morate them but that three of them were
Protestants, and difficulties had been raised by the bigoted. But
Francois thought only of the young men in their common grave at St.
Eustache. He remembered when they went away one bright morning, full of
the joy of an erring patriotism, of the ardour of a weak but fascinating
cause: race against race, the conquered against the conquerors, the
usurped against the usurpers.

In the space before the parish church it stands--a broken shaft, with an
unwound wreath straying down its sides; a monument of fine proportions,
a white figure of beaten valour and erring ardour of youth and beautiful
bad ambition. One Saturday night it was not there, and when next morning
the people came to Mass it was there. All night had Francois and his men
worked, and the first rays of the morning sun fell on the tall shivered
shaft set firmly in its place. Francois was a happy man. All else that
he had done had been wholly after a crude, staring convention, after
rule and measure--an artisan's, a tombstone-cutter's labour. This was
the work of a man with the heart and mind of an artist. When the people
came to Mass they gazed and gazed, and now and then the weeping of a
woman was heard, for among them were those whose sons and brothers were
made memorable by this stone.

That day at the close of his sermon the Cure spoke of it, and said
at the last: "That white shaft, dear brethren, is for us a sign of
remembrance and a warning to our souls. In the name of race and for
their love they sinned. But yet they sinned; and this monument, the gift
and work of one young like them, ardent and desiring like them, is for
ever in our eyes the crucifixion of our wrong ambitions and our selfish
aims.

"Nay, let us be wise and let us be good. They who rule us speak with
foreign tongue, but their hearts desire our peace and a mutual regard.
Pray that this be. And pray for the young and the daring and the
foolish. And pray also that he who has given us here a good gift may
find his thanks in our better-ordered lives, and that he may consecrate
his parts and talents to the redeeming actions of this world."

And so began the awakening of Francois Lagarre; and so began his
ambition and his peril.

For, as he passed from the church, the Seigneur touched him on the
shoulder and introduced him to his English grandniece, come on a visit
for the summer, the daughter of a London baronet. She had but just
arrived, and she wa