he was married. I rushed to the water (I knew it was deep
there,) in furious passion, to fling myself in. It was not fear that
stopped me--never in my life was I afraid of anything--it was a voice,
not outside me, but within: a voice that was more distinct to me than a
bell tolled close to my ear, and all the more because it never reached me
through the ear; it reached my brain though, aye, and my heart. And it
said, 'God is good. God can help.' Over and over again I rushed to the
water to drown myself, and over and over again that voice within stopped
me at the brink. Oh, it was frightful! but God _was_ good, and God _did_
help me."

Many a time after this did the friends converse together, in their walks,
when they rode out, and as they sat at the fire-side; and without any
affectation of superior wisdom, yet, when Tournier at any time appeared
to flag or grow weary in bearing up under his still severe trials, Cosin
would cheer him by telling him, out of the fulness of his own heart, that
all hopeless trouble came from trying to live without God, and that no
one is really wise who thinks he knows better than He.

And when, on one occasion, Tournier was much depressed, because he had
asked himself a question which every man must one day ask, if he means to
be truly happy, though some, by God's grace, learn the answer before they
know the immensity of it.

"I cannot understand how it is that God can be so good to such imperfect,
nay, I will out with the word, sinful creatures as we are? I am afraid I
have made use of religious jargon, like many others."

"My dear fellow," replied Cosin, "God is good to all; but we have no
right to _claim_ any share in His goodness except through _Christ_. If
we left that out it would be jargon indeed."

CHAPTER VI.--A DUEL AND TWO DEATHS.

Victor Malin and Marc Poivre hated each other with perfect hatred. But
there was this peculiarity in their mutual animosity: it was
intermittent. One day they would be glaring at each other like wild
beasts; the next, they would be walking in the prison-yard arm in arm,
singing bacchanalian songs, as inseparable chums. Their relations had
not improved since the riot, for Malin had lost credit with the other
prisoners since the failure of it, and laid the blame on Poivre for
making fun of him, while there rankled, deep in Poivre's breast, the
recollection that Malin had as good as called him a coward.

It was in one of the int