He turned quickly. Margaret, since his wife’s death, and even before it, had been his confidante and counsellor, his supreme comforter in life. Since the departure of little Julian, whose father had taken him back to Lyons the morning after the family council, Margaret and her father had been left to face each other all alone in the gradually emptied house. All that night again, almost till morning, they had talked of Hubert, weeping for him and praying. When Margaret came up to him now he put his hand on her beautiful hair and let it linger there. She understood that he was saying a blessing for her, quite low, and her eyes, so easily misted now, so used to tears, grew moist once more. “Father,” she asked, “what have you decided on for Maurice?” “Battard is ready to defend him. He’s coming at five o’clock with Hamel. I’m going out to think over my last instructions to them in the open air.” “You don’t want me to go with you?” “No, little girl. Don’t worry about me. I’ll work while I’m walking. We haven’t time for burying our dead. The living need us.” “Well, then, I’ll go to the gaol and do my part there.” “Yes, you can tell the sad news to _him_.” “Poor Maurice, how he will suffer!” “Less than we do.” “Oh, no, father. As much as we do, and more than we do. He will reproach himself.” “He may well do so. Hubert is gone because of him.” “Exactly, father. We cry, you and I, without self-reproach. Shall I say nothing to him for you?” “No, nothing.” “Father----” “Tell him--tell him to remember that he is the last of the Roquevillards.”