n the route, somewhere, and my account is without head or tail. I
recall a letter on the table. See if it is there, Jehan."

Jehan searched and found a letter under a book.

"What does it say?"

"'To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny, to be delivered into his hands at
my death'," Jehan read.

"From . . . from my son?"

"I do not know, Monsieur."

"Open it and read it."

"It is in Latin, Monsieur, a language unknown to me," Jehan carefully
explained.

"Give it to me;" but the marquis's fingers trembled and shook and his
eyes stared in vain. "My eyes have failed me, too. I can not
distinguish one letter from another. Give it to Brother Jacques when
he comes. He is a priest; they all read Latin."

"Then I shall send for him and Monsieur le Comte?"

"Wait till I am sure that I can stand the sight of him. Is Sister
Benie without? Call her. She quiets me. Brother Jacques may come in
half an hour; after him, Monsieur le Comte. I wish to have done with
all things and die in peace."

So Jehan went in search of Sister Benie. When she came in her angelic
face was as white as the collaret which encircled her throat, and the
scar was more livid than usual. Alas, the marquis's mind had gone
a-wandering again: the coal dimmed. She put her hand on his brow to
still the wagging head.

"It was so long ago, Margot," he babbled. "It was all a mistake. . . .
A fool plunges into all follies, but a wise man avoids what he can. I
have been both the wise man and the fool. . . . And I struck you
across the face with the lash? Ah, the poor scar!" He touched the
scar with his hand, and she wavered. "I loved you. It is true. I did
not know it then. You are dead, and you know that I loved you. Do you
think the lad has really forgiven me for what I have done to him? . . .
I am weary of the contest; Death sits on his horse outside the door."

She was praying, praying for strength to go through this ordeal.

"Where did you go, Margot?" he asked. "I searched for you; you were
gone. Where did you go that day?"

Outside, in the corridor, Jehan was listening with eyes distended. And
the marquis did not know, being out of his mind again!

"Hush, Henriot!" said Sister Benie. Tumult was in her heart. His icy
hand closed over hers, which was scarce warmer; all the blood was in
her heart. Her arms ached with longing to wrap this poor form to her
breast. This was the supreme hour of her expiation.

"Henriot?" she