crimes to his fellow-men.  Surely it must be well for me, here and hereafter, if I begin my career in the holy 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’s cottage, and reclaim him after he had believed me to be dead—­that I kept the secret and entreated of my superiors that I might be sent to Brittany.  But this, as I have said, was not to be at first, and when my desire was granted, my place was assigned me in a far district.  The persecution under which we still suffer broke out; the designs of my life 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 formed on entering the priesthood.  Gabriel, when the service is over, and the congregation are dispersed, you must guide me to the door of your father’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 final benediction.  When it was over, Father Paul opened the cabin door.  As he ascended the steps, followed by Gabriel, Pere Bonan met them.  The old man looked doubtfully and searchingly on his future son-in-law, as he respectfully whispered a few words in the ear of the priest.  Father Paul listened 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 to me has been said in confession, and is a secret between us two.  Remember that; and forget not, at the same time, the service which I shall require of you to-night, after the marriage-ceremony is over.  Where is Perrine Bonan?” he added, aloud, looking round him.  Perrine came forward.  Father Paul took her hand and placed it in Gabriel’s.  “Lead her to 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; the congregation had dispersed over the face of the country—­but still the vessel remained at anchor.  Those who were left in her watched the land more anxiously than usual; for they knew that Father Paul had risked meeting the soldiers of the Republic by trusting himself on shore.  A boat was awaiting his return on the beach; half of the crew, armed, being posted as scouts in various directions on the high land of the heath.  They would have followed and guarded the priest to the place of his destination; but he forbade it; and, leaving them abruptly, walked swiftly onward with one young man only for his companion.

Gabriel had committed his brother and his sisters to the charge of Perrine.  They were to go to the farmhouse that night with his newly-married wife and her father and mother.  Father Paul had desired that this might be done.  When Gabriel and he were left alone to follow the path which led to the fisherman’s cottage, the priest never spoke while they walked on—­never looked aside either to the right or the left—­always held his ivory crucifix clasped to his breast.  They arrived at the door.