"In the first place," replied Gabriel, "it would be downright cruelty for me to tear you away from this happy life which has come to you so lately, and from the repose you have so well earned." "Oh, as for that, it is my duty to accompany you, Monseigneur, and to serve you to my last hour; and I would give up Paradise, I believe, for the sake of being at your side." "Yes, but it is my duty not to abuse your zeal, for which I am grateful with all my heart," said Gabriel. "In the second place, the sad casualty which befell you at Calais will not allow you hereafter to render me such active service as you have done formerly." "It is true, alas! Monseigneur, that I can no longer light by your side, or attend you in the saddle. But at Paris, at Montgommery, or in the field even, there are many confidential commissions with which you can still intrust the poor cripple, I hope, and which he will execute to the best of his ability." "I know it, Martin; and I might perhaps be selfish enough to accept your sacrifice were it not for a third reason." "May I know that, Monseigneur?" "Yes," Gabriel replied with melancholy gravity; "but only on condition that you will not seek to go to the bottom of it, and that you will be content with it, and not persist any further in following me." "It must be a very serious and very imperious reason, then, Monseigneur?" "It is a sorrowful and unanswerable one, Martin," said Gabriel, in a hollow voice. "Until now my life has been an honorable one; and if I had chosen to allow my name to be uttered more freely it would have been a glorious one. In fact, I believe that I may claim, without boasting, to have rendered France and her king great and valuable services; for to speak only of St. Quentin and Calais, I think I may say that at those two places I discharged my debt to my country to the full." "Who knows it better than I?" said Martin-Guerre. "Very true, Martin; but in the same degree as this first part of my life has been loyal and unselfish and open to the broad light of day, the balance of my days will be passed in gloom and fear, always seeking to hide itself in the darkness. Doubtless, I shall have the same vigor at my command; but it will be exerted for a cause which I cannot avow, and to attain an end which I must conceal. Thus far, in the open field, before God and man, it has been my pleasure to strive manfully and joyously for the reward of gallantry. Hereafter it is my duty, in darkness and suffering, to avenge a crime. Hitherto I have fought; now I must punish. From being a soldier of France I have become the executor of the will of God." "Holy Jesus!" cried Martin-Guerre, with hands clasped as if in supplication.