noble souls should beware of
exaltation of sentiment. He cited the Gospels, he cited Bossuet, he
also cited his well-beloved Horace, who censored all that was ultra
or excessive, and recommended the sage to flee all extremities. His
reasoning was weak against the unwavering resolution of Samuel, who
resisted, with the firmness of a rock, all his remonstrances, and
finally ended these with the words:

"Peace, I implore you! Respect my folly, which is surely wisdom in the
eyes of God. I repeat it to you, I am no longer free, and, even if I
were, do you not know that there is between Mlle. Moriaz and myself an
insurmountable barrier?"

"And pray, what is that?" demanded the abbe.

"Her fortune and my pride," said Samuel. "She is rich, I am poor; this
adorable being is not made for me. I told Mme. de Lorcy one day what
I thought of this kind of alliances, or, to speak more clearly, of
bargains. Yes, my revered friend, I love Mlle. Moriaz with an ardour of
passion with which I reproach myself as though it were a crime. Nothing
remains to me but to avoid seeing her, and I never will see her again.
Let me follow to its end my solitary and rugged path. One consolation
will accompany me: I can say that happiness has not been denied to me:
that it is my conscience, admonished from on high, which has refused to
accept it, and there is a divine sweetness in great trials religiously
accepted. Believe me, it is God who speaks to me, as he spoke to me of
old in San Francisco, to enjoin me to forsake everything and give my
blood for my country. I recognise his voice, which to-day bids my heart
be silent and immolate itself on the altar of its chosen cause. God and
Poland! Beyond this, my watch-word, I have no longer the right to yield
to anything."

And, turning towards the statuette, he exclaimed: "It is at her feet
that I lay down my dolorous offering; she it is who will cure my bruised
and broken heart."

Samuel Brohl spoke in a voice thrilling with emotion; the breath of the
Divine Spirit seemed to play through his hair, and make his eyes grow
humid. The eyes of the good abbe also grew moist: he was profoundly
moved; he gazed with veneration upon this hero; he was filled with
respect for this antique character, for this truly celestial soul. He
never had seen anything like it, either in the odes or in the epistles
of Horace. Lollius himself was surpassed. Transported with admiration,
he opened wide his arms to Samuel Brohl, s