"I have nothing with me to restore your strength. To go for wine, and for assistance to remove this heavy timber which imprisons you--my weak arms cannot stir it--cannot be accomplished in less than half an hour. It will be best, perhaps, for me to take this course; in the meantime, pray, miserable man, with all the earnestness of your heart and soul, for Divine forgiveness. What is your name?"
"I am Gautran," faintly answered the murderer.
Father Capel's frame shook under the influence of a strong agitation.
"From the bedside of the woman I have left within the hour," he murmured, "to this poor sinner who has but a few minutes to live! The hand of God is visible in it."
He addressed himself to the dying man:
"You are he who was tried for the murder of Madeline, the flower-girl?"
"I am he," moaned Gautran.
"Hearken to me," said Father Capel. "For that crime you were tried and acquitted by an earthly tribunal, which pronounced you innocent. But you are now about to appear before the Divine throne for judgment; and from God nothing can be hidden. He sees into the hearts of men. Who is ready--as you but now admitted to me--to commit one murder, and who, perhaps, has committed it, for, from the silence, I infer that the body of your victim lies at no great distance, will not shrink from committing two. Answer me truly, as you hope for mercy. Were you guilty or innocent of the murder of Madeline?"
"I was guilty," groaned Gautran. "Wretch that I am, I killed her. I loved her, father--I loved her!"
Gautran, from whose lips these words had come amid gasps of agony, could say no more; his senses were fast leaving him.