minal caught in his shameful act. Though I had
not forgotten that I wore the dead man's clothes, I could not think
that they would be recognized, for they seemed like others of the French
army--white, with violet facings. I can not tell to this day what it was
that enabled them to detect the coat; but there I stood condemned before
them.

The wife sprang to her feet, came to me with a set face, and stared
stonily at the coat for an instant. Then, with a cry of alarm, she made
for the door; but I stepped quickly before her, and bade her wait till
she heard what I had to say. Like lightning it all went through my
brain. I was ruined if she gave an alarm: all Quebec would be at my
heels, and my purposes would be defeated. There was but one thing to
do--tell her the whole truth, and trust her; for I had at least done
fairly by her and by the dead man.

So I told them how Jean Labrouk had met his death; told them who I was,
and why I was in Quebec--how Jean died in my arms; and, taking from my
breast the cross that Mathilde had given me, I swore by it that every
word which I said was true. The wife scarcely stirred while I spoke, but
with wide dry eyes and hands clasping and unclasping heard me through. I
told her how I might have left Jean to die without a sign or message to
them, how I had put the cross to his lips as he went forth, and how by
coming here at all I placed my safety in her hands, and now, by telling
my story, my life itself.

It was a daring and a difficult task. When I had finished, both sat
silent for a moment, and then the old man said, "Ay, ay, Jean's father
and his uncle Marmon were killed a-horseback, and by the knife. Ay,
ay, it is our way. Jean was good company--none better, mass over, on
a Sunday. Come, we will light candles for Jean, and comb his hair back
sweet, and masses shall be said, and--"

Again the woman interrupted, quieting him. Then she turned to me, and I
awaited her words with a desperate sort of courage.

"I believe you," she said. "I remember you now. My sister was the wife
of your keeper at the common jail. You shall be safe. Alas! my Jean
might have died without a word to me all alone in the night. Merci mille
fois, monsieur!" Then she rocked a little to and fro, and the old man
looked at her like a curious child. At last, "I must go to him," she
said. "My poor Jean must be brought home."

I told her I had already left word concerning the body at headquarters.
She thanked me