"Godefrey de la Mothe, chaplain to Monseigneur the Duke of Bourbon
Vendôme."
"And yours?"
From my seat in the shadow I answered: "Bertrand d'Orrain."
La Mothe started and half faced me, but held himself in, and the officer, having made his note, turned his back upon us and withdrew, followed by his men. We heard the door shut, a drawing of bolts, a rattling of keys, and then came silence and darkness.
No!—not utter darkness; for through the narrow slit in the wall a ray of moonlight fell, lighting the figure of La Mothe where he stood, almost in the centre of the dungeon. He was looking towards me, his eyes expectant and shining; but I could not speak, and sat like a stone.
At length he made a step in my direction.
"Orrain," he said, "have we met at last?"
With an effort I rose and took his outstretched hands, and in that moment I knew that the past was bridged over and my sin forgiven.
For long we sat together on the stone bench, and La Mothe told me of his life. How, though all thought him mortally wounded, he had rallied at last, and, in thankfulness for his escape, resolved to devote the remainder of his days to God. The spirit of the age fell on his mind, keen and ecstatic at once. In every trivial event he saw the hand of the Almighty, but he saw too the corruption around him. It was for such as he that the light of the new faith shone with an alluring radiance, and soon there was no voice that spoke more loudly for the truth than that of Godefrey de la Mothe. A fatalist above all things, even now, when everything seemed lost, he did not despair.
"Nay," he said, "the hour has not come for us to die. God has not brought us together to perish." And the words carried hope with them, even amidst the darkness and lowering prison walls. Then he knelt down and prayed; but I could not, for my heart was raging within me.