wondered about this
priest. A mystery enveloped his beauty, his uncommunicativeness.

Presently the Jesuit caught sight of the dim, half-recognizable face
below.

"The Chevalier improves?" he asked.

"His mind has just cleared itself of the fever's fog, thank God!" cried
Victor, heartily.

"He will live, then," replied Brother Jacques, sadly; and continued his
pacing. After a few moments Victor went below again, and the priest
mused aloud: "Yes, he will live; misfortune and misery are long-lived."
All about him rolled the smooth waters, touched faintly with the first
pallor of dawn.

On the sixteenth of April the Chevalier was declared strong enough to
be carried up to the deck, where he was laid on a cot, his head propped
with pillows in a manner such as to prevent the rise and fall of the
ship from disturbing him. O the warmth and glory of that spring
sunshine! It flooded his weak, emaciated frame with a soothing heat, a
sense of gladness, peace, calm. As the beams draw water from the
rivers to the heavens, so they drew forth the fever-poison from his
veins and cast it to the cleansing winds. He was aware of no desire
save that of lying there in the sun; of watching the clouds part, join,
and dissolve, only to form again, when the port rose; of measuring the
bright horizon when the port sank. From time to time he held up his
white hands and let the sun incarnadine them. He spoke to no one,
though when Victor sat beside him he smiled. On the second day he
feebly expressed a desire for some one to read to him.

"What shall I read, Paul?" asked Victor, joyously.

"You will find my Odyssey in the berthroom. Read me of Ulysses when he
finally arrived at Ithaca and found Penelope still faithful."

"Monsieur," said Chaumonot, who overheard the request, "would you not
rather I should read to you from the life of Loyola?"

"No, Father," gently; "I am still pagan enough to love the thunder of
Homer."

"If only I might convince you of the futility of such books!" earnestly.

"Nothing is futile, Father, which is made of grace and beauty."

So Victor read from the immortal epic. He possessed a fine voice, and
being a musician he knew how to use it. The voice of his friend and
the warmth of the sun combined to produce a pleasant drowsiness to
which the Chevalier yielded, gratefully. That night he slept soundly.

The following day was not without a certain glory. The wind was mild
and gentle like that