ed, as if he had not
paused, "He was ashamed to hold his head up. He might well be."

A strange, excited voice rose from the other end of the room. I looked
and saw that it was Edouard who spoke. He had half arisen from his
chair and scowled at Albert, throwing out his words with the tremulous
haste of a young man first addressing an audience:

"Why should he be ashamed? Was he not a good man? Was the blame of his
bad niece's acts his? From the story, she was well used and had no
excuse. It is he who is to be pitied, not blamed!"

The Brother Director smiled benignly at the young enthusiast. "Brother
Edouard is right," he said. "Poor Martin was to be compassioned. None
the less, my heart is touched for the girl. In Banin's trial it
appeared that he maltreated her, and forced her to do what she did by
blows. They were really married. Her neighbors gave Renee a name for
gentleness and a good heart. Poor thing!"

"And she never was found?" asked Abonus, eagerly. He spoke very rarely.
He looked now at me as he spoke, and there was a strange, ungodly
glitter in his eyes which made me shudder involuntarily.

"Never," replied the Director, "although there is a reward, 5,000
francs, offered for her recovery. Miserable child, who can tell what
depths of suffering she may be in this moment?"

"It would be remarkable if she should be found now, after all this
time," said Abonus, sharply. His wicked, squinting old eyes were still
fastened upon me. This time, as by a flash of eternal knowledge, I read
their meaning, and felt the ground slipping from under me.

I shall never forget the night that followed. I made no pretence of
going to bed. Edouard's little dormitory was in another part of the
house. I went once to see him, but dared not knock, since Abonus was
stirring about just across the hall, in his own den. I scratched on a
piece of paper "Fly!" in the dark, and pushed it under the door. Then I
returned to walk my chamber, chafing like a wild beast. Ah, that night,
that night!

With the first cock crow in the village below, long before the bell, I
left my room. I wanted air to breathe. I passed Abonus on the broad
stairway. He strode up with unwonted vigor, bearing a heavy caldron of
water as if it had been straw. His gown was tumbled and dusty; his
greasy _rabat_ hung awry about his neck. I had it in my head to speak
with him, but could not. So the early hours, with devotions which I
went through in a dream, wore on