e
feared. It shall profit him nothing to have your blood upon his soul.
That voice in you would never half so relentlessly have hounded him and
his as it shall in me--if all else fails."

It was an exulting thought. It calmed him; it soothed his grief, and he
began very softly to pray. And then his heart trembled as he considered
that Philippe, a man of peace, almost a priest, an apostle of
Christianity, had gone to his Maker with the sin of anger on his soul.
It was horrible. Yet God would see the righteousness of that anger. And
in no case--be man's interpretation of Divinity what it might--could that
one sin outweigh the loving good that Philippe had ever practised, the
noble purity of his great heart. God after all, reflected Andre-Louis,
was not a grand-seigneur.

CHAPTER V. THE LORD OF GAVRILLAC

For the second time that day Andre-Louis set out for the chateau,
walking briskly, and heeding not at all the curious eyes that followed
him through the village, and the whisperings that marked his passage
through the people, all agog by now with that day's event in which he
had been an actor.

He was ushered by Benoit, the elderly body-servant, rather
grandiloquently called the seneschal, into the ground-floor room known
traditionally as the library. It still contained several shelves of
neglected volumes, from which it derived its title, but implements
of the chase--fowling-pieces, powder-horns, hunting-bags,
sheath-knives--obtruded far more prominently than those of study. The
furniture was massive, of oak richly carved, and belonging to another
age. Great massive oak beams crossed the rather lofty whitewashed
ceiling.

Here the squat Seigneur de Gavrillac was restlessly pacing when
Andre-Louis was introduced. He was already informed, as he announced at
once, of what had taken place at the Breton arme. M. de Chabrillane
had just left him, and he confessed himself deeply grieved and deeply
perplexed.

"The pity of it!" he said. "The pity of it!" He bowed his enormous head.
"So estimable a young man, and so full of promise. Ah, this La Tour
d'Azyr is a hard man, and he feels very strongly in these matters.
He may be right. I don't know. I have never killed a man for holding
different views from mine. In fact, I have never killed a man at all.
It isn't in my nature. I shouldn't sleep of nights if I did. But men are
differently made."

"The question, monsieur my godfather," said Andre-Louis, "is what is t