d each other through such confidences. Do you care to hear my
tale?"

"I listen gladly, for in truth I know of nothing better to do," I
returned uneasily. "Pish! but I feel as if we were locked in a cell
awaiting the headsman."

"Yet God can open the doors even as He did for Peter," he said
solemnly, fastening his eyes on the blue sky. For a moment neither
spoke; then the gentle voice took up the story, as if telling it over
to himself.

"I was not always of the black robe; only six years since I wore the
blue and gold of a soldier of France in the dragoon regiment of
Auvergne. I came of good family, and was even known and trusted of the
King. But let that pass. We were stationed at Saint-Rienes, in the
south country, as fair a spot, Monsieur, as this world holds, yet
strangely inhabited by those discontented under the faith of Holy
Church. But we rode rough shod over all such in those days, for it was
the will of the King to crush out heresy. 'Tis a pleasure to see the
shrinking of a heretic before the wrath of God. Yet this tale has
little to do with this service, however I love to dwell upon it. As I
said, we were quartered in garrison at Saint-Rienes, and it was there I
first met Marie Fousard, the girl wife of a Captain in His Majesty's
Guard. She was a creature of beauty, Monsieur, with clear cheeks, lips
of the rose, and great trustful eyes. I was but a boy then, she not
much older in years, but with that knowledge of the world and of men
which enabled her to make poor, blinded fool--her helpless slave for
evil. Merciful Mary! how I did worship her! To me she was as an
angel; divinity lurked in her smile and found utterance upon her lips.
I could have died at her word, happy to know it was her pleasure. Yet,
as I know now, all the love-making between us was no more than play to
her; she merely sought to amuse herself with my passion through a dull
season. No, not quite all, for back of her smiles lurked a purpose so
dark, so diabolical, 'twas not strange I failed to fathom it. 'Tis
hard to associate crime with such young womanhood, to feel that evil
thoughts lurk behind eyes soft with love and lips breathing tenderness.
Yet behind the outer angel of Marie Fousard there was a devil
incarnate. I was blind, crazed, helpless to resist an evil I failed to
perceive. I loved her; in that passion all else was lost. She had
confessed love for me; in that was all the heaven I desired. Little by
lit