le I passed and all-but
stumbled through! You cut that, you waited to see him fall through and
drown! Perhaps he has ceased to struggle! Ah! that is why the crowd
is gathering at Poussette's!"

Father Rielle rose to his feet and thrust aside the appealing hands of
the other, but the strength exerted in this supreme moment was terrific
and the priest could not escape.

"No, no," sobbed Ringfield, dry-eyed and trembling. "I know what you
think--that I pushed him over, that I pushed him down, but I did not.
I wished to kill him, I wished to put him out of the way, but I had not
the courage. He crossed in safety, the hole was not my doing. He
stood there on the rock and he lied to me about her, about Miss
Clairville, and I struck him and he stumbled and fell."

"You pushed him, God forgive you, I know you pushed! You have killed
him and now you are keeping me here. Let me go, let me go!"

"I did not push, I swear it! Only in my mind, only in my thoughts, did
I kill him. I struck him and he fell. But it is true that I am guilty
in thought, if not in deed, and I will take my punishment."

"What do you mean? What are you saying? One moment you are innocent
of this man's death; the next you are saying you are guilty."

Ringfield at last removed his heavy clasp from the priest's arm and
stood quietly waiting, it seemed, as if for condemnation or sentence.

"Before God, it was not my hand that sent him to his death, still,
having come to my senses, I desire to suffer for my fault, and I will
give myself up to take what punishment I deserve. I have disgraced my
calling and my Church. I can never preach again, never live the life
of a Christian minister again. Some shelter I must seek, some silence,
some reparation I must make----"

He bent his eyes on the ground, his whole mien expressed the contrition
of the sinner, but Father Rielle thought more of the affair from the
standpoint of crime than from that of sin.

"What do you mean by punishment?" he said, torn between curiosity to
know what had really become of the guide and a wish to hear everything
Ringfield had to say. While the priest was thus hesitating to move
along the road to the point where by making a slight detour among some
pines he could cross farther down, a striking but wholly incongruous
figure emerged from the trees. With shining top hat, fur-lined coat,
gauntlets and cane, M. Lalonde, the Montreal detective, came forward
with his profe