of her look. It startled him; he knew
not what to say. "Your father, Rosalie--"

"My father will be cared for. But who will care for you in the place
where you are going? You will have no friends there. You shall not go
alone. You will need me--in the dark."

"It is good that I go," he said. "It would be wicked, it would be
dreadful, for you to go."

"I go if you go," she urged. "I will lose my soul to be with you; you
will want me--there!"

There was no mistaking her intention. Footsteps sounded outside. The
others were coming back. To die here before her face? To bring her to
death with him? He was sick with despair.

"Go into the next room quickly," he said. "No matter what comes, I will
not--on my honour!"

She threw him a look of gratitude, and, as the bearskin curtain dropped
behind her, he put the phial of laudanum in his pocket.

The door opened, and the Abbe Rossignol entered, followed by the
Seigneur, the Cure, and Jo Portugais. Charley faced them calmly, and
waited.

The Abbe's face was still cold and severe, but his voice was human as he
said quickly: "Monsieur, I have decided to take you at your word. I am
assured you are not the man who committed the crime. You probably have
reasons for not establishing your identity."

Had Charley been a prisoner in the dock, he could not have had a moment
of deeper amazement--even if after the jury had said Guilty, a piece
of evidence had been handed in, proving innocence, averting the death
sentence. A wave of excitement passed over him, leaving him cold and
still. In the other room a girl put her hand to her mouth to stifle a
cry of joy.

Charley bowed. "You made a mistake, Monsieur--pray do not apologise," he
said.

CHAPTER XXXIV. IN AMBUSH

Weeks went by. Summer was done, autumn was upon the land. Harvest-home
had gone, and the "fall" ploughing was forward. The smell of the burning
stubble, of decaying plant and fibre, was mingling with the odours of
the orchards and the balsams of the forest. The leafy hill-sides, far
and near, were resplendent in scarlet and saffron and tawny red. Over
the decline of the year flickered the ruined fires of energy.

It had been a prosperous summer in the valley. Harvests had been reaped
such as the country had not known for years--and for years there had
been great harvests. There had not been a death in the parish all
summer, and births had occurred out of all usual proportion.

When Filion Lacasse commente