As for the crime for which he was to suffer, it had been the work of
another hand, and very bad work it was, to try and steal Jean Touzel's
Hardi Biaou, and then bungle it. He had had nothing to do with it, for
he and Jean Touzel were the best of friends, as was proved by the fact
that while he lay in his dungeon, Jean wandered the shore sorrowing for
his fate.

Thinking now of the whole business and of his past life, Mattingley
suddenly had a pang. Yes, remorse smote him at last. There was one thing
on his conscience--only one. He had respect for the feelings of others,
and where the Church was concerned this was mingled with a droll sort of
pity, as of the greater for the lesser, the wise for the helpless. For
clergymen he had a half-affectionate contempt. He remembered now that
when, five years ago, his confederate who had turned out so badly--he
had trusted him, too! had robbed the church of St. Michael's, carrying
off the great chest of communion plate, offertories, and rents, he
had piously left behind in Mattingley's house the vestry-books and
parish-register; a nice definition in rogues' ethics. Awaiting his end
now, it smote Mattingley's soul that these stolen records had not been
returned to St. Michael's. Next morning he must send word to Carterette
to restore the books. Then his conscience would be clear once more. With
this resolve quieting his mind, he turned over on his straw and went
peacefully to sleep.

Hours afterwards he waked with a yawn. There was no start, no terror,
but the appearance of the jailer with the chaplain roused in him disgust
for the coming function at the Mont es Pendus. Disgust was his chief
feeling. This was no way for a man to die! With a choice of evils he
should have preferred walking the plank, or even dying quietly in his
bed, to being stifled by a rope. To dangle from a cross-tree like a
half-filled bag offended all instincts of picturesqueness, and first and
last he had been picturesque.

He asked at once for pencil and paper. His wishes were obeyed with
deference. On the whole he realised by the attentions paid him--the
brandy and the food offered by the jailer, the fluttering kindness of
the chaplain--that in the life of a criminal there is one moment when
he commands the situation. He refused the brandy, for he was strongly
against spirits in the early morning, but asked for coffee. Eating
seemed superfluous--and a man might die more gaily on an empty stomach.
He assu