of
his prayers.

Taking the leather-covered journal of his life in both hands, he held it
out.

"Highness, highness--" said he. Death was breaking the voice in his
throat.

Detricand stooped and ran an arm round his shoulder, but raising himself
up Mr. Dow gently pushed him back. The strength of his supreme hour was
on him.

"Highness," said he, "I give you the book of five years of my life--not
of its every day, but of its moments, its great days. Read it," he
added, "read it wisely. Your own name is in it--with the first time I
said an office for you." His breath failed him, he fell back, and lay
quiet for several minutes.

"You used to take too much wine," he said half wildly, starting up
again. "Permit me your hand, highness."

Detricand dropped on his knee and took the wasted hand. Mr. Dow's
eyes were glazing fast. With a last effort he spoke--his voice like a
squeaking wind in a pipe:

"The Lord hath triumphed gloriously--" and he leaned forward to kiss
Detricand's hand.

But Death intervened, and his lips fell instead upon the red cross on
Detricand's breast, as he sank forward lifeless.

That night, after Lorenzo Dow was laid in his grave, Detricand read the
little black leather-covered journal bequeathed to him. Of the years of
his captivity the records were few; the book was chiefly concerned with
his career in Jersey. Detricand read page after page, more often with
a smile than not; yet it was the smile of one who knew life and would
scarce misunderstand the eccentric and honest soul of the Reverend
Lorenzo Dow.

Suddenly, however, he started, for he came upon these lines:

I have, in great privacy and with halting of spirit, married, this
twenty-third of January, Mr. Philip d'Avranche of His Majesty's ship
"Narcissus," and Mistress Guida Landresse de Landresse, both of this
Island of Jersey; by special license of the Bishop of Winchester.

To this was added in comment:

Unchurchmanlike, and most irregular. But the young gentleman's
tongue is gifted, and he pressed his cause heartily. Also Mr.
Shoreham of the Narcissus--"Mad Shoreham of Galway" his father was
called--I knew him--added his voice to the request also. Troubled
in conscience thereby, yet I did marry the twain gladly, for I think
a worthier maid never lived than this same Mistress Guida Landresse
de Landresse, of the ancient family of the de Mauprats. Yet I like
not secrecy, though it be but