Stanhope’s attention was soon arrested by the object of his search.  In the midst of the plain still lay the cross, which the English had overthrown; and, close beside it, father Gilbert was kneeling, as motionless, as if life had ceased to animate him.  His eyes were fastened on a crucifix, and his pale and haggard countenance wore the traces of that mental anguish, which seemed forever to pursue him.  His lips were firmly closed, and every limb and feature appeared so rigid, that Arthur could scarcely repel the dreadful apprehension, that death had seized his victim alone in that solitary spot.  He approached him, and was inexpressibly relieved to perceive him start at the sound of his steps, and look round, though with a vacant air, like one suddenly roused from deep and heavy sleep.

“Pardon me, if I intrude, father,” said Stanhope; “but I feared you were ill, and came to ask if I could serve you.”

“Who are you?” demanded the priest, wildly, and springing from his knees; “who are you, that seek me here,—­here, in this spot, consecrated to remorse and sorrow?”

“It is but a few hours since I parted from you,” returned Stanhope; “and had I known you purposed coming hither, I would not willingly have left you to cross the waves alone, in that frail boat.”

“I know you now, young man,” replied the priest, the unnatural excitement of his countenance yielding to its usual calm; “and I thank you for your care; but solitude and gloom are most congenial to me, and I endure the fellowship of men, only in compliance with the duties of my holy office.  Leave me,” he added; “here, at least, I would be alone.”

“This is a dreary place, father”—­

“Dreary!” interrupted the priest; “and it is therefore that I seek it; twenty years have passed away, since I first found refuge in its shades, from the vanities of a world which I had too long trusted; and yearly on this day, the solitary waste is witness to my remorse and penance.  Be warned by this, my son; and, in thy youth, avoid the crimes and follies which lead to an old age of sorrow.”

“True repentance may obliterate every sin,” said Stanhope; “and why should you despair of mercy, or even of earthly happiness?”

“Happiness!” repeated the priest; “name it not to one whose headstrong passions blasted every cherished joy, and threw their withering influence on all who loved and trusted in him; mock me not with that delusive hope, which only lives in the imagination of youth and inexperience.  Again I bid you leave me; this day is consecrated to active duty, and I would fortify my mind to meet its difficulties.”

“Pardon me, that I trouble you with one inquiry,” said Stanhope; “have you heard aught of De la Tour?”

“He is a prisoner,” returned the priest; “and if you would learn more concerning him, repair, without delay, to Pemaquid, where his lieutenant waits your arrival.”

Father Gilbert turned away, as he finished speaking; and Stanhope retraced his steps to the boat, musing with deep interest on the intelligence he had received.  He rowed rapidly back to his vessel; and, weighing anchor, sailed for the bay of Pemaquid, impatient to rejoin De Valette, and learn the particulars of La Tour’s capture.