It was a beautiful morning, and somehow the passionate French youth felt that a brighter and better morning was breaking within his soul.
Frank was surprised when Defarge came to him and said:
“Merriwell, I have no hope that you will believe me, but I have come to say that in the future I hope God will punish me if I lift my hand against you, or plot with others to do you harm!”
Frank turned those wonderful eyes on Defarge, and saw that the young Frenchman was never more in earnest.
“I should not have come here to say this,” Bertrand confessed, “if it had not been for Skelding. He tells me you have kept me from drinking absinth. I believe the craving for the stuff has gone from me forever.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” said Merry.
“I know it, and for that reason I wish now to ask you to hold me fast yet a while longer under the spell. Keep me from drinking the stuff. Can you?”
“I can.”
“Will you do that? You know I was crazed by it when I tried to shoot you! You know I am pretty humble now, else I’d not be here asking a favor! I am sorry for the past—I swear I am! Do you believe me, Merriwell?”