Nataline was trembling a little now. Her brows were unlocked. The tears stood in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She was twisting her hands together.
“My father,” she answered, “I desire to do the will of God. But how shall I know it? Is it not His first command that we should love and serve Him faithfully in the duty which He has given us? He gave me this light to keep. My father kept it. He is dead. If I am unfaithful what will he say to me? Besides, the supply-boat is coming soon—I have thought of this—when it comes it will bring food. But if the light is out, the boat may be lost. That would be the punishment for my sin. No, MON PERE, we must trust God. He will keep the people. I will keep the light.”’
The priest looked at her long and steadily. A glow came into his face. He put his hand on her shoulder. “You shall follow your conscience,” he said quietly. “Peace be with you, Nataline.”
That evening just at dark Marcel came. She let him take her in his arms and kiss her. She felt like a little child, tired and weak.
“Well,” he whispered, “you have done bravely, sweetheart. You were right not to give the key. That would have been a shame to you. But it is all settled now. They will have the oil without your fault. To-night they are going out to the lighthouse to break in and take what they want. You need not know. There will be no blame—”
She straightened in his arms as if an electric shock had passed through her. She sprang back, blazing with anger.
“What?” she cried, “me a thief by round-about,—with my hand behind my back and my eyes shut? Never. Do you think I care only for the blame? I tell you that is nothing. My light shall not be robbed, never, never!”
She came close to him and took him by the shoulders. Their eyes were on a level. He was a strong man, but she was the stronger then.
“Marcel Thibault,” she said, “do you love me?”
“My faith,” he gasped, “I do. You know I do.”