ult force, he wandered into
the room of the chateau where the tragedy had occurred. . . . The
letter! He felt in the pocket of his gown. He drew a stool to the
window which gave upon the balcony overlooking the lower town and the
river, and sat down.

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

He eyed the address, undecided. He was weighing the advisability of
letting the Chevalier read it first. And yet he had an equal right to
the reading. He sighed, drew forth the contents and read . . . read
with shaking hands, read with terror, amazement, exultation, belief and
unbelief. He rose quickly; the room, it was close; he breathed with
difficulty. And the marquis had requested that he read it! Irony! He
had taken it up in his hands twice, and had not known! Irony, irony,
irony! He opened the window and stepped out upon the balcony. Above
the world, half hidden under the spotless fleece of winter, a white sun
shone in a pallid sky.

Brother Jacques's skin was transparent, his hair was patched with grey,
his eyes were hollow, but at this moment his mien was lordly. His pack
lay on the floor beyond, forgotten. With his head high, his nostrils
wide, his arms pressing his sides and his hands clenched, he looked
toward France. The smoke, curling up from the chimneys below, he saw
not, nor the tree-dotted Isle of Orleans, nor the rolling mainshore
opposite. His gaze in fancy had traversed more than three thousand
miles. He saw a grand chateau, terraced, with gardens, smooth
driveways, fountains and classic marbles, crisp green hills behind all
these, and a stream of running water.

Perigny.

He looked again and saw a great hotel, surrounded by a high wall, along
the top of which, ran a cheval-de-frise. Inside all was gloomy and
splendid, rich and ancient. Magnificent tapestries graced the walls,
famous paintings, rare cut-glass, chased silver and filigreed gold, and
painted porcelain.

Rochelle.

Again; and in his dream-vision he saw mighty palaces and many lights,
the coming and going of great personages, soldiers famed in war,
statesmen, beautiful women with satin and jewels and humid eyes; great
feasts, music, and the loveliest flowers.

Paris.

His! All these things were his. It was empire; it was power, content,
riches. His! Had he not starved, begged, suffered? These were his,
all his, his by human law and divine. That letter! It had lain under