ere," I said, advancing, "may I beg your assistance for a
wounded officer?"

"Willingly. Lead me to him. Who is he?

"M. de Sarennes."

"Ah, I know him well."

I directed him to where Sarennes lay, and then returned to Margaret.

"I must wait until I see if anything can be done here before we
go. Come with me for a moment."

The priest took no notice of us as we knelt beside the dying man,
and Margaret, exclaiming with pity as she saw him, lifted his head
and supported it in her lap.

Sarennes opened his eyes and looked up into her face. He tried to
speak, but no sound came from his moving lips.

"Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine,
Et lux perpetua luceat ei,"

prayed the priest, and even as we responded the unhappy spirit took
its flight. Margaret bowed her head, and her tears fell on the dead
face in her lap.

Most of us have been in circumstances where the killing of a man
was a necessity, and have suffered no qualms of conscience thereat.
I certainly had no compunctions on the outcome of my meeting with
M. de Sarennes, and yet, at the sight of Margaret's tears, the
natural feelings triumphed over the intellectual, and I joined
fervently in the prayers of the priest.

He now appeared to notice Margaret for the first time, and lifting
his lanthorn, he held it so that the light shone full upon her; as
she raised her head in surprise, I could see he recognised her.

[Illustration: "Lifting his lanthorn, he held it so that the
light shone full upon her."]

"Marguerite!" he cried, in a voice of reproach.

"Why do you speak to me thus, mon pere? Why do you speak thus?"
she repeated, with alarm in her accents.

"Marguerite, is it possible you do not know me?"

"Know you? Why do you ask? Why do you call me by my name? You are
le pere Jean."

"I am le pere Jean--but I was Gaston de Trincardel!"

"What!" she cried, almost with terror, as she sprang to her feet.

"I am Gaston de Trincardel," he repeated, unmoved.

"Oh, why do you tell me this? At such a time..." she moaned, and
I stepped to her side, for her cry went to my heart.

"I tell you this because I must try to bring you to your senses.
Why are you here in disguise? A shameful disguise," he repeated,
scornfully. "Whose hand slew this man before us?"

"Mine!" I interrupted, for I could not stand by and see her meet
his attack alone.

"Why are you here beside one who may be little better than a
murderer?" he continued to her, without he