Laroche, though a fighting bully lacking in every priestly quality, was, among the soldiers at least, more popular than St Agapit. The latter was a scholar, a man too learned, and somewhat too honest, for his age, an ascetic, and a priest in every sense. It was well known that he looked with a stern eye upon drunken brawls or vengeful threats, whereas Laroche, himself a brawler when in his cups, judged such offences leniently. St Agapit had no ambition, apart from the faithful performance of his duty, the carrying out of which rarely brought him into even remote contact with either of his colleagues.

It was good to feel the cool breath of the evening after the heat and burden of the afternoon. The little stone church of Ste. Mary upon the brow of the hill darkened, and an aged crone pa.s.sed into the sanctuary to light the strong-smelling lamps. Laroche entered to recite vespers, and rolled away to divest his great body of cope and alb; but as he appeared again within the church his eyes fell upon some half-dozen men, who waited to obtain an easier conscience by confession of their sins.

"A plague on ye," the priest grumbled as he stumbled into his box.

"Why are ye all such miserable sinners? Ha! is it you that I see, Michel Ferraud? What sin now, you rogue?"

The keeper of the cabaret in the Rue des Pecheurs fell straightway upon his knees, and began to whimper:

"The former wickedness. I am driven to the act, my father. Wine is scarce, as your holiness knows, and great is the demand therefor. I must eke out the supply against the coming of each ship, and it has ever been but a little aqua puralis added to each keg; but to-day, father, the devil jogged my elbow, and that which is blended cannot be separated. The wine remains a rich colour, holy father, as you shall see, and none shall know----"

"Vile and shameless sinner that you are," the priest interrupted. "To dilute a wine which is already too thin to gladden the heart of man and make him a cheerful countenance--to do so, I say, is to commit a most deadly sin."

"Exact not so heavy a fine as at last confession, good father. Would not have me close my tavern? The wine is a good wine," Michel added professionally, "and the little water added is methinks an aid to virtue."

"Art so fond of water?" replied the confessor grimly. "Water you shall have. Go down now to the river, swim across, and return in like manner, and afterwards come to me again. Go now! I have lesser sinners to absolve."

"The river will be villainous cold, my father. And I cannot swim."

"Learn," said the inexorable priest. "Come not to me again till you have crossed the river as I have said. May you take into your evil stomach an abundance of cold water while learning."

The taverner retired dissatisfied, and when outside the church rubbed his head and ruminated. "The confession was ill-timed," he muttered.

"His reverence is in an evil humour. The devil shall seize me body and soul before I set one foot into that accursed river. But there is Father St Agapit. I will go forthwith and confess to him."

The taverner's propitious star was in the ascendant. When he reached the chapel of Ste. Anne vespers had not concluded, for the office was there recited with greater reverence and detail than in the church of Ste. Mary Bonsecours. Michel pushed himself into a front place and hastened to make himself conspicuous by various fussy acts of outward devotion. The office over, he lingered until St Agapit came to him, and the taverner then repeated the confession which he had already made, with such disastrous consequences, to Laroche.

"Since the evil nature of man drives him to drink much wine, let him partake of it as weak as may be, for his soul's health," said the sincere priest. "But, my son, it behoves you to make known to your patrons the truth."

"I dare not," said Michel, rejoicing at heart because he saw a prospect of cheating the devil.

"Then are you guilty of deceit," said the priest. "Mix water with your wine no more, and for your deceit you shall say the litany of St.

Anthony of Padua six times before the altar of Ste. Anne. But see that you wash before approaching the holy shrine, because I perceive upon you the odour of wine-casks."

Having brought his duty to an end, St Agapit drew his cloak round him and went out. While studying that day the work of a German philosopher he had been confronted by the startling theory that the brain and stomach of the human system were possibly connected by means of nerves.

He desired to procure from one of the settler-soldiers a dead rabbit which he might dissect for his own enlightenment.

As he went a woman met him.

"Father," she cried, "a soldier lies at my house at the point of death, praying for a priest to confess him."

"Follow me to the church," said St Agapit.

He pa.s.sed back into the little log-building, took the reserved Host and the sacred oils from an inlaid case, and wrapping these consolations of the Church in his cloak accompanied the woman.

Upon a pallia.s.se in one of the cabins on the eastern slope a young man lay dying of pneumonia, that fell disease which the medical science of the day could only fight by sage shakings of the head and a judicious use of the cupping-gla.s.s. The commandant's own doctor stood there, a man with some knowledge of medicinal plants and skilled by long experience in the treatment of sword-cuts, helplessly watching the exodus of his patient.

"I resign him to your charge, good father," he said, bending his back to the priest. "He has pa.s.sed beyond the help of science. Had I been summoned earlier"--he shrugged his shoulders--"a discreet use of the lance might well have relieved the fatal rush of blood to the brain and saved a life for the king."

"Perchance an incision in the stomach to release the foul vapours----"

began St Agapit.

"Useless, my father. The disease, I do a.s.sure you, is in the blood."

The abbe knelt and administered the last sacraments of his Church. The young soldier remained entirely conscious and his confession came in a steady whisper.

"Father," he concluded, "I would speak with the commandant."

St Agapit looked at the physician by the flickering light of a pine torch. The latter shook his head.

"'Tis impossible. Roussilac is at supper. But I may leave a message as I pa.s.s."

"Say that Jean-Marie Labroquerie calls on him with his dying breath,"

whispered the soldier.

The physician left; the woman who owned the cabin moved silently in preparation for the carrying out of the body, because people were practical in the days when death by violence occurred almost hourly.

St Agapit lowered his thin face to catch the message of the pa.s.sing man.

"Hidden in the straw you shall find a roll of parchment. I pray you take it and use it as you will. It is the work of my father, a learned man. We quarrelled. I stole his work and left my home. I repented and would have taken it back. It was of no service to me. I cannot read. If it be of value, let my old father gain the profit."

"Does he live within the New World?"

"Two days' journey beyond the river. In a log cabin surrounded by a palisade which these hands erected. My father healed some Indians who were sick, and thus obtained their friendship. There was I brought up with my sister, my fair sister. Oh, my father, I would see again my sister. I would feel the touch of her hand, and see her bright hair that flamed in the sun. I would give these my last moments for the sight of her eyes, and the sound of her voice, saying as she was wont, 'Jean-Marie, my brother! Life is a glorious gift.' Ah, my father!"

"Peace, son. Set your mind upon this suffering."

The abbe held a crucifix into the glow of the torch.

"Jesus is not so jealous, father, that He forbids us to love our own.

I was going back when I could obtain my conge, like the prodigal, to seek my father's forgiveness. My mother was to blame for our unhappiness. Solitude and disappointment had embittered her life. She had a cruel tongue and her hand was rough. I was a coward. I fled.

My sister's eyes have pursued me. I made myself a profligate, to forget. But memory is a knife in an open wound."

The minutes pa.s.sed punctuated by the gasps of the sufferer. The torch burnt down to its knot, and another was kindled by the pale woman. The sound without was the wash of the tide.

"He comes not," moaned the soldier. "Bear me a message, father."

The dry rattling of beads broke the silence.

"Speak, my son."

The soldier uttered a piteous cry: "Madeleine! Madeleine!"

"Oh, son! Call rather on the name of Mary."

A gust of dark air swept into the cabin, the torch flame waved like a flag, and a man stood behind m.u.f.fled to the eyes, breathing as though he had come with speed. He threw aside his martial cloak, and straightway stood revealed.

"Jean-Marie," he muttered.

"Arnaud. Stand aside, my father. Let me meet my cousin face to face."