prayed the priest, and even as we responded the unhappy spirit took its flight. Margaret bowed her head, and her tears fell on the dead face in her lap.
Most of us have been in circumstances where the killing of a man was a necessity, and have suffered no qualms of conscience thereat. I certainly had no compunctions on the outcome of my meeting with M. de Sarennes, and yet, at the sight of Margaret's tears, the natural feelings triumphed over the intellectual, and I joined fervently in the prayers of the priest.
He now appeared to notice Margaret for the first time, and lifting his lanthorn, he held it so that the light shone full upon her; as she raised her head in surprise, I could see he recognised her.
“Marguerite!” he cried, in a voice of reproach.
“Why do you speak to me thus, mon père? Why do you speak thus?” she repeated, with alarm in her accents.
“Marguerite, is it possible you do not know me?”
“Know you? Why do you ask? Why do you call me by my name? You are le père Jean.”
“I am le père Jean—but I was Gaston de Trincardel!”
“What!” she cried, almost with terror, as she sprang to her feet.