ghter went to
her side.

"Do not disturb her," said Sanselme, "she is asleep."

For the first time the girl looked him full in the face. "You are very
kind," she said. "You knew my mother then?"

"Oh! no," answered Sanselme, eagerly, "but you are very tired, and some
one must stay with her to-night."

He spoke with a certain hesitation, as if he were telling a falsehood.
The girl was too innocent to notice this manner.

"If my mother wakes you will call me. Poor mamma! she is so kind."

"I will call you, I give you my word," Sanselme answered.

And the girl left the room, and in some ten minutes Sanselme heard her
regular breathing; tired Nature asserted herself.

Then he turned to the bed. From the rooms below came shrill laughter and
the rattle of glasses. They cared little down there whether this poor
creature lived or died. She was dying, of this Sanselme felt sure. He
began to walk up and down the room, occasionally stopping at the side of
the bed, as if seeking to discover in this pale, drawn face some
forgotten image.

It was very cold, and the light was dim; by degrees the house became
quiet. He sat in the one chair in the room buried in thought. Suddenly
the sick woman began to toss on her bed. He went to her, and said,
gently, "Are you in pain?"

"No."

"Then try to sleep."

"Sleep!" repeated the poor creature, and then, without any apparent
reason, she said to herself, over and over again, "Accursed! Accursed!"

Then she began to whisper. She raised herself in her bed, and was
terrible to look upon. "I was a good girl," she said, "more than that, I
was an innocent one. I used to go to confession. I was told to do so."

Sanselme listened with beads of sweat on his brow. He determined to
drink the cup to the dregs. "Yes," he said, "go on. It was at Selzheim."

"Selzheim! yes. Oh! how sweet it was there. There was a mountain, and a
lovely brook where I bathed my feet when I was a little thing."

"And a Square and a fountain," whispered Sanselme.

"Yes, how gay it was there, when we all played together. And then he
came, all in black. We thought him so kind and good. He was the cure,
you know."

Sanselme started back.

"And when he said to me, 'Jane, why do you not come to confession?' I
told him the truth, and said it was because I had nothing to confess."

"Go on! go on!" said Sanselme.

Further doubt was impossible, he was himself the infamous priest. He
fell on his knees, and sobbed