Detricand dropped on his knee and took the wasted hand. Mr. Dow’s eyes were glazing fast. With a last effort he spoke—his voice like a squeaking wind in a pipe:
“The Lord hath triumphed gloriously—” and he leaned forward to kiss Detricand’s hand.
But Death intervened, and his lips fell instead upon the red cross on Detricand’s breast, as he sank forward lifeless.
That night, after Lorenzo Dow was laid in his grave, Detricand read the little black leather-covered journal bequeathed to him. Of the years of his captivity the records were few; the book was chiefly concerned with his career in Jersey. Detricand read page after page, more often with a smile than not; yet it was the smile of one who knew life and would scarce misunderstand the eccentric and honest soul of the Reverend Lorenzo Dow.
Suddenly, however, he started, for he came upon these lines:
I have, in great privacy and with halting of spirit, married, this
twenty-third of January, Mr. Philip d’Avranche of His Majesty’s ship
“Narcissus,” and Mistress Guida Landresse de Landresse, both of this
Island of Jersey; by special license of the Bishop of Winchester.
To this was added in comment:
Unchurchmanlike, and most irregular. But the young gentleman’s
tongue is gifted, and he pressed his cause heartily. Also Mr.
Shoreham of the Narcissus—“Mad Shoreham of Galway” his father was
called—I knew him—added his voice to the request also. Troubled
in conscience thereby, yet I did marry the twain gladly, for I think
a worthier maid never lived than this same Mistress Guida Landresse
de Landresse, of the ancient family of the de Mauprats. Yet I like
not secrecy, though it be but for a month or two months—on my vow,
I like it not for one hour.
Note: At leisure read of the family history of the de Mauprats and
the d’Avranches.
N.: No more secret marriages nor special licenses—most uncanonical
privileges!
N.: For ease of conscience write to His Grace at Lambeth upon the
point.
Detricand sprang to his feet. So this was the truth about Philip d’Avranche, about Guida, alas!
He paced the tent, his brain in a whirl. Stopping at last, he took from his pocket the letter received that afternoon from General Grandjon-Larisse, and read it through again hurriedly. It proposed a truce, and a meeting with himself at a village near, for conference upon the surrender of Detricand’s small army.