It is fearfully hot in here, because the room is shut tight. I would not think once now of lying down to sleep with a window open. A few more days will tell the story. I am unnaturally calm, I believe, considering all that has occurred this week. I am not frightened, but I am anxious. I don't want to mar these peaceful pages with the narration of a tragedy. I don't want to confess to them how I slew a fellow creature. I am a man of peace. But it comes to me to-night that forces beyond my control are at work. That, unless Celeste comes soon, the concluding act in the drama will be played. It may be that I shall not be alive to chronicle its end. It may be that I shall go down to death with my love-dream unfinished. But I do not believe this. If worse comes to worse, I believe that I shall be the conqueror. I have no reason for this, other than the supreme faith I have in my ability to cope with the smith of Hebron. I pray it all may end speedily, for I have borne as much as mortal can. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE IN WHICH, THOUGH THE WORLD IS STILL A VOID, THERE IS THE SHINING OF A GREAT LIGHT Two days have passed. Sunday was one long monotony, made up of vain watching and restless contemplation. To-day something really stupendous happened. Something so truly great and vital that, even though Celeste has not returned, and, for aught I know, my death hides in the next minute, I am deliriously happy. I'll tell the glorious news as quickly as I can. This morning, bright and early, a messenger arrived from Father John. He bore no written communication, but stated in a nervous, jerky, breathless way that his reverence desired my presence at the earliest possible moment, on a matter of the gravest importance. These were not his words, but this is the way his halting vernacular translated into English. I questioned the shabby, awkward rustic. He knew nothing but that I was wanted, and wanted quickly, and that he who sent this word was "tarnation fidgety." Unable to form any sort of conjecture as to the nature of this peculiarly urgent business, I departed at once in company with the half grown youth, not sorry of his presence upon this occasion, as I probably would have been upon any other. The old priest met me at the door, and I saw at once that he was powerfully impressed, for some reason. His long-stemmed pipe was in his hand, but unlighted. He decorously led me to the chair where I had sat upon a former visit, and took a seat opposite. The library table was between us, as before. I saw two letters upon the table in front of him, side by side. One was almost square, pale blue, and a glance told me the superscription was a woman's. The other was of the regular business size, had a card in the corner which I could not make out, and the address was typewritten. I waited in silence. "M'sieu--"