The man had sunk down upon a locker outside the bunk, his two hands flattened out upon the lid, his face turned up in agony. From either side of his mouth there trickled down a small streak of blood looking like the horns of the new moon; the lips were drawn back from the teeth, as though in agony unspeakable. And did he grin mockingly in this his hour—or was it the pangs of approaching death that caused the grin?
Then he gasped forth:
"You are deceived. The woman who stole—your child—was Aurélie——"
"What!" from St. Georges.
"Aided by—servant—Gaston. Her—servant—not mine——"
"My God!" In that moment there came back to him a memory. The lad, Gaston, had his arm in a sling the morning he learned the child was missing; the woman, who lived in the hut and saw the child taken from Pierre, had said, "His arm hung straight by his side, as though stiff with pain."
Had he found the truth at last?
"Go on," he said.
"The bishop's man—had—got it safe. Aurélie and Gaston—caught—slew him—took the child. She—knew—your birth—and—hated you—and would gain—as much as—as I. Seek her—if you—would-know——"
He fell prone on the lid and spoke no more.