"Therefore," continued Gabriel, "I must needs undertake alone this ill-omened task,--in which I pray Heaven to employ my arm only, not my will, and in which I desire to be merely the blind instrument, not the guiding and directing brain. Since I ask, since I hope and trust, that my fearful duty will employ only half of my own being, how can you think that I would dream of associating you with it?" "That is very true, and I understand, Monseigneur," said the faithful squire, with lowered head. "I thank you for having condescended to give me this explanation, much as it grieves me; and I accept it, as I promised to do." "I thank you, too, for your submissiveness," replied Gabriel; "for I assure you that your devotion helps to lighten the heavy burden which is almost too much for me even now." "But, Monseigneur, is there absolutely nothing that I can do to serve you at this crisis?" "You can pray God, Martin, to spare me the necessity of taking the initiative in this struggle, which I contemplate with such bitter pain. You have a devout heart, and have led an honest and pure life, my friend, and your prayers may be of more help to me now than your arm." "I will pray, Monseigneur, I will pray,--how ardently I need not tell you!" "And now, adieu, Martin," said Gabriel; "I must leave you and return to Paris, to be prepared and on the spot whenever it pleases God to give the signal. All my life I have defended the right, fighting on the side of justice; may God remember that in my favor at the supreme hour of which I speak! May He mete out justice to His servant, even as I have done to mine!" With his eyes upturned to heaven, the noble youth repeated,-- "Justice! justice!" For six months past, whenever Gabriel's eyes had been open, they were generally intently fixed upon that Heaven at whose hands he asked for justice; when they were closed, he seemed always to see once more the gloomy Châtelet, in his gloomier reflections, which would at such times make him cry aloud, "Vengeance!" Ten minutes later he tore himself away with great difficulty from the tearful farewells of Martin-Guerre and Bertrande de Rolles, who had come at her husband's summons. "Adieu, adieu, good Martin, my faithful friend!" he said, releasing his hands almost by force from the fervent grasp of his squire, who was kissing and sobbing over them. "I must go now. Adieu! We shall meet again." "Adieu, Monseigneur! God preserve you!--oh, I pray that He will preserve you!" Poor Martin, choked with grief, could say no more than that. Through his tears he saw his master and benefactor remount his horse in the fast-gathering darkness, which soon hid from his eyes the sombre figure of the horseman, as it had hidden his life from him for a long time past. CHAPTER IV TWO LETTERS