"Jesus is not so jealous, father, that He forbids us to love our own. I was going back when I could obtain my congé, like the prodigal, to seek my father's forgiveness. My mother was to blame for our unhappiness. Solitude and disappointment had embittered her life. She had a cruel tongue and her hand was rough. I was a coward. I fled. My sister's eyes have pursued me. I made myself a profligate, to forget. But memory is a knife in an open wound." The minutes passed punctuated by the gasps of the sufferer. The torch burnt down to its knot, and another was kindled by the pale woman. The sound without was the wash of the tide. "He comes not," moaned the soldier. "Bear me a message, father." The dry rattling of beads broke the silence. "Speak, my son." The soldier uttered a piteous cry: "Madeleine! Madeleine!" "Oh, son! Call rather on the name of Mary." A gust of dark air swept into the cabin, the torch flame waved like a flag, and a man stood behind muffled to the eyes, breathing as though he had come with speed. He threw aside his martial cloak, and straightway stood revealed. "Jean-Marie," he muttered. "Arnaud. Stand aside, my father. Let me meet my cousin face to face." The priest moved back, and the two soldiers, the officer and the fighting-man, stared into each other's eyes. "Had I known this, Jean-Marie----" began the commandant; but the figure upon the palliasse, straining from death as a dog from the leash, broke in upon him. "Cousin, you knew. When I have passed have you not averted your eyes, ashamed of the man who has had neither the wit nor the opportunity to rise? You have made yourself great, and I--but this is no time for calling up the past. I am spent. Come to me, cousin--nearer. Why, commandant, art afraid of a dying man?" "Is he dying?" "He is in God's hands," the priest answered; and the woman grumbled: "Yes, yes, and a long time lying there, keeping me from my bed." "Out!" said Roussilac, turning upon her. "Out, and repeat not what you may have heard." The woman slunk away frightened. "Ah, cousin, that old manner," smiled Jean-Marie. "So spoke you as a boy. They said you would find greatness. My father would say, 'He is a Brutus. Would condemn his own son.' I know not who Brutus was, but my father was a learned man." He coughed terribly and lay back gasping. "Say what lies upon your mind and have done," reproved St Agapit. "I would have you die with better thoughts." "Cousin," panted Jean-Marie, "I forgive you as I hope for mercy. Place now your hand on mine." Roussilac did so, shrinking at the freezing contact.