“Ah!” cried the dying man, with all the effusiveness of a grief declared after long suppression, “ah!  I have sought to stifle remorse by twenty years of good deeds; I have assuaged the natural ferocity of those who shed blood; on every occasion I have exposed my life to save those who were in danger, and I have preserved lives in exchange for that I took away.  That is not all; the money gained in the exercise of my profession I have distributed to the poor; I have been assiduous in attending church and those who formerly fled from me have become accustomed to seeing me.  All have forgiven me, some have even loved me; but I think that God has not pardoned me, for the memory of that execution pursues me constantly and every night I see that woman’s ghost rising before me.”

“A woman!  You have assassinated a woman, then?” cried the monk.

“You also!” exclaimed the executioner, “you use that word which sounds ever in my ears —­ `assassinated!’ I have assassinated, then, and not executed!  I am an assassin, then, and not an officer of justice!” and he closed his eyes with a groan.

The monk doubtless feared that he would die without saying more, for he exclaimed eagerly: 

“Go on, I know nothing, as yet; when you have finished your story, God and I will judge.”

“Oh, father,” continued the executioner, without opening his eyes, as if he feared on opening them to see some frightful object, “it is especially when night comes on and when I have to cross a river, that this terror which I have been unable to conquer comes upon me; it then seems as if my hand grew heavy, as if the cutlass was still in its grasp, as if the water had the color of blood, and all the voices of nature —­ the whispering of the trees, the murmur of the wind, the lapping of the wave —­ united in a voice tearful, despairing, terrible, crying to me, `Place for the justice of God!’”

“Delirium!” murmured the monk, shaking his head.

The executioner opened his eyes, turned toward the young man and grasped his arm.

“`Delirium,’” he repeated; “`delirium,’ do you say?  Oh, no!  I remember too well.  It was evening; I had thrown the body into the river and those words which my remorse repeats to me are those which I in my pride pronounced.  After being the instrument of human justice I aspired to be that of the justice of God.”

“But let me see, how was it done?  Speak,” said the monk.

“It was at night.  A man came to me and showed me an order and I followed him.  Four other noblemen awaited me.  They led me away masked.  I reserved the right of refusing if the office they required of me should seem unjust.  We traveled five or six leagues, serious, silent, and almost without speaking.  At length, through the window of a little hut, they showed me a woman sitting, leaning on a table, and said, `there is the person to be executed.’”

“Horrible!” said the monk.  “And you obeyed?”