Tears flowed down his cheeks, though he strove to repress them: sobs burst from him, though he tried to stifle them. He knew that others besides Perrine were looking at him in astonishment and alarm; but he could neither control himself, nor move to leave his place, nor raise his eyes even--until suddenly he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. That touch, slight as it was, ran through him instantly. He looked up, and saw Father Paul standing by his side. Beckoning him to follow, and signing to the congregation not to suspend their devotions, he led Gabriel out of the assembly--then paused for a moment, reflecting--then beckoning him again, took him into the cabin of the ship, and closed the door carefully. “You have something on your mind,” he said, simply and quietly, taking the young man by the hand. “I may be able to relieve you, if you tell me what it is.” As Gabriel heard these gentle words, and saw, by the light of a lamp which burned before a cross fixed against the wall, the sad kindness of expression with which the priest was regarding him, the oppression that had lain so long on his heart seemed to leave it in an instant. The haunting fear of ever divulging his fatal suspicions and his fatal secret had vanished, as it were, at the touch of Father Paul’s hand. For the first time he now repeated to another ear--the sounds of prayer and praise rising grandly the while from the congregation above--his grandfather’s death-bed confession, word for word almost, as he had heard it in the cottage on the night of the storm. Once, and once only, did Father Paul interrupt the narrative, which in whispers was addressed to him. Gabriel had hardly repeated the first two or three sentences of his grandfather’s confession, when the priest, in quick, altered tones, abruptly asked him his name and place of abode. As the question was answered, Father Paul’s calm face became suddenly agitated; but the next moment, resolutely resuming his self-possession, he bowed his head as a sign that Gabriel was to continue; clasped his trembling hands, and raising them as if in silent prayer, fixed his eyes intently on the cross. He never looked away from it while the terrible narrative proceeded. But when Gabriel described his search at the Merchant’s Table; and, referring to his father’s behavior since that time, appealed to the priest to know whether he might even yet, in defiance of appearances, be still filially justified in doubting whether the crime had been really perpetrated--then Father Paul moved near to him once more, and spoke again. “Compose yourself, and look at me,” he said, with his former sad kindness of voice and manner. “I can end your doubts forever. Gabriel, your father was guilty in intention and in act; but the victim of his crime still lives. I can prove it.” Gabriel’s heart beat wildly; a deadly coldness crept over him as he saw Father Paul loosen the fastening of his cassock round the throat.