Pierre des Anbiez stared at the good brother as if he did not recognise him; then, sinking down before his praying-desk, he let his head fall on his breast, and cried, in a hollow voice: “The Lord is never with a murderer, and yet,” added he, raising his head half-way and looking at the portrait in terror, “and yet, to expiate my crime, I have placed the face of my victim always under my eyes! There, on my bed of ashes, where I seek a repose which flies from me, at every hour of the day, at every hour of the night, I behold the unrelenting face of him who says to me unceasingly, ‘Murderer! Murderer! You have shed my blood! Be accursed!’” “My brother, oh, my brother, come back to your senses,” whispered the father. He feared the voice of the commander might be heard outside. Without replying to his brother, the commander withdrew himself from his arms, rose to the full height of his tall stature, and approached the portrait. “For twenty years there has not passed a day in which I have not wept my crime! For twenty years have I not tried to expiate this murder by the most cruel austerities? What more do you wish, infernal memory? What more do you ask? You, also,--you, my victim, have you not shed blood,--the blood of my accomplice? But alas! alas! this blood, you could shed it, you,--vengeance gave you the right, while I am the infamous assassin! Oh, yes, vengeance is just! Strike, strike, then, without pity! Soon the hand of God will strike me eternally!” Overcome by emotion, the commander, almost deprived of consciousness, again fell on his knees, half recumbent upon the coffin which served him as bed. Father Elzear had never discovered his brother’s secret. He knew him to be a prey to profound melancholy, but was ignorant of the cause, and now was frightened and distressed at the dreadful confidence betrayed in a moment of involuntary excitement. That Pierre des Anbiez, a man of iron character, of invincible courage, should fall into such remorseful melancholy and weakness and despair, argued a cause that was terrible indeed! The intrepidity of the commander was proverbial; in the midst of the most frightful perils, his cool daring had been the wonder of all who beheld it. His gloomy impassibility had never forsaken him before, even amid the awful combats a seaman is compelled to wage with the elements. His courage approached ferocity. Once engaged in battle, once in the thick of the fight, he never gave quarter to the pirates. But this fever of massacre ceased when the battle-cries of the combatants and the sight of the blood excited him no longer. Then he became calm and humane, although pitiless toward the least fault of discipline. He had sustained the most brilliant engagements with Barbary pirates. His black galley was tie terror as well as the constant aim of attack among the pirates, but, thanks to the superiority of equipment, _Our Lady of Seven Sorrows_ had never been captured, and her defeats had cost the enemy dear.