e afterwards, that he
was near you one day, concealed, while you were telling her. He was
listening, beyond a doubt, and on the first opportunity determined to
put you out of the way. He dreads, above all things, your appearance
in France as the son of the unfortunate Count de Montresor. For now
all those who were once powerful are dead, and the present government
would be very glad to espouse the Montresor cause, and make amends,
as far as possible, for his wrongs. They would like to use you as a
means of dealing a destructive blow against Cazeneau himself.
Cazeneau's first plan was to put you out of the way on some charge of
treason; but now, of course, the charge against you will be attempt
at murder."

To all this Claude listened with much less interest than he would
have felt formerly. But the sentence of death seemed impending, and
it is not surprising that the things of this life seemed of small
moment.

"Well," said he, with a sigh, "I'm much obliged to you for telling me
all this; but it makes very little difference to me now."

"Wait till you have heard all," said the priest. "I have come here
for something more; but it was necessary to tell you all this at the
first. I have now to tell you that--your position is full of hope; in
fact--" Here the priest put his head close to Claude's ear, and
whispered, "I have come to save you."

"What!" cried Claude.

The priest placed his hand on Claude's mouth.

"No one is listening; but it is best to be on our guard," he
whispered. "Yes, I can save you, and will. This very night you shall
be free, on your way to join your friend, the captain. To-day I
received a message from him by an Indian. He had reached Canso. I had
warned him to go there. The Indians went on board, and brought his
message. He will wait there for us."

At this intelligence, which to Claude was unexpected and amazing, he
could not say one word, but sat with clasped hands and a face of
rapture. But suddenly a thought came to his mind, which disturbed his
joy.

"Mimi--what of her?"

"You must go alone," said the priest.

Claude's face grew dark. He shook his head.

"Then I will not go at all."

"Not go! Who is she--do you know? She is the daughter of Laborde, the
man who ruined your father."

Claude compressed his lips, and looked with fixed determination at
the priest.

"She is not to blame," said he, "for her father's faults. She has
never known them, and never shall know them. Bes