had torn up for ever the upas-tree of his own overshadowing will. And they had also made of him a leader. He had the devotion of his men, the profound esteem of his chiefs; he had found his vocation. Ah, when God gave He gave with both hands! And the priest looked at Gilbert as the latter lay back in his chair smiling at the violent love which Louis and his spaniel were making to each other, and knew that he and his spiritual son were at last in that relationship of perfect understanding which had always been his ideal and which he had never thought would come to be. The ascetic in M. des Graves let itself be swept outwards on that warm tide of affection. He began to experience a very natural and human longing to break down a little the inflexible barriers which he had built about his own inner life. He felt that he would like to let Gilbert in; and had not the day come at last when he could do so and receive not wonder, but sympathy? Moreover, he had been reflecting of late whether the time was not ripe for him to obey Cantagalli’s summons. In that case he would be obliged to tell Gilbert the whole story. So he thought to himself, and in the bottom of his heart knew this consideration to be more of an excuse than a reason. . . . “What is the time?” asked Louis suddenly. “Nearly ten? They will be getting to Ste. Hermine. . . . Victor, get down, you lazy and very heavy brute! You’d like me to set sentinels for the night, Gilbert?” “The same as last night,” said his cousin. “The same relief. I will go round myself at two.” Louis pulled himself out of his chair. “I shall have to put Toussaint Lelièvre on duty to-night,” he remarked, “merely to prevent him from sleeping like a mediæval squire outside my door. He is making me ridiculous, and I am beginning to repent me of my heroism at Chantonnay. Au revoir.” * * * * * * But when the Vicomte looked in again a little later Gilbert and the priest were so engrossed in converse that they never heard him, and he shut the door softly and went away. CHAPTER XLIII _ULTIMA FORSAN_ “We brought the holy water for his brow Who lies before the altar candles now. . . . . . . While overhead, with red wings interlaced, Above the bier of cedar newly sawn The towering angels bore the cup of dawn. . . . . . . But now before the altar lights he lies, And I, set free beneath the star-strewn skies, With breaking heart beside the water pace And seek within its shadows Marya’s face. . . .” —E.C., _The Young Monk_.