Claire followed into another chamber and was shut in darkness. It was the rock side of the house, without moonlighted windows. Mademoiselle de Granville had left her, and she stood confused, forgetting which way she should turn to the door-latch of release. The absence of Dollard now rushed back over her, and helped the dark to heap her with terrors. The sanest people have felt sparks of madness flash across the brain. One such flash created for her a trap in the floor to swallow her to the depths of the island. Directly her surroundings were lighted by a door opening to an inner room. A priest stood there in black cassock, his face smooth and dark, his eyes dark and attentive. He was not tonsured, but with hair clustering high upon his head he looked like Dollard grown to sudden middle age, his fire burnt to ashes, his shoulders bowed by penances, his soul dried as a fern might be dried betwixt the wooden lids of his breviary. Behind him stood an altar, two tall candles burning upon it, and above the altar hung a crucifix. She took note of nothing else in the room. “Pardon me, father; I am lost in the house. Mademoiselle de Granville brought me here and has left me.” “Yes.” His voice had depth and volume, and was like Dollard’s voice grown older. “She brought you at my request.” “At _your_ request, father? Where is Mademoiselle de Granville?” “In that closet,” he replied, showing a door at the corner of his chapel room. “My poor lifeless sister is at her devotions.” “I see my way now. With your permission I will go back,” said Claire. This unwholesome priest like a demon presentation of Dollard made her shudder. “Stop, Mademoiselle Laval.” “I am Madame des Ormeaux; as you should know, being inmate of this house and evidently my husband’s brother.” “Mademoiselle de Granville has but one brother,” said the priest. “The Sieur des Ormeaux is her brother.” “There is no Sieur des Ormeaux.” He smiled in making the assertion, his lips parting indulgently. “I mean Dollard, commandant of the fort of Montreal.” “There is no Dollard, commandant of the fort of Montreal. I am the Abbé de Granville.” Claire silently observed him, gathering her convictions. The priest leaned towards her, rubbing his hands. “This misguided soldier, sometimes called Dollard, he is but a bad dream of mine, my poor child. So keen is your beauty that it still pierces the recollection. In my last dream my conscience tells me I worked some harm to you. Return to your family, mademoiselle, and forgive me. I have become myself again, and these holy tokens recall me to my duty and my vows.” “I know who you are,” said Claire. “You are Mademoiselle de Granville.”