"About the crime?"

"They believe him to be innocent."

"They would. But do you?"

"I couldn't say. If guilty, perhaps the crime weighs on their conscience."

"There is so much work to do here before you leave for Maine. Besides, passions will be running high. It might not be safe for a priest to be seen out there."

"Do you really think so?"

"Indeed. I think there is the very real potential for trouble. If anything were to happen to you, I could not forgive myself. I will not prohibit you from going, Jean. But please, for my sake, do not go out there."

Cheverus acquiesced, nodding.

They sat quietly for a moment. Out on Franklin a hackney coach could be heard clattering over the cobblestones.

"Have you made a decision yet?" the old priest asked. "About returning home."

"No," Cheverus replied with a sigh. "Not yet."

"Whatever you decide, I want you to know you have my full support. I will miss you if you go, but I understand your reasons completely."

"Thank you, Father."

"Would you like me to hear your confession, Jean?"

"I think not. It is very late."

"You haven't in many days." When Cheverus looked over at Matignon, the abbe said, with a knowing smile, "You might sleep better."

The elder priest was his closest and dearest friend. He knew him as few other human beings did. Besides that, he was his confessor, someone he poured his soul out to, someone who listened to his sins, acknowledged his frailties, gave him the soothing balm of absolution. He kept few secrets from his friend. But for a decade, he hadn't told him of those things that had most troubled his soul. The awful guilt that lay hidden in the core of his heart, gnawing away at it like a worm in a piece of rotten wood. But those were things he had never shared with anyone.

"Another time."

"As you will."

Cheverus rose from his chair. As he passed by the elder priest, he leaned over and patted him on his shoulder. "Good night, Father."

He left the room but stopped just outside the door and turned. He watched the back of Father Matignon's graying head. If only he could unburden to him what was in his heart. How much better he would feel.

"Yes, Jean?" the elder priest asked, as if reading his mind.

"I was just wondering, Father. Do you ever think of those times?" Cheverus asked. "You know . . . before we left France."

"Ah. The black times." The elder priest stared pensively at the flames dancing in the fireplace. "Ancient history. I try not to think of them."

"Are you able to . . . not think of them?"

"Mostly. Sometimes they come back despite my best efforts." Father Matignon turned in his chair to look at him directly. He squinted to make out the expression on the younger priest's face. "And you, Jean? Do you think of them?"

"Yes. Especially of late. I suppose because of the possibility of going home."

"And what about those times troubles you?"

He shook his head. "I guess I feel guilty."

"Guilty?" Father Matignon repeated, seeming to watch him like a blind hawk.

"Yes. That I lived, and so many good priests died."

"You mustn't blame yourself for that. That was not your fault."

"But I could have done more."

"Don't fool yourself, my friend. No earthly power could have stopped it."

"I think of the compromises I made."

"We all compromised ourselves, Jean. Look at the king. Even he tried to flee for his life."

"But some remained true to their ideals. To their vows."

"The dead! They are the only ones. For the rest of us we did what we had to. What we could. He understands."

"Does He?"

"Of course. When they demanded we sign the Civil Constitution, I did the noble thing and refused. And when I chose to leave for America when the Terror began, I told myself it was also out of noble principles. That 1 would not submit. The truth is, jean, I was afraid. I didn't want to have my faith put to the test and find it lacking. Like the king, I had my own Varennes."

"But you did what you thought was right."

"Tsshhe said, scornfully brushing the thought aside with his hand. "Did 1? Do you see this?" he said, touching a V-shaped scar in the middle of his right palm. Cheverus had seen it before, many times in fact. Whenever he took the host from the old priest's hand, he saw the scar. "It is the only mark I received from the Revolution. In Le Havre, I was hurrying up the gangplank. We'd heard rumors of the government closing the ports and arresting priests even with the right papers. And the clumsy fool that I am, I fell and cut myself," he said with a self-mocking laugh. "A great many of my former students and colleagues, some of my closest friends even, they stayed behind and died for what they believed in. Did you know a Jean Pierre Marchand?"

"Yes, I knew Father Marchand. He was imprisoned at the Carmes."

"A dear friend of mine. We attended seminary together. He believed it was his duty to stay in France and defend the Church. He perished in the massacres."

Cheverus allowed his gaze to fall to the floor. Tell him, he thought. What better moment1 Get it off your chest once and for all. And yet, he secretly feared losing his friend's respect. He feared the old priest could never again think of him in the same way. It was the worst sort of vanity. Instead he said, "But Father, you couldn't have known what would happen to those that stayed."

"Perhaps. Yet he was butchered for his beliefs, and I have a tiny scar on my palm for mine. So you see, Jean, I think about those days, too. But it does no good to dwell on them. We did what we could. He knows we are weak."

Cheverus nodded. "Good night, Father." "Good night, Jean."

PART II.

Mr. Marcus Lyon, a young man of peculiar respectability, about twenty-three years of age .. . was attacked by two merciless ruffians and murdered in a most barbarous manner.. . . Having thus far gratified their infernal disposition, they robbed him of his pocket-book (how much money it contained we are not able to inform). The villains who perpetrated the awful crime are supposed to be two foreigners in sailors dress, who were seen that day by a number of people making their way towards Springfield. We are happy to learn that his excellency Governor Strong issued a proclamation offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the detection of the villains.

-- MASSACHUSETTS SPY WORCESTER. 20 NOVEMBER 1805.

And hath it come to this? Have things gotten to such a pass, in this infant country, that it is dangerous for a man of decent appearance and equipage, to travel on the highway in mid day, through fear of being murdered and robbed for his money? This is alarming indeed. And what shall we come to next. Must we all arm ourselves and procure guards in order to travel in safety? In such a state of things, who of us all is safe; and who of us is to fall the next victim? We are doubtless justified in saying that a great portion of the crimes above mentioned ... are committed by foreigners.. .. Since the rapid increase of our intercourse with other nations, and the great increase of foreigners ... we have ripened, apace, in all the arts of vice and depravity.

DISCOURSE DELIVERED IN WILBRAHAM.

MASSACHUSETTS. OCCASIONED BY THE.

MURDER OF MARCUS LYON. BY PASTOR EZRA WITTER. 17 NOVEMBER. 1805.

That the minds of the good people should be shocked with the late murder of Marcus Lyon on the high road is perfectly natural and would be right to a certain extent. But the panic excited by this event goes to the extreme. It magnifies every assault to a manslaughter-- every sudden or accidental death to a bloody assassination.

HAMPSHIRE FEDERAL/ST. JANUARY 1806.

NORTHAMPTON. MASSACHUSETTS.

Catholics are only tolerated here and so long as their ministers behave well, we shall not disturb them. But let them expect no more than that.

-JUDGE THEOPHILUS BRADBURY MASSACHUSETTS SUPREME JUDICIAL COURT.

Chapter Four.

Late in the afternoon, an older, heavyset man showed up at their cell. Rain dripped from his dark-gray riding coat and pooled on the floor around him. At first glance he gave the appearance of a gentleman of some means. He wore a high, beaver-trimmed hat of the latest European fashion and a silk cravat tied in a large bow around his thick neck. His yellow waistcoat was also silk, and his long, fitted pantaloons were tucked into knee-high riding boots. In one hand he held a cane with a scrimshaw handle, in the other a leather valise. Yet upon closer inspection his clothes appeared somewhat shabby. His neck cloth had stains on it, his topcoat was coming out at the elbows, and his boots hadn't been oiled for some time, the leather cracked and worn. Dowd opened the cell door, and said, "There they be, sir." Squinting, the heavyset man cast a doubtful glance into the murky cell, as if reluctant to enter it.

"My good fellow," he instructed the turnkey, in a supercilious tone accustomed to giving orders. "Would you be so kind as to procure a chair for me? And something to see by. It's rather dark in here."

The turnkey locked the door and left. He returned in a moment with a small milking stool and a taper. "This will have to do," he said of the chair. "Call when you're done."

Once in the cell, the man removed his hat, gloves, and rain-slicked overcoat. "May I?" he asked Daley, but didn't wait for a reply before tossing his things on Daley's bunk.

"Go right ahead, sir," Daley said. "You'd be Mister Blake?"

"I would. Francis Blake, Esquire," he said, extending his hand to Daley.

Daley rose from his bunk. "Dominic Daley, sir."

Turning to Halligan, Blake said, "And you must be Mr. Halligan then."

He nodded, shaking the man's proffered hand. A soft, womanish hand, one not much accustomed to work, Halligan thought.

With difficulty Blake lowered himself onto the small stool, expelling a loud exhalation of air. He placed the taper on the bunk and took a moment to situate himself. He rubbed his nose and snuffled, coughing several times. In the light of the candle, Halligan looked him over more closely, the way you might inspect a boat you'd be using to cross a fast stretch of water. He was younger than Halligan had first taken him to be. Perhaps forty, the difference due in large measure to the wasting effects of drink. His corpulent face was flushed, the nose pitted and red, the broad forehead damp and slightly febrile looking. He had drowsy, slightly bulbous eyes that looked on things with the unruffled equanimity of a country squire. They were, however, of a remarkable azure blue color, with long lashes. Pretty eyes, Halligan thought. Though his clothes were worn, they were of good quality, and he had the voice and refined mannerisms of a gentlemen. One that must have fallen on hard times. Otherwise why would he be taking on such a case as theirs, which offered little in the way of financial reward?

Blake picked up the candle and held it aloft, peering first at Daley, then at Halligan. Now it was his turn to inspect them. A dilatory smile began about his lips.

"What, sir?" Daley asked.

"You're not exactly what I expected," he replied.

"How's that now, sir?"

"In the press, you've been made out to be a couple of bloodthirsty highwaymen."

"Blood an' ouns," Daley said. "Is that what they're say in' about us? Highwaymen?"

"Indeed. Why, the newspapers have made you out worse than Thomas Mount," the lawyer explained. The smile broadened to include the eyes and cheeks, carving his face into overlapping folds and creases. Even his forehead wrinkled into a fleshy M. Did the blasted egit think this all a joke, Halligan thought. Were they just a couple of Irish swine to him?

"Do ye hear that, Jamy?" Daley said. "They think we're bloody highwaymen."

Halligan nodded.

"They may even try to link you to a number of other robberies in the area," the lawyer added.

"We didn't rob him or anybody else," Halligan said sharply.

The attorney glanced over at him and pursed his lips noncommittally. He set the candle down on the bunk again and opened his valise. He removed several papers and spread them out on the bunk. From his waistcoat pocket he took out a small tin box, removed a pair of spectacles from it, and put them on his broad nose. He then began to inspect the papers. Now and again, he brought the candle close as he perused a certain document, muttering a "yes" or a "hmmm," and raising his eyebrows. From the valise he also removed a quill pen, and with a pocket knife he sharpened the tip to a fine point, He performed this with a punctilious exactitude. He then took out a small pewter inkstand and a leather-bound writing tablet, and began to make some notes. During the entire interview, Blake jotted things down on this tablet, in an unsteady hand, the letters stumbling drunkenly across the page.

"How have you been treated?" he asked perfunctorily.

"Could a been worse, I suppose," Daley replied. "We've no complaints."

Blake nodded but didn't look up. He was studying one document in particular. He frowned, tugging on his lower lip. He had a habit of taking the lip between his thumb and forefinger and pulling it down when he was lost in thought. The gesture looked almost painful but the man didn't seem to be aware of it. Every once in a while, he would withdraw a small silver box from his pocket and apply some snuff to each nostril. He would then sneeze violently several times, his face turning a bright red.

"Mr. Blake," Halligan asked. "Why is it we are only now getting to speak to you?"

"What?" he said, looking up. "Oh, 1 was notified only yesterday. I came as soon as I could. The road from Worcester is bad with the recent rains."

"What I mean is, the prosecution has had all these months to get ready."

"Yes, of course," Blake said absently, while jotting something down in his writing tablet. "You are quite right. I have asked the court for a postponement so that we can have sufficient time to prepare our defense. I am not sanguine about our chances, however. Therefore, 1 think we should proceed with all due speed. Are we in agreement, gentlemen?"

They looked at each other and nodded.

"Very well then," said Blake. He picked up one document from the pile before him and held it under his nose. "Since I have not had time to adequately study your case, I'd like to begin by a review of the facts."

"We didn't kill that feller," Daley said.

"Well, that's what I hope to prove, Mr. Daley," Blake replied with an ironic smile.

"We're innocent," Halligan cried. "That's the only fact you need to know."

"Indeed," Blake offered, giving him a critical glance. "Now, according to the coroner's inquest, the deceased, Mr. Lyon, was riding east along the Boston turnpike, when he met his end in Wilbraham, on the ninth of November last. The prosecution has several witnesses who can place him on the road just before his death. Now, both of you were traveling west at approximately the same time, were you not?"