l human laws. He had tried to think of it as
something outside his father's life, something done in a momentary fit
of madness, and that the man who suffered by it was some monster unfit
for the companionship of his fellows--unfit to live. There were still
tales to be heard in the county, and about town even, of the wild
doings of Martin de Vaux in his younger days; but none of these had
reached his son's ears. He would have been the last person likely to
hear of them.

There was a short silence, and before Father Adrian spoke again the
low-lying clouds were swept over their heads by a gale from seaward,
and the wind commenced to whistle and shriek in the pine wood,
and roar amongst the crumbling ruins, which scarcely afforded them
protection from the blinding rain. Any further conversation was
impossible. Paul lifted up his voice, and shouted in his companion's
ear--

"These walls are not safe! We must go into the house. Will you come?"

Father Adrian hesitated, and then assented, wrapping his cloak around
him. In a few moments they were inside the library, having entered
through a private door and met no one. Breathless, Paul threw off his
cloak, which was dripping with rain, and turned round almost fiercely
upon his companion.

"Now speak!" he said. "I am ready to hear all."

The priest looked at him steadily for a moment, and then, with his
pale face turned towards the fire, he commenced to speak.

"Sin is everlasting!" he said slowly. "Your father's sin lives, and on
you the burden must fall! If you had kept the covenant which I placed
before you, I might have spared you. You yourself have chosen. You
must hear all! Listen!

"It was by chance that I was spending two months in charge of the
monastery of St. Jerome, at Cruta, when your father arrived," he
continued, without any pause. "He sought our hospitality and he at
once obtained it. For two days he dwelt with us, spending his time for
the most part in idle fashion, wandering about along the seashore or
on the cliffs, but always with the look on his face of a man who does
but dally with some fixed purpose. His doings were nothing to me, but
by chance, from one of the brethren, I learnt that he was no stranger
to the island--that once, many years ago, he had been the guest of the
lord who ruled the little territory, and whose castle overshadows the
monastery.

"On the third day of his stay, he remained within his guest-chamber
until sundown, writing. A