"Yes, my child, they have taken him. They are bringing him here."
"Bringing him here! But why, why should they bring him here?" A sudden dreadful thought flashed through her mind. "Father, you have not told me all; there is something else."
"My poor child, there is something else to tell you."
"You need not tell it, Father, I know. They have taken him, but not—alive. My poor Philippe is gone, dead. Tell me how it happened, Father, will you please?"
The girl's unnatural calm was more pitiful than any outburst of grief could have been, and an immeasurable compassion spoke in the priest's voice as he told the story of Philippe's death.
"He was hiding in the deserted hut in Planter's Wood (you know the spot, Cecile) and they discovered his place of concealment. They had been following after him for days but he thought he would be safe there and could come out at night and procure food from you. There was a short, sharp struggle in which he received a mortal wound. Doctors were sent for; I, too, was summoned. Thank God, he was conscious up to the very last and I arrived in time to reconcile him with the Master whose love he had outraged, whose commands he had broken. His end was very quiet and peaceful, he simply closed his eyes and fell asleep as a little baby might.
"But we must not stand here talking, my child. We have a duty to perform, you and I, and we must be brave and perform that duty at once, difficult though it may be. Where is your mother, Cecile? She will have to be told before—before they arrive. I came on ahead for that very purpose."
"We cannot tell her, Father, we cannot. It will kill her."
"We must tell her; it will be impossible to hide it. Take me to her and we will tell her together. God will be with us and will help us, my child."
"Oh! if God would only spare her, if He would only spare her! If He would only open a way so we need not tell her!"