among the officers there was infidelity behind the outward decorum of gentlemen.
So the good bishop had plenty on his hands, and he did his best patiently and perseveringly, though by no means always with success (as is the case still with good efforts, under much more favourable circumstances); and all but the vilest respected him, and many paid at least outward attention to his ministrations: and for this reason—because they felt there could not be the slightest doubt that his kind intentions were altogether sincere.
A few days afterwards, the bishop came up to Tournier as he was taking exercise in the paved portion of the yard, and shaking him with gentle courtesy by the hand, said, “Captain Tournier, will you oblige me by letting us have a short walk together?” Then turning to others who were near, he added, with a pleasant smile, “Gentlemen, I hope you are all well this morning,” and putting his arm in Tournier’s went to the gate. There was a guard-room and
a turnkey’s lodge outside. A glance through the grating of the heavy door, and the wicket was instantly unlocked.
They proceeded together along the Peterborough road towards Yaxley. The day was bright, and the broad distant view from the high ground they trod was very pretty, with comfortable-looking homesteads dotted about, the very picture of freedom and peace.
“The English have chosen an agreeable and healthy spot for us poor prisoners, Captain Tournier.”
He called himself a “prisoner,” but he was not. And yet he was—a prisoner to sympathy with the unhappy.
“May I hope that you are becoming more reconciled with your lot, my friend,” he said, in a soft persuasive tone, as if he feared to seem intrusive.
“Not in the slightest degree, Monseigneur,” was the answer. “Why should I? Yet, believe me, I am exceedingly touched by your interesting yourself in me.”
“You say why should you become more reconciled with your lot. My simple reply is, because it is God’s will.”