"Yes, he will see you," said the lay-brother, lifting a cloud from Hector's heart.
At a knock, the door of the severe little room which was the priest's sanctum was opened and the renowned Father Duval himself stood on the threshold, the kindliest and most lovable of men, his hand outstretched, a twinkling smile upon his rugged face.
"Ah! Entrez, mon petit!" he exclaimed. "Parlez-vous francais?"
Hector shook his head and faltered out a negative. Father Duval's smile deepened and he shrugged his shoulders whimsically.
"Too bad, too bad! Teach yourself, mon petit. It ees ver' important to comprehen' many lan-gwidges, oui. Eh bien! We try to—'ow ees it?—get along without it. Entrez, cher ami, entrez!"
By this time they had shaken hands. Hector jingled into the room, his uniform sounding a note of war in that haunt of peace. The contrast between them was very marked. The older man was like an old tower, strong in age, solid, the younger like a steel blade, keen, vivid, highly tempered. They sat down.
Hector slowly, hesitatingly, began his story. Father Duval listened, one hand on his chin, the other in his sash, his eyes, possessed by just a shadow of encouragement, incessantly fixed on Hector.
When at last Hector ceased, the priest put out a hand and laid it over his, smiling so sympathetically that Hector knew him a friend and helper from that moment.
"You—are you of our faith?" he asked.
Hector shook his head.