h my head. I could
say nothing. But a strange impulse prompted me to reach out and take
his hot hand in mine. It was piteous to hear him sobbing, his head upon
his raised arm, his whole frame quivering with emotion. I had never
seen any one weep like that before. So I sat dumb, trying in vain to
answer this bewildering self-accusation. At last there came out of the
folds of the chair the words, faint and tear-choked:

"You have promised me secrecy, and you will keep your word; but you
will hate me."

"Why, no, no, Edouard, not hate you," I answered, scarcely knowing what
I said. I did not comprehend it at all. There was nothing more for me
to say. Finally, when some power of thought returned, I asked:

"Of all things, my poor boy, why should you choose such a dreary life
as this? What possible reason led you to enter the community? What
attractions has it for you?"

Edouard turned again from the fire to me. His eyes sparkled. His teeth
were tight set.

"Why? Why? I will tell you why, Brother Sebastian. Can you not
understand how a poor hunted beast should rejoice to find shelter in
such an out-of-the-way place, among such kind men, in the grave of this
cloister life? I have not told you half enough. Do you not know in the
outside world, in Toulon, or Marseilles, or that fine Paris of yours,
there is a price on my head?--or no, not that, but enemies that are
looking for me, searching everywhere, turning every little stone for
the poor privilege of making me suffer? And do you know that these
enemies wear shakos, and are called gens d'armes? Would you be pleased
to learn that it is a prison I escape by coming here? _Now_, will you
hate me?"

The boy had risen from his chair. He spoke hurriedly, almost
hysterically, his eyes snapping at mine like coals, his curls
disheveled, his fingers curved and stiffened like the talons of a hawk.
I had never seen such intense earnestness in a human face. Passions
like these had never penetrated the convent walls before.

While I sat dumb before him, Edouard left the room. I was conscious of
his exit only in a vague way. For hours I sat in my chair beside the
grate thinking, or trying to think. You can see readily that I was more
than a little perplexed. In the absence of Elysee, I was director. The
management of the house, its good fame, its discipline, all rested on
my shoulders. And to be confronted by such an abyss as this! I could do
absolutely nothing. The boy had tied my