like dead men coming to life; they turn their fifty faces upon the
general--faces not to be forgotten."

Flambeau gave a great jump. "Ah," he cried, "you don't mean--"

"Yes," said Father Brown in a deep, moving voice. "It was an English
hand that put the rope round St. Clare's neck; I believe the hand that
put the ring on his daughter's finger. They were English hands that
dragged him up to the tree of shame; the hands of men that had adored
him and followed him to victory. And they were English souls (God pardon
and endure us all!) who stared at him swinging in that foreign sun on
the green gallows of palm, and prayed in their hatred that he might drop
off it into hell."

As the two topped the ridge there burst on them the strong scarlet light
of a red-curtained English inn. It stood sideways in the road, as if
standing aside in the amplitude of hospitality. Its three doors stood
open with invitation; and even where they stood they could hear the hum
and laughter of humanity happy for a night.

"I need not tell you more," said Father Brown. "They tried him in the
wilderness and destroyed him; and then, for the honour of England and
of his daughter, they took an oath to seal up for ever the story of the
traitor's purse and the assassin's sword blade. Perhaps--Heaven help
them--they tried to forget it. Let us try to forget it, anyhow; here is
our inn."

"With all my heart," said Flambeau, and was just striding into the
bright, noisy bar when he stepped back and almost fell on the road.

"Look there, in the devil's name!" he cried, and pointed rigidly at the
square wooden sign that overhung the road. It showed dimly the crude
shape of a sabre hilt and a shortened blade; and was inscribed in false
archaic lettering, "The Sign of the Broken Sword."

"Were you not prepared?" asked Father Brown gently. "He is the god of
this country; half the inns and parks and streets are named after him
and his story."

"I thought we had done with the leper," cried Flambeau, and spat on the
road.

"You will never have done with him in England," said the priest, looking
down, "while brass is strong and stone abides. His marble statues will
erect the souls of proud, innocent boys for centuries, his village tomb
will smell of loyalty as of lilies. Millions who never knew him shall
love him like a father--this man whom the last few that knew him dealt
with like dung. He shall be a saint; and the truth shall never be told
of him, bec