"Yes, he had an axe in his hand. His garments were covered with blood; his face, never, oh, never, have I beheld a face so terrible. When he came in, Sabine, not distinguishing his features at first, uttered a cry of horror, and exclaimed, 'The black man! The black man!' and when M.

Cloarek ran to his daughter, she recoiled in terror, crying, 'Father, ah, father, then it was you who killed my mother!' and fell apparently lifeless upon the floor."

"Yes, yes, those words, 'Father, then it was you who killed my mother,'

I heard them vaguely, as life seemed to be deserting me. Oh, this is frightful, frightful! What a horrible discovery! What misery it entails!

Such a tender father and loving daughter to have such a gulf between them for ever! You were right, aunt, you were right! It does indeed require courage to bear such a revelation. And Mlle. Sabine, how has she been since that time?"

"The unfortunate child lay between life and death for two whole days, as I told you."

"And M. Cloarek?"

"Alas! we know nothing about him. On hearing his daughter reproach him for her mother's death, he uttered a loud cry, and rushed out of the room like one demented, and nothing has been seen of him since."

"How unfortunate! Great Heavens, how unfortunate! But how did M. Cloarek hear of this intended attack?"

"It seems this party had made two or three similar descents at different points along the coast; but this attack was unquestionably made in the hope of capturing M. Cloarek, who, under the name of Captain l'Endurci, had inflicted such injury upon the British navy."

The nurse, reentering the room at that moment, said to Suzanne:

"Madame Roberts, M. Segoffin wishes to speak to you, as well as to M.

Onesime, if he feels able to see him."

"Certainly," responded the young man, promptly.

Segoffin entered the room almost immediately. Dame Roberts did not receive him with ironical words and looks, as she had been wont to do, however. On the contrary, she advanced to meet him with affectionate eagerness.

"Well, my dear Segoffin, is your news good or bad?" she exclaimed.

"I hardly know, my dear Suzanne. It will all depend upon this," he sighed, drawing a bulky envelope from his pocket as he spoke.

"What is that?"

"A letter from M. Cloarek."

"He is alive, then, thank Heaven!"

"Yes, and his only remaining hope is in this letter, and I am to give the letter to you, M. Onesime."

"To me?"

"And I am to tell you what you are to do with it. But first let me ask if you feel able to get up?"

"Yes, oh, yes!" exclaimed the young man, making a quick movement.

"And I say you are not. It would be exceedingly imprudent in you, Onesime," cried his aunt.

"Excuse me, Suzanne," interposed Segoffin. "I am as much opposed to anything like imprudence as you can possibly be, but (I can confess it now, you see) as I have had considerable experience in injuries of this kind during the last twelve years, I am probably much better able to judge than you are, so I am going to feel your nephew's pulse and note his symptoms carefully, and if I find him able to go down to the parlour where Mlle. Sabine is, I--No, no, not so fast!" added Segoffin, laying a restraining hand on Onesime, who, upon hearing Sabine's name, had evinced an evident intention of springing out of bed. "I have not made my diagnosis yet. Do me the favour to keep quiet. If you don't, I will take the letter away, and lock you up here in your room."

Onesime sighed, but submitted with breathless impatience to Segoffin's careful examination, made with the aid of a lamp held by Suzanne, an examination which satisfied him that the young man could sit up an hour or two without the slightest danger.

"You are positive there is no danger, Segoffin?" asked Dame Roberts, anxiously.

"None whatever."

"But why not postpone this conference for awhile?"

"Because there is a person counting the hours, nay, the very minutes, until he hears from us."

"You mean M. Cloarek, do you not?"

"I tell you there is some one not far from here to whom this decision means life or death," said Segoffin, without answering the question.

"Life or death!" cried Suzanne.

"Or rather hope or despair," added Segoffin, gravely, "and that is why, Suzanne, I ask your nephew to make the effort to go down-stairs. Now, if you will go to mademoiselle, I will help M. Onesime dress."

Ten minutes afterward Onesime, leaning on Segoffin's arm, entered the little parlour where Sabine was awaiting him.

CHAPTER XXI.

A LAST APPEAL.

THE poor girl was as pale as death, and so weak that she was obliged to half recline in a large easy-chair.

"Will you sit down, M. Onesime, and you too, my dear Suzanne and Segoffin," she said, with gentle dignity.

They all seated themselves in silence.

"Before beginning this conversation," said Sabine, with a melancholy smile, "I must tell you that I am greatly changed. The vague and often senseless fears which have haunted me from infancy seem to have vanished. The terrible reality seems to have dispelled these phantoms. I tell you this, my friends, so you may understand that it is no longer necessary to manifest so much caution and consideration in your treatment of me, and that you can tell me the entire truth with safety, no matter how terrible it may be. One word more: I adjure you, Suzanne, and you too, Segoffin, in the name of your devotion to me and to--other members of my family, to answer all my questions fully and truthfully.

Will you promise to do this?"

"I promise," replied Suzanne.

"I promise," said Segoffin.

A brief silence followed.

All present, and more especially Onesime, were struck by the firm and resolute manner in which Sabine expressed herself, and felt that, whatever her decision might be, it would unquestionably prove unalterable.

"You saw me born, Suzanne," continued the young girl, after a moment, "and by your untiring care and faithful devotion you made yourself my mother's valued friend. It is in the name of this friendship that I adjure you to tell me if the memories of my infancy have deceived me, and if it was not my father who, twelve years ago, dressed as I saw him three days ago, caused--caused my mother's death."

"Alas! mademoiselle--"

"In the name of my sainted mother, I adjure you to tell me the truth, Suzanne."

"The truth is, mademoiselle," replied the housekeeper, in a trembling voice, "the truth is, that, after a stormy scene between your parents, madame died; but--"