led out, "give me the scabbard of this sword." Hamilton,
who was striding vigorously in the direction of the fort, turned about
as the priest hastened to him.

"Give me the scabbard of this rapier; I want it. Take it off."

The command was not gently voiced. A hoarse, half-whisper winged every
word with an imperious threat.

Hamilton obeyed. His hands were not firm; his fingers fumbled
nervously; but he hurried, and Father Beret soon had the rapier
sheathed and secured at his belt beside its mate.

A good and true priest is a burden-bearer. His motto is: Alter alterius
onera portate; bear ye one another's burdens. His soul is enriched with
the cast-off sorrows of those whom he relieves. Father Beret scarcely
felt the weight of Alice's body when he lifted it from the ground, so
heavy was the pressure of his grief. All that her death meant, not only
to him, but to every person who knew her, came into his heart as the
place of refuge consecrated for the indwelling of pain. He lifted her
and bore her as far toward Roussillon place as he could; but his
strength fell short just in front of the little Bourcier cottage, and
half dead he staggered across the veranda to the door, where he sank
exhausted.

After a breathing spell he knocked. The household, fast asleep, did not
hear; but he persisted until the door was opened to him and his burden.

Captain Farnsworth unclosed his bloodshot eyes, at about eight o'clock
in the morning, quite confused as to his place and surroundings. He
looked about drowsily with a sheepish half-knowledge of having been
very drunk. A purring in his head and a dull ache reminded him of an
abused stomach. He yawned and stretched himself, then sat up, running a
hand through his tousled hair. Father Beret was on his knees before the
cross, still as a statue, his clasped hands extended upward.

Farnsworth's face lighted with recognition, and he smiled rather
bitterly. He recalled everything and felt ashamed, humiliated,
self-debased. He had outraged even a priest's hospitality with his
brutish appetite, and he hated himself for it. Disgust nauseated his
soul apace with the physical sinking and squirming that grew upon him.

"I'm a shabby, worthless dog!" he muttered, with petulant accent; "why
don't you kick me out, Father?"

The priest turned a collapsed and bloodless gray face upon him, smiled
in a tired, perfunctory way, crossed himself absently and said:

"You have rested well, my son. Har