THE train had come and gone, as Raymond reached the station platform. He had meant it so. He had meant to avoid the lights from the car windows that would have illuminated the otherwise dark platform; to avoid, if possible, a disclosure in LabbÉe's, the station agent's, presence. Afterwards, LabbÉe would know, as all would know—but not now. It was not easy to tell; the words perhaps would not come readily even when alone with Monsignor the Bishop, as they drove back together to the village.

There were but two figures on the platform—LabbÉe, who held a satchel in his hand; and a tall, slight form in clerical attire.

“Ah, Father Aubert—salut!” LabbÉe called out. “You are late; but we saw your light coming just as the train pulled out, and so——”

“Well, well, FranÇois, my son!”—it was a rich, mellow voice that broke in on the station agent.

Raymond stood up and lifted his hat—lifted it so that it but shaded his face the more.

“Monsignor!” he said, in a low voice. “This is a great honour.”

“Honour!” the Bishop responded heartily. “Why should I not come, I—but do I sit on this side?”—he had stepped down into the buckboard, as he grasped Raymond's hand.

“Yes, Monsignor”—Raymond's wide-brimmed clerical hat was far over his eyes. The lantern on the front of the dash-board left them in shadow; LabbÉe's lantern for the moment was behind them, as the station agent stowed the Bishop's valise under the seat. He took up the reins, and with an almost abrupt “goodnight” to the station agent, started the horse forward along the road.

“Good-night!” LabbÉe shouted after them. “Goodnight, Monsignor!”

“Good-night!” the Bishop called back—and turned to Raymond. “Yes, as I was saying,” he resumed, “why should I not come? I was passing through St. Marleau in any case. I have heard splendid things of my young friend, the curÉ, here. I wanted to see for myself, and to tell him how pleased and gratified I was.”

“You are very good, Monsignor,” Raymond answered, his voice still low and hurried.

“Excellent!” pursued the Bishop. “Most excellent! I do not know when I have been so pleased over anything. The parish perhaps”—he laughed pleasantly—“would not object if Father Allard prolonged his holiday a little—eh—FranÇois, my son?”

Raymond shook his head.

“Hardly that, Monsignor”—he dared indulge in little more than monosyllables—it was even strange the Bishop had not already noticed that his voice was not the voice of Father FranÇois Aubert. And yet what did it matter? In a moment, in five minutes, in half an hour, the Bishop would know all—he would have told the Bishop all. Why should he strive now to keep up a deception that he was voluntarily to acknowledge almost the next instant? It was not argument in his mind, not argument again that brought indecision and chaotic hesitancy, it was not that—the way was clear, there was only one way, the way that he would take—? and yet, perhaps because it was so very human, because perhaps he sought for still more strength, because perhaps it was so almost literally the final, closing act of his life, he waited and clung to that moment more, and to that five minutes more.

“Well, well,” said the Bishop happily, “we will perhaps have to look around and see if we cannot find for you a parish of your own, my son. And who knows—eh—perhaps we have already found it?”

How queerly the lantern jerked its rays up and down the horse's legs, and cast its shadows along the road! He heard himself speaking again.

“You are very good, Monsignor”—they were the same words with which he had replied before—he uttered them mechanically.

He felt the Bishop's hand close gently, yet firmly, upon his shoulder.

“FranÇois, my son”—the voice had suddenly become grave—“what is the matter? You act strangely. Your voice does not somehow seem natural—it is very hoarse. You have a cold perhaps, or perhaps you are ill?”

“No, Monsignor—I am not ill.”

“Then—but, you alarm me, my son!” exclaimed the Bishop anxiously. “Something has happened?”

“Yes, Monsignor—something has happened.”

How curiously his mind seemed to be working! He was conscious that the Bishop's hand remained in kindly pressure on his shoulder as though inviting his confidence, conscious that the man beside him maintained a sympathetic, tactful silence, waiting for him to speak; but his thoughts for the moment now were not upon the immediate present, but upon the immediate afterwards when his story had been told.

The buckboard rattled on along the road; it entered the wooded stretch—and still went on. When he had told this man beside him all, they would drive into the village. Then presently they would set out for Tournayville, and Monsieur Dupont, and the jail. But before that—there was ValÉrie. He turned his head still further away—even in the blackness his face must show its ashen whiteness. There was ValÉrie—ValÉrie who would believe—but ValÉrie who was to suffer, and to know agony and sorrow—and he, who loved her, must look into her face and see the smile die out of it, and the quiver come to her lips, and see her eyes fill, while with his own hands he dealt her the blow, which, soften it as he would, must still strike her down. It was the only way—the way of peace. It seemed most strange that peace should lie in that black hour ahead for ValÉrie and for himself—that peace should lie in death—and yet within him, quiet, undismayed, calm and untroubled in its own immortal truth, was the knowledge that it was so.

Raymond lifted his head suddenly—through the-trees there showed the glimmer of a light—as it had showed that other night when he had walked here in the storm. Had they come thus far—in silence! Involuntarily he stopped the horse. It was the light from old Mother Blondin's cottage, and here was the spot where he had stumbled that night over the priest whom he had thought dead, as the other lay sprawled across the road. It was strange again—most strange! He had not deliberately chosen this spot to tell——

“FranÇois, my son—what is it?”—the Bishop's voice was full of deep concern.

For a moment Raymond did not move, and he did not speak. Then he laid down the reins, and, leaning forward, untied the lantern from the dash-board—and, taking off his hat, held up the lantern between them until the light fell full upon his face.

There was a quick and startled cry from the Bishop, and then for an instant—silence. And Raymond looked into the other's face, even as the other looked into his. It was a face full of dignity and strength and quiet, an aged, kindly face, crowned with hair that was silver-white; but the blue eyes that spoke of tranquillity were widened now in amazement, surprise and consternation.

And then the Bishop spoke.

“Something has happened to FranÇois,” he said, in a hesitant, troubled way, “and you have come from Tournayville to take his place perhaps, or perhaps to—to be with him. Is it as serious as that—and you were loath to break the news, my son? And yet—and yet I do not understand. The station agent said nothing to indicate that anything was wrong, though perhaps he might not have heard; and he called you Father Aubert, though, too, that possibly well might be, for it was dark, and I myself did not see your face. My son, I fear that I am right. Tell me, then! You are a priest from Tournayville, or from a neighbouring parish?”

“I am not a priest,” said Raymond steadily.

The Bishop drew back sharply, as though he had been struck a blow.

“Not a priest—and in those clothes!”

“No, Monsignor.”

The fine old face grew set and stern.

“And Francois Aubert, then—where is Father Francois Aubert?”

“Monsignor”—Raymond's lips were white—“he is in the condemned cell at Tournayville—under sentence of death—he is——”

“Condemned—to death! FranÇois Aubert—condemned to death!”—the Bishop was grasping with one hand at the back of the seat. And then slowly, still grasping at the seat, he pulled himself up and stood erect, and raised his other hand over Raymond in solemnity and adjuration. “In the name of God, what does this mean? Who are you?”

“I am Raymond Chapelle,” Raymond answered—and abruptly lowered the lantern, and a twisted smile of pain gathered on his lips. “You have heard the name, Monsignor—all French Canada has heard it.” The Bishop's hand dropped heavily to his side.

“Yes, I have heard it,” he said sternly. “I have heard that it was a proud name dishonoured, a princely fortune dissolutely wasted. And you are Raymond Chapelle, you say! I have heard this much, that you had disappeared, but after that——”

Raymond put his head down into his hands, and drew his hands tightly across his face.

“This is the end of the story,” he said. “Listen, Monsignor”—he raised his head again. “You have heard, too, of the murder of ThÉophile Blondin that was committed here a little while ago. It is for that murder that FranÇois Aubert was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged.” He paused an instant, his lips tight. “Monsignor, it is I who killed ThÉophile Blondin. It is I who, since that night, have lived here as the curÉ—as Father FranÇois Aubert.”

How ghastly white the aged face was! As ghastly as his own must be! The other's hands were gripping viselike at his shoulders.

“Are you mad!” the Bishop whispered hoarsely. “Do you know what you are saying!”

“I know”—there was a sort of unnatural calm and finality in Raymond's tones now. “I was on the train the night that Father Aubert came to St. Marleau. I had a message for the mother of a man who was killed in the Yukon, Monsignor. The mother lived here. There was a wild storm that night. There was no wagon to be had, and we both walked from the station. But I did not walk with the priest. You, who have heard of Raymond Chapelle, know why—I despised a priest—I knew no God. Monsignor”—he turned and pointed suddenly—“you see that light through the trees? It is the light I saw that night, as I stumbled over the body of a man lying here in the road. The man was Father Aubert. The limb of a tree had fallen and struck him on the head. I thought him dead. I went over to that house for help.”

He paused again. The Bishop's hands, withdrawn,* were clasped now upon a golden crucifix—it was like his own crucifix, only it was larger, much larger than his own. But the Bishop's white face was still close to his; and the blue eyes seemed to have grown darker, and were upon him in a fixed, tense way, as though to read his soul.

“And then?”—he saw the Bishop's lips move, he did not hear the Bishop speak.

At times the horse moved restively; at times there came the chirping of insects from the woods; at times a breeze stirred and whispered through the leaves. Raymond, staring at the yellow flicker of the lantern, set now upon the floor of the buckboard at their feet, spoke on, in his voice that same unnatural calm. It seemed almost as though he himself were listening to some stranger speak. It was the story of that night he told, the story of the days and nights that followed, the story of old Mother Blondin, the story of the cross, the story of the afternoon in the condemned cell, the story of his ride for liberty of an hour ago, the story of his sacrilege and his redemption—the story of all, without reservation, save the story of ValÉrie's love, for that was between ValÉrie and her God.

And when he had done, a silence fell between them and endured for a great while.

And then Raymond looked up at last to face the condemnation he thought to see in the other's eyes—and found instead that the silver hair was bare of covering, and that the tears were flowing unchecked down the other's cheeks.

“God's ways are beyond all understanding”—the Bishop seemed to be speaking to himself. He brushed the tears now from his cheeks, as he looked at Raymond. “It is true there is not any proof, and without proof that it was in self-defence, then——”

“It is the end,” said Raymond simply—and, standing up, took the sacristan's old coat from under his soutane. “We will drive to the village, Monsignor; and then, if you will, to the jail in Tournayville.” Slowly he unbuttoned his soutane from top to bottom, and took it off, and laid it over the back of the seat; and, standing there erect, his face white, his eyes half closed, like a soldier in unconditional surrender, he unclasped the crucifix from around his neck, and held it out to the Bishop—and bowed his head.

He felt the Bishop's hands close over his, and over the crucifix, and gently press it back.

“Cling to it, my son”—the Bishop's voice was broken. “It is yours, for you have found it—and, with it, pardon, and the faith that is more precious than life, than the life you are offering to surrender now. It seems as though it were God's mysterious way, the hand of God—the hand of God that would not let you lose your soul. And now, my son, kneel down, for I would pray for a brave man.”

A quiet pressure upon his shoulders brought Raymond to his knees. His eyes, were wet; he covered his face with his hands.

“Father, have mercy upon us”—the Bishop's voice was tremulous and low. “Lord, have mercy upon us. Look down in pity upon this man whom Thou hast brought unto Thyself, and who now in expiation of his past offences offers his life that another may not die. Father, grant us Thy divine mercy. Father, show us the way, if there be a way, and if it be Thy will, that he may not drink of this final cup; and if that may not be, then in Thy love continue unto him the strength Thou gavest him to bring him thus far upon his road.”

And silence fell again between them. And there was a strange gladness in Raymond's heart that this man, where he had thought no man would, should have believed. It altered no fact, the cold and brutal evidence, clear cut before a jury would not be a scene such as this, for the evidence in the light of logic and before the law would say he lied; it held out no hope, he knew that well—but it brought peace again. And so he rose from his knees, and feeling out blindly for the old sacristan's coat, put it on, and spoke to the horse, and the buckboard moved forward.

And a little way along, just around the turn of the road, they came out of the woods in front of old Mother Blondin's cottage. And standing by the roadside in the darkness was a figure. And a voice called out:

“Is that you, Father Aubert? I went to the presbytÈre for you, and mother said you had gone to meet Monsignor. I have been waiting here to catch you on the way back.”

It was ValÉrie.