red the chaplain that he had come to terms with his conscience
and was now about to perform the last act of a well-intentioned life.

There and then he wrote to Carterette, telling her about the
vestry-books of St. Michael's, and begging that she should restore them
secretly. There were no affecting messages; they understood each other.
He knew that when it was possible she would never fail to come to the
mark where he was concerned, and she had equal faith in him. So the
letter was sealed, addressed with flourishes, he was proud of his
handwriting, and handed to the chaplain for Carterette.

He had scarcely drunk his coffee when there was a roll of drums outside.
Mattingley knew that his hour was come, and yet to his own surprise he
had no violent sensations. He had a shock presently, however, for on the
jailer announcing the executioner, who should be there before him but
the Undertaker's Apprentice! In politeness to the chaplain Mattingley
forbore profanity. This was the one Jerseyman for whom he had a profound
hatred, this youth with the slow, cold, watery blue eye, a face that
never wrinkled either with mirth or misery, the square-set teeth always
showing a little--an involuntary grimace of cruelty. Here was insult.

"Devil below us, so you're going to do it--you!" broke out Mattingley.

"The other man was drunk," said the Undertaker's Apprentice. "He's been
full as a jug three days. He got drunk too soon." The grimace seemed to
widen. "O my good!" said Mattingley, and he would say no more. To him
words were like nails--of no use unless they were to be driven home by
acts.

To Mattingley the procession of death was stupidly slow. As it issued
from the archway of the Vier Prison between mounted guards, and passed
through a long lane of moving spectators, he looked round coolly. One or
two bold spirits cried out: "Head up to the wind, Maitre Elie!"

"Oui-gia," he replied; "devil a top-sail in!" and turned a look of
contempt on those who hooted him. He realised now that there was no
chance of rescue. The militia and the town guard were in ominous force,
and although his respect for the island military was not devout, a
bullet from the musket of a fool might be as effective as one from
Bonapend's--as Napoleon Bonaparte was disdainfully called in Jersey. Yet
he could not but wonder why all the plans of Alixandre, Carterette, and
Ranulph had gone for nothing; even the hangman had been got drunk too
soon! He had a hi