At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps. “What is it, Parpon?” he asked gravely.
“It is Luc Pomfrette, M’sieu’ le Cure.” Pomfrette’s eyes were closed.
“He swore that he would never come to Mass again,” answered the good priest.
“Till he was carried, M’sieu’ le Cure—and I’ve carried him.”
“Did you come of your own free will, and with a repentant heart, Luc Pomfrette?” asked the Cure.
“I did not know I was coming—no.” Pomfrette’s brown eyes met the priest’s unflinchingly.
“You have defied God, and yet He has spared your life.”
“I’d rather have died,” answered the sick man simply.
“Died, and been cast to perdition!”
“I’m used to that; I’ve had a bad time here in Pontiac.”