roached. He too was
excited. He drew near, and stood behind me. I seemed to feel his breath
penetrate my skull; and yet I was forced to answer a whispered question
of Brother John's with a smooth face. I saw Edouard suddenly reach for
the milk glass in front of his plate, and hand it back to Abonus with
the disdain of a duchess. He said, in a sharp, peremptory tone:

"Take it away and cleanse it. No one but a dirty monk would place such a
glass on the table."

Albert ceased his reading. Abonus did not touch the glass. He shuffled
hastily to the side-board and deposited his burden. Then he came back
with the same eager movement. He placed his fists on his hips, like a
fish-woman, and hissed, in a voice choking with concentrated rage--

"No one but a woman would complain of it!"

The brothers stared at each other and the two speakers in mute surprise.
But they saw nothing in the words beyond a personal wrangle--though even
that was such a novelty as to arrest instant attention. I busied myself
with my plate. The Director assumed his harshest tone, and asked the
cause of the altercation. Abonus leaned over and whispered something in
his ear. I remember next a room full of confusion, a babel of
conflicting voices, and a whirling glimpse of uniforms. Then I fainted.

When I revived I was in my own room, stretched upon my pallet. I looked
around in a dazed way and saw the Brother Director and a young gendarme
by the closed door. Something black and irregular in the outline of the
bed at my side attracted my eyes. I saw that it was Edouard's head
buried in the drapery. As in a dream I laid my numb hand upon those
crisp curls. I was an old man, she a weak, wretched girl. She raised her
face at my touch, and burned in my brain a vision of stricken agony, of
horrible soul-pain, which we liken, for want of a better simile, to the
anguish in the eyes of a dying doe. Her lips moved; she said something,
I know not what. Then she went, and I was left alone with Elysee. His
words--broken, stumbling words--I remember:

"She asked to see you, Sebastian, my friend. I could not refuse. Her
papers were forged. She did come from Algiers, where her uncle is a
Capuchin. I do not ask, I do not wish to know, how much you know of
this. Before my Redeemer, I feel nothing but pity for the poor lamb. Lie
still, my friend; try to sleep. We are both older men than we were
yesterday."

There is little else to tell. Only twice have reflections of