CHAPTER IV.
While Gabriel still remained prostrated under the affliction that waswasting his energies of body and mind, Brittany was visited by a greatpublic calamity, in which all private misfortunes were overwhelmed for awhile.
It was now the time when the ever-gathering storm of the FrenchRevolution had risen to its hurricane climax. Those chiefs of the newrepublic were in power whose last, worst madness it was to decree theextinction of religion and the overthrow of everything that outwardlysymbolized it throughout the whole of the country that they governed.Already this decree had been executed to the letter in and around Paris;and now the soldiers of the Republic were on their way to Brittany,headed by commanders whose commission was to root out the Christianreligion in the last and the surest of the strongholds still left to itin France.
These men began their work in a spirit worthy of the worst of theirsuperiors who had sent them to do it. They gutted churches, theydemolished chapels, they overthrew road-side crosses wherever they foundthem. The terrible guillotine devoured human lives in the villages ofBrittany as it had devoured them in the streets of Paris; the musket andthe sword, in highway and byway, wreaked havoc on the people--evenon women and children kneeling in the act of prayer; the priests weretracked night and day from one hiding-place, where they still offeredup worship, to another, and were killed as soon as overtaken--everyatrocity was committed in every district; but the Christian religionstill spread wider than the widest bloodshed; still sprang up withever-renewed vitality from under the very feet of the men whose vainfury was powerless to trample it down. Everywhere the people remainedtrue to their Faith; everywhere the priests stood firm by them in theirsorest need. The executioners of the Republic had been sent to makeBrittany a country of apostates; they did their worst, and left it acountry of martyrs.
One evening, while this frightful persecution was still raging, Gabrielhappened to be detained unusually late at the cottage of Perrine'sfather. He had lately spent much of his time at the farm house; it washis only refuge now from that place of suffering, of silence, and ofsecret shame, which he had once called home! Just as he had taken leaveof Perrine for the night, and was about to open the farmhouse door, herfather stopped him, and pointed to a chair in the chimney-corner.
"Leave us alone, my dear," said the old man to his daughter; "I want tospeak to Gabriel. You can go to your mother in the next room."
The words which Pere Bonan--as he was called by the neighbors--had nowto say in private were destined to lead to very unexpected events. Afterreferring to the alteration which had appeared of late in Gabriel'smanner, the old man began by asking him, sorrowfully but notsuspiciously, whether he still preserved his old affection for Perrine.On receiving an eager answer in the affirmative, Pere Bonan thenreferred to the persecution still raging through the country, and to theconsequent possibility that he, like others of his countrymen, might yetbe called to suffer, and perhaps to die, for the cause of his religion.If this last act of self-sacrifice were required of him, Perrine wouldbe left unprotected, unless her affianced husband performed his promiseto her, and assumed, without delay, the position of her lawful guardian."Let me know that you will do this," concluded the old man; "I shall beresigned to all that may be required of me, if I can only know thatI shall not die leaving Perrine unprotected." Gabriel gave thepromise--gave it with his whole heart. As he took leave of Pere Bonan,the old man said to him:
"Come here to-morrow; I shall know more then than I know now--I shallbe able to fix with certainty the day for the fulfillment of yourengagement with Perrine."
Why did Gabriel hesitate at the farmhouse door, looking back on PereBonan as though he would fain say something, and yet not speaking aword? Why, after he had gone out and had walked onward several paces,did he suddenly stop, return quickly to the farmhouse, stand irresolutebefore the gate, and then retrace his steps, sighing heavily as he went,but never pausing again on his homeward way? Because the torment of hishorrible secret had grown harder to bear than ever, since he had giventhe promise that had been required of him. Because, while a strongimpulse moved him frankly to lay bare his hidden dread and doubt to thefather whose beloved daughter was soon to be his wife, there was a yetstronger passive influence which paralyzed on his lips the terribleconfession that he knew not whether he was the son of an honest man, orthe son of an assassin, and a robber. Made desperate by his situation,he determined, while he hastened homeward, to risk the worst, and askthat fatal question of his father in plain words. But this supremetrial for parent and child was not to be. When he entered the cottage,Francois was absent. He had told the younger children that he should notbe home again before noon on the next day.
Early in the morning Gabriel repaired to the farmhouse, as he had beenbidden. Influenced, by his love for Perrine, blindly confiding in thefaint hope (which, in despite of heart and conscience, he still forcedhimself to cherish) that his father might be innocent, he now preservedthe appearance at least of perfect calmness. "If I tell my secret toPerrine's father, I risk disturbing in him that confidence in thefuture safety of his child for which I am his present and only warrant."Something like this thought was in Gabriel's mind, as he took the handof Pere Bonan, and waited anxiously to hear what was required of him onthat day.
"We have a short respite from danger, Gabriel," said the old man. "Newshas come to me that the spoilers of our churches and the murderers ofour congregations have been stopped on their way hitherward by tidingswhich have reached them from another district. This interval of peaceand safety will be a short one--we must take advantage of it while itis yet ours. My name is among the names on the list of the denounced. Ifthe soldiers of the Republic find me here--but we will say nothing moreof this; it is of Perrine and of you that I must now speak. On this veryevening your marriage may be solemnized with all the wonted rites of ourholy religion, and the blessing may be pronounced over you by the lipsof a priest. This evening, therefore, Gabriel, you must become thehusband and the protector of Perrine. Listen to me attentively, and Iwill tell you how."
This was the substance of what Gabriel now heard from Pere Bonan:
Not very long before the persecutions broke out in Brittany, a priest,known generally by the name of Father Paul, was appointed to a curacyin one of the northern districts of the province. He fulfilled all theduties of his station in such a manner as to win the confidence andaffection of every member of his congregation, and was often spoken ofwith respect, even in parts of the country distant from the scene ofhis labors. It was not, however, until the troubles broke out, and thedestruction and bloodshed began, that he became renowned far and wide,from one end of Brittany to another. From the date of the very firstpersecutions the name of Father Paul was a rallying-cry of the huntedpeasantry; he was their great encouragement under oppression, theirexample in danger, their last and only consoler in the hour of death.Wherever havoc and ruin raged most fiercely, wherever the pursuit washottest and the slaughter most cruel, there the intrepid priest was sureto be seen pursuing his sacred duties in defiance of every peril. Hishair-breadth escapes from death; his extraordinary re-appearances inparts of the country where no one ever expected to see him again, wereregarded by the poorer classes with superstitious awe. Wherever FatherPaul appeared, with his black dress, his calm face, and the ivorycrucifix which he always carried in his hand, the people reverenced himas more than mortal; and grew at last to believe, that, single-handed,he would successfully defend his religion against the armies of theRepublic. But their simple confidence in his powers of resistance wassoon destined to be shaken. Fresh re-enforcements arrived in Brittany,and overran the whole province from one end to the other. One morning,after celebrating service in a dismantled church, and after narrowlyescaping with his life from those who pursued him, the priestdisappeared. Secret inquiries were made after him in all directions; buthe was heard of no more.
Many weary days had passed, and the dispirited peasantry had alreadymourned him as dead, when some fishermen on the northe
rn coast observeda ship of light burden in the offing, making signals to the shore. Theyput off to her in their boats; and on reaching the deck saw standingbefore them the well-remembered figure of Father Paul.
The priest had returned to his congregations, and had founded the newaltar that they were to worship at on the deck of the ship! Razed fromthe face of the earth, their church had not been destroyed--for FatherPaul and the priests who acted with him had given that church a refugeon the sea. Henceforth, their children could still be baptized, theirsons and daughters could still be married, the burial of their deadcould still be solemnized, under the sanction of the old religion forwhich, not vainly, they had suffered so patiently and so long.
Throughout the remaining time of trouble the services were uninterruptedon board the ship. A code of signals was established by which those onshore were always enabled to direct their brethren at sea toward suchparts of the coast as happened to be uninfested by the enemies oftheir worship. On the morning of Gabriel's visit to the farmhouse thesesignals had shaped the course of the ship toward the extremity of thepeninsula of Quiberon. The people of the district were all prepared toexpect the appearance of the vessel some time in the evening, andhad their boats ready at a moment's notice to put off, and attend theservice. At the conclusion of this service Pere Bonan had arranged thatthe marriage of his daughter and Gabriel was to take place.
They waited for evening at the farmhouse. A little before sunsetthe ship was signaled as in sight; and then Pere Bonan and his wife,followed by Gabriel and Perrine, set forth over the heath to the beach.With the solitary exception of Francois Sarzeau, the whole populationof the neighborhood was already assembled there, Gabriel's brother andsisters being among the number.
It was the calmest evening that had been known for months. There was nota cloud in the lustrous sky--not a ripple on the still surface of thesea. The smallest children were suffered by their mothers to stray downon the beach as they pleased; for the waves of the great ocean slept astenderly and noiselessly on their sandy bed as if they had been changedinto the waters of an inland lake. Slow, almost imperceptible, was theapproach of the ship--there was hardly a breath of wind to carry heron--she was just drifting gently with the landward set of the tide atthat hour, while her sails hung idly against the masts. Long after thesun had gone down, the congregation still waited and watched on thebeach. The moon and stars were arrayed in their glory of the nightbefore the ship dropped anchor. Then the muffled tolling of a bell camesolemnly across the quiet waters; and then, from every creek along theshore, as far as the eye could reach, the black forms of the fishermen'sboats shot out swift and stealthy into the shining sea.
By the time the boats had arrived alongside of the ship, the lamp hadbeen kindled before the altar, and its flame was gleaming red and dullin the radiant moonlight. Two of the priests on board were clothed intheir robes of office, and were waiting in their appointed places tobegin the service. But there was a third, dressed only in the ordinaryattire of his calling, who mingled with the congregation, and spokea few words to each of the persons composing it, as, one by one, theymounted the sides of the ship. Those who had never seen him before knewby the famous ivory crucifix in his hand that the priest who receivedthem was Father Paul. Gabriel looked at this man, whom he now beheld forthe first time, with a mixture of astonishment and awe; for he saw thatthe renowned chief of the Christians of Brittany was, to all appearance,but little older than himself.
The expression on the pale, calm face of the priest was so gentle andkind, that children just able to walk tottered up to him, and heldfamiliarly by the skirts of his black gown, whenever his clear blue eyesrested on theirs, while he beckoned them to his side. No one would everhave guessed from the countenance of Father Paul what deadly perils hehad confronted, but for the scar of a saber-wound, as yet hardly healed,which ran across his forehead. That wound had been dealt while he waskneeling before the altar in the last church in Brittany which hadescaped spoliation. He would have died where he knelt, but for thepeasants who were praying with him, and who, unarmed as they were, threwthemselves like tigers on the soldiery, and at awful sacrifice of theirown lives saved the life of their priest. There was not a man now onboard the ship who would have hesitated, had the occasion called for itagain, to have rescued him in the same way.
The service began. Since the days when the primitive Christiansworshiped amid the caverns of the earth, can any service be imaginednobler in itself, or sublimer in the circumstances surrounding it, thanthat which was now offered up? Here was no artificial pomp, no gaudyprofusion of ornament, no attendant grandeur of man's creation. Allaround this church spread the hushed and awful majesty of the tranquilsea. The roof of this cathedral was the immeasurable heaven, the puremoon its one great light, the countless glories of the stars its onlyadornment. Here were no hired singers or rich priest-princes; no curioussight-seers, or careless lovers of sweet sounds. This congregation andthey who had gathered it together, were all poor alike, all persecutedalike, all worshiping alike, to the overthrow of their worldlyinterests, and at the imminent peril of their lives. How brightly andtenderly the moonlight shone upon the altar and the people beforeit! how solemnly and divinely the deep harmonies, as they chanted thepenitential Psalms, mingled with the hoarse singing of the fresheningnight breeze in the rigging of the ship! how sweetly the still rushingmurmur of many voices, as they uttered the responses together, now diedaway, and now rose again softly into the mysterious night!
Of all the members of the congregation--young or old--there was but oneover whom that impressive service exercised no influence of consolationor of peace; that one was Gabriel. Often, throughout the day, hisreproaching conscience had spoken within him again and again. Often whenhe joined the little assembly on the beach, he turned away his face insecret shame and apprehension from Perrine and her father. Vainly, aftergaining the deck of the ship, did he try to meet the eye of Father Paulas frankly, as readily, and as affectionately as others met it. Theburden of concealment seemed too heavy to be borne in the presence ofthe priest--and yet, torment as it was, he still bore it! But when heknelt with the rest of the congregation and saw Perrine kneeling by hisside--when he felt the calmness of the solemn night and the still seafilling his heart--when the sounds of the first prayers spoke with adread spiritual language of their own to his soul--then the remembranceof the confession which he had neglected, and the terror of receivingunprepared the sacrament which he knew would be offered to him--grew toovivid to be endured; the sense that he merited no longer, though onceworthy of it, the confidence in his perfect truth and candor placedin him by the woman with whom he was soon to stand before the altar,overwhelmed him with shame: the mere act of kneeling among thatcongregation, the passive accomplice by his silence and secrecy, foraught he knew to the contrary, of a crime which it was his bounden dutyto denounce, appalled him as if he had already committed sacrilege thatcould never be forgiven. Tears flowed down his cheeks, though he stroveto repress them: sobs burst from him, though he tried to stifle them. Heknew that others besides Perrine were looking at him in astonishmentand alarm; but he could neither control himself, nor move to leave hisplace, nor raise his eyes even--until suddenly he felt a hand laid onhis shoulder. That touch, slight as it was, ran through him instantly. Helooked up, and saw Father Paul standing by his side.
Beckoning him to follow, and signing to the congregation not to suspendtheir devotions, he led Gabriel out of the assembly--then paused for amoment, reflecting--then beckoning him again, took him into the cabin ofthe ship, and closed the door carefully.
"You have something on your mind," he said, simply and quietly, takingthe young man by the hand. "I may be able to relieve you, if you tell mewhat it is."
As Gabriel heard these gentle words, and saw, by the light of a lampwhich burned before a cross fixed against the wall, the sad kindness ofexpression with which the priest was regarding him, the oppression thathad lain so long on his heart seemed to leave it in an instant. Thehaunting fear
of ever divulging his fatal suspicions and his fatalsecret had vanished, as it were, at the touch of Father Paul's hand. Forthe first time he now repeated to another ear--the sounds of prayerand praise rising grandly the while from the congregation above--hisgrandfather's death-bed confession, word for word almost, as he hadheard it in the cottage on the night of the storm.
Once, and once only, did Father Paul interrupt the narrative, which inwhispers was addressed to him. Gabriel had hardly repeated the first twoor three sentences of his grandfather's confession, when the priest, inquick, altered tones, abruptly asked him his name and place of abode.
As the question was answered, Father Paul's calm face became suddenlyagitated; but the next moment, resolutely resuming his self-possession,he bowed his head as a sign that Gabriel was to continue; clasped histrembling hands, and raising them as if in silent prayer, fixed his eyesintently on the cross. He never looked away from it while the terriblenarrative proceeded. But when Gabriel described his search at theMerchant's Table; and, referring to his father's behavior since thattime, appealed to the priest to know whether he might even yet, indefiance of appearances, be still filially justified in doubting whetherthe crime had been really perpetrated--then Father Paul moved near tohim once more, and spoke again.
"Compose yourself, and look at me," he said, with his former sadkindness of voice and manner. "I can end your doubts forever. Gabriel,your father was guilty in intention and in act; but the victim of hiscrime still lives. I can prove it."
Gabriel's heart beat wildly; a deadly coldness crept over him as he sawFather Paul loosen the fastening of his cassock round the throat.
At that instant the chanting of the congregation above ceased; and thenthe sudden and awful stillness was deepened rather than interrupted bythe faint sound of one voice praying. Slowly and with trembling fingersthe priest removed the band round his neck--paused a little--sighedheavily--and pointed to a scar which was now plainly visible on one sideof his throat. He said something at the same time; but the bell abovetolled while he spoke. It was the signal of the elevation of the Host.Gabriel felt an arm passed round him, guiding him to his knees, andsustaining him from sinking to the floor. For one moment longer he wasconscious that the bell had stopped, that there was dead silence, thatFather Paul was kneeling by him beneath the cross, with bowed head--thenall objects around vanished; and he saw and knew nothing more.
When he recovered his senses, he was still in the cabin; the man whoselife his father had attempted was bending over him, and sprinklingwater on his face; and the clear voices of the women and children of thecongregation were joining the voices of the men in singing the _AgnusDei._
"Look up at me without fear, Gabriel," said the priest. "I desire not toavenge injuries: I visit not the sins of the father on the child. Lookup, and listen! I have strange things to speak of; and I have a sacredmission to fulfill before the morning, in which you must be my guide."
Gabriel attempted to kneel and kiss his hand but Father Paul stoppedhim, and said, pointing to the cross: "Kneel to that--not to me; not toyour fellow-mortal, and your friend--for I will be your friend, Gabriel;believing that God's mercy has ordered it so. And now listen to me,"he proceeded, with a brotherly tenderness in his manner which went toGabriel's heart. "The service is nearly ended. What I have to tell youmust be told at once; the errand on which you will guide me must beperformed before to-morrow dawns. Sit here near me, and attend to what Inow say!"
Gabriel obeyed; Father Paul then proceeded thus:
"I believe the confession made to you by your grandfather to have beentrue in every particular. On the evening to which he referred you, Iapproached your cottage, as he said, for the purpose of asking shelterfor the night. At that period I had been studying hard to qualify myselffor the holy calling which I now pursue; and, on the completion ofmy studies, had indulged in the recreation of a tour on foot throughBrittany, by way of innocently and agreeably occupying the leisure timethen at my disposal, before I entered the priesthood. When I accostedyour father I had lost my way, had been walking for many hours, and wasglad of any rest that I could get for the night. It is unnecessary topain you now, by reference to the events which followed my entranceunder your father's roof. I remember nothing that happened from thetime when I lay down to sleep before the fire, until the time when Irecovered my senses at the place which you call the Merchant's Table. Myfirst sensation was that of being moved into the cold air; when I openedmy eyes I saw the great Druid stones rising close above me, and two menon either side of me rifling my pockets. They found nothing valuablethere, and were about to leave me where I lay, when I gathered strengthenough to appeal to their mercy through their cupidity. Money was notscarce with me then, and I was able to offer them a rich reward (whichthey ultimately received as I had promised) if they would take me toany place where I could get shelter and medical help. I supposed theyinferred by my language and accent--perhaps also by the linen I wore,which they examined closely--that I belonged to the higher ranks of thecommunity, in spite of the plainness of my outer garments; and might,therefore, be in a position to make good my promise to them. I heard onesay to the other, 'Let us risk it'; and then they took me in their arms,carried me down to a boat on the beach, and rowed to a vessel in theoffing. The next day they disembarked me at Paimboeuf, where I got theassistance which I so much needed. I learned, through the confidencethey were obliged to place in me in order to give me the means ofsending them their promised reward, that these men were smugglers, andthat they were in the habit of using the cavity in which I had been laidas a place of concealment for goods, and for letters of advice to theiraccomplices. This accounted for their finding me. As to my wound, Iwas informed by the surgeon who attended me that it had missed beinginflicted in a mortal part by less than a quarter of an inch, and that,as it was, nothing but the action of the night air in coagulating theblood over the place, had, in the first instance, saved my life. Tobe brief, I recovered after a long illness, returned to Paris, and wascalled to the priesthood. The will of my superiors obliged me to performthe first duties of my vocation in the great city; but my own wish wasto be appointed to a cure of souls in your province, Gabriel. Can youimagine why?"
The answer to this question was in Gabriel's heart; but he was still toodeeply awed and affected by what he had heard to give it utterance.
"I must tell you, then, what my motive was," said Father Paul. "You mustknow first that I uniformly abstained from disclosing to any one whereand by whom my life had been attempted. I kept this a secret from themen who rescued me--from the surgeon--from my own friends even. Myreason for such a proceeding was, I would fain believe, a Christianreason. I hope I had always felt a sincere and humble desire to provemyself, by the help of God, worthy of the sacred vocation to which I wasdestined. But my miraculous escape from death made an impression onmy mind, which gave me another and an infinitely higher view of thisvocation--the view which I have since striven, and shall always strivefor the future, to maintain. As I lay, during the first days of myrecovery, examining my own heart, and considering in what manner itwould be my duty to act toward your father when I was restored tohealth, a thought came into my mind which calmed, comforted, andresolved all my doubts. I said within myself, 'In a few months more Ishall be called to be one of the chosen ministers of God. If I am worthyof my vocation, my first desire toward this man who has attempted totake my life should be, not to know that human justice has overtakenhim, but to know that he has truly and religiously repented and madeatonement for his guilt. To such repentance and atonement let it be myduty to call him; if he reject that appeal, and be hardened only themore against me because I have forgiven him my injuries, then it will betime enough to denounce him for his crimes to his fellow-men. Surelyit must be well for me, here and hereafter, if I begin my career in theholy priesthood by helping to save from hell the soul of the man who,of all others, has most cruelly wronged me.' It was for this reason,Gabriel--it was because I desired to go straightway to your father'scottage
, and reclaim him after he had believed me to be dead--that Ikept the secret and entreated of my superiors that I might be sent toBrittany. But this, as I have said, was not to be at first, and whenmy desire was granted, my place was assigned me in a far district. Thepersecution under which we still suffer broke out; the designs of mylife were changed; my own will became no longer mine to guide me. But,through sorrow and suffering, and danger and bloodshed, I am now led,after many days, to the execution of that first purpose which I formedon entering the priesthood. Gabriel, when the service is over, andthe congregation are dispersed, you must guide me to the door of yourfather's cottage."
He held up his hand, in sign of silence, as Gabriel was about to answer.Just then the officiating priests above were pronouncing the finalbenediction. When it was over, Father Paul opened the cabin door. As heascended the steps, followed by Gabriel, Pere Bonan met them. The oldman looked doubtfully and searchingly on his future son-in-law, as herespectfully whispered a few words in the ear of the priest. Father Paullistened attentively, answered in a whisper, and then turned to Gabriel,first begging the few people near them to withdraw a little.
"I have been asked whether there is any impediment to your marriage,"he said, "and have answered that there is none. What you have said tome has been said in confession, and is a secret between us two. Rememberthat; and forget not, at the same time, the service which I shallrequire of you to-night, after the marriage-ceremony is over. Whereis Perrine Bonan?" he added, aloud, looking round him. Perrine cameforward. Father Paul took her hand and placed it in Gabriel's. "Lead herto the altar steps," he said, "and wait there for me."
It was more than an hour later; the boats had left the ship's side; thecongregation had dispersed over the face of the country--but still thevessel remained at anchor. Those who were left in her watched the landmore anxiously than usual; for they knew that Father Paul had riskedmeeting the soldiers of the Republic by trusting himself on shore. Aboat was awaiting his return on the beach; half of the crew, armed,being posted as scouts in various directions on the high land of theheath. They would have followed and guarded the priest to the place ofhis destination; but he forbade it; and, leaving them abruptly, walkedswiftly onward with one young man only for his companion.
Gabriel had committed his brother and his sisters to the chargeof Perrine. They were to go to the farmhouse that night with hisnewly-married wife and her father and mother. Father Paul had desiredthat this might be done. When Gabriel and he were left alone to followthe path which led to the fisherman's cottage, the priest never spokewhile they walked on--never looked aside either to the right or theleft--always held his ivory crucifix clasped to his breast. They arrivedat the door.
"Knock," whispered Father Paul to Gabriel, "and then wait here with me."
The door was opened. On a lovely moonlight night Francois Sarzeau hadstood on that threshold, years since, with a bleeding body in his arms.On a lovely moonlight night he now stood there again, confronting thevery man whose life he had attempted, and knowing him not.
Father Paul advanced a few paces, so that the moonlight fell fuller onhis features, and removed his hat.
Francois Sarzeau looked, started, moved one step back, then stoodmotionless and perfectly silent, while all traces of expression of anykind suddenly vanished from his face. Then the calm, clear tones of thepriest stole gently on the dead silence. "I bring a message of peace andforgiveness from a guest of former years," he said; and pointed, as hespoke, to the place where he had been wounded in the neck.
For one moment, Gabriel saw his father trembling violently from head tofoot--then his limbs steadied again--stiffened suddenly, as if struck bycatalepsy. His lips parted, but without quivering; his eyes glared, butwithout moving in the orbits. The lovely moonlight itself looked ghastlyand horrible, shining on the supernatural panic deformity of that face!Gabriel turned away his head in terror. He heard the voice of FatherPaul saying to him: "Wait here till I come back."
Then there was an instant of silence again--then a low groaning soundthat seemed to articulate the name of God; a sound unlike his father'svoice, unlike any human voice he had ever heard--and then the noise ofa closing door. He looked up, and saw that he was standing alone beforethe cottage.
Once, after an interval, he approached the window.
He just saw through it the hand of the priest holding on high the ivorycrucifix; but stopped not to see more, for he heard such words, suchsounds, as drove him back to his former place. There he stayed, untilthe noise of something falling heavily within the cottage struck onhis ear. Again he advanced toward the door; heard Father Paul praying;listened for several minutes; then heard a moaning voice, now joiningitself to the voice of the priest, now choked in sobs and bitterwailing. Once more he went back out of hearing, and stirred not againfrom his place. He waited a long and a weary time there--so long thatone of the scouts on the lookout came toward him, evidently suspiciousof the delay in the priest's return. He waved the man back, and thenlooked again toward the door. At last he saw it open--saw Father Paulapproach him, leading Francois Sarzeau by the hand.
The fisherman never raised his downcast eyes to his son's face; tearstrickled silently over his cheeks; he followed the hand that led him, asa little child might have followed it, listened anxiously and humbly atthe priest's side to every word that he spoke.
"Gabriel," said Father Paul, in a voice which trembled a little for thefirst time that night--"Gabriel, it has pleased God to grant the perfectfulfillment of the purpose which brought me to this place; I tell youthis, as all that you need--as all, I believe, that you would wish--toknow of what has passed while you have been left waiting for me here.Such words as I have now to speak to you are spoken by your father'searnest desire. It is his own wish that I should communicate to you hisconfession of having secretly followed you to the Merchant's Table, andof having discovered (as you discovered) that no evidence of his guiltremained there. This admission, he thinks, will be enough to account forhis conduct toward yourself from that time to this. I have next to tellyou (also at your father's desire) that he has promised in my presence,and now promises again in yours, sincerity of repentance in this manner:When the persecution of our religion has ceased--as cease it will, andthat speedily, be assured of it--he solemnly pledges himself henceforthto devote his life, his strength and what worldly possessions he mayhave, or may acquire, to the task of re-erecting and restoring theroad-side crosses which have been sacrilegiously overthrown anddestroyed in his native province, and to doing good, go where he may.I have now said all that is required of me, and may bid youfarewell--bearing with me the happy remembrance that I have left afather and son reconciled and restored to each other. May God blessand prosper you, and those dear to you, Gabriel! May God accept yourfather's repentance, and bless him also throughout his future life!"
He took their hands, pressed them long and warmly, then turned andwalked quickly down the path which led to the beach. Gabriel dared nottrust himself yet to speak; but he raised his arm, and put it gentlyround his father's neck. The two stood together so, looking out dimlythrough the tears that filled their eyes to the sea. They saw the boatput off in the bright track of the moonlight, and reach the vessel'sside; they watched the spreading of the sails, and followed the slowcourse of the ship till she disappeared past a distant headland fromsight.
After that, they went into the cottage together. They knew it not then,but they had seen the last, in this world, of Father Paul.
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