m?"

Again she made no answer, but inarticulate moans.

Peter stood looking at her for a few seconds with an indescribable
expression of sorrow and aversion.

"I loved thee," he said; and turning away, left her.

CHAPTER III.

Peter went out in the evening without speaking to Louise again, and was
not seen till the following afternoon, when he called his mate to go
mackerel-fishing, and they were absent two days getting a great haul. He
came back and slept at Mesurier's, and did not go near his own home for
a week, though he sent money to Louise, when he sold the fish.

At the end of that time he went over to Jean's. The stranger had gone,
but Peter sat down on a stool opposite Jean, and began to enter into
conversation with him, with a more settled look in his hollow eyes than
had been there since the catastrophe of the week before. The meeting on
the cliff had been seen by more than one passerby, and the report had
spread that Peter had nearly murdered the stranger for intriguing with
his wife. Jean told Peter all he knew of the man, but he neither knew
his business nor whence he came. He said his name was Jacques, and would
give no other. He had gone to the nearest inland town, where he said
that a relation of his kept an "auberge." He had gone in a hurry, and
had left some bottles and things behind, containing the stuff he rubbed
his leg with, Jean thought; and Jean meant to take them to him when next
he went to the town.

"By the way," he said, taking a little book from the shelf, "I believe
this belonged to him too. I remember to have seen him more than once
poring over it with them close-seeing eyes of his. The man was a rare
scholar, and no mistake."

Peter took the little book from him, and opened it. Jean, glancing at
him as he did so, uttered an exclamation. A deadly paleness had
overspread Peter's face, and he clutched with his hand in the air, as
though for something to steady himself with. Then he staggered to his
feet, still tightly grasping the little book, and saying something
unintelligible, went out.

He went down the cliff to the place where, a week ago, he had found his
wife and the stranger, and stood under the rock, and looked at the book.
He looked at it still closed in his hand, as if it were some venomous
creature, which might, the next moment, dart forth a poisoned fang to
sting him. From the cover it appeared to be a little, much-worn
prayer-book. Presently he opened it gingerly,