Cheverus and Finola moved on. They passed a narrow lane where a group of youths were gathered.

"Could you tell us where we might find lodging?" Cheverus asked of them.

They eyed the two suspiciously, perhaps because of Cheverus's accent. "There's the Red Tavern yonder," a tall, dark-haired boy of fourteen replied, pointing up the street. "And there's Mosher's farther on."

"Thank you," Cheverus replied.

They tried the Red Tavern and then Mosher's Inn. At each one they were told there were no rooms. They came at last to the edge of the built-up portion of town. Beyond in the moonlight they saw darkened fields and pastureland, the lights from scattered farmhouses flickering in the valley. In the distance was the darker outline of mountains. The baby started to fuss, and soon, despite Finola's attentions, the child was howling.

"We need to stop, Father. He's hungry."

They paused by the side of the road, near a stream. Finola sat down on the grass and unbuttoned the top of her shift and took out a small breast. She began to suckle the child. Cheverus permitted himself to look on for a moment, Finola's breast white as snow in the moonlight. Then, embarrassed by an odd stirring in his loins, he averted his gaze. He felt sick to his stomach again. What sort of priest am I, he thought.

"Are you hungry, Finola?" he asked.

"I could do with a bit of food, Father."

"I shall see if I can find something to eat. Will you be all right here alone?"

"I'll be fine," she said. "Father."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry for putting you through all this."

"I am only glad I can be of help," he said.

"A saint is what ye are, Father."

"I'm hardly a saint," he said. In fact, he felt guilty that he hadn't wanted to come in the first place, that he had carnal thoughts of her, that he wasn't a better man, a holier priest. His entire life seemed a sham to him now. People thought he was such a holy man, so pure of heart. So dedicated to his Lord. If they but knew the truth.

He left his trunk there and headed back toward town. He stopped at the Red Tavern where he had earlier inquired about a room. There he purchased what they had left over from supper--some boiled turnips, a hunk of moldy cheese, a gristly piece of mutton, some milk. The innkeeper, a whey-faced man with long side-whiskers, wrapped the food in oil cloth and gave him a wooden bucket for the milk.

"You were looking for a room?" the man said.

Cheverus said he was.

"There's a farm just west of town. The widow Clark lets rooms."

"Does she take in Catholics?"

"Long's your money is good. Bear right when you come to the fork in the road, just past the slaughterhouse a ways."

When he returned to Finola, he said, "I think I may have found a place for us."

Finola started to eat the food he'd brought.

"Aren't you going to have some, Father?"

"1 am not hungry," he said. Actually he was weak from not eating, yet he wanted to keep his vow to the Holy Mother. He thought if he kept his vow, remained true, She would help him to do what he had to. Besides, he wanted to reach that state of perfect calm that martyrs and saints attained, when the flesh is conquered at last and the spirit soars above earthly desires. He walked down to the stream, cupped his hand, and drank copiously from the cold, sweet water. Then he returned and sat down beside Finola.

"Why would He do this to us, Father?"

Cheverus knew who she meant. "It is not for us to understand His will."

"Dom never hurt a soul in his life. He's a good man. A good Catholic. For the life of me, Father, I just don't understand it. What sort of heartless God would do something like this. Take a father from his child," she said, looking down at her son. "And for nothing, too." By the moonlight, he could see tears sliding silently down her gaunt cheeks. Angry, bitter tears.

"He . . ." Cheverus began to explain, and yet he felt suddenly inadequate to the task. Every answer he could possibly give appeared trite to him, empty of meaning. All of his training, all his years in the seminary and all those he'd served as a priest, all the baptisms and communions, sermons and homilies, absolutions and last rites he'd given in the Lord's name--none of it armed him with an answer to Finola Daley's question. "I wish I could tell you. But I don't know. The only thing I do know is that He loves us."

She glanced at him somewhat skeptically. "Please help my husband, Father," she begged. "He's going to need you. It'll be a hard thing he has to do." "I shall do my best."

She ate silently for a while.

"Afterwards, Father . . ." she began.

"What?" he replied.

"They won't let me have his remains?"

"No."

"Not even to allow him a proper Christian burial?"

"It is part of the sentence."

"A terrible thing it is not to be able to bury your loved one."

He nodded. "Try to put it from your thoughts, Finola. His soul will be with God."

When she'd finished eating, they started walking west. He could tell they were close to the slaughterhouse when the air became infused with the raw stench of blood, a close, secretive odor that chilled him to the bone. Shortly after that, they came to a farmhouse. The woman who answered the door was a tall, large-boned farm woman wearing a bed jacket over her shift. She didn't wear a bonnet, and her long black hair hung wildly about her shoulders. She held a lantern up and stared suspiciously out at them.

"We were told you have rooms to let," Cheverus asked.

"I might. You here for the hanging?"

They said they were. Cheverus asked if she had two rooms for the night and the woman looked quizzically from him to Finola and the baby.

"I have only one room left," she said. "Do you want it or not?"

Finola touched his sleeve. He leaned toward her and she whispered, "We could share it, Father. I could sleep on the floor. Really."

He smelled her fragrance again, that too-sweet, overly ripe odor. He thought of them together in a room. He looked at her mouth and recalled the Bernini statue of St. Teresa in her ecstasy. That odd mixture of purity and seductiveness the saint seemed to inspire. He thought of the snow-whiteness of Finola's breast, and he felt the terrible stirring down in his trousers once again. He felt polluted, vile, a contemptible wretch. No! he thought. You mustn't have such thoughts.

"You stay here, Finola," he said.

"What will you do, Father?"

"I shall find something. Don't worry. You wait here for me. It's not safe for you to be walking about alone. In the morning I shall go to pray with Dominic and then come for you."

She nodded. Cheverus paid the woman and headed back toward town.

But he wasn't able to find any lodging for the night. He tried the two remaining inns in town, as well as a somewhat disreputable boarding-house one of the innkeepers had referred him to down near the river. All were filled, or at least that's what he was told. Maybe it was already about that a priest was in town seeking lodging. In any event he found no place to sleep. While he was walking past a farmhouse, a large black dog came rushing out at him, growling savagely. He managed to keep the trunk between himself and the dog until the animal finally gave up and slunk away. And then a band of young boys carrying torches seemed to follow him. Some of them carried stones and all had a look of trouble in their eyes. One, the leader, a stocky blond boy with a callous mouth, called out "What are you doing here, priest?" and the others chimed in with, "Yea, yea." How had they found out he was a priest? When he turned down a darkened lane they turned, too, and when he sped up they increased their pace as well. They were laughing and taunting him. He felt his heart beating faster, his face heating up. He looked over his shoulder, and they continued after him, menacingly. One tossed a rock which struck him in the back. It hurt, but he stifled a cry and kept walking.

Luckily a pair of soldiers happened by and the boys took to their heels. By now, not having eaten anything in two days combined with the fatigue of a long journey, he was near to exhaustion. His arms quivered carrying the heavy trunk, his legs felt leaden. A swirling dizziness clouded his head, and he saw odd lights streaking before his eyes like shooting stars. He found himself walking along a narrow river that cut through the town. He thought of sitting down and resting for a moment, but he was wary of the youths' return. He was now beset by doubts and uncertainties. Was it all a mistake? Should he have listened to Father Matignon and not come? What was he trying to do after all?

He decided he would find some quiet place where he would wrap himself in his cassock and fall asleep under the night sky, as he did sometimes when he stayed with the Indians in the forest. In the morning he would make his way to the prison. He would hear the confessions of the two men and he would give them communion. He would save them from hell. He would offer their souls as a gift to his Lord. When his task was done he would return home.

Near a gristmill along the river he crossed a bridge, and in the moonlight he made out a field just beyond. He would sleep there, he decided. On the other side of the bridge, he happened upon some soldiers sitting around a fire. They were eating something, talking, laughing raucously. They passed around a jug they took turns drinking from. They eyed him curiously as he approached. He touched the brim of his cap in greeting and was about to continue on when one of them called, "Halt."

He stopped, turned around.

"Where are you going at this hour?" asked one soldier, a youthful looking man with long red hair. He was eating, tearing strands of meat from a bone. In the firelight, his fingers and his mouth glistened with grease.

"I was just out for a walk," he replied.

"What is your name?"

"John Cheverus."

The soldier leveled a wary eye upon him. "Where are you from?" he asked.

"Boston."

"No, what country? You have an accent," the red-haired man said.

"I am from France," he replied. "But I am an American citizen now."

"What business do you have here?"

He considered telling them he was just a merchant. Or like so many, that he had come to see the execution. But then he thought, What if they search my trunk and find the religious objects. So instead, he said only, "I have come to visit the condemned."

"Under whose authority?" challenged another soldier, a man with crooked yellow teeth that glistened in the firelight like the fangs of a wolf.

"The governor's."

"The governor's!" exclaimed the red-haired man, whistling sarcastically. "And I'm Tom Jefferson."

They all laughed.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded. "And you'd better not give us any shit."

Cheverus felt light-headed. He was so tired. He only wanted to sleep, to close his eyes and sleep for days.

"I am ... a priest," he said.

"A priest!" one exclaimed. "Says he's a priest."

"You ain't dressed like a priest," said another.

"I am.

"What's a priest doing here?" the one with the crooked teeth asked.

"I told you: I have come to visit the condemned. I have a letter from the governor permitting me to visit them."

"Let's see it," commanded the red-haired soldier.

Cheverus walked over to where they sat. They were all young. Some appeared only a few years older than Mairtin. He took the letter out and handed it to the red-haired soldier, who seemed to be their leader. He held it up to the firelight. Cheverus could see he had difficulty reading and was embarrassed by it. When he was finished, he tossed the letter contemptuously at Cheverus's feet. Cheverus stooped and picked it up.

"How do 1 know this is real?" the soldier said. "This might be some trick by the friends of them Irishmen."

"It's signed by Governor Strong."

"You could a wrote this letter yourself. We have orders to be on the watch for troublemakers."

"I plan no trouble, I assure you."

"What do you got in the trunk?" the red-haired soldier asked.

"Nothing. Only some personal effects."

"I bet he has saints' bones in there," said another. They all laughed again, drunkenly.

"Open it," the red-haired man said.

"Yea," another soldier cried, "show us what you got in the trunk."

He considered obeying. What harm would it be to show this man his things? That would prove who he was. That would show them he meant no harm. Yet he thought, why should he debase the sacred articles he'd brought for their mere amusement? What if they were to take them out, handle them, with their filthy hands profane the hosts he had consecrated. What would he do then? Would he simply stand by and let them? Instead he said, "Good evening, gentlemen," and turned and started to walk away.

"Just hold on," the red-haired man called after him.

He stopped walking but didn't turn around. Behind him, he heard one or two of the men snicker.

"I said, open the damn trunk, priest."

He waited for a moment, then continued walking away. He headed for the field in the distance. Perhaps they would give up, he thought. Perhaps they just wanted a little fun at his expense.

But the command came again: "Hold it!"

He kept walking. His head was starting to swirl. In his mind he heard the voice: Vous etes I'un d'eux, n est-ce-pas? You are one of them, are you not?

"I'm warning you--stop!"

He thought he heard the metallic sound of a musket's hammer being pulled back, locking into place. His throat went dry with fear, his heart thrashing wildly in his chest. Still he kept on walking.

"Stop!"

Instead of stopping, though, he walked faster, toward the moonlit fields in the distance. If he could just make them, he thought. Somehow he would be safe there. He thought of dropping the heavy trunk, which slowed him considerably, but he could not bring himself to leave it behind. He would need his things to serve communion. So he struggled clumsily on, half running, arm-weary, leg-weary, his head spinning in faster and faster circles, his heart slamming against the walls of his chest. A picture of his own death floated before his eyes. The musket ball slamming into his back, tearing through flesh and blood and bone, finally shattering the heaviness that had surrounded his heart for far too long. As he continued moving away from the soldiers, he began to pray: Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord . . . But a thunderous roar interrupted him, splintering the night. He started to look over his shoulder, expecting any moment the sweet, pure kiss of the lead ball, waiting for it like a lover for the lips of his beloved. And then he stumbled over something in the darkness, felt himself pitching forward. He could see the dark sky slowly pirouetting, the moon above him swirling across the heavens like the wild eye of a demon. He felt the ground suddenly open beneath him, and then he felt himself falling, falling, dropping toward what he knew had to be hell.