"Father Honoré—" he half rose from the cot. The priest bent over him. Champney laid one arm around his neck, drew him down to him and, for a moment only, the two men remained cheek to cheek.
"Champney—my son," was all he could say.
"Yes; now tell me all—the worst; I can bear it."
"I can't see my way, yet." These were the first words he spoke after Father Honoré had finished telling him of his prospective relief from sentence and the means taken to obtain it. He had listened intently, without interruption, sitting up on the cot, his look fixed unwaveringly on the narrator. He put his hand to his face as he spoke, covering his eyes for a moment; then he passed it over the three weeks' stubble on his cheeks and chin.
"Is it possible for me to shave here? I must get up—out of this. I can't think straight unless I get on my feet."
"Do you feel strong enough, Champney?"
"I shall get strength quicker when I'm up. Thank you," he said, as Father Honoré helped him to his feet. He swayed as if dizzy on crossing the room to a small mirror above a stand. Father Honoré placed the hot water and shaving utensils before him. He declined his further assistance.
"Are there—are there any clothes I could put on?" He asked hesitatingly, as he proceeded to shave himself awkwardly with his one free hand.
"Such as they are, a plenty." Father Honoré produced a common tweed suit and fresh underwear from the "handy closet." These together with some other necessaries from a drawer in the stand supplied a full equipment.