would take its course on the man in the condemned cell, and -Three-Ace Artie would be as free and untrammelled as the air--yes, and -a coward, and a crawling thing, and--the paroxysm of fury passed. He -sagged against the desk. This was the “afterwards”--but why should it -come now! Between now and then there was a chance that something might -intervene. He had only been trying to delude himself when he had said -that in a life sentence there was all of time to plan and plot--he knew -that. And he knew, too, that he was no more content that the man should -be imprisoned for life than that the man should hang--that one was the -equal of the other. He knew that this “all of time” was ended when -the appeal was decided. He knew all that--that voice would not let him -juggle with myths any more. But that moment had not come yet--there were -still weeks before it would come--and in those weeks there lay a hope, -a chance, a gambling chance that something might happen. And even in the -appeal there lay a hope too, not that the sentence might be commuted to -life imprisonment, that changed nothing now, but that they might perhaps -after all consider the man's condition sufficient reason for not holding -him to account for murder, and might therefore, instead, place him under -medical treatment somewhere until, if ever, he recovered. He, Raymond, -had not struck the man, he had not in even a remote particular been -responsible for the man's wound, or the ensuing condition, and if the -man were turned over to medical supervision the man automatically ceased -to have any claim upon him. - -But that was not likely to happen--it was only one of those thousand -things that _might_ happen--nothing was likely to happen except that the -man would be hanged. And when that time came, if the appeal were lost -and every one of those thousand chances swept away, and the only thing -that could save the man's life would be to--God, would he never stop -this! Would his mind never, even through utter exhaustion, cease -its groping in this horrible turmoil! On, on, on! His brain was -remorselessly driven on! It was like--like a slave that, already -lacerated and bleeding, was lashed on again to renewed effort by some -monstrous, brutal and inhuman master! - -Yes, when that time came, and if that chance were gone, and supposing he -gave himself up to stand in the other's place, could he in any way evade -the rope, wriggle away from that dangling noose? Was there a loophole in -the evidence anywhere? If only in some way he could prove that the act -had been committed in self-defence! He had feared to risk such a plea -that night, because he had feared that his own past would condemn him -out of hand; and, moreover, however that might have been, the man lying -in the road, whom he had thought dead, had seemed to offer the means of -washing his hands for good and all of the whole matter. Self-defence! -Ha, ha! Listen to those devils laugh! It was his own hand that had tied -the knot in the noose so that it would never slip--it was he who had so -cunningly supplied all the attendant details that irrevocably placed the -stamp of robbery and murder upon the doings of that night. Here there -was no delusion; here, where delusion was sought again, there was no -delusion--if he gave himself up he would hang--hang by the neck until he -was dead--and, since he had desecrated God's holy places, he would -hang without the mercy of God upon his soul. Well, what odds did that -make--whether there was mercy of God upon his soul-or not! Was there -anything in common between--no, that was not what he had to think about -now--it was quite another matter. - -Suppose, when he was forced to fling down his hand finally, that instead -of giving himself up, or instead of making it appear that the good, -young Father Aubert was dead--suppose that he simply made an escape -from St. Marleau such as he had planned for Henri Mentone that night? -He could at least secure a few hours' start, and then, from somewhere, -before it was too late, send back, say, a written confession. He could -always do that. Surely that would save the man. They would hunt for him, -Raymond, as they would hunt for a wild beast that had run amuck, and -they would hunt for him for the rest of his life, and in the end they -might even catch him--but that was the chance he would have to accept. -Yes, here was another way--only why did not this way bring rest, and -repose, and satisfaction, and sleep? And why ask the question? He -knew--he knew why! It was--Valérie. It was not a big way, it was not -a man's way--and in Valerie's eyes at the last, not absolving him, -not even that she might endure the better, for it could not intimately -affect her, there was left to him only the one redeeming act, the one -thing that would lift him above contempt and loathing, and that was that -she should know him--for a _man_. - -Life, the mere act of breathing, of knowing a concrete existence, was -not everything; it did not embrace everything, it was not even a state -that was not voluntarily to be surrendered to greater things, to---- - -“A fool and a woman's face, and blatant sophistry, and mock -heroics!”--that inner monitor, with its gibe and sneer, was back again. -Its voice, too, must make itself heard! - -He raised his hands and pressed them tight against his throbbing -temples. This was hell's debating society, and he must listen to the -arguments and decide upon their merits and pronounce upon them, for he -was the presiding officer and the decision remained with him! How they -gabbled, and shrieked, and whispered, and jeered, and interrupted each -other, and would not keep order--those voices! Though now for the moment -that inner voice kept drowning all the others out. - -“You had your chance! If you hadn't turned squeamish that night when -all you needed to do was to hold a pillow over the man's face for a few -minutes, you wouldn't have had any of this now! How much good will it do -you what _she_ thinks--when they get through burying you in lime under -the jail walls!” - -It was dark, very dark here in the room. That was the window over there -in that direction, but there was not even any grayness showing, no sign -yet of daylight--no sign yet of daylight. Why would they not let him -alone, these voices, until the time came when he _must_ act? That was -all he asked. In the interval something might--his hands dropped to his -sides, and he half slipped, half fell into his chair, and his head went -forward over the desk. Was all that to begin over again--and commence -with the dream of the Walled Place! No, no; he would not let it--_he -would not let it!_ - -He would think about something else; force himself to -think--rationally--about something else. Well then, the man in the -condemned cell, whom he had not dared refuse to visit, and whom he had -gone twice that week to see? No---not that, either! The man was always -sitting on that cursed cot with his hands clasped dejectedly between his -knees, and the iron bars robbed the sunlight of warmth, and it was cold, -and the man's eyes haunted him. No--not that, either! He had to go and -see the man again to-morrow--and that was enough--and that was enough! - -Well then, Mother Blondin? Yes, that was better! He could even laugh -ironically at that--at old Mother Blondin. Old Mother Blondin was -falling under the spell of the example set by the good, young Father -Aubert! Some of the old habitués, he had heard, were beginning to -grumble because it was becoming difficult to obtain whisky at the -tavern. The Madame Bouchards were crowding the habitues out; and the old -woman on the hill, even if with occasional sullen and stubborn -relapses, was slowly yielding to the advances of St. Marleau that he had -inaugurated through the carpenter's v/ife. Ah--he had thought to laugh -at this, had he! Laugh! He might well keep his head buried miserably in -his arms here upon the desk! Laugh! It brought instead only a profound -and bitter loneliness. He was alone, utterly alone, isolated and cut off -in a world where there was the sound of no human voice, the touch of no -human hand, alone--amidst people whose smiles greeted him on every hand, -amidst people who admired and loved him, and listened reverently to the -words of God that fell from his lips. But they loved, and admired, -and gave their friendship, not to the man he was, but to the man they -thought he was--to the good, young Father Aubert. That was what was -actuating even Mother Blondin! And the life that he had led as the good, -young Father Aubert was being held up to him now as in a mental mirror -that lay bare to his gaze his naked soul. They loved him, these people; -they had faith in him--and a pure, unswerving faith in the religion, and -in the God as whose holy priest he masqueraded! - -Raymond's lips twisted in pain. The love of these people struck to the -heart, and the pang hurt. It would have been a glad thing to have won -this love--for himself. And he was requiting what they gave in their -ignorance by defiling what meant most in life to them--the holy things -they worshipped. It was strange--strange how of late he had sought, in -a sort of pitiful atonement for the wrong he had done them, to put -sincerity into the words that, before, he had only mumbled at the church -altar! Yes, he had earned their love and their respect, and he was the -good, young Father Aubert, and the life he had led amongst them was a -blasphemous lie--but it had not been the motives of a hypocrite that had -actuated him. It had not been that the devil desired to pose as a saint. -He stood acquitted before even God of that. He had sought only, fought -only, asked only--for his life. - -A sham, a pretence, a lie--it was abhorrent, damnable--it was not -even Three-Ace Artie's way--and he was chained to it in every word and -thought and act. There--that thing that loomed up through the darkness -there a few inches from him--that was one of the lies. That was a -typewriter he had rented in Tour-nayville and had brought back when -returning from his last visit to the jail. Personal letters had begun to -arrive for Father François Aubert. He might duplicate a signature, -but he could not imitate pages of the man's writings. And he could not -dictate a letter to-the man's _mother_--and meet Valérie's eyes. - -Valérie! Out in that world where he was set apart, out in that world -of inhuman isolation, this was the loneliness that was greatest of all. -Valérie! Valérie! It seemed as though he were held in some machiavellian -bondage, free to move and act, free in all things save one--he could not -pass the border of his prison-land. But he, Raymond Chapelle, could look -out over the border of his prison-land, and watch this woman, whose -face was pure and beautiful, as she walked about, and talked, and was -constantly in the company of a young priest, who was the good, young -Father Aubert, the Curé of St. Marleau. And because he had watched her -hungrily for many days, and knew the smile that came so gladly to the -sweet lips, and because he had looked into the clear, steadfast eyes, -and listened to her voice, and because she was just Valérie, he had -come to the knowledge of a great love--and a great, torturing, envious -jealousy of this man, cloaked in priestly garb, who was forever at her -side. - -His lips moved, but no sound came from them. Valérie! Valérie! Why had -she not come into his life before! Before--when? Before that night at -Mother Blondin's? Was he not man enough to look the truth in the face! -That night was only a culminating incident of a life that went back many -years to the days when--when there had been no Valérie either! But it -was too late to think of that now--now that Valérie had come, come as -a final, terrible punishment, holding up before him, through bitter -contrast, the hollow worthlessness of the stakes that, when the choice -had been freely his, he had chosen to play for! - -Valérie! Valérie! His soul was calling out to her. A life with Valérie! -What would it not have meant? The dear love that she might have given -him--the priceless love that he might have won! Gone! Gone forever! No, -it was not gone, for it had never been. He thanked God for that. Yes, -there must be a God who had brought this about, for while he flouted -this God in the dress of this God's priest, this God utilised that very -act to save Valérie, who trusted this God, from the misery and sorrow -and hopelessness that must have come to her with love. She could not -love a priest; there could be no thought of such a thing for Valérie. -This God had set that barrier there--to protect her. Yes, he thanked -God for that; he thanked God he had not brought this hurt upon her--and -those minions of hell, who tried to tantalise, and with their insidious -deviltry tried to make him think otherwise, were powerless here. But -that did not appease the yearning; that did not answer the cry of his -heart and soul. - -Valérie! Valérie! Valérie! He was calling to her with all his strength -from the border of that prison-land. Valérie! Valérie! Would his voice -not reach her! Would she not turn her head and smile! Valérie! Valérie! -He wanted her now in his hour of agony, in this hour of terrible -loneliness, in this hour when his brain rocked and reeled on the verge -of madness. - -How still it was--and how dark! There were no voices now--only the voice -of his soul calling, calling, calling for Valérie--calling for what -he could never have--calling for the touch of her hand to guide -him--calling for her smile to help him on his way. Yes, Valérie--he was -calling Valérie--he was calling to her from the depths of his being. Out -into the night, out into the everywhere, he was flinging his piteous, -soundless cry, and God, if God would, might listen, and know that His -revenge was taken; and hell might listen, and shriek its mirth--they -would not silence him. - -Valérie! Valérie! No, there was no answer. There would never be an -answer--but he would always call. Through the years to come, if there -were those years to reckon with, he would call as he was calling now. -Valérie! Valérie! Valérie! She would not hear--she would not answer--she -would not know. But he would call--because he loved her. - -A sob shook his bowed shoulders. A hand in agony gathered and crushed a -fold of flesh from the forehead that lay upon it. Valérie! Valérie! He -did not cry out. He made no sound. It was still, still as the living -death in that prison-land--and then--and then he was swaying to his -feet, and clutching with both hands at the desk, for support. Valérie! -The door was open, and a soft light filled the room. Valérie! Valérie -was standing there on the threshold, holding a lamp in her hand. It was -phantasm! A vision! It was not real! It was not Valérie! His mind was -a broken thing at last! It was not Valérie--but that was Valérie's -voice--that was Valérie's voice. - -The lamp shook a little unsteadily in her hand. - -“Did you call?” she asked. - -He did not answer--only looked at her, as though in truth she were a -vision that had come to him. She was in dressing-gown; and her hair, -loosely knotted, framed her face in dark, waving tresses; and her eyes -were wide, startled and perplexed, as they fixed upon him. - -“I--I thought I heard you call,” she faltered. - -All the gladness, all the joy in life, all that the world could hold -seemed for an instant his. All else was forgotten--all else but that -singing in his heart--all else but that fierce, elemental, triumphant, -mighty joy lifting him high to a pinnacle that reared itself supreme, -commanding and immortal, far beyond the reach of that sea of torment -which had engulfed him. Valérie had heard him call--and she had -answered--and she was here. Valérie was here--she had come to him. -Valérie had heard him call--and she was here. And then beneath his feet -that pinnacle, so supreme, commanding and immortal, seemed to dissolve -away, and that sea of torment closed over him again, and all those -voices that plagued him, mocking, jeering, screaming, shrieking, were -like a horrible requiem ringing in his ears. She had heard him call--and -he had made no sound--only his soul had spoken.. And she had answered. -And she was here--here now--standing there on the threshold. _Why?_ -He dared not answer. It was a blessed thing, a wonderful, glorious -thing---and it was a terrible thing, a thing of misery and despair. What -was he doing now--_answering_ that “why”! No, no--it was not true--it -could not be true. He had thanked God that it could not be so. It was -not that--_that_ was not the reason she had heard him call--that was -not the reason she was here. It was not! It was not! It was only those -insidious---- - -He heard himself speaking; he was conscious that his voice by some -miracle was low, grave, contained. “No, Mademoiselle Valérie, I did not -call.” - -The colour was slowly leaving her cheeks, and into her eyes came -creeping confusion and dismay. - -“It--it is strange,” she said nervously. “I was asleep, and I thought -I heard you call for--for help, and I got up and lighted the lamp, -and----” - -Was that his laugh--quiet, gentle, reassuring? Was he so much in -command of himself as that? Was it the gambler, or the priest, or--great -God!--the lover now? She was here--she had come to him. - -“It was a dream, Mademoiselle Valérie,” he was saying. “A very terrible -dream, I am afraid, if I was the subject of it; but, see, it is nothing -to cause you distress, and to-morrow you will laugh over it.” - -She did not reply at once. She was very pale now; and her lips, though -tightly closed, were quivering. Nor did she look at him. Her eyes were -on the floor. Her hand mechanically drew and held the dressing-gown -closer about her throat. - -He had not moved from the side of the desk, nor she from the threshold -of the door--and now she looked up suddenly, and held the lamp in her -hand a little higher, and her eyes searched his face. - -“It must be very late--very, very late,” she said steadily. “And you -have not gone to bed. There is something the matter. What is it? Will -you tell me?” - -“But, yes!” he said--and smiled. “But, yes--I will tell you. It is very -simple. I think perhaps I was overtired. In any case, I was restless -and could not sleep, and so I came in here, and--well, since I must -confess--I imagine I finally fell asleep in my chair.” - -“Is that all?” she asked--and there was a curious insistence in her -voice. “You look as though you were ill. Are you telling me all?” - -“Everything!” he said. “And I am not ill, Mademoiselle Valérie”--he -laughed again--“you would hear me complain fast enough if I were! I am -not a model patient.” - -She shook her head, as though she would not enter into the lightness of -his reply; and again her eyes sought the floor. And, as he watched her, -the colour now came and went from her cheeks, and there was trouble in -her face, and hesitancy, and irresolution. - -“What is it, Mademoiselle Valérie?”--his forced lightness was gone now. -She was frightened, and nervous, and ill at ease--that she should be -standing here like this at this hour of night, of course. Yes, that was -it. Naturally that would be so. He lifted his hand and drew it heavily -across his forehead. She was frightened. If he might only take her in -his arms, and draw her head to his shoulder, and hold her there, and -soothe her! It seemed that all his being cried to him to do that. “Well, -why don't you?”--that inner voice was flashing the suggestion quick upon -him--“well, why don't you? You could do it as a priest, in the rôle of -priest, you know--like a father to one of his flock. Go ahead, here's -your chance--be the priest, be the priest! Don't you want to hold her in -your arms--be the priest, be the priest!” - -She had not answered his question. He found himself answering it for -her. - -“What is it, Mademoiselle Valérie? You must not let a dream affect you, -you know. It is gone now. And you can see that----” - -“It is strange”--she spoke almost to herself. “I--I was so sure that I -heard you call.” - -Why was he not moving toward her? Why was he clinging in a sort of -tenacious frenzy to the desk? Why was he not obeying the promptings -of that inner voice? It would be quite a natural thing to do what that -voice prompted--and Valérie, Valérie who would never be his, would for a -moment, snatched out of all eternity, be in his arms. - -“But you must not let such a thing as a dream affect you”--he seemed to -be speaking without volition of his own, and he seemed stupidly able to -say but the same thing over again. “And, see, it is over, and you are -awake now to find that no one is really in trouble after all.” - -And then she raised her head--and suddenly, but as though she were -afraid even of her own act, as though she still fought against some -decision she had forced upon herself, she walked slowly forward into the -room, and set the lamp down upon the desk. - -“Yes, there is some one in trouble”--the words came steadily, but -scarcely above a whisper; and her hand was tense about the white throat -now, where before it had mechanically clutched at the dressing-gown. “I -am in trouble--Father Aubert.” - -“You--Valérie!” He was conscious, even in his startled exclamation, of a -strange and disturbing prescience. Father Aubert--he could not remember -when she had called him that before--_Father_ Aubert. It was very rarely -that she called him that, it was almost always Monsieur le Curé. And -he--her name--he had called her Valérie--not Mademoiselle Valérie--but -Valérie, as once before, when she had stood out there in the hall the -night they had taken that man away, her name had sprung spontaneously to -his lips. - -“Yes,” she said, and bowed her head. “I am in trouble, father; for I -have sinned.” - -“Sinned--Valérie”--the words were stumbling on his lips. How fast that -white throat throbbed! Valérie, pure and innocent, meant perhaps to -confess to--_Father_ Aubert. Well, she should not, and she would not! -Not that! She should not have to remember in the “afterwards” that she -had bared her soul at the shrine of profanity. Back again into his voice -he forced a cheery, playful reassurance. “It cannot be a very grievous -sin that Mademoiselle Valérie has been guilty of! Of that, I am sure! -And to-morrow----” - -“No, no!” she cried out. “You do not know! See, be indulgent with me -now, father--I am in trouble--in very deep and terrible trouble. I--I -cannot even confess and ask you for absolution--but you can help me--do -not try to put me off--I--I may not have the courage again. See, I--I am -not very brave, and I am not very strong, and the tears are not far off. -Help me to do what I want to do.” - -“Valérie!” he scarcely breathed her name. Help her to do what she wanted -to do! There was another prescience upon him now; but one that he could -not understand, save that it seemed to be pointing toward the threshold -of a moment that he was to remember all his life. - -“Sit down there in your chair, father, please”--her voice was very low -again. “Sit there, and let me kneel before you.” - -He stepped back as from a blow. - -“No, Valérie, you shall not kneel to me”--he did not know what he was -saying now. Kneel! Valérie kneel to him! “You shall not kneel to me, -I----” - -“_Yes!_” The word came feverishly. The composure that she had been -fighting to retain was slipping from her. “Yes--I must! I must!” She -was close upon him, forcing him back toward the chair. Her eyes, dry -and wide before, were swimming with sudden tears. “Oh, don't you -understand! Oh, don't you understand! I am not kneeling to you as a man, -I am kneeling to you as--as a--a _priest_--a priest of God--for--for I -have sinned.” - -She was on her knees--and, with a mental cry of anguish, Raymond slipped -down into the chair. Yes, he understood--now--at last! He -understood what, pray God, she should never realise he understood! -She--Valérie--cared. And she was trying now--God, the cruelty of -it!--and she was trying now to save herself, to protect herself, by -forcing upon herself an actual physical acceptance of him as a priest. -No! It was not so! It could not be so! He did _not_ understand! - -He would not have it so! He would not! It was only hell's trickery -again--only that--and---- - -“Lay your hands on my head, father.” She caught his hands and lifted -them, and laid them upon her bowed head--and as his hands touched her -she seemed to tremble for an instant, and her hands tightened upon his. -“Hold them there for a little while, father,” she murmured--and took her -own hands away, and clasped them before her hidden face. - -Raymond's countenance was ashen as he bent forward. What had that -voice prompted him to do? Be the priest? Well, he was being the priest -now--and he knew torment in the depths of a sacrilege at last before -which his soul shrank back appalled. The soft hair was silken to the -touch of his hands, and yet it burned and seared him as with brands of -fire. It was Valérie's hair. It was Valérie's head that was bowed -before him. It was Valérie, the one to whom his soul had called, who was -kneeling to him--as a priest of God--to save herself! - -“Say the _Pater Noster_ with me, father,” she whispered. - -He bent his head still lower--lower now that she might not by any chance -glimpse his face. Like death it must look. He pressed his hands in -assent upon her head--but it was Valérie's voice alone that faltered -through the room. - -“.... _Sanctificetur nomen tuum_--hallowed be Thy name... _fiat voluntas -tua_--Thy will be done.... _et dimitte nobis débita nostra_--and forgive -us our trespasses... _et ne nos inducas in tentationem_--and lead us not -into temptation... _sed libera nos a malo_--but deliver us from evil... -Amen.” - -The lamp burned upon the desk; it lighted up the room--but before -Raymond's eyes was only a blur, and nothing was distinct. And there was -silence--silence for a long time. - -And then Valérie spoke again. - -“I am stronger now,” she said. “I--I think God showed me the way. You -have been very good to me to-night--not to question me--just to let me -have my way. And now bless me, father, and I will go.” - -Bless Valérie--ask God's blessing on Valérie--would that be profanation? -God's blessing on Valérie! Ay, he could ask that! Profligate, sinner, -sham and mocker, he could ask that in reverence and sincerity--God's -blessing upon Valérie--because he loved her. - -“God keep you, Valérie,” he said, and fought the tremor from his voice. -“God keep you, Valérie--and bless you--and guard you through all your -life.” - -She rose from her knees, and turning quickly because her cheeks were -wet, picked up the lamp, and walked to the door. At the threshold she -paused, but did not look back. - -“Good-night, father,” she said simply. - -“Good-night, Valérie,” he answered. - -It was dark again in the room. He had risen from his chair as Valérie -had risen from her knees--and now his hand felt out for the chair again, -and he sank down, and, as when she had come to him, his head was buried -again in his arms upon the desk. - -Valérie cared! Valérie loved him! Valérie, too, had been through her -hour of torment. “Not as a man--as a priest, a priest of God.” No, he -would not believe that, he would not let himself believe that. It could -not be so! She was troubled, in distress--about something else. What -time was it now? Not daylight yet--the merciful daylight--no sign of -daylight yet? If it were true--what then? If she cared--what then? - -If Valérie loved him--what then? What was he to do in the “afterwards”? -It would not be himself alone who was to bear the burden then. It was -not true, of course; he would not believe it, he would not let himself -believe it. But if it were true how would Valérie endure the hanging -by the neck until he was dead of the man she loved, or the knowledge of -what he was, or the death by accident--of the man she loved! - -He did not stir now. He made no sound, no movement--and his head lay -in his outflung arms. And time passed, and through the window crept the -gray of dawn--and presently it was daylight--the merciful daylight--and -the night was gone. But he was scarcely conscious of it now. It grew -lighter still, and filled the room--that merciful daylight. And his -brain, sick and stumbling and weary, reeled on and on, and there was the -dream of the Walled Place again, and Valérie was closing the gate that -was studded with iron spikes--and there was no way out. - -And then very slowly, like a man rousing from a stupor, his head came up -from the desk, and he listened. From across the green came the sound of -the church bells ringing for early mass. And as he listened the bells -seemed to catch up the tempo of some refrain. What was it? Yes, he knew -now. It was the opening of the mass--the words he would have to go in -there presently and say. Were they mocking him, those bells! Was this -what the daylight, the merciful daylight had brought--only a crowning, -pitiless, merciless jeer! His face, strained and haggard, lifted -suddenly a little higher. Was it only mockery, or could it be--see, -they seemed to peal more softly now--could it be that they held another -meaning--like voices calling in compassion to him because he was lost? -No--his mind was dazed--it could not mean that--for him. But listen! -They were repeating it over and over again. It was the call to mass, for -it was daylight, and the beginning of a new day. Listen! - -“_Introibo ad altare Dei_--I will go in unto the Altar of God.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIX--THE TWO SINNERS - -|INTROIBO ad altare Dei--I will go in unto the Altar of God.” It had -been days, another week of them, since the morning when he had raised -his head to that call for early mass,' and his brain, stumbling and -confused, had set those words in a refrain to the tempo of the pealing -bells. - -It was midnight now--another night--the dreaded night. They were not all -like that other night, not all so pitiless--that would have been beyond -physical endurance. But they were bad, all the nights were bad. They -seemed cunningly just to skirt the border edge of strain that could be -endured, and cunningly just to evade the breaking point. - -It was midnight. On the table beside the bed stood the lighted lamp; and -beside the lamp, topped by a prayer-book, was a little pile of -François Aubert's books; and the bed was turned neatly down, disclosing -invitingly the cool, fresh sheets. These were Madame Lafleur's kindly -and well-meant offices. Madame La-fleur knew that he did not sleep very -well. Each evening she came in here and set the lamp on the table, and -arranged the books, and turned down the bed. - -This was the same rocking-chair he sat in now that he had sat in night -after night, and watched a man with bandaged head lying on that same -bed--watched and waited for the man to die. The man was not there -any more--there were just the cool, fresh sheets. The man was in -Tournayville. He had seen the man again that afternoon--and now it was -the man who was waiting to die. - -“I will go in unto the Altar of God.” With a curious hesitancy he -reached out and took the prayer-book from the table, and abstractedly -began to finger its pages. What did those words mean? They had been with -him incessantly, insistently, since that morning when he had groped -for their meaning as between the bitterest of mockeries and a sublime -sincerity. They did not mock him now, they held no sting of irony. It -was very strange. They had not mocked him all that week. He had been -glad, eager, somehow, to repeat them to himself. Did they mean--peace? - -Peace! If he could have peace--even for to-night. If he could lie down -between those cool, fresh sheets--and sleep! He was physically weary. He -had made himself weary each night in the hope that weariness might bring -a dreamless rest. He had thrown himself feverishly into the rôle of the -Curé of St. Marleau; he had walked miles and driven miles; there was -not a cottage in the parish upon whose door he had not knocked, and with -whose occupants he had not shared-the personal joys and sorrows of -the moment; and he had sat with the sick--with old Mother Blondin that -morning, for instance, who seemed quite ill and feeble, and who in the -last few days had taken to her bed. Yes, it was strange! He had done -all this, too, with a certain sincerity that was not alone due to an -effort to find forgetfulness during the day and weariness that would -bring repose at night. He had found neither the forgetfulness nor the -repose; but he had found a sort of wistful joy in the kindly acts of the -good, young Father Aubert! - -He had found neither the forgetfulness nor the repose. He could not -forget the “afterwards”--the day that must irrevocably come--unless -something, some turn of fate, some unforeseen thing intervened. -_Something!_ It was a pitiful thing to cling to--a pitiful thing even -for a gambler's chance! But he clung to it now more desperately, more -tenaciously than ever before. It was not only his life now, it was not -only the life of the condemned man in that cell--it was Valérie. He -might blindfold his mental vision; he might crush back, and trample -down, and smother the thought, and refuse to admit it--but in his soul -he believed she cared. And if she cared, and if that “something” did not -happen, and he was forced, in whatever way he finally must choose, to -play the last card--there was Valérie. If she cared--there was Valérie -to suffer too! If he hanged instead of that man--there was Valérie! If -he confessed from a safe distance after flight--there was Valérie -to endure the shame! If the good, young Father Aubert died by -“accident”--there was the condemned man in the death cell to pay the -penalty--and Valérie to know the grief! Choice! What choice was there? -Who called this ghastly impasse a choice! He could only wait--wait and -cling to that hope, which in itself, because it was so paltry a thing to -lean on, but added to the horror and suspense of the hours and days that -stretched between now and the “afterwards.” - -“Something” might happen--yes, something might happen--but nothing had -happened yet--nothing yet--and his brain, day and night, would not stop -mangling and tearing itself to pieces--and would not let him rest--and -there was no peace--none--not even for a few short hours. - -His fingers were still mechanically turning the pages of the -prayer-book. “I will go in unto the Altar of God.” Why did those words -keep on running insistently through his mind? Did they suggest--peace? - -Well, if they did, why wasn't there something practical about them, -something tangible, something he could lay material hands upon, and -sense, and feel? The Altar, of God! Was there in very reality a God? -He had chosen once to deny it contemptuously; and he had chosen once -to despise religion as cant and chicanery cleverly practised upon the -gullible and the weak-minded to the profit of those who pretended to -interpret it! But there were beautiful words here in this book; and -religion, if this were religion, must therefore be beautiful too--if -one could believe. He remembered those words at the burial of Théophile -Blondin--years, an eternity ago that was--“I am the resurrection and -the life... he that believeth in Me... shall never die.” He had repeated -them over and over to himself that morning--he had spoken them aloud, in -what had seemed then an unaccountable sincerity, to old Mother Blondin -as she had clung to the palings of the cemetery fence that morning. Yes, -they were beautiful words--if one could believe. - -And here were others! What were these words here? He was staring at an -open page before him, staring and staring at it. What were these other -words here? It was not that he had never seen them before--but why -was the book open at this place now--at these last few words of the -_Benedictus? “Per viscera misericordiæ Dei nostri... illuminare his qui -in tenebris et in umbra mortis sedent: ad dirigendos pedes nostros in -viam pacis_--Through the tender mercy of our God... to enlighten those -who sit in darkness and in the shade of death: to direct our feet into -the way of peace.” - -Were they but words--mere words--these? They were addressed to -him--definitely to him, were they not? He sat in darkness, in an agony -of darkness, lost, unable to find his way, and he sat--in the shade of -death! Was there a God, a God who had tender mercy, a God--to direct his -feet into the way of peace? - -The book slipped from his fingers, and dropped to the floor--and, his -lips compressed, he stood up from the chair. If there was a God who -had mercy, mercy of any kind--it was mercy he asked now. Where was this -mercy? Where was this way of peace? Where was--a strange, bewildered, -incredulous wonder was creeping into his face. Was that it--the Altar -of God? Was that where there was peace--in unto the Altar of God? He -had asked for a practical application of the words. Is that what they -meant--that he should actually go--in unto the Altar of God--in there in -the church--now? - -It seemed to stagger him for a moment. Numbly he stooped and picked up -the prayer-book, and closed it, and laid it back on the table--and stood -irresolute. Something, he was conscious, was impelling him to go there. -Well, why not? If there was a God, if there was a God who had tender -mercy, if it was that God whose words were suggesting a way of -peace--why not put that God to the test! Once, on the afternoon just -before he had attempted that man's escape, he had yielded to a previous -impulse, and had gone into the church. It had been quiet, still -and restful, he remembered; and he remembered that he had come away -strangely calmed. But since then a cataclysm had swept over him; then -he had been in a state of mind that, compared with now, was one even -of peace--but even so, it was quiet, still and restful there, he -remembered. - -He was crossing the room slowly, hesitantly, toward the door. Well, why -not? If there was a God, and this impulse emanated from God--why not put -it to the test? If it was all a hollow fraud, a myth, a superstition -to which he was weak enough to yield, he would at least be no worse -off than to sit here in that chair, or to lie upon the bed and toss the -hours away until morning came! - -Well, he would go! He stepped softly out into the hall, closed his door -behind him, groped his way in the darkness to the front door of the -_presbytère_, opened it--and stood still for an instant, listening. -Neither Valérie nor her mother, asleep upstairs, had been disturbed he -was sure. If they had--well, they would assign no ulterior motive to his -going out--it was only that Monsieur le Curé, poor man, did not sleep -well! - -He closed the door quietly, and went down the steps--and at the bottom -paused again. He became suddenly conscious that there was a great quiet -and a great serenity in the night--and a great beauty. There were stars, -a myriad stars in a perfect sky; and the moonlight bathed the church -green in a radiance that made of it a velvet carpet, marvellously -wrought in shadows of many hues. There, along the road, a whitewashed -cottage stood out distinctly, and still further along another, and yet -another--like little fortresses whose tranquillity was impregnable. And -the moonlight, and the lullaby of the lapping water on the shore, and -the night sounds that were the chirping of the little grass-things, -were like some benediction breathed softly upon the earth. - -“To direct our feet into the way of peace”--Raymond murmured the words -with a sudden overpowering sense of yearning and wistfulness sweeping -upon him. And then, as suddenly, he was tense, alert, straining his eyes -toward the front of the church. Was that a shadow there that moved, cast -perhaps by the swaying branch of some tree? It was a very curious branch -if that were so! The shadow seemed to have appeared suddenly from around -the corner of the church and to be creeping toward the door. It was -too far across the green to see distinctly, even with the moonlight as -bright as it was, but it seemed as though he could see the church door -open and close again--and now the shadow had disappeared. - -Mechanically Raymond rubbed his eyes. It was strange, so very strange -that it must surely be only a trick of the imagination. The moonlight -was always deceptive and lent itself easily to hallucinations, and at -that distance he certainly could not be sure. And besides, at this hour, -after midnight, why should any one go stealing into the church? And yet -he could have sworn he had seen the door open! And stare as he would -now, the shadow that had crept along the low platform above the church -steps was no longer visible. - -He hesitated a moment. It was even an added incentive for him to go into -the church, but suppose some one was there, and he should be seen? He -smiled a little wanly--and stepped forward across the green. Well, what -of it! Was he not the Curé of St. Mar-leau? It would be only another -halo for the head of the good, young Father Aubert! It would require but -a word of explanation from him, he could even tell the truth--and they -would call him the _devout_, good, young Father Aubert! Only, instead of -entering by one of the main doors, he would go in through the sacristy. -He was not even likely to be seen himself in that way; and, if there was -any one there, he should be able to discover who it was, and what he or -she was doing there. - -He passed on along the side of the church, his footsteps soundless on -the sward, reached the door of the sacristy, opened it silently, and -stepped inside. It was intensely dark here. Treading on tiptoe, he -traversed the little room, and finally, after a moment's groping, his -fingers closed on the knob of the door that opened on the interior of -the church. - -A sound broke the stillness. Yes, there was some one out there! Raymond -cautiously pulled the door ajar. Came that sound again. It was very -loud--and yet it was only the creak of a footstep that seemed to come -from somewhere amongst the aisles. It echoed back from the high vaulted -roof with a great noise. It seemed to give pause, to terrify with -its own alarm whoever was out there, for now as he listened there was -silence again. - -Still cautiously and still a little wider, Raymond opened the door, and -now he could see out into the body of the church--and for a moment, as -though gazing upon some mystic scene, he stood there wrapt, immovable. -Above the tops of the high, stained windows, it was as though a vast -canopy of impenetrable blackness were spread from end to end of the -edifice; and slanting from the edge of this canopy in a series of -parallel rays the moonlight, coloured into curious solemn tints, -filtered across from one wall to the other. And the aisles were like -little dark alleyways leading away as into some immensity beyond. And -here, looming up, a statue, the figure of some white-robed saint, -drew, as it were, a holy light about it, and seemed to take on life -and breathe into the stillness a sense of calm and pure and unchanging -presence. And the black canopy and the little dark alleyways seemed -to whisper of hidden things that kept ward over this abode of God. And -there was no sound--and there was awe and solemnity in this silence. And -on the altar, very near him, the Altar of God that he had come to seek, -the single altar light burned like a tiny scintillating jewel in its -setting of moon rays. And there, shadowy against the wall, just outside -the chancel rail, was the great cross. There seemed something that spoke -of the immutable in that. The first little wooden church above whose -doors it had been reared was gone, and there was a church of stone now -with a golden, metal cross upon its spire, but this great cross of wood -was still here. It was a very precious relic to St. Marleau, and so it -hung there on the wall of the new church between the two windows nearest -the altar. - -And then his eyes, travelling down the length of the cross, fixed upon -its base--and the spell that had held him was gone. It was blacker -there, very much blacker! There was a patch of blackness there that -seemed to move and waver slightly--and it was neither shadow, nor -yet the support built out to hold the base of the cross. Some one was -crouching there. Well, what should he do? Remain in hiding here, or go -out there as the Curé of St. Marleau and see who it was? Something -urged him to go; caution bade him remain where he was. He knew a sudden -resentment. He had put God to the test--and, instead of peace, he had -found a prowler in the church! - -Ah--what was that! That low, broken sound--like a sob! Yes, it came -again--and the echoes whispered it back from everywhere. It was a woman. -A woman was sobbing there at the foot of the cross. Who was it? Came -a thought that stabbed with pain. Not Valérie! It could not be -Valérie--kneeling there under a load that was beyond her strength! It -could not be Valérie in anguish and grief greater than she could bear -because--because she loved a man whom she believed to be a priest of -God! No--not Valérie! But if it were! - -He drew back a little. If it were Valérie she should not know that he -had seen. At least he could save her that. He would wait until whoever -it was had left the church, and if it were Valérie she would go back to -the _presbytère_, and in that way he would know. - -And now--what were those words now? She was praying out there as -she sobbed. And slowly an amazed and incredulous wonder spread over -Raymond's face. No, it was not Valérie! That was not Valérie's voice! -Those mumbling, hesitant, uncertain words, as though the memory -were pitifully at fault, were not Valérie's. It was not Valérie! He -recognised the voice now. It was the old woman on the hill--old Mother -Blondin! - -And Raymond stared for a moment helplessly out through the crack of the -sacristy door which he held ajar, out into those curiously tinted moon -rays, and past the altar with its tiny light, to where that dark shadow -lay against the wall. Old Mother Blondin! Old Mother Blondin, the -heretic, was out there--_praying in the church!_ Why? What had brought -her there? Old Mother Blondin who was supposed to be ill in her bed--he -had seen her there that morning! She had been sick for the last -few days, and worse if anything that morning--and now--now she was -here--praying in the church. - -What had brought her here? What motive had brought this about, that, -with its strength of purpose, must have supplied physical strength as -well, for she must almost literally have had to crawl down the hill -in her feeble state? Had she too come seeking for--peace! Was it -coincidence that they two, who had reached the lees and dregs of that -common cup, should be here together, at this strange hour, at the Altar -of God! Was it only coincidence--nothing more? Was he ready to believe, -would he admit so much, that it was _more_ than--coincidence? - -A sense of solemnity and of awe that mingled with a sense of profound -compassion for old Mother Blon-din sobbing there in her misery took -possession of him, and he seemed moved now as by an impulse beyond and -outside himself--to go to her--to comfort and soothe her, if he could. -And slowly he opened the sacristy door, and stepped out into the -chancel, and into the moonlight that fell softly across the altar's -edge--and he called her name. - -There was a cry, wild, unrestrained--a cry of terror that seemed to -swirl about the church, and from the black canopy above that hid the -vaulted roof was hurled back in a thousand echoes. But with the cry, -as the dark form from against the wall sprang erect, Raymond caught a -sharp, ominous cracking sound--and, as he looked, high up on the wall, -the arms of the huge cross seemed to waver and begin to tilt forward. - -With a bound, as he saw her danger, Raymond cleared the chancel rail, -and the next instant had caught at the base of the cross and steadied -it. In her terror as she had jumped to her feet, she had knocked against -it and forced it almost off the sort of shelf, or ledge, that had been -built out from the wall to support it; and at the same time, he could -see now, one or more of the wall fastenings at the top had given away. -It was very heavy and unmanageable, but he finally succeeded in getting -it far enough back into position to make it temporarily secure. - -He turned then to face Mother Blondin. She seemed oblivious, unconscious -of her escape, though her face in the moonlight held a ghastly colour. -She was staring at him with eyes that burned feverishly in their deep -sockets. She was not crying now, but there were still tears, undried, -that clung to her withered cheeks. One bony hand reached out and -clutched at the back of a pew, for she was swaying on her feet; but the -other was clenched and knotted--and suddenly she raised it and shook it -in his face. - -“Yes, it is I! I--Mother Blondin!” she choked. “Mother Blondin--the old -hag--the _excommuniée!_ You saw me come in--eh? And you have come to put -me out--to put old Mother Blondin, the _excommuniée_, out--eh? I have no -right here--here--eh? Well, who said I had any right! Put me out--put me -out--put me-----” The clenched hand opened, clawed queerly at her face, -as though to clear away something that had gathered before her eyes and -would not let her see--and she reeled heavily backward. - -Raymond's arm went around her shoulders. - -“You are ill, Madame Blondin--ill and weak,” he said soothingly. -“See”--he half lifted, half supported her into the pew--“sit down here -for a moment and rest. I am afraid I frightened you. I am very sorry. -Perhaps it would have been better if I had left you by yourself; but -I heard you sobbing out here, and I thought that I might perhaps help -you--and so I came--and so--you are better now, are you not?---and so, -you see, it was not to drive you out of the church.” - -She looked at him in a sort of angry unbelief. - -“Ah!” she exclaimed fiercely. “Why do you tell me that, eh? Why do you -tell me that? I have no right here--and you are a priest. That is your -business--to drive me out.” - -“No,” said Raymond gravely; “it is not my business. And I think you -would go very far, Madame Blondin, before you would find a priest who -would drive you from his church under the circumstances in which I have -found you here to-night.” - -“Well then, I will go myself!” she said defiantly--and made as though to -rise. - -“No, not yet”--Raymond pressed her quietly back into the seat. “You must -rest for a little while. Why, this morning, you know, you were seriously -ill in bed. Surely you were not alone in the house to-night, that there -was no one to prevent you getting up--I asked Madame Bouchard to----” - -“Madame Bouchard came to spend the night, but I did not want her, and I -sent her home,” she interrupted brusquely. - -“You should not have done that, Madame Blondin,” Raymond remonstrated -kindly. “But even then, you are very weak, and I do not see how you -managed to get here.” - -Her face set hard with the old stubborn indomitableness that he knew so -well. - -“I walked!” she said shortly. - -Her hands were twisting together in her lap. There was dust covering her -skirt thickly. - -“And fell,” he said. - -She did not answer. - -“Will you tell me why you came?” he asked. - -“Because I was a fool”--her lips were working, her hands kept twisting -over each other in her lap. - -“I heard you praying,” said Raymond gently. “What brought you here -to-night, Madame Blondin?” - -She shook her head now, and turned her face away. - -The moonlight fell on the sparse, gray hair, and the thin, drooping -shoulders, and the unkempt, shabby clothing. It seemed to enfold her in -an infinite sympathy all its own. And suddenly Raymond found that his -eyes were wet. It did not seem so startling and incongruous a thing that -she should be here at midnight in the church--at the Altar of God. And -yet--and yet why had she come? Something within himself demanded in a -strange wistfulness the answer to that question, as though in the answer -she would answer for them both, for the two who had no _right_ here in -this sacred place unless--unless, if there were a God, that God in His -own way had meant to--direct their feet into the way of peace. - -“Madame Blondin”--his voice was very low, trembling with -earnestness--“Madame Blondin, do you believe in God?” - -Her hands stopped their nervous movements, and clasped hard one upon the -other. - -“No!” she cried out sharply. “No--I----” And then her voice faltered, -and she burst suddenly into tears. “I--I don't know.” - -His arm was still about her shoulders, and now his hand tightened a -little upon her. She was crying softly. He was silent now--staring -before him at that tiny flame burning in the moon rays on the altar. -Well, suppose she did! Suppose even Mother Blondin believed, though -she would fight on until she was beaten to her knees before she would -unconditionally admit it, did that mean anything to him? Mother Blondin -had not stood before that altar there with a crucifix upon her breast, -and---- - -She was speaking again--brushing the tears away with the back of her -hand. - -“Once I did--once I believed,” she said. “That was when I was a girl, -and--and for a little while afterward. I used to come to the church -then, and I used to believe. And then after Pierre died I married -Blondin, and after that very soon I came no more. It is forty -years--forty years--it was the old church then. The ban came before -this one was built--I was never in here before--it is only the old cross -there, the cross that was on the old church, that I know. Forty years is -a long time--a long time--I am seventy-two now--seventy-two.” - -She was crying again softly. - -“Yes,” said Raymond, and his own voice choked, “and to-night--after -forty years?” - -“I wanted to come”--she seemed almost to be whispering to herself--“I -wanted to come. Blondin said there was no God, but I remembered that -when I was a girl--forty years ago--there was a God here. I--I wanted -to come and see--and--and I--I don't know--I--I couldn't remember -the prayers very well, and so maybe if God is still here He did not -understand. Pierre always said there was a God, and he used to come -here with me to mass; but Blondin said the priests were all liars, and -I began to drink with Blondin, and he said they were all liars when he -died, and no one except the ones that came to buy the _whiskey-blanc_ -would have anything to do with us, and--and I believed him.” - -“And Pierre?” Raymond asked softly. “Who was Pierre?” - -“Pierre?” She turned her head and looked at him--and somehow, perhaps -it was the tint of the moon rays, somehow the old, hard face was -transfigured, and seemed to glow with untold sweetness, and a smile -of tenderness mingled with the tears. “Pierre? Ah, he was a good boy, -Pierre. Yes, I have been happy! Who shall say I have not been happy? -There were three years of it--three years of it--and then Pierre died. I -was eighteen, eighteen on the day that Pierre and I were married. And it -was a great day in the village--all the village was _en fête_. You would -not believe that! But it is true. It is a long time between eighteen and -seventy-two, and I was not like I am now, and Pierre was loved by every -one. It is hard to believe, eh? And there are not many now who remember. -But there is old Grandmother Frenier. She will tell you that I am -telling you the truth about Pierre Letellier.” - -“_Letellier!_”--it came in a low, involuntary cry from Raymond. -Letellier! Where had he heard that name before? What strange stirring of -the memory was this that the name had brought? Letellier! Was it--could -it be----? - -“What is it, monsieur?”--she had caught at his sleeve. “Ah, you had -perhaps heard that the Letelliers all moved away from here--and you did -not know that I was once a Letellier? They sold everything and went away -because of me a few years after I married Blondin.” - -“Yes,” said Raymond mechanically. “But tell me more about yourself -and Pierre--and--and those happy years. You had children--a--a son, -perhaps?” - -“Yes--yes, monsieur!” There was a glad eagerness in her voice--and -then a broken sob--and the old eyes brimmed anew with tears. “There was -little Jean. He was born just a few months after his father died. He--he -was just like Pierre. He was four years old when I married Blondin, -and--and when he was ten he ran away.” - -The altar light, that tiny light there seemed curiously transparent. -He could see through it, not to the body of the altar behind it, but -through it to a vast distance that did not measure miles, and he could -see the interior of a shack whose window pane was thickly frosted and in -whose doorway stood a man, and the man was Murdock Shaw who had come -to bring Canuck John's dying message--and he could hear Murdock Shaw's -words: “'Tell Three-Ace Artie--give good-bye message--my mother and----' -And then he died.” - -“I do not know where he went”--old Mother Blon-din's faltering voice, -too, seemed a vast distance away--“I--I have never heard of him since -then. He is dead, perhaps; but, if he is alive, I hope--I hope that he -will never know. Yes--there were three years of happiness, monsieur--and -then it was finished. Monsieur, I--I will go now.” - -Raymond's head on his crossed arms was bowed on the back of the pew -before him. Letellier! It was the forgotten name come back to him. This -was Canuck John's mother--and this was Théophile Blondin's mother--and -he had come to St. Marleau to deliver to her a message of death--and -he had delivered it in the killing of her other son! Was this the peace -that he had come here to seek to-night? Was this the hand of God that -had led him here? What did it mean? Was it God who had brought Mother -Blondin here to-night? Would it bring her comfort--to believe in God -again? Was he here for _that?_ Here, that a word from him, whom she -thought a priest, might turn the scales and bring her to her God of the -many years ago? Was this God's way--to use him, who masqueraded as God's -priest, and through whom this woman's son had been killed--was this -God's way to save old Mother Blondin? - -She touched his arm timidly. - -“Are you praying for me, monsieur?” she whispered tremulously. “It--it -is too late for that--that was forty years ago. And--and I will go now.” - -He raised his head and looked at the old, withered, tear-stained face. -The question of his own belief did not enter here. If she went now -without a word from him, without a priestly word, she went forever. They -were beautiful words--and, if one believed, they brought comfort. And -she was near, very near to that old belief again. And they were near, -very near to his own lips too, those words. - -“It is not too late,” he said brokenly. “Listen! Do you remember -the _Benedictus?_ Give me your hand, and we will kneel, and say it -together.” - -She drew back, and shook her head, and tried to speak--but no words -came, only her lips quivered. - -He held out his hand to her--held it silently there for a long time--and -then, hesitantly, she laid her hand in his. - -And kneeling there in the pew, old Mother Blondin and Raymond Chapelle, -Raymond began the solemn words of the _Benedictus_. Low his voice was, -and the tears crept to his eyes as the thin hand clutched and clasped -spasmodically at his own. And as he came to the end, the tears held back -no longer and rolled hot upon his cheeks. - -“... Through the tender mercy of our God... to enlighten those who sit -in darkness, and in the shade of death: to direct our feet into the way -of peace”--his voice died away. - -She was sobbing bitterly. He helped her to her feet as she sought to -rise, and, holding tightly to her arm for she swayed unsteadily, he led -her down the aisle. And they came to the church door, and out upon the -green. And here she paused, as though she expected him to leave her. - -“I will walk up the hill with you, Mother Blondin,” he said. “I do not -think you are strong enough to go alone.” - -She did not answer. - -They started on along the road. She walked very slowly, very feebly, and -leaned heavily upon him. And neither spoke. And they turned up the hill. -And halfway up the hill he lifted her in his arms and carried her, for -her strength was gone. And somehow he knew that when she had left her -bed that night to stumble down this hill to the moonlit church she had -left it for the last time--save one. - -She was speaking again--almost inaudibly. He bent his head to catch the -words. - -“It is forty years,” said old Mother Blondin. “Forty years--it is a long -time--forty years.” - - - - -CHAPTER XX--AN UNCOVERED SOUL - -|IT hung there precariously. All through the mass that morning Raymond's -eyes had kept straying to the great cross on the wall that old Mother -Blondin had disturbed the night before. No one else, it was true, had -appeared to notice it; but, having no reason to do so, no one else, very -probably, had given it any particular attention--nevertheless, a single -strand of cord on one end of the horizontal beam was all that now -prevented the cross from pitching outward from the wall and crashing -down into the body of the church. - -The door of the sacristy leading into the chancel was open, and, in the -sacristy now, Raymond's eyes fixed uneasily again on the huge, squared -timbers of the cross. The support at the base held the weight of course, -but the balance and adjustment was gone, and the slightest jar would be -all that was necessary to snap that remaining cord above. Massive and -unwieldy, the cross itself must be at least seven feet in height; and, -though this was of course imagination, it seemed to waver there now -ominously, as if to impress upon him the fact that in the cause of its -insecurity he was not without a personal responsibility. - -He had removed his surplice and stole; Gauthier Beaulieu, the altar boy, -had gone; and there was only old Narcisse Pélude, the aged sacristan, -who was still puttering about the room. And the church was empty now, -save that he could still hear Valérie moving around up there in the -little organ loft. - -Raymond passed his hand wearily across his eyes. He was very tired. -Valérie was lingering intentionally--and he knew why. He had not -returned to the _presbytère_, his bed had not been slept in. Valérie and -her mother could not have helped but discover that, and they would be -anxious, and worried, and perhaps a little frightened--and that was why -Valérie was lingering now, waiting for him. He had not dared to leave -old Mother Blondin alone through the night. She had been very ill. -And he had not gone to any one near at hand, to Madame Bouchard, for -instance, to get her to take his place, for that would have entailed -explanations which, not on his own account, but for old Mother Blondin's -sake, he had not cared to make; and so, when the bell for mass had rung -that morning, he had still been at the bedside of the old woman on the -hill. And he had left her only then because she was sleeping quietly, -and the immediate crisis seemed safely past. - -Raymond's eyes, from the cross, rested speculatively for a moment on the -bent figure of the aged sacristan. He could make those explanations to -Valérie, he could go out there now and in a sort of timely corroboration -of the story repair the damage done to the cross, and she would -understand; but he could not publicly make those explanations. If it was -to be known in the village that old Mother Blondin had come here to the -church, it was for old Mother Blondin herself, and for no one else, to -tell it. It was the same attitude he had adopted toward her once before. -True, Mother Blondin had changed very greatly since then; but a tactless -word from any one, a sneer, the suggestion of triumph over her, and -the old sullen defiance might well rise supreme again--and old Mother -Blondin, he knew now, had not very long to live. Valérie and her mother -would very readily, and very sympathetically understand. He could tell -Valérie, indeed he was forced to do so in order to explain his own -absence from the _presbytère_; but to others, to the village, to old -Narcisse Pélude here, since the broken fastenings of the cross must be -replaced, old Mother Blondin's name need not be mentioned. - -“Narcisse, how long has that great cross hung there on the wall?” he -inquired abruptly. - -“Ah--the great cross! Yes--Monsieur le Curé!” The old man laid down a -vestment that he had been carefully folding, and wagged his head. “It is -very old--very old, that cross. You will see how old it is when I tell -you it was made by the grandfather of the present Bouchard, whose pew -is right underneath it. Grandfather Bouchard was one of the first in St. -Mar-leau, and you must know, Monsieur le Curé, that St. Marleau was then -a very small place. It was the Grandfather Bouchard who built most of -the old wooden church, and there was a little cupola for the bell, and -above the cupola was that cross. Yes, Monsieur le Curé, there have been -changes in St. Marleau, and----” - -“But how long has it hung there on the wall, Narcisse?” Raymond -interrupted with a tolerant smile--Narcisse had been known at times to -verge on garrulity! - -“But I am telling you, Monsieur le Curé,” said the old sacristan -earnestly. “We began to build this fine stone church, and when it was -finished the little old wooden church was torn down, and we brought the -cross here, and it has been here ever since, and that is thirty-two--no, -thirty-three years ago, Monsieur le Curé--it will be thirty-three years -this coming November.” - -“And in those thirty-three years,” observed Raymond, “I imagine that the -cross has remained untouched?” - -“But, yes, Monsieur le Curé! Untouched--yes, of course! It was -consecrated by Monsignor the Bishop himself--not the present bishop, -Monsieur le Curé will understand, but the old bishop who is since dead, -and----” - -“Quite so,” said Raymond. “Well, come here, nearer to the door, -Narcisse. Now, look at the cross very carefully, and see if you can -discover why I asked you if it had remained untouched all those years?” - -The old man strained his eyes across the chancel to the opposite -wall--and shook his head. - -“No, Monsieur le Curé, I see nothing--only the cross there as usual.” - -“Look higher up,” prompted Raymond. “Do you not see that all but one of -the fastenings are broken, and that it is about to fall?” - -“Fall? About to fall?” The old man rubbed his eyes, and stared, and -rubbed his eyes again. “Yes--yes--it is true! I see now! The cords have -rotted away. It is no wonder--in all that time. I--I should have thought -of that long, long ago.” He turned a white face to Raymond. “It--it is -the mercy of God that it did not happen, Monsieur le Curé, with anybody -there! It would have killed Bouchard, and madame, and the children! It -would have crushed them to death! Monsieur le Curé, I am a _misérable!_ -I am an old man, and I forget, but that is not an excuse. Yes, Monsieur -le Curé, I am a _misérable!_” - -Raymond laid his hand on the old sacristan's shoulder. - -“We will see that it does not fall on the excellent Bouchard, or on -madame, or on the children,” he smiled. “Therefore, bring a ladder and -some stout cord, Narcisse, and we will fix it at once.” - -The old man stared again at the cross for a moment, then started -hurriedly toward the sacristy door that gave on the side of the church. - -“Yes, Monsieur le Curé--yes--at once,” he agreed anxiously. “There is a -ladder beside the shed that is long enough. I will get it immediately. -I am an old man, and I forget, but I am none the less a _misérable_. -If Monsieur le Curé had not happened to notice it, and it had fallen on -Bouchard! Monsieur le Curé is very good not to blame me, but I am none -the less----” - -The old man, shaking his head, and still talking, had disappeared -through the doorway. - -Old Narcisse Pélude--the self-styled _misérable!_ The old man had taken -it quite to heart! Raymond shrugged his shoulders whimsically. Well, so -much the better! It was for old Mother Blondin to tell her own story--if -she chose! He wondered, with a curious and seemingly unaccountable -wistfulness, if she ever would! It had been a night that had left him -strangely moved, strangely bewildered, unable even yet to focus his -mind clearly and logically upon it. He could tell Valérie of old Mother -Blondin, of how the old woman on the hill had come here seeking peace; -he could not tell her that he, too, had come in the hope that he might -find what old Mother Blondin had sought--at the Altar of God! - -Valérie! Yes, he was strangely moved this morning. And now a yearning -and an agony surged upon him. Valérie! Between Valérie's coming to him -that night in the stillness of the hours just before the dawn, and his -coming here to the church last night, there lay an analogy of souls -near-spent, clutching at what they might to save themselves. Peace, and -the seeking of a way, he had come for; and peace, and the seeking of a -way, she had come for then. It seemed as though he could see that scene -again--that room in the _presbytère_, and the lamp upon the desk, and -that slim, girlish form upon her knees before him; and it seemed as -though he could feel the touch again of that soft, dark, silken hair, as -she laid his hands upon her bowed head; and it seemed as though he could -hear her voice again, as it faltered through the _Pater Noster_: -“Hallowed be Thy name... and lead us not into temptation... but deliver -us from evil.” Had he, in any measure, found what he had sought last -night? He did not know. He had knelt and prayed with old Mother Blondin. -The _Benedictus_, as he had repeated it, had seemed real. He had known a -profound solemnity, and the sense of that solemnity had remained with -him, was with him now--and yet he blasphemed that solemnity, and the -Altar of God, and this holy place in standing here at this very moment -decked out in his stolen _soutane_ and the crucifix that hung from his -neck! Illogical? Why did he do it then? His eyes were on the floor. -Illogical? It was to save his life--it was because he was fighting to -save his life. It was not to repudiate the sincerity with which he had -repeated the words of the _Benedictus_ to old Mother Blondin--it was to -save his life. Whatever he had found here, whether a deeper meaning in -these holy symbolisms, he had not found the way--no other way but to -blaspheme on with his _soutane_ cloaked around him. And she--Valérie? -Had she found what she had sought that night? He did not know. Refuse to -acknowledge it, attempt to argue himself into disbelief, if he would, he -knew that when she had knelt there that night in the front room of the -_presbytère_ she cared. And since then? Had she, in any measure, found -what she had sought? Had she crushed back the love, triumphed over it -until it remained only a memory in her life? He did not know. She had -given no sign. They had never spoken of that night again. Only--only it -seemed as though of late there had come a shadow into the fresh, young -face, and a shadow into the dark, steadfast eyes, a shadow that had not -been there on the night when he had first come to St. Marleau, and she -and he had bent together over the wounded man upon the bed. - -Subconsciously he had been listening for her step; and now, as he heard -her descending the stairs from the organ loft, he stepped out from the -sacristy into the chancel, and down into the nave of the church. He -could see her now, and she had seen him. She had halted at the foot of -the stairs under the gallery at the back of the church. Valérie! How -sweet and beautiful she looked this morning! There was just a tinge of -rising colour in her cheeks, a little smile, half tremulous, half gay -on the parted lips, a dainty gesture of severity and playfulness in the -shake of her head, as he approached. - -“Oh, Father Aubert,” she exclaimed, “you do not know how relieved we -were, mother and I, when we saw you enter the church this morning for -mass! We--we were really very anxious about you; and we did not know -what to think when mother called you as usual half an hour before the -mass, and found that you were not there, and that you had not slept in -your bed.” - -“Yes, I know,” said Raymond gravely; “and that is what I have come to -speak to you about now. I was afraid you would be anxious, but I knew -you would understand--though you would perhaps wonder a little--when I -told you what kept me away last night. Let us walk down the side aisle -there to the chancel, Mademoiselle Valérie, and I will explain.” - -A bewildered little pucker gathered on her forehead. - -“The side aisle, Father Aubert?” she repeated in a puzzled way. - -“Yes; come,” he said. “You will see.” - -He led her down the aisle, and, halting before the cross, pointed -upward. - -“Why, the fastenings, all but one, are broken!” she cried out instantly. -“It is a miracle that it has not fallen! What does it mean?” - -“It is the story of last night, Mademoiselle Valerie,” he answered with -a sober smile. “Sit down in the pew there, and I will tell you. I have -sent Narcisse for a ladder, and we will repair the damage presently, but -there will be time before he gets back. He believes that the fastenings -have grown old and rotten, which is true; and that they parted simply -from age, which is not quite so much the fact. I have allowed him to -form his own conclusions; I have even encouraged him to believe in -them.” - -She was sitting in the pew now. The bewildered little pucker had grown -deeper. She kept glancing back and forth from Raymond, standing before -her in the aisle, to the broken fastenings of the cross high up on the -wall. - -“But that is what any one would naturally think,” she said slowly. “I -thought so myself. I--I do not quite understand, Father Aubert.” - -“I think you know,” said Raymond quietly, “that some nights I do not -sleep very well, Mademoiselle Valerie. Last night was one of those. When -midnight came I was still wakeful, and I had not gone to bed. I was very -restless; I knew I could not sleep, and so I decided to go out for a -little while.” - -“Yes,” she said impulsively; “I know. I heard you.” - -“You heard me?” He looked at her in quick surprise. “But I thought I had -been very careful indeed to make no noise. I--I did not think that I had -wakened------” - -A flush came suddenly to her cheeks, and she turned her head aside. - -“I--I was not asleep,” she said hurriedly. “Go on, Father Aubert, I did -not mean to interrupt you.” - -Raymond did not speak for a moment. He was not looking at her now--he -dared not trust his eyes to drink deeper of that flush that had come -with the simple statement that she too had been awake. Valérie! Valérie! -It was the silent voice of his soul calling her. And suddenly he seemed -to be looking out from his prison land upon the present scene--upon -Valérie and the good, young Father Aubert together, looking upon them -both, as he had looked upon them together many times. And suddenly he -hated that figure in priestly dress with a deadly hate--because Valérie -had tossed upon her bed awake, and had not slept; and because, as though -gifted with prophetic vision, he could see the shadow in Valérie's -fresh, pure face change and deepen into misery immeasurable, and the -young life, barely on its threshold, be robbed of youth with its joy and -gladness, and with sorrow grow prematurely old. - -“You went out, Father Aubert,” she prompted. “And then?” - -The old sacristan would be back with the ladder very shortly, at almost -any minute now--and he had to tell Valérie about old Mother Blondin -and the cross before Narcisse returned. He looked up. He found himself -speaking at first mechanically, and then low and earnestly, swayed -strangely by his own words. And so, standing there in the aisle of the -church, he told Valerie the story of the night, of the broken cross, of -the broken life so near its end. And there was amazement, and wonder, -and surprise in Valerie's face as she listened, and then a tender -sympathy--and at the end, the dark eyes, as they lifted to his, were -filled with tears. - -“It is very wonderful,” she said almost to herself. “Old Mother -Blondin--it could be only God who brought her here.” - -Raymond did not answer. The old sacristan had entered the church, and -was bringing the ladder down the aisle. It was the sacristan who spoke, -catching sight of Valérie, as Raymond, taking one end of the ladder, -raised it against the wall beside the cross. - -“_Tiens!_” The old man lifted the coil of thin rope which he held, and -with the back of his hand mopped away a bead of perspiration from his -forehead. “You have seen then what has happened, mademoiselle! Father -Aubert has made light of it; but what will Monsieur le Curé, your uncle, -say when he hears of it! Yes, it is true--I am a _misérable_--I do not -deserve to be sacristan any longer! It was consecrated by Monsignor the -Bishop, that cross, when the church was consecrated, and----” - -Raymond took the cord quietly from the old man's hand, and began to -mount the ladder. He went up slowly--not that the ladder was insecure, -but that his mind and thoughts were far removed from the mere mechanical -task which he had set himself to perform. Valérie's words had set that -turmoil at work in his soul again. She had not hesitated to say that -it was God who had brought old Mother Blondin here. And he too believed -that now. Peace he had not found, nor the way, but he believed that now. -Therefore he must believe now that there was a God--yes, the night had -brought him that. And if there was a God, was it God who had led him, -as old Mother Blondin had been led, to fall upon his knees in that pew -below there where Valérie now sat, and _pray?_ Had he prayed for old -Mother Blondin's sake _alone?_ Was God partial then? Old Mother Blondin, -he knew, even if her surrender were not yet complete, had found the way. -He had not. He had found no way--to save that man who was to be hanged -by the neck until he was dead--to save Valérie from shame and misery if -she cared, if she still cared--to save himself! Old Mother Blondin -alone had found the way. Was it because she was the lesser sinner of the -two--because he had blasphemed God beyond all recall--because he still -dared to blaspheme God--because he had stood again that morning at the -altar and had officiated as God's holy priest--because he stood here now -in God's house, an impostor, an intruder and a defiler! No way! And -yet _through him_ old Mother Blondin had found her God again! Was it -irony--God's irony--God's answer, irrefutable, to his former denial of -God's existence! - -No way! Ten feet below him Valérie and the old sacristan talked and -watched; the weather-beaten timbers of the great cross were within reach -of his hands; there, inside the chancel rail, was the altar--all these -things were real, were physically real. It did not seem as though it -could be so. It seemed as though, instead, he were taking part in -some horrible, and horribly vivid dream-life. Only there would be no -awakening! There was no way--he would twist this cord about the iron -hooks on the cross and the iron hook on the wall, and descend, and go -through another day, and be the good, young Father Aubert, and toss -through another night, and wait, clinging to the miserable hope, spurned -even by his gambler's instinct, that “something” might happen--wait for -the deciding of that appeal, and picture the doomed man in the death -cell, and dream his dreams, and watch Valérie from his prison land, and -know through the hours and minutes torment and merciless unrest. Yes, -he believed there was a God. He believed that God had brought them both -here, old Mother Blondin to cling to the foot of the cross, and himself -to find her there--but to him there had come no peace--no way. His -blasphemy, his desecration of God's altar and God's church had been -made to serve God's ends--old Mother Blondin had found the way. But that -purpose was accomplished now. How much longer, then, would God suffer -this to continue? Not long! To-morrow, the next day, the day after, -would come the answer to the appeal--and then he must choose. Choose! -Choose what? What was there to choose where--his hands gripped hard on -the rung of the ladder. Enough! Enough of this! It was terrible enough -in the nights! There was no end to it! It would go on and on--the same -ghoulish cycle over and over again. He would not let it master him now, -for there would be no end to it! He was here to fix the cross. To fix -God's cross, the consecrated cross--it was a fitting task for one who -walked always with that symbol suspended from his neck! It was curious -how that symbol had tangled up his hands the night his fingers had crept -toward that white throat on the bed! Even the garb of priest that he -wore God turned to account, and--no! He lifted his hand and swept it -fiercely across his eyes. Enough! That was enough! It was only beginning -somewhere else in the cycle that inevitably led around into all the rest -again. - -He fought his mind back to his immediate surroundings. He was above the -horizontal arm of the cross now, and he could see and appreciate how -narrowly a catastrophe had been averted the night before. It was, as -Valérie had said, a miracle that the cross had not fallen, for the -single strand of cord that still held it was frayed to a threadlike -thinness. - -He glanced above him, decided to make the vertical beam, or centre, of -the cross secure first by passing the cord around the upper hook in the -wall that was still just a little beyond his reach, stepped quickly up -to the next rung of the ladder--and lurched suddenly, pitching heavily -to one side. It was his _soutane_, the garb of priest, the garb of God's -holy priest--his foot had caught in the skirt of his _soutane_. He flung -out his hands against the wall to save himself. It was too late! The -ladder swayed against the cross--the threadlike fastening snapped--and -the massive arms of the cross lunged outward toward him, pushing the -ladder back. A cry, hoarse, involuntary, burst from his lips--it was -echoed by another, a cry from Valérie, a cry that rang in terror through -the church. Two faces, white with horror, looking up at him from below, -flashed before his eyes--and he was plunging backward, downward with the -ladder--and hurtling through the air behind it, the mighty cross, with -arms outspread as though in vengeance and to defy escape, pursued and -rushed upon him, and---- There was a terrific crash, the rip and rend -and tear of splintering wood--and blackness. - -There came at first a dull sense of pain; then the pain began to -increase in intensity. There were insistent murmurings; there were -voices. He was coming back to consciousness; but he seemed to be coming -very slowly, for he could not move or make any sign. His side commenced -to cause him agony. His head ached and throbbed as though it were being -pounded under quick and never-ending hammer blows; and yet it seemed to -be strangely and softly cushioned. The murmurings continued. He began to -distinguish words--and then suddenly his brain was cleared, cleared as -by some terrific mental shock that struck to the soul, uplifting it in a -flood of glory, engulfing it in a fathomless and abysmal misery. It was -Valerie--it was Valerie's voice--Valerie whispering in a frightened, -terrified, almost demented way--whispering that she _loved_ him, -imploring him to speak. - -“... Oh, will no one come! Can Narcisse find no one! I--I cannot bring -him back to consciousness! Speak to me! Speak to me! You must--you -shall! It is I who have sinned in loving you. It is I who have sinned -and made God angry, and brought this upon you. But God will not let you -die--because--because--it was my sin--and--and you would never know. -I--I promised God that you would never know. And you--you shall not die! -You shall not! You shall not! Speak to me--oh, speak to me!” - -Speak to her! Speak to Valerie! Not even to whisper her name--when the -blood in a fiery tide whipped through his veins; when impulse born of -every fibre of his being prompted him to lift his arms to her face, so -close to his that he could feel her breath upon his cheek, and draw it -closer, closer, until it lay against his own, and to hold it there, and -find her lips, and feel them cling to his! There was a physical agony -from his hurts upon him that racked him from head to foot--but there was -an agony deeper still that was in his soul. His head was pillowed on her -knee, but even to open his eyes and look up into that pure face he loved -was denied him, even to whisper a word that would allay her fears -and comfort her was denied him. From Valérie's own lips had come the -bitterest and dearest words that he would ever hear. He could temporise -no longer now. He could juggle no more with his false and inconsistent -arguments. Valérie cared, Valérie loved him--as he had known she cared, -as he had known she loved him. A moan was on his lips, forced there by -a sudden twinge of pain that seemed unendurable. He choked it back. She -must not know that he had heard--he must simulate unconsciousness. He -could not save her from much now, from the “afterwards” that was so -close upon him--but he could save her from this. She should not know! -God's cross in God's church... his blasphemy, his sacrilege had been -answered... the very garb of priest had repaid him for its profanation -and struck him down... and Valérie... Valérie was here... holding him... -and Valérie loved him... but Valérie must not know... it was between -Valérie and her God... she must not know that he had heard. - -Her hands were caressing his face, smoothing back his hair, bathing his -forehead with the water which had been her first thought perhaps before -she had sent Narcisse for help. Valérie's hands! Like fire, they were, -upon him, torturing him with a torture beyond the bodily torment he was -suffering; and like the tenderest, gladdest joy he had ever known, they -were. A priest of God--and Valérie! No, it went deeper far than that; -it was a life of which this was but the inevitable and bitter -culmination--and Valérie. But for that, in a surge of triumphant -ecstasy, victor of a prize beyond all price, his arms might have swept -out in the full tide of his manhood's strength around her, claiming her -surrender--a surrender that would have been his right--a surrender that -would have been written deep in love and trust and faith and glory in -those dark, tear-dimmed eyes. - -And now her hands closed softly, and remained still, and held his face -between them--and she was gazing down at him. He could see her, he had -no need to open his eyes for that--he could see the sweet, quivering -lips; the love, the terror, the yearning, the fear mingling in the -white, beautiful face. And then suddenly, with a choked sob, she bent -forward and kissed him, and laid her face against his cheek. - -“He will not speak to me!”--her voice was breaking. “Then listen, my -lover--my lover, who cannot hear--my lover, who will never know. Is it -wrong to kiss you, is it making my sin the greater to tell you--you who -will not hear. There is only God to know. And out of all my life it is -for just this once--for just this once. Afterwards, if you live, I will -ask God to forgive--for it is only for this once--this once out of all -my life. And--and--if you die--then--then I will ask God to be merciful -and--and take me too. You did not know I loved you so, and I had never -thought to tell you. And if you live you will never know, because you -are God's priest, and my sin is very terrible, but--but I--I shall know -that you are somewhere, a big and brave and loyal man, and glad in your -life, and--and loved, as all love you here in St. Marleau. All through -my life I will love you--all through my life--and--and I will remember -that for just this once, for this moment out of all the years, I gave -myself to you.” - -She drew him closer. An agony that was maddening shot through his side -as she moved him. If he might only clench his teeth deep in his lips -that he might not scream out! But he could not do that for Valeric would -see--and Valérie must not know. Tighter and tighter she held him in -her strong, young arms--and now, like the bursting wide of flood-gates, -there was passion in her voice. - -“I love you! I love you! I love you! And I am afraid--and I am afraid! -For I am only a woman, and it is a woman's love. Would you turn from me -if you knew? No, no--I--I do not know what I am saying--only that -you are here with my arms around you--and that--that your face is so -pale--and that--and that you will not speak to me.” - -She was crying. She bent lower until, as a mother clasps a child, his -head lay upon her breast and shoulder, and her own head was buried on -his breast. And again with the movement came excruciating pain, and now -a weakness, a giddy swirling of his senses. It passed. He opened his -eyes for an instant, for she could not see him now. He was lying just -inside the chancel rail, and almost at the altar's foot. The sunlight -streamed through the windows of the church, but they were in shadow, -Valérie and he, in a curious shadow--it seemed to fall in a straight -line across them both, and yet be spread out in two wide arms that -completely covered them. And at first he could not understand, and then -he saw that the great cross lay forward with its foot against the wall -and the arms upon the shattered chancel rail--and the shadow was the -shadow of the cross. What did it mean? Was it there premonitory of a -wrath still unappeased, that was still to know fulfilment; or was it -there in pity--on Valérie--into whose life he had brought a sorrow that -would never know its healing? He closed his eyes again--the giddiness -had come once more. - -“I--I promised God that he would never know”--she was speaking scarcely -above her breath, and the passion was gone out from her voice now, and -there was only pleading and entreaty. “Mary, dear and holy Mother, have -pity, and listen, and forgive--and bring him back to life. It came, and -it was stronger than I--the love. But I will keep my promise to -God--always--always. Forgive my sin, if it is not too great for -forgiveness, and help me to endure--and--and----” her voice broke in a -sob, and was still. - -Her lips touched his brow gently; her hands smoothed back his hair. -Dizziness and torturing pain were sweeping over him in swiftly -alternating flashes. There were beads of agony standing out, he knew, -upon his forehead--but they were mingled and were lost in the tears that -suddenly fell hot upon him. Valerie! Valerie! God give him strength -that he might not writhe, that he might not moan. No, he need not fear -that--the pain was not so great now--it seemed to be passing gradually, -very gradually, even soothingly, away--there were other voices--they -seemed a long way off--there seemed to be footsteps and the closing of a -door--and the footsteps came nearer and nearer--but as they came nearer -they grew fainter and fainter--and blackness fell again. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI--THE CONDEMNED CELL - -|THE reins lay idly in Raymond's hand. The horse, left to its own -initiative, ambled lazily to the crest of a little rise that commanded -a view of the town of Tournayville beyond. Raymond's eyes, lifting from -the dash-board, ignoring the general perspective, fixed and held on -a single detail, to the right, and perhaps a mile away--a high, -rectangular, gray stone wall, that inclosed a gray, rectangular stone -building. - -His eyes reverted to the dash-board. It was nearly two weeks now since -he had seen that cold and narrow space with its iron bars, and the -figure that huddled on the cot clasping its hands dejectedly between its -knees--nearly two weeks. It was ten days since he had been struck down -in the church--and in another ten days, over yonder, inside that gray -stone wall, a man was to be hung by the neck until he was dead. Ten days -forward--ten days backward--ten days. - -Ten days! In the ten days just past he had sought, in a deeper, more -terrible anguish of mind than even in those days when he had thought the -bitterest dregs were already at his lips, for the answer to these ten -days to come--for now there was Valerie, Valérie's love, no longer a -probability against which he might argue fiercely, desperately with -himself, but an actual, real, existent, living thing, glorious and -wonderful--and terrible as a hand of death stretching out a pointing -finger to the “afterwards.” And there was God. - -Yes--God! He was still the curé of St. Marleau, still the good, young -Father Aubert; but since that morning when he had been struck down at -the foot of God's altar he had not entered the church--and he had been -no more a priest, profaning that holy place. It was not fear, a craven, -superstitious fear that the hand which had struck him once would deal -him physical injury again; it was not that--it was--what? He did not -know. His mind was chaos there--chaos where it groped for a definite, -tangible expression of his attitude toward God. There was a God. It was -God who had drawn old Mother Blondin to the church that night, and had -made him the instrument of her recovered faith--and the instrument of -his own punishment when, in her fright which he had caused, she had -loosened the great cross upon the wall. It was not coincidence, it was -not superstition--deep in his consciousness lay the memory of that night -when, with the old woman's hand in his, he had knelt and prayed; and -deep in his consciousness was the sure knowledge that when he had prayed -he had prayed in the presence of God. But he could get no further--it -was as though he looked on God from afar off. Here turmoil took command. -There was Valérie; the man who was to die; himself; the inflexible, -immutable approach, the closing in upon him of that day of final -reckoning. And God had shown him no way. He seemed to recognise an -avenging God, not one to love. He could not say that he had the impulse -to revere as the simple people of St. Marleau had, as Valérie had--and -yet since that morning when they had carried him unconscious to the -_presbytère_ he had not again entered the church, he had not again stood -before God's altar in his blasphemous, stolen garb of priest! - -Raymond's thumb nail made abstracted little markings on the leather rein -in his hand. Yes, that was true; profanation seemed to have acquired -a new, and personal, and intimate meaning--and he had not gone. -Circumstances had aided him. The solicitude of Madame Lafleur had made -it easy for him to linger in bed, and subsequently to remain confined -to his room long after his broken ribs, and the severe contusions he -had received in his fall, had healed sufficiently to let him get about -again. And he had allowed Madame Lafleur to “persuade” him! It had not -been difficult as far as the early morning mass was concerned, for, -with the curé sick in bed, the mass, it would be expected, would be -temporarily dispensed with; but a Sunday had intervened. But even that -he had solved. If some one from somewhere must say mass that day, it -must be some one who would not by any chance have ever known or met the -real Father François Aubert. There was Father Décan, the prison chaplain -of Tour-nayville. He had never met Father Décan, even when visiting the -jail, but since Father Décan had not recognised the prisoner, Father -Décan obviously would have no suspicions of one Raymond Chapelle--and so -he had sent a request to Father Décan to celebrate mass on the preceding -Sunday, and Father Décan had complied. - -The thumb nail bit a little deeper into the leather. Yesterday was -the first day he had been out. This morning he had again deliberately -dispensed with the mass, but to-day was Saturday--and to-morrow would be -Sunday--and to-morrow St. Marleau would gather to hear the good, young -Father Aubert preach again! Was God playing with him! Did God not see -that he had twisted, and turned, and struggled, and planned that he -might not blaspheme and profane God's altar again! Did God not see that -he revolted at the thought! And yet God had shown him no other way. What -else could he do? What else was there to do? He was still with his -life at stake, with the life of another at stake--and there was -Valérie--Valérie--Valérie! - -A sharp cry of pain came involuntarily to his lips, and found -utterance--and startled the horse into a reluctant jogging for a few -paces. Valérie! He had scarcely seen her in all those ten days. It was -Madame Lafleur who had taken care of him. Valérie had not purposely -avoided him--it was not that--only she had gone to live practically all -the time at old Mother Blondin's. The old woman was dying. For three -days now she had not roused from unconsciousness. This morning she had -been very low. By the time he returned she might be dead. - -Dead! These were the closing hours of his own life in St. Marleau, the -end here, too, was very near--and the closing hours, with sinister, -ominous significance, seemed to be all encompassed about and permeated -with death. It was not only old Mother Blon-din. There was the man in -the death cell, whom he was on his way to see now, this afternoon, who -was waiting for death--for death on a dangling rope--for death that was -not many days off. Yesterday Father Décan had driven out to say that the -prisoner was in a pitiful state of mental collapse, imploring, begging, -entreating that Father Aubert should come to him--and so this afternoon -Father Aubert, the good, young Father Aubert, was on his way--to the -cell of death. - -Raymond's lips moved silently. This was the very threshold of the -“afterwards”--the threshold of that day--the day of wrath. - -“_Dies ilia, dies ira, calamitatis et miserio, dies magna et am ara -valde_--That day, a day of wrath, of wasting, and of misery, a great -day, and exceeding bitter.” - -Unbidden had come the words. Set his face was, and white. If all else -were false, if God were but the transition from the fairy tales of -childhood to the fairy tale of maturity, if religion were but a shell, a -beautiful shell that was empty, a storehouse of wonderful architectural -beauty that held no treasure within--at least those words were true--a -day of wrath, and exceeding bitter. And that day was upon him; and there -was no way to go, no turn to take, only the dark, mocking pathways of -the maze that possessed no opening, only the dank, slimy walls of that -Walled Place against which he beat and bruised his fists in impotent -despair. There was the man who was to be hanged--and himself--and -Valerie--and he knew now that Valérie loved him. - -The horse ambled on through the outskirts of the town. Occasionally -Raymond mechanically turned out for a passing team, and acknowledged -mechanically the respectful salutation. In his mind a new thought was -germinating and taking form. He had said that God-had shown him no way. -Was he so sure of that? If God had led him to the church that night, -and had brought through him an eleventh hour reversion of faith to old -Mother Blondin, and had forced the acceptance of divine existence upon -himself, was he so sure that in the breaking of the fastenings of the -cross, that it might fall and strike him down, there lay only a crowning -punishment, only a thousandfold greater anguish, only bitter, helpless -despair, in that it had been the means whereby, from Valérie's own lips, -he had come to the knowledge of Valérie's love? Was he so sure of that? -Was he so sure that in the very coming to him of the knowledge of her -love he was not being shown the way he was to take! - -The buckboard turned from the road it had been following, and took the -one leading to the jail. Subconsciously Raymond guided the horse -now, and subconsciously he was alive to his surroundings and to the -passers-by--but his mind worked on and on with the thought that now -obsessed him. - -Suppose that his choice of saving one of the two lay between this man -in the condemned cell and Valerie--which would he choose? He laughed -sharply aloud in ironical derision. Which would he choose! It was -pitiful, it was absurd--the question! Pitiful? Absurd? Well, but was it -not precisely the choice he was called upon to make--to choose between -Valérie and the man in the condemned cell? Was that not what the -knowledge of her love meant? She loved him; from her own lips, as she -had poured out her soul, thinking there was none but God to hear, he had -learned the full measure of her love--a love that would never die, deep, -and pure, and sinless--a love that was but the stronger for the sorrow -it had to bear--a cherished, hallowed love around which her very life -had entwined itself until life and love were one for always. - -The gray stone walls of the jail, cold, dreary, forbidding, loomed up a -little way ahead. The reins were loose upon the dashboard, but clenched -in a mighty grip in Raymond's hand. He could save the man in there from -death--but he could save Valérie from what would be worse than death to -her. He could save her from the shame, the agony, the degradation that -would kill that pure soul of hers, that would imbitter, wreck and ruin -that young life, if he, the object of her love, should dangle as a felon -from the gallows almost before her eyes, or flee, leaving to that love, -a felon's heritage. Yes, he could save Valérie from that; and if he -could save Valérie from that, what did the man in the condemned -cell count for in the balance? The man meant nothing to -him--nothing--nothing! It was Valérie! There was the “accident”--so -easy, so sure--the “death” of the good, young Father Aubert--the -upturned boat--the body supposedly washed out to sea. Long ago, in the -first days of his life in St. Marleau, he had worked out the details, -and the plan could not fail. There would be her grief, of course; he -could not stand between her and her grief for the loss of the one she -loved--but it would be a grief without bitterness, a memory without -shame. - -Did the man in the condemned cell count for anything against that! It -would save Valerie, and--his face set suddenly in rigid lines, and his -lips drew tight together--and it would save _himself!_ It was the one -alternative to either giving himself up to stand in the other's place, -or of becoming a fugitive, branding himself as such, and saving -the condemned man by a confession sent, say, to the Bishop, who, -he remembered, knew the real François Aubert personally, and could -therefore at once identify the man. Yes, it was the one alternative--and -that alternative would save--himself! Wait! Was he sure that it was only -Valérie of whom he was thinking? Was he sure that he was sincere? Was he -sure there were no coward promptings--to save himself? - -For a moment the tense and drawn expression in his face held as he -groped in mind and soul for the answer; and then his lips parted in a -bitter smile. It was not much to boast of! Three-Ace Artie a coward? -Ask of the men of that far Northland whose lives ran hand in hand with -death, ask of the men of the Yukon, ask of the men who knew! Gambler, -roué, whatever else they might have called him, no man had ever called -him coward! If his actual death, rather than his supposititious death, -could save Valérie the better, in his soul he knew that he would not -have hesitated. Why then should he hesitate about this man! If it lay -between Valérie and this man, why should he hesitate! If he would give -his own life to save Valérie from suffering and shame, why should he -consider this man's life--this man who meant nothing to him--nothing! - -Well, had he decided? He was at the jail now. Was he satisfied that this -was the way? Yes! Yes--_yes!_ He told himself with fierce insistence -that it was--an insistence that by brute force beat down an opposition -that somehow seemed miserably seeking to intrude itself. Yes--it was the -way! There was only the appeal, that one chance to wait for, and -once that was refused he would borrow Bouchard's boat--Bouchard's new -boat--and to-morrow, or the next day, or the next, whenever it might -be, instead of looking for him at mass in church, St. Marleau would look -along the shore in search of the body of the good, young Father Aubert. - -He tied his horse, and knocked upon the jail gate, and presently the -gate was opened. - -The attendant touched his cap. - -“_Salut_, Monsieur le Curé!” he said respectfully, as he stepped aside -for Raymond to enter. “Monsieur le Curé had a very narrow escape. The -blessed saints be praised! It is good to see him. He is quite well -again?” - -“Quite,” said Raymond pleasantly. - -The man closed the gate, and led the way across a narrow courtyard -to the jail building. The jail was pretentious neither in size nor in -staff--the man who had opened the gate acted as one of the turnkeys as -well. - -“It is to see the prisoner Mentone that Monsieur le Curé has come, of -course?” suggested the attendant. - -“Yes,” Raymond answered. - -The turnkey nodded. - -“_Pauvre diable!_ He will be glad! He has been calling for you all the -time. It did no good to tell him you were sick, and Father Décan could -do nothing with him. He has been very bad--not hard to manage, you -understand, Monsieur le Curé--but he does not sleep except when he is -exhausted, because he says there is only a little while left and he will -live that much longer if he keeps awake. _Tiens!_ I have never had a -murderer here to be hanged before, and I do not like it. I dream of the -man myself!” - -Raymond made no reply. They had entered the jail now, and the turnkey -was leading the way along a cell-flanked corridor. - -“Yes, I dream of him every night, and the job ahead of us--and so does -Jacques, the other turnkey.” The man nodded his head again; then, over -his shoulder: “He has a visitor with him now, Monsieur le Curé, but that -will not matter--it is Monsieur l'Avocat, Monsieur Lemoyne, you know.” - -Lemoyne! Lemoyne--here! Why? Raymond reached out impulsively, and, -catching the turnkey's arm, brought the man to a sudden halt. - -“Monsieur Lemoyne, you say!” he exclaimed sharply. “What is Monsieur -Lemoyne doing here?” - -“But--but, I do not know, Monsieur le Curé,” the turnkey, taken by -surprise, stammered. “He comes often, he is often here, it is the -privilege of the prisoner's lawyer. I--I thought that perhaps Monsieur -le Curé would care to see him too. But perhaps Monsieur le Curé would -prefer to wait until he has gone?” - -“No”--Raymond's hand fell away from the other's arm. “No--I will see -him. I was afraid for the moment that he might have brought--bad news. -That was all.” - -“Ah, yes, I understand, Monsieur le Curé”--the turnkey nodded once more. -“But I do not know. Monsieur Lemoyne said nothing when he came in.” - -Afraid! Afraid that Lemoyne had brought the answer to that appeal! Well, -what if Lemoyne had! Had he, Raymond, not known always what the answer -would be, and had he not just decided what he would do when that answer -was received--had he not decided that between the man and Valérie there -could be no hesitation, no more faltering, or tormenting---- - -The cell door swung open. - -“Enter, Monsieur le Curé!” - -The turnkey's voice seemed far away. Mechanically Raymond stepped -forward. The door clanged raucously behind him. There came a cry, a -choked cry, a strangling cry, that mingled a pitiful joy with terror -and despair--and a figure with outstretched arms, a figure with gaunt, -white, haggard face was stumbling toward him; and now the figure had -flung itself upon its knees, and was clutching at him convulsively with -its arms. - -“Father--Father François Aubert--father, have pity upon me--father, tell -them to have pity upon me!” - -And yet he scarcely saw this figure, scarcely heard the voice, though -his hands were laid upon the bowed head that was buried in the skirt -of his _soutane_. He was looking at that other figure, at Lemoyne, the -young lawyer, who stood at the far end of the cell near the iron-barred -window. There were tears in Lemoyne's eyes; and Lemoyne held a document -in his hand. - -“Thank God that you have come, Monsieur le Curé!” Lemoyne said huskily. - -“You have”--Raymond steadied his voice--“bad news?” - -Lemoyne silently extended the document. - -There were a great many words, a great many sentences written on the -paper. If he read them all, Raymond was not conscious of it; he was -conscious only that, in summary, he had grasped their meaning--_the man -must die_. - -The man's head was still buried in Raymond's _soutane_, his hands still -clasped tightly at Raymond's knees. Raymond did not speak--the question -was in his eyes as they met Lemoyne's. - -Lemoyne shook his head hopelessly, and, taking the document back from -Raymond, returned it slowly to his pocket. - -“I will leave you alone with him, Monsieur le Curé--it will be better,” - he said in a low voice. He stepped across the cell, and for a moment -laid his hand on the shoulder of the kneeling man. “Courage, Henri--I -will come back to-morrow,” he whispered, and passed on to the door. - -“Wait!”--Raymond stepped to Lemoyne's side, as the lawyer rattled upon -the door for the turnkey. “There--there is nothing more that can be -done?” His throat was dry, even his undertone rasped and grated in his -own ears. “Nothing?” - -“Nothing!” Lemoyne's wet eyes lifted to meet Raymond's, and again he -shook his head. “I shall ask, as a matter of course, that the sentence -be commuted to life imprisonment--but it will not be granted. It--it -would be cruelty even to suggest it to him, Monsieur le Curé.” And then, -as the door opened, he wrung Raymond's hand, and went hurriedly from the -cell. - -Slowly Raymond turned away from the door. There was hollow laughter in -his soul. A mocking voice was in his ears--that inner voice. - -“Well, _that_ is decided! Now put your own decision into effect, and -have done with this! Have done with it--do you hear! Have done with -it--have done with it--once for all!” - -His eyes swept the narrow cell, its white walls, the bare, cold floor, -the cot with its rumpled blanket, the iron bars on the window that -sullenly permitted an oblong shaft of sunlight to fall obliquely on the -floor--and upon the figure that, still upon its knees, held out its arms -imploringly to him, that cried again to him piteously. - -“Father--Father Aubert--help me--tell them to have pity upon me--save -me, father--Father François Aubert--save me!” - -And Raymond, though he fought to shift his eyes again to those iron -bars, to the sunlight's shaft, to anywhere, could not take them from -that figure. The man was distraught, stricken, beside himself; weakness, -illness, the weeks of confinement, the mental anguish, crowned in this -moment as he saw his last hope swept away, had done their work. The -tears raced down the pallid cheeks; the eyes were like--like they had -been in the courtroom that day--like dumb beast's in agony. - -“Soothe him, quiet him,” snarled that voice savagely, “and do it as -quickly as you can--and get out of here! Tell him about that God that -you think you've come to believe is not a myth, if you like--tell him -anything that will let you get away--and remember Valérie. Do you think -this scene here in this cell, and that thing grovelling on the floor is -the sum of human misery? Then picture Valérie nursing shame and horror -and degradation in her soul! What is this man to you! Remember Valérie!” - -Yes--Valérie! That was true! Only--if only he could avoid the man's -eyes! Well, why did not he, Raymond, speak, why did he not act, why did -he not do something--instead of standing here impotently over the other, -and simply hold the man's hands--yes, that was what he was doing--that -was what felt so hot, so feverishly hot--those hands that laced their -fingers so frantically around his. - -“My son,”--the words were coming by sheer force of will--“do not give -way like this. Try and calm yourself. See”--he stooped, and, raising the -other by the shoulders, drew him to the cot--“sit here, and----” - -“You will not go, father--you will not go?”--the man was passing his -hands up and down Raymond's arms, patting them, caressing them, as -though to assure and reassure himself that Raymond was there. “They told -me that you were hurt, and--and I was afraid, for there is no one else, -father--no one else--only--only you--and you are here now--you are here -now--and--and you will stay with me, father?” - -“Yes,” said Raymond numbly. - -“Yes, you are here”--it was as though the man were whispering to -himself, and a smile had lighted up the wan face. “See, I am not afraid -any more, for you have come. Monsieur Lemoyne said that I must die, that -there was no hope any more, that--that I would have to be hanged, but -you will not let them, father, you will not let them--for you have come -now--you have come--Father François Aubert, my friend, you have come.” - -Raymond's hand, resting on the cot behind the other's back, picked -up and clenched a fold of blanket. There was something horrible, -abominable, hellish in the man's trustful smile, in the man's faith, -that was the faith of a child in the parent's omnipotence, in this man -crying upon his own name as a magic talisman that would open to him -the gates of life! What answer was there to make? He could not sit here -dumb--and yet he could not speak. There were things a _priest_ should -say--a priest who was here to comfort a man condemned to death, a man -who was to be hanged by the neck until he was dead. He should talk to -the other of God, of the tender mercy of God, of the life that was to -come where there was no more death. But talk to the man like that--when -he, Raymond, was sending the other to his doom; when the other, not he, -should be sitting here in this _soutane_; when he had already robbed the -man of his identity, and even at this moment purposed robbing him of his -life! Act Father François Aubert to Father François Aubert here in this -prison cell under the shadow of that dangling rope, tell him of God, of -God's tender mercy, supplicate to God for that mercy, _pray_ with his -lips for that mercy while he stabbed the man to death! He shivered, and -it seemed as though his fingers would tear and rend through the blanket -in the fierceness of their clutch--it was the one logical, natural thing -that a priest should say, that he, in his priestly dress, should say! -_No!_ He neither would nor could! It was hideous! No human soul could -touch depths as black as that--and the man was clinging to him--clinging -to him--and--- - -“_Remember Valérie!_”--it came like a curling lash, that inner voice, -curt, brutal, contemptuous. “Are you going to weaken again? Remember -what it cost you once--and remember that it is for Valérie's sake this -time!” - -The strong jaws set together. Yes--Valérie! Yes--he would remember. He -would not falter now--he would go through with it, and have done with -it. Between this man's life and a lifelong misery for Valerie there -could be no hesitation. - -“Henri Mentone, my son,” he said gravely, “I adjure you to be brave. I -have come, it is true, and I will come often, but----” - -The words that Raymond's brain was stumbling, groping for, the -“something,” the “anything” to say, found no expression. The man -suddenly appeared to be paying no attention; his head was turned in a -tense, listening attitude; there was horror in the white face; and now -the other's hands closed like steel bands around Raymond's wrists. - -“Listen!” whispered the man wildly. “Listen! Oh, my God--listen!” - -Startled, Raymond turned his head about, looking quickly around the -cell. There was nothing--there was no sound. - -“Don't you hear it!”--the other's voice was guttural and choked now, and -he shook fiercely at Raymond's wrists. “I thought it had gone away when -you came, but there it is again. I--I thought you had told them to stop! -Don't you hear it--don't you hear it! Don't you hear them _hammering!_ -Listen! Listen! There it is!” - -Raymond felt the blood ebb swiftly from his face. - -“No--try and compose yourself. There is nothing--nothing, my son--it is -only---------” - -“I tell you, yes!” cried the man frantically. “I hear it! I hear it! You -say, no; and I tell you, yes! I have heard it night and day. It comes -from there--see!”--he swept one hand toward the barred window, and -suddenly, leaping to his feet, dragged at Raymond with almost superhuman -strength, forcing Raymond up from the cot and across the cell. “Come, -and I will show you! It is out there! They are hammering out there now!” - -The man's face was ghastly, the frenzy with which he pulled was -ghastly--and now at the window he thrust out his arm through the bars, -far out up to the armpit, far out with horrible eagerness, and pointed. - -“There! There! You cannot see, but it is just around the corner of the -building--between the building and the wall. You cannot see, but it is -just around the corner there that they are building it! Listen to them! -Listen to them--hammering--hammering--hammering!” - -Sweat was on Raymond's forehead. - -“Come away!” he said hoarsely. “In the name of God, come away!” - -“Ah, you hear it now!”--the condemned man drew in his arm, until his -fingers clawed and picked at the bars. “They will not stop, -and it is because I cannot remember--because I cannot -remember--here--here--here”--he swung clear of the window--and suddenly -raising his clenched fists began to beat with almost maniacal fury at -his temples. “If I could remember, they would stop--they would----” - -“Henri! My son!” Raymond cried out sharply--and caught at the other's -hands. A crimson drop had oozed from the man's bruised skin, and now was -trickling down the colourless, working face. “You do not know what you -are doing! Listen to me! Listen! Let me go!”--the man wrenched and -fought furiously to break Raymond's hold. “They will not stop out -there--they are hammering--don't you hear them hammering--and it is -because I--I----” The snarl, the fury in the voice was suddenly a sob. -The man was like a child again, helpless, stricken, chidden; and as -Raymond's hands unlocked, the man reached out his arms and put them -around Raymond's neck, and hid his face upon Raymond's shoulder. -“Forgive me, father--forgive me!” he pleaded brokenly. “Forgive me--it -is sometimes more than I can bear.” - -Raymond's arms mechanically tightened around the shaking shoulders; and -mechanically he drew the other slowly back to the cot. Something was -gnawing at his soul until his soul grew sick and faint. Hell shrieked -its abominable approval in his ears, as he sat down upon the cot still -holding the other--and shrieked the louder, until the cell seemed to -ring and ring again with its unholy mirth, as the man pressed his lips -to the crucifix on Raymond's breast. - -“Father, I do not want to die”--the man spoke brokenly again. “They -say I killed a man. How could I have killed a man, father? See”--he -straightened back, and held out both his hands before Raymond's -eyes--“see, father, surely these hands have never harmed any one. I -cannot remember--I do not remember anything they say I did. Surely if I -could remember, I could make them know that I am innocent. But I -cannot remember. Father, must I die because I cannot remember? Must I, -father”--the man's face was gray with anguish. “I have prayed to God -to make me remember, father, and--and He does not answer--He does not -answer--and I hear only that hammering--and sometimes in the night there -is something that tightens and tightens around my throat, and--and it -is horrible. Father--Father François Aubert--tell them to have pity upon -me--you believe that I am innocent, don't you--you believe, father--yes, -yes!”--he clutched at Raymond's shoulders--“yes, yes, y°u believe--look -into my eyes, look into my face--look, father--look----” - -Look! Look into that face, look into those eyes! He could not look. - -“My son, be still!”--the words were wrung in sudden agony from Raymond's -lips. - -He drew the other's head to his shoulder again, and held the other -there--that he might not look--that the eyes and the face might be -hidden from him. And the form in his arms shook with convulsive sobs, -and clung to him, and called him by its own name, and called him -friend--this stricken man who was to die--for whom he, Raymond, -was building “it” out there under the shadow of the jail -wall--and--and--God, he too could hear that _hammering_ -and--“Fool, remember Valérie!” - -The sweat beads multiplied upon Raymond's forehead. His face was -bloodless; his grip so tight upon the other that the man cried out, yet -in turn but clung the closer. Yes, that voice was right--right--right! -It was only that for the moment he was unnerved. It was this man's life -for Valérie--this man's life for Valérie. It would only be a few days -more, and then it would be over in a second, before even the man knew -it--but with Valérie it would be for all of life, and there would be -years and years--yes, yes, it was only that he had been unnerved for the -instant--it was this man's life for Valérie--if he would give his own -life, why shouldn't he give this man's--why shouldn't---- - -His brain, his mind, his thoughts seemed suddenly to be inert, to be -held in some strangely numbed, yet fascinated suspension. He was staring -at the shaft of sunlight that fought for its right against those -iron bars to enter this place of death. He stared and stared at -it--something--a face--seemed to be emerging slowly out of the sunlight, -to be taking form just beyond, just outside those iron bars, to become -framed in the gray, pitiless stone of the window slit, to be pressed -against those iron bars, to be looking in. - -And suddenly he pushed the man violently and without heed from him, -until the man fell forward on the cot, and Raymond, lurching upward -himself, stood rocking upon his feet. It was clear, distinct now, -that face looking in through those iron bars. It was Valerie's -face--Valerie's--Valerie's face. It was beautiful as he had never seen -it beautiful before. The sweet lips were parted in a smile of infinite -tenderness and pity, and the dark eyes looked out through a mist of -compassion, not upon him, but upon the figure behind him on the prison -cot. He reached out his arms. His lips moved silently--Valérie! And then -she seemed to turn her head and look at him, and her eyes swam deeper -in their tears, and there was a wondrous light of love in her face, and -with the love a condemnation that was one of sorrow and of bitter pain. -She seemed to speak; he seemed to hear her voice: “That life is not -yours to give. I have sinned, my lover, in loving you. Is my sin to be -beyond all forgiveness because out of my love has been born the guilt of -murder?” - -The voice was gone. The face had faded out of that shaft of -sunlight--only the iron bars were there now. Raymond's outstretched arms -fell to his side--and then he turned, and dropped upon his knees beside -the cot, and hid his face in his hands. - -Murder! Yes, it was murder--murder that desecrated, that vilified, that -made a wanton thing of that pure love, that brave and sinless love, -that Valerie had given him. And he would have linked the vilest and the -blackest crime, hideous the more in the Judas betrayal with which he -would have accomplished it, with Valerie--with Valerie's love! His -hands, locked about his face, trembled. He was weak and nerveless in a -Titanic revulsion of soul and mind and body. And horror was upon him, a -horror of himself--and yet, too, a strange and numbed relief. It was not -he, it was not he as he knew himself, who had meant to do this thing--it -was not Raymond Chapelle who had thought and argued that this was the -way. See! His soul recoiled, blasted, shrivelled now from before it! It -was because his brain had been tormented, not to the verge of madness, -but had been flung across that border-line for a space into the -gibbering realms beyond where reason tottered and was lost. - -He was conscious that the man was sitting upright on the edge of the -cot, conscious that the man's hands were plucking pitifully at the -sleeve of his _soutane_, conscious that the man was pleading again -hysterically: “Father, you will tell them that you know I am innocent. -They will believe you, father--they will believe you. They say I did -it, father, but I cannot remember, or--or, perhaps, I could make them -believe me, too. You will not let me die, father--because--because I -cannot remember. You will save me, father”--the man's voice was rising, -passing beyond control--“Father François Aubert, for the pity of -Christ's love, tell me that you will not let me die--tell me----” - -And then Raymond raised his head. His face was strangely composed. - -“Hush, my son”--he scarcely recognised his own voice--it was quiet, low, -gentle, like one soothing a child. “Hush, my son, you will not die.” - -“Father! Father Aubert!”--the man was lurching forward toward him; the -white, hollow face was close to his; the burning deep-sunk eyes with -a terrible hunger in them looked into his. “I will not die! I will not -die! You said that, father? You said that?” - -“Hush!” Raymond's lips were dry, he moistened them with his tongue. -“Calm yourself now, my son--you need no longer have any fear.” - -A sob broke from the man's lips. His hands covered his face; he began to -rock slowly back and forth upon the cot. He crooned to himself: - -“I will not die--I am to live--I will not die--I am to live....” - -And then suddenly, in a paroxysm of returning fear, he was on his feet, -dragging Raymond up from his knees, and, catching at Raymond's crucifix, -lifted it wildly to Raymond's lips. - -“Swear it, father!” he cried. “Swear it on the cross! Swear by God's -holy Son that I will not die! Swear it on the blessed cross!” - -“I swear it,” Raymond answered in a steady voice. - -There was no sound, no cry now--only a transfigured face, glad with a -mighty joy. And then the man's hands went upward queerly, seeking his -temples--and the swaying form lay in Raymond's arms. - -The man stirred after a moment, and opened his eyes. - -“Are you there, father--my friend?” he whispered. - -“Yes,” Raymond said. - -The man's hold tightened, and he sighed like one over-weary who had -found repose. - -And sitting there upon the edge of the cot, Raymond held the other -in his arms--and the sunlight's shaft through the barred window grew -shorter--and shadows crept into the narrow cell. At times there came -low sobs; at times the man's hand was raised to feel and touch Raymond's -face, at times to touch the crucifix on Raymond's breast. And then at -last the other moved no more, and the breathing became deep and regular, -and a peaceful smile came and lingered on the lips. - -And Raymond laid the other gently back upon the cot, and, crossing to -the cell door, knocked softly upon it for the turnkey. And as the door -was opened, he laid his finger across his lips. - -“He is asleep,” he said. “Do not disturb him.” - -“Asleep!”--the turnkey in amazement thrust his head inside the cell; and -then he looked in wonder at Raymond. “Asleep--but Monsieur Lemoyne told -me of the news when he went out. Asleep--after that! The man who never -sleeps!” - -But Raymond only shook his head, and did not answer, and walked on down -the corridor, and out into the courtyard. It was dusk now. He seemed to -be moving purely by intuition. It was not the way--the man was to live. -His mind was obsessed with that. It was not the way. There were two ways -left--two out of the three. - -The turnkey, who had followed in respectful silence, spoke again as he -opened the jail gates. - -“_Au revoir_, Monsieur le Cure”--he lifted his cap. “Monsieur le Curé -will return to-morrow?” - -To-morrow! Raymond's hands fumbled with the halter, as he untied the -horse. To-morrow! There were two ways left, and the time was short. -To-morrow--what would to-morrow bring! - -“Perhaps,” he said, unconscious that his reply had been long -delayed--and found that he was speaking to closed gates, and that the -turnkey was gone. - -And then Raymond smiled as he seated himself in the buckboard and drove -away--the smile a curious twitching of the lips. The turnkey was a -tactful man who would not intrude upon Monsieur le Curé's so easily -understood sorrow for the condemned man! - -He drove on through the town, and turned into the St. Marleau road that -wound its way for miles along the river's shore. And as he had driven -slowly on his way to the jail, so he drove slowly on his return to the -village, the horse left almost to guide itself and to set its own pace. - -The dusk deepened, and the road grew dark--it seemed fitting that the -road should grow dark. There were two ways left. The jaws of the trap -were narrowing--one of the three ways was gone. There were two left. -Either he must stand in that other's place, and hang in that other's -place; or run for it with what start he could, throw them off his trail -if he could, and write from somewhere a letter that would exonerate -the other and disclose the priest's identity---a letter to the Bishop -unquestionably, if the letter was to be written at all, for the Bishop, -not only because he knew the man personally and could at once establish -his identity, but because, in the very nature of the case, with the life -of one of his own curés at stake, the Bishop, above all other men, -would have both the incentive and the power to act. Two ways! One was a -ghastly, ignominious death, to hang by the neck until he was dead--the -other was to be a fugitive from the law, to become a hunted, baited -beast, fighting every moment with his wits for the right to breathe. -There were two ways! One was death--one held a chance for life. And the -time was short. - -It was the horse that turned of its own accord in past the church, and -across the green to the _presbytère_. - -He left the horse standing there--Narcisse would come and get it -presently--and went up the steps, and entered the house. The door of the -front room was open, a light burned upon his desk. Along the hall, from -the dining room, Madame Lafleur came hurrying forward smilingly. - -“Supper is ready, Monsieur le Curé,” she called out cheerily. “Poor -man, you must be tired--it was a long drive to take so soon after your -illness, and before you were really strong again.” - -“I am late,” said Raymond; “that is the main thing, Madame Lafleur. I -put you always, it seems, to a great deal of trouble.” - -“Tut!” she expostulated, shaking her head at him as she smiled. “It -is scarcely seven o'clock. Trouble! The idea! We did not wait for you, -Monsieur le Curé, because Valérie had to hurry back to Madame Blondin. -Madame Blondin is very, very low, Monsieur le Curé. Doctor Arnaud, when -he left this afternoon, said that--but I will tell you while you are -eating your supper. Only first--yes--wait--it is there on your desk. -Monsieur Labbée sent it over from the station this afternoon--a -telegram, Monsieur le Curé.” - -A telegram! He glanced swiftly at her face. It told him nothing. Why -should it! - -“Thank you,” he said, and stepping into the front room, walked over to -the desk, picked up the yellow-envelope, tore it open calmly, and read -the message. - -His back was toward the door. He laid the slip of paper down upon the -desk, and with that curious trick of his stretched out his hand in front -of him, and held it there, and stared at it. It was steady--without -tremor. It was well that it was so. He would need his nerve now. He had -been quite right--the time was short. There remained--_one hour_. In -an hour from now, on the evening train, Monsignor the Bishop, who was -personally acquainted with Father François Aubert, would arrive in St. -Marleau. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII--HOW RAYMOND BADE FAREWELL TO ST. MARLEAU - -|AN hour! There lay an hour between himself--and death. Primal, -elemental, savage in its intensity, tigerish in its coming, there surged -upon him the demand for life--to live--to fight for self-preservation. -And yet how clear his brain was, and how swiftly it worked! Life! There -lay an hour between himself--and death. The horse was still outside. -The overalls, the old coat, the old hat belonging to the sacristan were -still at his disposal in the shed. He would ostentatiously set out to -drive to the station to meet the Bishop, hide the horse and buckboard in -the woods just before he got there, change his clothes, run on the rest -of the way, remain concealed on the far side of the tracks until the -train arrived--and, as Monsignor the Bishop descended from one side of -the train to the platform, he, Raymond, would board it from the other. -There would then, of course, be no one to meet the Bishop. The Bishop -would wait patiently no doubt for a while; then Labbée perhaps would -manage to procure a vehicle of some sort, or the Bishop might even walk. -Eventually, of course, it would appear that Father Aubert had set out -for the station and had not since been seen--but it would be a good many -hours before the truth began to dawn on any one. There would be alarm -only at first for the _safety_ of the good, young Father Aubert--and -meanwhile he would have reached Halifax, say One could not ask for a -better start than that! - -Life! With the crisis upon him, his mind held on no other thing. -Life--the human impulse to live and not to die! No other thing--but -life! It was an hour before the train was due--he could drive to the -station easily in half an hour. There was no hurry--but there was Madame -Lafleur who, he was conscious, was watching him from the doorway--Madame -Lafleur, and Madame Lafleur's supper. He would have need of food, there -was no telling when he would have another chance to eat; and there was -Madame Lafleur, too, to enlist as an unwitting accomplice. - -“Monsieur le Curé”--it was Madame Lafleur speaking a little timidly -from the doorway--“it--it is not bad news that Monsieur le Curé has -received?” - -“Bad news!” Raymond picked up the telegram, and, turning from the desk, -walked toward her. “Bad news!” he smiled. “But on the contrary, my dear -Madame Lafleur! I was thinking only of just what was the best thing to -do, since it is now quite late, and I did not receive the telegram this -afternoon, as I otherwise should had I not been away. Listen! Monsignor -the Bishop, who is on his way”--Raymond glanced deliberately at the -message--“yes, he says to Halifax--who then is on his way to Halifax, -will stop off here this evening.” - -Madame Lafleur was instantly in a flutter of excitement. - -“Oh, Monsieur le Curé!”--her comely cheeks grew rosy, and her eyes shone -with pleasure. “Oh, Monsieur le Curé--Monsignor the Bishop! He will -spend the night here?” she demanded eagerly. - -Raymond patted her shoulder playfully, as he led her toward the dining -room. - -“Yes, he will spend the night here, Madame Lafleur”--it was strange that -he could laugh teasingly, naturally. “But first, a little supper for -a mere curé, eh, Madame Lafleur--since Monsignor the Bishop will -undoubtedly have dined on the train.” - -“Oh, Monsieur le Curé!” She shook her head at him. - -“And then,” laughed Raymond, as he seated himself at the table, “since -the horse is already outside, I will drive over to the station and meet -him.” - -He ate rapidly, and, strangely enough, with an appetite. Madame Lafleur -bustled about him, quite unable to keep still in her excitement. She -talked, and he answered her. He did not know what she said; his replies -were perfunctory. There was an excuse to be made for going to the shed -instead of getting directly into the buckboard and driving off. Madame -Lafleur would undoubtedly and most naturally watch him off from the -front door. But--yes, of course--that was simple--absurdly simple! Well -then, another thing--it would mean at least a good hour to him if the -village was not on tiptoe with expectancy awaiting the Bishop's arrival, -and thus be ready to start out to discover what had happened to the -good, young Father Aubert on the instant that the alarm was given; or, -worse still, that any one, learning of the Bishop's expected arrival, -should enthusiastically drive over to the station as a sort of -self-appointed delegation of welcome, just a few minutes behind himself. -In that case anything might happen. No, it would not do at all! Every -minute of delay and confusion on the part of St. Marleau, and Labbée, -and Madame Lafleur no less than the others, was priceless to him now. He -remembered his own experience. It would take Labbée a long time to find -a horse and wagon; and Madame Lafleur, on her part, would think nothing -of a prolonged delay in his return--if he left her with the suggestion, -that the train might be late! Well, there was no reason why he should -not accomplish all this. So far, it was quite evident, since Madame -Lafleur had had no inkling of what the telegram contained, that no one -knew anything about it; and that Labbée, whom he was quite prepared -to credit with being loose-tongued enough to have otherwise spread the -news, had not associated the Bishop's official signature--with -Monsignor the Bishop! It was natural enough. The telegram was signed -simply--“Montigny”--not the Bishop of Montigny. - -He had eaten enough--he pushed back his chair and stood up. - -“I think perhaps, Madame Lafleur,” he said reflectively, “that it would -be as well not to say anything to any one until Monsignor arrives.” - He handed her the telegram. “It would appear that his visit is not an -official one, and he may prefer to rest and spend a quiet evening. We -can allow him to decide that for himself.” - -Madame Lafleur adjusted her spectacles, and read the message. - -“But, yes, Monsieur le Curé,” she agreed heartily. “Monsignor will tell -us what he desires; and if he wishes to see any one in the village -this evening, it will not be too late when you return. But, Monsieur le -Curé”--she glanced at the clock--“hadn't you better hurry?” - -“Yes,” said Raymond quickly; “that's so! I had!” - -Madame Lafleur accompanied him to the front door, carrying a lamp. At -the foot of the steps Raymond paused, and looked back at her. It had -grown black now, and there was no moon. - -“I'll run around to the shed and get a lantern,” he called up to -her--and, without waiting for a reply, hurried around the corner of the -house. - -He laughed a little harshly, his lips were tightly set, as he reached -the shed door, opened it, and closed it behind him. He struck a match, -found and lighted a lantern, procured a small piece of string, tucked -the sacristan's overalls, and the old coat and hat swiftly under his -_soutane_--and a moment later was back beside the buckboard again. - -He tied the lantern in front of the dash-board, and climbed into the -seat. Madame Lafleur was still standing in the doorway. He hesitated an -instant, as he picked up the reins. The sweet, motherly old face smiled -at him. A pang came and found lodgment in his heart. It was like that, -standing there in the lamp-lit doorway of the _presbytère_, that he -had seen her for the first time--as he saw her now for the last. He -had grown to love the silver-haired little old lady with her heart of -gold--and so he looked--and a mist came before his eyes, for this was -his good-bye. - -“You will be back in an hour?” she called out. “You forget, Madame -Lafleur”--he forced himself to laugh in the old playful, teasing -way--“that the train is sometimes more than an hour late itself!” - -“Yes, that is true!” she said. “_Au revoir_, then, Monsieur le Curé!” - -He answered quietly. - -“Good-night, Madame Lafleur!” - -He drove out across the green, and past the church, and, a short -distance down the road, where he could no longer be seen from the -windows of the _presbytère_, he leaned forward and extinguished the -lantern. He smiled curiously to himself. It was the only act that -appeared at all in consonance with escape! He was a fugitive now, a -fugitive for life--and a fugitive running for his life. It seemed as -though he should be standing up in the buckboard, and lashing at the -horse until the animal was flecked with foam, and the buckboard rocked -and swayed with a mad speed along the road. Instead--he had turned off -and was on the station road now--the horse was labouring slowly up the -steep hill. It seemed as though there should be haste, furious haste, -a wild abandon in his flight--that there should be no time to mark, or -see, or note, as he was noting now, the twinkling lights of the quiet -village nestling below him there along the river's shore. It seemed that -his blood should be whipping madly through his veins--instead he was -contained, composed, playing his last hand with the old-time gambler's -nerve that precluded a false lead, that calculated deliberately, -methodically, and with deadly coolness, the value of every card. And -yet, beneath this nerve-imposed veneer, he was conscious of a thousand -emotions that battered and seethed and raged at their barriers, and -sought to fling themselves upon him and have him for their prey. - -He laughed coldly out into the night. It was not the fool who tore like -a madman, boisterously, blindly, into the open that would escape! He -had ample time. He had seen to that, even if he had appeared to accept -Madame Lafleur's injunction to hurry. He need reach the station but -a minute or so ahead of the train. Meanwhile, the minor details--were -there any that he had overlooked? What about the _soutane_ and the -clerical hat, for instance, after he had exchanged them for the -sacristan's things? Should he hide them where he left the horse and -buckboard in the woods? He shook his head after a moment. No; they -would probably find the horse before morning, and they might find the -_soutane_. There must be no trace of Father Aubert--the longer they -searched the better. And then, more important still, when finally the -alarm was spread, the description that would be sent out would be that -of a man dressed as a priest. No; he would take them with him, wrap them -up in a bundle around a stone, and somewhere miles away, say, throw them -from the car into the water as the train crossed a bridge. So much for -that! Was there anything else, anything that he---- - -A lighted window glowed yellow in the darkness from a little distance -away. He had come to the top of the rise. It was old Mother Blondin's -cottage. He had meant to urge the horse into a trot once the level was -gained--but instead the horse was forgotten, and the animal plodded -slowly forward at the same pace at which it had ascended the hill. - -Raymond's eyes were fixed upon the light. Old Mother Blondin's -cottage--and in that room, beyond that light, old Mother Blondin, the -old woman on the hill, the _excommuniée_, lay dying. And there was a -shadow on the window shade--the shadow of one sitting in a chair--a -woman's shadow--Valerie! - -He stopped the horse, and, sitting there in the buck-board opposite the -cottage, he raised his hand slowly and took his hat from his head. - -“Go on--fool!”--with a snarl, vicious as the cut of a whip-lash, came -that inner voice. “You may have time--but you have none to throw away!” - -“Be still!” answered Raymond's soul. “This is my hour. Be still!” - -Valerie! That shadow on the window he knew was Valerie--and within was -that other shadow, the shadow of death. This was his good-bye to old -Mother Blondin, who had drunk of the common cup with him, and knelt with -him in the moonlit church, her hand in his, outcasts, sealing a most -strange bond--and this was his good-bye to Valérie. Valérie--a shadow -there on the window shade. That was all--a shadow--all that she could -ever be, nothing more tangible in his life through the years to come, if -there were years, than a shadow that did not smile, that did not speak -to him, that did not touch his hand, or lift brave eyes to look -into his. A shadow--that was all--a shadow. It was brutal, cruel, -remorseless, yet immeasurably true in its significance, this -good-bye--this good-bye to Valérie--a shadow. - -The shadow moved, and was gone; from miles away, borne for a great -distance on the clear night air, came faintly the whistle of a -train--and Raymond, springing suddenly erect, his teeth clenched -together, snatched at the whip and laid it across the horse's back. - -The wagon lurched forward, and he staggered with the plunge and -jerk--and his whip fell again. And he laughed now--no longer calm--and -lashed the horse. It was not time that he was racing, there was ample -time, the train was still far away; it was his thoughts--to outrun them, -to distance them, to leave them behind him, to know no other thing than -that impulse for life that alone until now so far this night had swayed -him. - -And he laughed--and horse and wagon tore frantically along the road, and -the woods were about him now, and it was black, black as the mouth of -Satan's pit and the roadway to it were black. He was flung back into his -seat--and he laughed at that. Life--and he had doddled along the road, -preening himself on his magnificent apathy! Life--and the battle and -the fight for it was the blood afire, reckless of fear and of odds, the -laugh of defiance, the joy of combat, the clenched fist shaken in the -face of hell itself! Life--in the mad rush for it was appeal! On! The -wagon reeled like a drunken thing, and the wheels twisted in the ruts; a -patch of starlight seeping through the branches overhead made a patch -of gloom in the inky blackness underneath, and in this patch of gloom -wavering tree trunks, like uncouth monsters as they flitted by, snatched -at the wheel-hubs to wreck and overturn the wagon, but he was too quick -for them, too quick--they always missed. On! Away from memory, away from -those good-byes, away from every thought save that of life--life, and -the right to live--life, and the fight to hurl that gibbet with its -dangling rope a smashed and battered and splintered thing against the -jail wall where they would strangle him to death and bury him in their -cursed lime! - -On! Why did not the beast go faster! Were those white spots that danced -before his eyes a lather of foam on the animal's flanks? On--along the -road to life! Faster! Faster! It was not fast enough--for thoughts were -swift, and they were racing behind him now in their pursuit, and coming -closer, and they would overtake him unless he could go faster--faster! -Faster, or they would be upon him, and--_a big and brave and loyal man_. - -A low cry, a cry of sudden, overmastering hurt, was drowned in the -furious pound of the horse's hoofs, in the rattle and the creaking -of the wagon, and in the screech and grinding of the wagon's jolt and -swing. And, unconscious that he held the reins, unconscious that he -tightened them, his hands, clenched, went upward to his face. There was -no black road, no plunging horse, no mad, insensate rush, ungoverned and -unguided, no wagon rocking demoniacally through the night--there was -a woman who knelt in the aisle of a church, and in her arms she held a -man, and across the shattered chancel rail there lay a mighty cross, and -the shadow of the cross fell upon them both, and the woman's eyes were -filled with tears, and she spoke: “A big and brave and loyal man.” - -Tighter against his face he pressed his clenched hands, unconscious that -the horse responded to the check and gradually slowed its pace. Valérie! -The woman was Valerie--and he was the man! God, the hurt of it--the hurt -of those words ringing now in his ears! She had given him her all--her -love, her faith, her trust. And in return, he---- - -The reins dropped from his hands, and his head bowed forward. Life! -Yes, there was life this way for him--and for Valerie the bitterest of -legacies. He would bequeath to her the belief that she had given her -love not only to a felon but to a _coward._ A coward! And no man, he -had boasted, had ever called him a coward. Pitiful boast! Life for -himself--for Valerie the fuller measure of misery! Yes, he loved -Valérie--he loved her with a traitor's and a coward's love! - -His lips were drawn together until they were bloodless. In retrospect -his life passed swiftly, unbidden before him--and strewn on every hand -was wreckage. And here was the final, crowning act of all--the coward's -act--the coward afraid at the end to face the ruin he had, disdainful, -callous, contemptuous then of consequence, so consistently wrought since -boyhood! If he got away and wrote a letter it would save the man's life, -it was true; but it was also true that he ran because he was cornered -and at the end of his resources, and because what he might write would, -in any case, be instantly discovered if he did not run--and to plead -his own innocence in that letter, in the face of glaring proof to the -contrary, in the face of the evidence he had so carefully budded against -another, smacked only of the grovelling whine of the condemned wretch -afraid. None would believe him. None! It was paltry, the police were -inured to that; all criminals were eager to protest their innocence, -and pule out their tale of extenuating circumstances. None would believe -him. Valérie would not believe. - -Folds of his cheeks were gripped and crushed in his hands until -the finger nails bit into the flesh. He _was_ innocent. He had not -_murdered_ that scarred-faced drunken hound--only Valérie would neither -believe nor know; and in Valérie's eyes he would stand a loathsome -thing, and in her soul would be a horror, and a misery, and a shame that -was measured only by the greatness and the depth of the love she had -given him, for in that greatness and that depth lay, too, the greatness -and the depth of that love's dishonour and that love's abasement. But -if--but if---- - -For a moment he did not stir or move, his eyes seeing nothing, fixed -before him--and then steadily his head came up and poised far back on -the broad, square shoulders, and the tight lips parted in a strange and -sudden smile. If he drove to the station and met Monsignor the Bishop, -and drove Monsignor the Bishop back to St. Marleau--then she would -believe. No one else could or would believe him, the proof was -irrefutable against him, they would convict him, and the sentence would -be death; but she in her splendid love would believe him, and know that -she had loved--a man. There had been three ways, but one had gone that -afternoon; and then there had been two ways, but there was only one now, -the man's way, for the other was the coward's way. And, taking this, he -could lift his head and stand before them all, for in Valérie's face -and in Valérie's eyes there would not be---what was worse than death. To -save Valérie from what he could--not from sorrow, not from grief, that -he could not do--but that she might know that her love had been given -where it was held a sacred, a priceless and a hallowed thing, and was -not outraged and was not degraded because it had been given to him! To -save Valerie from what he could--to save himself in his own eyes from -the self-abasing knowledge that through a craven fear he had bartered -away his manhood and his self-respect, that through fear he ran, and -that through fear he hid, and that through fear, though he was innocent, -he dared not stand--a man! - -He stopped the horse, and stepped down to the ground; and, searching -for a match, found one, and lighted the lantern where it hung upon the -dash-board. He was calm now, not with that calmness desperately imposed -by will and nerve, but with a calmness that was like to--peace. And, -standing there, the lantern light fell upon him, and gleamed upon the -crucifix upon his breast. And he lifted the crucifix, and, wondering, -held it in his hand, and looked at it. It was here in these woods and on -this road that he had first hung it about his neck in insolent and bald -denial of the Figure that it bore. It was very strange! He had meant it -then to save his life; and now--he let it slip gently from his fingers, -and climbed back into the buckboard--and now it seemed, as though -strengthening him in the way he saw at last, in the way he was to take, -as though indeed it were the way itself, came radiating from it, like a -benediction, a calm and holy--peace. - -And there was no more any turmoil. - -And he picked up the reins and drove on along the road. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII--MONSIGNOR THE BISHOP - -|THE train had come and gone, as Raymond reached the station platform. -He had meant it so. He had meant to avoid the lights from the car -windows that would have illuminated the otherwise dark platform; to -avoid, if possible, a disclosure in Labbée's, the station agent's, -presence. Afterwards, Labbée would know, as all would know--but not now. -It was not easy to tell; the words perhaps would not come readily even -when alone with Monsignor the Bishop, as they drove back together to the -village. - -There were but two figures on the platform--Labbée, who held a satchel -in his hand; and a tall, slight form in clerical attire. - -“Ah, Father Aubert--_salut!_” Labbée called out. “You are late; but we -saw your light coming just as the train pulled out, and so----” - -“Well, well, François, my son!”--it was a rich, mellow voice that broke -in on the station agent. - -Raymond stood up and lifted his hat--lifted it so that it but shaded his -face the more. - -“Monsignor!” he said, in a low voice. “This is a great honour.” - -“Honour!” the Bishop responded heartily. “Why should I not come, I--but -do I sit on this side?”--he had stepped down into the buckboard, as he -grasped Raymond's hand. - -“Yes, Monsignor”--Raymond's wide-brimmed clerical hat was far over his -eyes. The lantern on the front of the dash-board left them in shadow; -Labbée's lantern for the moment was behind them, as the station agent -stowed the Bishop's valise under the seat. He took up the reins, and -with an almost abrupt “goodnight” to the station agent, started the -horse forward along the road. - -“Good-night!” Labbée shouted after them. “Goodnight, Monsignor!” - -“Good-night!” the Bishop called back--and turned to Raymond. “Yes, as I -was saying,” he resumed, “why should I not come? I was passing through -St. Marleau in any case. I have heard splendid things of my young -friend, the curé, here. I wanted to see for myself, and to tell him how -pleased and gratified I was.” - -“You are very good, Monsignor,” Raymond answered, his voice still low -and hurried. - -“Excellent!” pursued the Bishop. “Most excellent! I do not know when -I have been so pleased over anything. The parish perhaps”--he laughed -pleasantly--“would not object if Father Allard prolonged his holiday a -little--eh--François, my son?” - -Raymond shook his head. - -“Hardly that, Monsignor”--he dared indulge in little more than -monosyllables--it was even strange the Bishop had not already noticed -that his voice was not the voice of Father François Aubert. And yet what -did it matter? In a moment, in five minutes, in half an hour, the Bishop -would know all--he would have told the Bishop all. Why should he strive -now to keep up a deception that he was voluntarily to acknowledge almost -the next instant? It was not argument in his mind, not argument again -that brought indecision and chaotic hesitancy, it was not that--the way -was clear, there was only one way, the way that he would take--? and -yet, perhaps because it was so very human, because perhaps he sought -for still more strength, because perhaps it was so almost literally the -final, closing act of his life, he waited and clung to that moment more, -and to that five minutes more. - -“Well, well,” said the Bishop happily, “we will perhaps have to look -around and see if we cannot find for you a parish of your own, my son. -And who knows--eh--perhaps we have already found it?” - -How queerly the lantern jerked its rays up and down the horse's legs, -and cast its shadows along the road! He heard himself speaking again. - -“You are very good, Monsignor”--they were the same words with which he -had replied before--he uttered them mechanically. - -He felt the Bishop's hand close gently, yet firmly, upon his shoulder. - -“François, my son”--the voice had suddenly become grave--“what is the -matter? You act strangely. Your voice does not somehow seem natural--it -is very hoarse. You have a cold perhaps, or perhaps you are ill?” - -“No, Monsignor--I am not ill.” - -“Then--but, you alarm me, my son!” exclaimed the Bishop anxiously. -“Something has happened?” - -“Yes, Monsignor--something has happened.” - -How curiously his mind seemed to be working! He was conscious that the -Bishop's hand remained in kindly pressure on his shoulder as though -inviting his confidence, conscious that the man beside him maintained a -sympathetic, tactful silence, waiting for him to speak; but his thoughts -for the moment now were not upon the immediate present, but upon the -immediate afterwards when his story had been told. - -The buckboard rattled on along the road; it entered the wooded -stretch--and still went on. When he had told this man beside him all, -they would drive into the village. Then presently they would set out for -Tournayville, and Monsieur Dupont, and the jail. But before that--there -was Valérie. He turned his head still further away--even in -the blackness his face must show its ashen whiteness. There was -Valérie--Valérie who would believe--but Valérie who was to suffer, and -to know agony and sorrow--and he, who loved her, must look into her face -and see the smile die out of it, and the quiver come to her lips, and -see her eyes fill, while with his own hands he dealt her the blow, -which, soften it as he would, must still strike her down. It was the -only way--the way of peace. It seemed most strange that peace should lie -in that black hour ahead for Valérie and for himself--that peace should -lie in death--and yet within him, quiet, undismayed, calm and untroubled -in its own immortal truth, was the knowledge that it was so. - -Raymond lifted his head suddenly--through the-trees there showed the -glimmer of a light--as it had showed that other night when he had walked -here in the storm. Had they come thus far--in silence! Involuntarily he -stopped the horse. It was the light from old Mother Blondin's cottage, -and here was the spot where he had stumbled that night over the priest -whom he had thought dead, as the other lay sprawled across the road. -It was strange again--most strange! He had not deliberately chosen this -spot to tell---- - -“François, my son--what is it?”--the Bishop's voice was full of deep -concern. - -For a moment Raymond did not move, and he did not speak. Then he laid -down the reins, and, leaning forward, untied the lantern from the -dash-board--and, taking off his hat, held up the lantern between them -until the light fell full upon his face. - -There was a quick and startled cry from the Bishop, and then for an -instant--silence. And Raymond looked into the other's face, even as the -other looked into his. It was a face full of dignity and strength and -quiet, an aged, kindly face, crowned with hair that was silver-white; -but the blue eyes that spoke of tranquillity were widened now in -amazement, surprise and consternation. - -And then the Bishop spoke. - -“Something has happened to François,” he said, in a hesitant, troubled -way, “and you have come from Tournayville to take his place perhaps, or -perhaps to--to be with him. Is it as serious as that--and you were loath -to break the news, my son? And yet--and yet I do not understand. The -station agent said nothing to indicate that anything was wrong, though -perhaps he might not have heard; and he called you Father Aubert, -though, too, that possibly well might be, for it was dark, and I myself -did not see your face. My son, I fear that I am right. Tell me, then! -You are a priest from Tournayville, or from a neighbouring parish?” - -“I am not a priest,” said Raymond steadily. - -The Bishop drew back sharply, as though he had been struck a blow. - -“Not a priest--and in those clothes!” - -“No, Monsignor.” - -The fine old face grew set and stern. - -“And Francois Aubert, then--_where is Father Francois Aubert?_” - -“Monsignor”--Raymond's lips were white--“he is in the condemned cell at -Tournayville--under sentence of death--he is----” - -“Condemned--to death! François Aubert--condemned to death!”--the Bishop -was grasping with one hand at the back of the seat. And then slowly, -still grasping at the seat, he pulled himself up and stood erect, and -raised his other hand over Raymond in solemnity and adjuration. “In the -name of God, what does this mean? Who are you?” - -“I am Raymond Chapelle,” Raymond answered--and abruptly lowered the -lantern, and a twisted smile of pain gathered on his lips. “You have -heard the name, Monsignor--all French Canada has heard it.” The Bishop's -hand dropped heavily to his side. - -“Yes, I have heard it,” he said sternly. “I have heard that it was a -proud name dishonoured, a princely fortune dissolutely wasted. And you -are Raymond Chapelle, you say! I have heard this much, that you had -disappeared, but after that----” - -Raymond put his head down into his hands, and drew his hands tightly -across his face. - -“This is the end of the story,” he said. “Listen, Monsignor”--he raised -his head again. “You have heard, too, of the murder of Théophile Blondin -that was committed here a little while ago. It is for that murder that -François Aubert was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged.” - He paused an instant, his lips tight. “Monsignor, it is I who killed -Théophile Blondin. It is I who, since that night, have lived here as the -curé--as Father François Aubert.” - -How ghastly white the aged face was! As ghastly as his own must be! The -other's hands were gripping viselike at his shoulders. - -“Are you mad!” the Bishop whispered hoarsely. “Do you know what you are -saying!” - -“I know”--there was a sort of unnatural calm and finality in Raymond's -tones now. “I was on the train the night that Father Aubert came to St. -Marleau. I had a message for the mother of a man who was killed in the -Yukon, Monsignor. The mother lived here. There was a wild storm that -night. There was no wagon to be had, and we both walked from the -station. But I did not walk with the priest. You, who have heard -of Raymond Chapelle, know why--I despised a priest--I knew no God. -Monsignor”--he turned and pointed suddenly--“you see that light through -the trees? It is the light I saw that night, as I stumbled over the body -of a man lying here in the road. The man was Father Aubert. The limb of -a tree had fallen and struck him on the head. I thought him dead. I went -over to that house for help.” - -He paused again. The Bishop's hands, withdrawn,* were clasped now upon a -golden crucifix--it was like his own crucifix, only it was larger, much -larger than his own. But the Bishop's white face was still close to his; -and the blue eyes seemed to have grown darker, and were upon him in a -fixed, tense way, as though to read his soul. - -“And then?”--he saw the Bishop's lips move, he did not hear the Bishop -speak. - -At times the horse moved restively; at times there came the chirping of -insects from the woods; at times a breeze stirred and whispered through -the leaves. Raymond, staring at the yellow flicker of the lantern, set -now upon the floor of the buckboard at their feet, spoke on, in his -voice that same unnatural calm. It seemed almost as though he himself -were listening to some stranger speak. It was the story of that night he -told, the story of the days and nights that followed, the story of old -Mother Blondin, the story of the cross, the story of the afternoon in -the condemned cell, the story of his ride for liberty of an hour ago, -the story of his sacrilege and his redemption--the story of all, without -reservation, save the story of Valérie's love, for that was between -Valérie and her God. - -And when he had done, a silence fell between them and endured for a -great while. - -And then Raymond looked up at last to face the condemnation he thought -to see in the other's eyes--and found instead that the silver hair was -bare of covering, and that the tears were flowing unchecked down the -other's cheeks. - -“God's ways are beyond all understanding”--the Bishop seemed to be -speaking to himself. He brushed the tears now from his cheeks, as he -looked at Raymond. “It is true there is not any proof, and without proof -that it was in self-defence, then----” - -“It is the end,” said Raymond simply--and, standing up, took the -sacristan's old coat from under his _soutane_. “We will drive to the -village, Monsignor; and then, if you will, to the jail in Tournayville.” - Slowly he unbuttoned his _soutane_ from top to bottom, and took it off, -and laid it over the back of the seat; and, standing there erect, -his face white, his eyes half closed, like a soldier in unconditional -surrender, he unclasped the crucifix from around his neck, and held it -out to the Bishop--and bowed his head. - -He felt the Bishop's hands close over his, and over the crucifix, and -gently press it back. - -“Cling to it, my son”--the Bishop's voice was broken. “It is yours, -for you have found it--and, with it, pardon, and the faith that is more -precious than life, than the life you are offering to surrender now. It -seems as though it were God's mysterious way, the hand of God--the hand -of God that would not let you lose your soul. And now, my son, kneel -down, for I would pray for a brave man.” - -A quiet pressure upon his shoulders brought Raymond to his knees. His -eyes, were wet; he covered his face with his hands. - -“Father, have mercy upon us”--the Bishop's voice was tremulous and low. -“Lord, have mercy upon us. Look down in pity upon this man whom Thou -hast brought unto Thyself, and who now in expiation of his past offences -offers his life that another may not die. Father, grant us Thy divine -mercy. Father, show us the way, if there be a way, and if it be Thy -will, that he may not drink of this final cup; and if that may not be, -then in Thy love continue unto him the strength Thou gavest him to bring -him thus far upon his road.” - -And silence fell again between them. And there was a strange gladness in -Raymond's heart that this man, where he had thought no man would, should -have believed. It altered no fact, the cold and brutal evidence, clear -cut before a jury would not be a scene such as this, for the evidence in -the light of logic and before the law would say he _lied_; it held out -no hope, he knew that well--but it brought peace again. And so he rose -from his knees, and feeling out blindly for the old sacristan's coat, -put it on, and spoke to the horse, and the buckboard moved forward. - -And a little way along, just around the turn of the road, they came out -of the woods in front of old Mother Blondin's cottage. And standing by -the roadside in the darkness was a figure. And a voice called out: - -“Is that you, Father Aubert? I went to the _presbytère_ for you, and -mother said you had gone to meet Monsignor. I have been waiting here to -catch you on the way back.” - -It was Valérie. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV--THE OLD WOMAN ON THE HILL - -|SHE came forward toward the buckboard, and into the lantern light--and -stopped suddenly, looking from Raymond to the Bishop in a bewildered and -startled way. - -“Why--why, Father Aubert,” she stammered, “I--I hardly knew you in that -coat. I--Monsignor”--she bent her knee reverently--“I”--her eyes were -searching their faces--“I---” - -Raymond's eyes fixed ahead of him, and he was silent. Valérie! Ay, it -was the end! He had thought to see her before they should take him to -Tournayville--but he had thought to see her alone. And even then he had -not known what he should say to her--what words to speak--or whether -she should know from him his love. He was conscious that the Bishop was -fumbling with his crucifix, as though loath to take the initiative upon -himself. - -It was Valérie who spoke--hurriedly, as though in a nervous effort to -bridge the awkward silence. - -“Mother Blondin became conscious a little while ago. She asked for -Father Aubert, and--and begged for the Sacrament. I ran down to the -_presbytère_, and when mother told me that Monsignor was coming I---I -brought back the bag that my uncle, Father Allard, takes with him to--to -the dying. Oh, Monsignor, I thought that perhaps--perhaps--she is an -_excommuniée_, Monsignor--but she is a penitent. And when I got back she -was unconscious again, and then I came down here to wait by the side of -the road so that I would not miss you, for Madame Bouchard is there, and -she was to call me if--if there was any change. And so--and so--you will -go to her, Monsignor, will you not--and Father Aubert--and--and----” Her -lips quivered suddenly, for Raymond's white face was lifted now, and his -eyes met hers. “Oh, what is the matter?” she cried out in fear. “Why -do you look like that, Father Aubert--and why do you wear that coat, -and----” - -“My daughter”--the Bishop's grave voice interrupted her. He rose from -his seat, and, moving past Raymond, stepped to the ground. “My daughter, -Father Aubert is---” - -“No!”--Raymond, too, had stepped to the ground. “No, Monsignor”--his -voice caught, then was steadied as he fought fiercely for -self-control--“I will tell her, Monsignor.” - -How clearly her face was defined in the lantern light, how pure it was, -and, in its purity, how far removed from the story that he had to tell! -And how beautiful it was, even in its startled fear and wonder--the -sweet lips parted; the dark eyes wide, disturbed and troubled, as they -held upon his face. - -“Father Aubert!”--it was a quick cry, but low, and one of apprehension. - -“Mademoiselle Valérie”--the words came slowly; it seemed as though his -soul faltered now, and had not strength to say this thing--“I am not -Father Aubert.” - -She did not move. She repeated the words with long pauses between, -as though she groped dazedly in her mind for their meaning and -significance. - -“You--are--not--Father--Aubert?” - -The Bishop, hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed, had withdrawn -a few paces out of the lantern light toward the rear of the buckboard. -Raymond's hands closed and gripped upon the wheel-tire against which -he stood--closed tighter and tighter until it seemed the tendons in his -hand must snap. - -“Father Aubert is the man you know as Henri Mentone”--his eyes were upon -her hungrily, pleading, searching for some sign, a smile, a gesture -of sympathy that would help him to go on--and her hands were clasped -suddenly, wildly to her bosom. “When you came upon me in the road that -night I had just changed clothes with him. I--I was trying to escape.” - -She closed her eyes. Her face became a deathly white, and she swayed a -little on her feet. - -“You--you are not a--a priest?” - -He shook his head. - -“It was the only way I saw to save my life. He had been struck by the -falling limb of a tree. I thought that he was dead.” - -“To save your life?”--she spoke with a curious, listless apathy, her -eyes still closed. - -“It was I,” he said, “not Father Aubert, who fought with Théophile -Blondin that night.” - -Her eyes were open wide now--wide upon him with terror. - -“It was you--_you_ who killed Théophile Blondin?”--her voice was dead, -scarce above a whisper. - -“I caught him in the act of robbing his mother--I had gone to the house -for help after finding Father Aubert”--Raymond's voice grew passionate -now in its pleading. He must make her believe! He must make her believe! -It was the one thing left to him--and to her. “It was in self-defence. -He sprang at me, and we fought. And afterwards, when he snatched up the -revolver from the _armoire_, it went off in his own hand as I struggled -to take it from him. But I could not prove it. Every circumstance -pointed to premeditated theft on my part--and murder. And--and my life -before that was--was a ruined life that would but--but make conviction -certain if I were found there. My only chance lay in getting away. But -there was no time--nowhere to go. And so--and so I ran back to where -Father Aubert lay, and put on his clothes, meaning to gain a few hours' -time that way, and in the noise of the storm I did not hear you coming -until it was too late to run.” - -How mercilessly hard her hands seemed to press at her bosom! - -“I--I do not understand”--it was as though she spoke to herself. “There -was another--a man who, with Jacques Bourget, tried to have Henri--Henri -Mentone escape.” - -“It was I,” said Raymond. “I took Narcisse Pélude's old clothes from the -shed.” - -She cried out a little--like a sharp and sudden moan, it was, as from -unendurable pain. - -“And then--and then you lived here as--as a priest.” - -“Yes,” he answered. - -“And--and to-night?”--her eyes were closed again. - -“To-night,” said Raymond, and turned away his head, “to-night I am going -to--to Tournayville.” - -“To your death”--it was again as though she were speaking to herself. - -“There is no other way,” he said. “I thought there was another way. -I meant at first to escape to-night when I learned that Monsignor was -coming. I took this coat, Narcisse Pélude's old clothes from the shed -again, the clothes I wore the night I went to Jacques Bourget, and -I meant to escape on the train. But”--he hesitated now, groping -desperately for words--he could not tell her of that ride along the -road; he had no right to tell her of his love, he saw that now, he had -no right to tell her that, to make it the harder, the more cruel for -her; he had no right to trespass on his knowledge of her love for him, -to let her glean from any words of his a hint of that; he had the right -only, for her sake and for his own, that, in her eyes and in her soul, -the stain of murder and of theft should not rest upon him--“but”--the -words seemed weak, inadequate--“but I could not go. Instead, I gave -myself up to Monsignor. Mademoiselle”--how bitterly full of irony was -that word--mademoiselle--mademoiselle to Valérie--like a gulf -between them--mademoiselle to Valérie, who was dearest in life to -him--“Mademoiselle Valérie”--he was pleading again, his soul in -his voice--“it was in self-defence that night. It was that way that -Théophile Blondin was killed. I could not prove it then, and--and the -evidence is even blacker against me now through the things that I have -done in an effort to escape. But--but it was in that way that Théophile -Blondin was killed. The law will not believe. I know that. But -you--you--” his voice broke. The love, the yearning for her was rushing -him onward beyond self-control, and near, very near to his lips, -struggling and battling for expression, were the words he was praying -God now for the strength not to speak. - -She did not answer him. She only moved away. Her white face was set -rigidly, and the dark eyes that had been full upon him were but a blur -now, for she was moving slowly backward, away from him, toward where -the Bishop stood. And she passed out of the lantern light and into the -shadows. And in the shadows her hand was raised from her bosom and was -held before her face--and it seemed as though she held it, as she had -held it in the dream of that Walled Place; that she held it, as she had -held it to shut out the sight of his face from her, as she had closed -upon him that door with its studded spikes. And like a stricken man he -stood there, gripping at the buckboard's wheel. She did not believe him. -Valérie did not believe him! There was agony to come, black depths of -torment yawning just before him when the numbness from the blow had -passed--but now he was stunned. She did not believe him! That man there, -whom he had thought would turn with bitter words upon him, had believed -him--but Valérie--Valérie--Valérie did not believe him! Ay, it was the -end! The agony and the torment were coming now. It was the dream come -true. The studded gate clanged shut, and the horror, without hope, -without smile, without human word, of that Walled Place with its slimy -walls was his, and, over the shrieking of those winged and hideous -things, that swaying carrion seemed to scream the louder: “_Dies ilia, -dies iro_--that day, a day of wrath, of wasting, and of misery, a great -day, and exceeding bitter.” - -He did not move. Through that blur and through the shadows he watched -her, watched her as she reached the Bishop, and sank down upon the -ground, and clasped her hands around the Bishop's knees. And then he -heard her speak--and it seemed to Raymond that, as though stilled by a -mighty uplift that swept upon him, the beating of his heart had ceased. - -“Monsignor!” she cried out piteously. “Monsignor! Monsignor! It is true -that they will not believe him! I was at the trial, Monsignor, I know -the evidence, and I know that they will not believe him. He is going -to--to his--death--to save that man. Oh, Monsignor--Monsignor, is there -no other way?” - -Slowly, mechanically, as slowly as she had retreated from him, Raymond -moved toward the kneeling figure. The Bishop was speaking now--he had -laid his hands upon her head. - -“My daughter,” he said gently, “what other way would you have him take? -It is a brave man's way, and for that I honour him; but it is more, it -is the way of one who has come out of the darkness into the light, -and for that my heart is full of thankfulness to God. It is the way of -atonement, not for any wrong he has done the church, for he could do the -church no wrong, for the church is pure and holy and beyond the reach of -any human hand or act to soil, for it is God's church--but atonement to -God for those sins of sacrilege and unbelief that lay between himself -and God alone. And so, my daughter, if in those sins he has been brought -to see and understand, and in his heart has sought and found God's -pardon and forgiveness, he could do no other thing than that which he -has done to-night.” The Bishop's voice had faltered; he brushed his hand -across his cheek as though to wipe away a tear. “It is God's way, my -daughter. There could be no other way.” - -She rose to her feet, her face covered by her hands. - -“No other way”--the words were lifeless on her lips, save that they were -broken with a sob. And then, suddenly, she drew herself erect, and there -was a pride and a glory in the poise of her head, and her voice rang -clear and there was no tremor in it, and in it was only the pride and -only the glory that was in the head held high, and in the fair, white, -uplifted face. “Listen, Monsignor! I thought he was a priest, and -I promised God that he should never know--but to-night all that is -changed. Monsignor, does it matter that he has no thought of me! He is -going to his death, Monsignor, and he shall not face this alone because -I was ashamed and dared not speak. I love him, Monsignor--I love him, -and I believe him, and---” - -“_Valérie!_” Raymond's hands reached out to her. Weak he was. It seemed -as though in his knees there was no strength. “Valérie!” he cried, and -stumbled toward her. - -And she put out her hand and held him back for an instant as her eyes -searched his face--and then into hers there came a wondrous light. - -“I did not know,” she whispered. “I did not know you cared.” - -His arms were still outstretched, and now she came into them, and for -a moment she lifted her face to his, and, for a moment that was glad -beyond all gladness, he drank with his lips from her lips and from the -trembling eyelids. And then the tears came, and she was sobbing on his -breast, and with her arms tight about his neck she clung to him--and -closer still his own arms enwrapped her--and he forgot--and he -forgot--_that it was only for a moment_. - -And so he held her there, his face buried in the dark, soft masses -of her hair--and he forgot. And then out of this forgetfulness, this -transport of blinding joy, there came a voice, low and shaken with -emotion--the Bishop's voice. - -“There is some one calling from the house.” - -Raymond lifted up his head. A woman's figure was framed in the now open -and lighted doorway of the cottage. It was Madame Bouchard; and now he -heard Madame Bouchard as she called again. - -“Valerie! Father Aubert! Come! Come quickly! Madame Blondin is conscious -again, but she is very weak.” - -He drew his breath in sharply as one in bitter pain, and then gently he -took Valerie's arms from about him, and his shoulders squared. He had -had his moment. This was reality now. He heard Valérie cry out, and saw -her run toward the cottage. - -“Monsignor,” he said hoarsely, and, moving back, lifted the _soutane_ -from the buckboard's seat, “Monsignor, she must not know--and she -has asked for me. It is for her sake, Monsignor--that she be not -disillusioned in her death, and lose the faith that she has found -again. Monsignor, it is for the last time, not to perform any office, -Monsignor, for you will do that, but that she may not die in the belief -that God, through me, has only mocked her at the end.” - -“I understand, my son,” the Bishop answered simply. “Put it on--and -come.” - -And so Raymond put on the _soutane_ again, and they hurried toward the -cottage. And at the doorway Madame Bouchard courtesied in reverence to -the Bishop, and Raymond heard her say something about the horse, and -that she would remain within call; and then they passed on into Mother -Blondin's room. - -It was a bare room, poor and meagre in its furnishings--a single rag mat -upon the floor; a single chair, and upon the chair the black bag that -Valerie had brought from the _presbytère_; and beside the rough wooden -bed, made perhaps by the Grandfather Bouchard in the old carpenter shop -by the river bank, was a small table, and upon the table a lamp, and -some cups with pewter spoons laid across their tops. - -Extraneous things, these details seemed to Raymond to have intruded -themselves upon him as by some strange and vivid assertiveness of their -own, for he was not conscious that he had looked about him--that he had -looked anywhere but at that white and pitifully sunken face that was -straining upward from the pillows, and at Valérie who knelt at the -bedside and supported old Mother Blondin in her arms. - -“Quick!” Valerie cried anxiously. “Give her a teaspoonful from that -first cup on the table. She has been trying to say something, and--and -I do not understand. Oh, be quick! It is something about that man in the -prison.” - -The old woman's head bobbed jerkily, as though she fought for strength -to hold it up; the eyes, half closed, were dulled; and she struggled, -gasping, for her breath. - -“Yes--the prison--the man”--the words were almost inarticulate. Raymond, -beside her now, was holding the spoonful of stimulant to her lips. -She swallowed it eagerly. “I--I lied--I lied--at the trial. Hold -me--tighter. Do not let me--go. Not yet--not--not until----” Her body -seemed to straighten, then wrench backward, and her eyes closed, and her -voice died away. - -Raymond felt the Bishop's hand close tensely on his shoulder. - -“What is this she says, my son?” - -Raymond shook his head. - -“I do not know,” he said huskily. - -The eyes opened again, clearer now--and recognition came into them as -they met Raymond's. And there came a smile, and she reached out her hand -to him. - -“You, father--I--I was afraid you would not come in time. I--I am -stronger now. Give Valerie the cup, and kneel, father--don't you -remember--like that night in the church--and hold my hand--and--and do -not let it go because--because then I--I should be afraid that God--that -God would not forgive.” - -He took her hand between both his own, and knelt beside the bed. - -“I will not let it go,” he said--and tried to keep the choking from his -throat. “What is it that you want to say--Mother Blondin?” - -Her fingers twined over his, and clung tighter and tighter. - -“That man, father--he--he must not hang. I--I cannot go to God with that -on my soul. I lied at the trial--I lied. I hated God then. I wanted only -revenge because my son was dead. I said I recognised him again, -but--but that is not true, for the light was low, and--and I do not see -well--but--but that--that does not matter, father--it is not that--for -it must have been that man. But it was not that man who--who tried to -rob me--it--it was my own son. That man is innocent--innocent--I tell -you--I----” She raised herself wildly up in bed. “Why do you look at -me like that, Father Aubert--with that white face--is it too late--too -late--and--and--will God not forgive?” - -“It is not too late. Go on, Mother Blondin”--it was his lips that formed -the words; it was not his voice, it could not be--that quiet voice -speaking so softly. - -Her face grew calmer. The fear was gone. - -“It is not too late--it is not too late--and--and God will forgive,” she -whispered. “Listen then, father--listen, and pray for me. I--I was sure -Théophile had been robbing me. I watched behind the door that night. -I saw him go to take the money. And--and then that man came in, and -Théophile rushed at him with a stick of wood. The man had--had done -nothing. It was in self-defence he fought. And then I--I helped -Théophile. It was Théophile who took the revolver to kill him, -and--and--it went off in Théophile's hand, and----” she sighed heavily, -and sank back on the pillow. - -The room seemed to sway before Raymond--and - -Valérie's face, across the bed, seemed to move slowly before him with -a pendulum-like movement, and her face was very white, and in it was -wonder, and a great dawning hope, and awe. And he put his head down upon -the coverlet, but his hands still held old Mother Blondin's hand between -them. - -And then she spoke again, with greater difficulty now; and somehow her -other hand had found Raymond's head, and her fingers played tremblingly -through his hair. - -“You will tell them, father--and--and this other father here will tell -them--and--and Valérie will bear witness--and--and the man will live. -And you will tell him, father, how God came again and made me tell the -truth because you were good, and--and because you made be believe again -in--in you--and God--and-----” - -A broken cry came from Raymond. The scalding tears were in his eyes. - -“Hush, my son!”--it was the Bishop's grave and gentle voice. “God has -done a wondrous thing tonight.” - -There was silence in the little room. - -And then suddenly Raymond lifted his head--and the room was no more, -and in its place was the moonlit church of that other night, and he saw -again the old withered face transfigured into one of tender sweetness -and ineffable love. - -“Pierre, monsieur?”--her mind was wandering now--they were the words she -had spoken as she had sat beside him in the pew. “Ah, he was a good boy, -Pierre--have you not heard of Pierre Letellier? And there was little -Jean--little Jean--he went away, monsieur, and I--I do not know -where--where he is--I do not know-----” - -Raymond's voice was breaking, as he leaned forward toward her. - -“He is with God, Mother Blondin. Jean--Jean has sent you a message. His -last thoughts were of you--his mother.” - -The old eyes flamed with a dying fire. - -“Jean--my son! My little Jean--his--his mother.” A smile lighted up -her face, and hovered on her lips; and her hand, clinging to Raymond's, -tightened. - -“Father--I----” And then her fingers slipped from their hold, and fell -away. - -The Bishop's arm was around Raymond's shoulders. - -“Go now, my son--and you, my daughter,” he said gently. “It is very near -the end, and the time is short.” - -Raymond rose blindly from his knees. Mother Blondin was very still, and -a pallor, gray and premonitory, had crept into her face. Her eyes were -closed. He raised the thin hand, and touched it with his lips--and -turned away. - -And Valérie passed out of the room with him. - -And by the open window of the room beyond, Valérie knelt down, and he -knelt down beside her. - -It was quiet without--and there was no sound, save now the murmur of the -Bishop's voice from the inner room. He was to live--and not to die. To -go free! To give himself up--but to be set free--and there were to -be the years with Valérie. He could not understand it yet in all its -fulness. - -Valérie was crying softly. With a great tenderness he put his arm about -her. - -“It was the _Benedictus_--'into the way of peace'--that you said for her -that night,” she whispered. “Say it now again, my lover--for her--and -for us.” - -He drew her closer to him, and, with her wet cheek against his own, they -repeated the words together. - -And after a little time she raised her hands, and held his face between -them, and looked into his face for a long while, and there was a great -gladness, and a great love, and a great trust in the tear-wet eyes. - -“I do not know your name,” she said. - -“It is Raymond,” he answered. - -THE END - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Sin That Was His, by Frank L. Packard - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SIN THAT WAS HIS *** - -***** This file should be named 51983-0.txt or 51983-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/8/51983/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive -specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this -eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook -for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, -performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given -away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks -not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the -trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the -Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country outside the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the -phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no - restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it - under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this - eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the - United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you - are located before using this ebook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain -Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation.” - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The -Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right -of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the -mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its -volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous -locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt -Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to -date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and -official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -For additional contact information: - - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - |