“Paul! Paul!” he said, “I thought thou wouldst blame me for deserting thee again, and this time without so much as a letter of farewell.” What could I do but take his hand, and fall upon my knees beside his bed? He had blue eyes that never aged nor grossened--the eyes of a boy, clear, clean, and brave, and round about them wrinkles played in a sad, sweet smile. “What, Paul!” he said, “all this for behemoth! for the old man of the sea that has stuck on thy shoulders for a twelvemonth, and spurred thee to infinite follies and perils! I am no more worth a tear of thine than is the ivied ash that falls untimely and decayed, eaten out of essence by the sins he sheltered. And the poor child, Paul!--the poor child with her arms round my neck, her tears brine--sure I have them on my lips--the true _viaticum!_ The brute! the brute! Ah no! ah no! poor sinner, we do not know.” “Oh, father!” I cried, “and must we never go into the woods and towns any more?” He smiled again and stroked my hair. “Not in these fields, boy,” said he, “but perhaps in more spacious, less perplexed. Be good, be simple, be kind! Tis all I know.” We heard the steps of Father Joyce upon the stairs. “All I know!” repeated the priest. “Fifty years to learn it, and I might have found it in my mother's lap. _Chère ange_--the little mother--'twas a good world! And Fanchon that is dead below the snow in Louvain--oh, the sweet world! And the sunny gardens of bees and children--” His eyes were dull. A pallor was on his countenance. He breathed with difficulty. Kilbride, who stood by, silent, put a finger on his pulse. At that he opened his eyes again, once more smiling, and Father Joyce was at the door. “Kiss me, Paul,” said the dying man, “I hear them singing prime.” When Father Joyce was gone I came into the room again where the priest lay smiling still, great in figure, in the simplicity and sweetness of his countenance like a child. Kilbride and I stood silent for a little by the bed, and the Highlander was the first to speak. “I have seen worse,” said he, “than Father Hamilton.” It may seem a grudging testimony, but not to me that heard it. On the day after the priest's funeral Kilbride came to me with that news which sent me north. He had the week's gazette in his hand, “Have you heard the latest?” he cried. “It is just what I expected,” he went on. “They have made use of your information and set you aside. Here's the tidings of Conflans' defeat. Hawke came down on him off Brest, drove him back from the point of Quiberon to the coast near the mouth of the Vilaine, sank four ships, captured two, and routed the enemy. The invasion is at an end.” “It is gallant news!” I cried, warm with satisfaction. “Maybe,” said he indifferently, “but the main thing is that Paul Greig, who put the Government in the way of taking proper steps, is here in cheap lodgings with a charge on his head and no better than ever he was. Indeed, perhaps he's worse off than ever he was.”