"Good morning, Father," a voice said to him. He looked over and saw a large man with a long scruffy beard seated on the other bunk.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"The jail, Father. The soldiers brought you here."

Soldiers, he wondered. Ah, yes. The soldiers. It began to come back to him, parts of it anyway. The previous night had the disjointed, unreal quality of a nightmare. He recalled meeting them, their questions, their wanting him to open his trunk. Then running, being told to stop, the sound of a gunshot. And then what? The sensation of falling. How long had he been out, he wondered. What day was it? Had he been shot? He stared across at the bearded man whom he vaguely recalled. Was he the faceless sansculotte, the one who had lifted him in his dream and carried him? No, it was not him. Yet he thought he did know this man. He was wild-looking, gaunt and haggard, his features altered almost beyond measure. But he recognized him. Yes. Slowly, he realized it was Dominic Daley. Finola's husband. The man whose soul he'd come to save.

"Dominic?" he whispered, his throat parched.

"Aye, Father," he said with a reassuring smile. "How are we feeling today?"

"I . . ." Yet he couldn't say how he felt, except that his head throbbed and his body ached when he took a breath.

"Hungry are ye? They brought some breakfast."

With Daley's help, Cheverus managed to sit up. A wild pounding commenced inside his skull. He leaned over and rested his head in the palms of his hands until the noise quieted down a little. He'd never been drunk in his life, but this is what it must feel like, he thought. A sensation similar to the weakness following a fever, the disorientation, that hammering in his brain as if his skull would explode. He took a breath, exhaled slowly. The cell's stench was overpowering, and brought a sudden wave of nausea sweeping through him.

"Why don't you eat a bit, Father," Daley said, holding out a piece of bread to him. "Something in your belly is just the thing."

He accepted the bread from Daley and placed a small piece on his tongue. He forced himself to chew it. He thought for a moment he would retch, but he somehow managed to swallow it. Then he drank water from a tin cup Daley handed him. He was so thirsty. He drank that and asked for another.

"How's the eye?" Daley said.

"Eye?" he asked.

He fingered the tender spot beneath his eye. The flesh was puffy and his touch sent a bright wave of pain washing up into his skull.

"You got yourself a good one there. How come you're dressed like that, Father?"

"What? Oh," Cheverus said, looking down at his workman's attire. There was blood on his waistcoast. "Where are my things?"

"The jailor has your trunk. Beggin' your pardon, Father, but you said Finola and the lad were with you?"

He frowned, then said, "Yes." Now he remembered. He saw her sitting in the grass near the stream, suckling her child. He remembered the whiteness of her breast in the moonlight. He remembered her smell and the impure feelings he had had. And he remembered her begging him to help her husband. She had called him a saint. A blessed saint. Finally he said, "1 was able to secure them a room for the night. She's fine."

"Faith," Daley exclaimed. "Thank ye, Father. I was worried something awful. I should a known you'd not let anything happen to 'em."

Cheverus then felt a cool flood of panic sweep over him. He wondered what day it was, how much time they had left. "How long have I . . ." he asked. "I mean, when is . . ."

"Tomorrow we hang, Father," Daley said flatly, as if he were talking about market day or a new moon. "I was gettin' a wee bit worried you'd not make it. But I should a known better."

"Forgive me for not coming sooner."

"You're here now, Father. That's all that matters. I can't tell you how much it means to us that you come."

Cheverus glanced over at the other prisoner seated beside Daley. He was shorter, but broad-shouldered, thick through the chest. Despite the hair and the scruffy beard, he was a handsome man with a squarish face, intelligent, deep-set eyes.

"That's Jamy, Father," Daley explained. "James Halligan. He's the one writ them fine letters to you."

"Hello," he replied, his throat dry.

"Good morning, Father," Halligan said.

They talked as Cheverus nibbled on the bread. He did feel a little better with food in his belly. Daley asked how his mother was, and Cheverus lied and said she was improving.

"That's good to hear," Daley replied. "She's had a rough go of it, these past few months."

"She sends her love," Cheverus said.

"Would you give her mine, too, Father?"

"Of course. She regrets not being able to make the trip out."

"Och the big Irishman lamented, batting the idea away. "I do miss seein' the old gal. But I'm glad she won't be comin'. I wouldn't want her to see something like that."

They talked for a while about Finola and Michael, about the rest of Dominic's family, about the weather in Boston. Holy Cross Church. People they knew in common.

Cheverus said, "We soon hope to have a school in the church basement."

"A school," exclaimed Daley. "That's grand. A school so they can read and write. D'ye hear that, Jamy boy?" he said to Halligan. "Jamy here is a big one for the books. He's been learnin' me to write, Father."

Cheverus looked to the man, who merely nodded. During the conversation Halligan didn't say much, would only shrug or nod occasionally.

"I remember me Da and meself pitching in to dig the foundation," Daley said.

"The church owes much to your hard work, Dominic."

"I've missed going to Mass, Father. Do you think I might be able to receive communion?"

"Certainly. After you've made confession."

Cheverus looked over at Halligan again. He didn't think he'd ever seen him before. Not in church. Nor around Boston. He was good with faces. A man of few words, this one. And yet, he was a writer of some articulation and skill. Someone who understood he was at the very end of things and wanted to unburden himself, make his soul right before God. He recalled one line in particular: We are solicitous only about our salvation. Cheverus thought he saw in the man's eyes the look of some terrible longing. He'd seen that look before plenty of times, in the eyes of the sick, the aged, the infirm. People breathing their last, when their lives seemed to them so paltry a thing, filled with missed opportunities. Things that hadn't panned out. Hopes that never came to fruition.

"How long have you been in the States, James?" Cheverus asked.

"Not long. A few years."

"Where did you settle over here? Not in Boston? I don't think I've ever seen you in church."

"No, Father. You wouldn't have," he said, an ironic smile playing about his mouth. "Here and there. I moved around a lot."

The three talked for a while. Small talk, awkward and strained. When they laughed, it was too hard, self-conscious, meant to hide their nervousness. Cheverus had sat by the bedside of the dying countless times before, giving comfort, listening to their confessions, easing their fears. He knew what that was like. He was experienced in the ways of illness and accident and old age, of sudden misfortune, unexpected calamity. But this? He had never given counsel to men that were about to be put to death, at least not to men who knew with absolute certainly that they would be, very shortly, dead. Those poor souls he'd visited at the Convent of the Carmes, while in danger surely, had never known with complete assurance that they would die. This was different. This was grotesque, an aberration of the natural order. Two healthy men who lived and breathed, hoped and feared still--these two would be dead in a day's time.

Mostly it was Daley who spoke, chattering nervously, occasionally turning to Halligan and saying, "Am I right, Jamy boy?" and the other would perhaps nod. Daley talked of this and that, of springtime back home, of what crops would be planted and when. They avoided the subject of why they were there--their sentence, the fate which loomed just beyond these prison walls yet was slowly, inexorably closing in upon them. Once or twice, the conversation lagged and Cheverus saw the condemned exchange furtive glances filled with some meaning he could only guess at. He thought now it would happen: that one or the other would bring up their crime, blurt out that they were sorry, and beg God's forgiveness. But strangely they didn't speak a word of their sin. He knew if he were to save their souls, he would have to get them to talk. He would have to get them to confess to their crime, ask for forgiveness, and receive absolution.

After a while Cheverus said,. "Forgive me, but 1 feel I must speak frankly. The hour of your sentence approaches. Tomorrow you will stand before the Almighty. You must consider your immortal soul. I ask that you reflect upon your sins."

"Aye, Father," Daley replied. "1 have been. That's all I been doin'."

"Very well," Cheverus said. "Is there some place we might be able to talk in private?"

"We could ask Mr. Dowd," Daley said. "When Finola visited he would let us meet in one of the empty cells."

Daley called down the corridor to the turnkey, who showed up with several guards.

"1 would wish to speak to each prisoner alone, if that is possible," Cheverus said to Dowd. "Is there some place where we might have privacy?"

Dowd scratched his bald pate. "I could put you in another cell."

"That would be fine, thank you," Cheverus said. He turned to the prisoners. "Who would like to go first?"

Daley glanced at Halligan. "I suppose I'll go first. Since I'm the older one. And the better lookin'," he added with a loutish grin.

Though they were headed just a few paces down the corridor, the guards still placed the manacles on Daley, both his hands and his feet, and escorted the two into an empty cell.

"I believe this is yours, sir," the turnkey said to Cheverus, handing him his trunk.

"Thank you," he replied. "Could you remove the chains from the prisoner, Mr. Dowd?"

"Sorry. I got my orders."

He sat next to Daley on the only bunk in the cell. He was close enough to catch the sour odor of the man, like the ocean at low tide. He looked at Daley. While he was the spitting image of his father, coarse-featured, with that large underslung jaw, Cheverus noticed, for the first time really, that he had his mother's soft blue-gray eyes.

Daley folded his big battered hands, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. "Forgive me, Father, for I have--" he began, but Cheverus interrupted him.

"A moment please, Dominic."

"Father?" he asked, opening his eyes to look at him.

"I thought we might talk for a while. Before you make your confession."

"Oh," Daley said. "Whatever you say."

"How have you been, Dominic?"

"All right, Father," he said, then, pondering it a moment, added, "Well, not so good to tell you the truth."

"I imagine it's been hard. These last few months."

Daley nodded. "The worst is not being about to see Finola and me son. I've missed them awful bad."

"And I know she misses you, too. She loves you very much."

"I worry what'll become of her and the lad after I'm gone."

"They'll get on somehow."

"I just wish there was someone to kinda look in on them now and again."

"I would be happy to," he said.

"Would you now, Father?"

"Yes, of course. Have you been praying, Dominic?"

"Every day."

"Good. Remember, my son: 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.'"

As Cheverus uttered the words, he thought of his own fears. He thought how easy it was to tell another that he should not fear death.

"Aye, Father," the prisoner said, tugging on his long beard. "But I am, a bit anyway."

"You believe in God's love, my child?"

"Indeed, I do." "Then that is all you need."

Daley nodded thoughtfully. "Still and all I can't help wondering what it'll feel like. Do you think it'll hurt, Father?"

He wanted to be able to say it wouldn't. That dying would be an easy feat for a man of true faith. Nothing more than a taking off of one's mortal clothes and putting on the glorious raiment of Paradise. But he couldn't bring himself to say that. What did he know of dying? Who was he to tell anyone about what death would be like?

"I don't know, Dominic. Each man dies in his own fashion."

"Do you reckon it'll be quick?"

"Yes. But try not to dwell upon that. You must set your sights on the next life."

"Aye, Father. But I'm afraid still."

"That is to be expected. Ask God for strength."

Daley nodded.

Cheverus felt like a hypocrite. Had his thoughts been on the next life when his moment to die had been at hand? Or had he been thinking only about his own fleshly existence, the pain and torments of the here and now?

Daley looked over at him. "I've heard about men who had to be dragged screamin' and kickin' up to the gallows."

"You will be brave, I have no doubt."

"I would want me son to know I died like a man. Not like some bloody coward--beggin' your pardon, Father."

"I'll be right there with you," he said.

"Will you now?"

"Yes, I promise. Every step of the way."

"And afterwards, too, Father? When it's over and done?"