The abbé held a crucifix into the glow of the torch.
"Jesus is not so jealous, father, that He forbids us to love our own. I was going back when I could obtain my congé, like the prodigal, to seek my father's forgiveness. My mother was to blame for our unhappiness. Solitude and disappointment had embittered her life. She had a cruel tongue and her hand was rough. I was a coward. I fled. My sister's eyes have pursued me. I made myself a profligate, to forget. But memory is a knife in an open wound."
The minutes passed punctuated by the gasps of the sufferer. The torch burnt down to its knot, and another was kindled by the pale woman. The sound without was the wash of the tide.
"He comes not," moaned the soldier. "Bear me a message, father."
The dry rattling of beads broke the silence.
"Speak, my son."
The soldier uttered a piteous cry: "Madeleine! Madeleine!"
"Oh, son! Call rather on the name of Mary."
A gust of dark air swept into the cabin, the torch flame waved like a flag, and a man stood behind muffled to the eyes, breathing as though he had come with speed. He threw aside his martial cloak, and straightway stood revealed.
"Jean-Marie," he muttered.