Jean thoughtfully; "perhaps that is so. It would be
better maybe to leave it for Father Anton."

A wan smile came to Gaston's lips.

"Father Anton will not touch it either, Jean."

And then Jean, with a sudden start, stared into the other's eyes.

"It is destiny!" said Gaston slowly. "Did you, too, like Marie-Louise,
think it was for that I sent for the good father? It is the priest and
Mother Church I need, there is no doctor that could help."

"But, no!" Jean protested anxiously. "You must not talk like that,
Gaston! It is not so! Wait! You will see! Father Anton will tell
you that in a few days you will be strong again. It is the weakness
now."

Gaston shook his head.

"You are a brave man, Jean, but I, too, am brave--and I am not
afraid--not afraid for myself--it is for Marie-Louise--it is for that I
kept you here and sent her for Father Anton. I know--something is hurt
inside--I am bleeding there."

And now Jean made no answer--no words would come. The utter weakness
in the voice, the feeble movements of the hands, the greyer pallor in
the other's face seemed to dawn upon him with its full significance for
the first time--and for a moment it seemed to stun and bewilder him.

"It is destiny!" said Gaston again. "Listen! It is fourteen years
since Rene, my brother, Marie-Louise's father, was drowned on the
Perigeau. I swore that night that through neither God nor devil should
another lose his life as Rene had--and for fourteen years I burned the
light, and laughed at the Perigeau as it gnawed its teeth in the
storms." He stopped, and touched his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"It is the hand of God," he whispered hoarsely, "The light is out--and
it is the Perigeau again."

Jean pulled the chair closer to the bed, and took one of Gaston's hands.

"It means nothing that, Gaston," he said, trying to control his voice.
"It is bad to think such thoughts--and of what good are they? You must
not think of that. Tell me what happened, how you and Marie-Louise
came to be out there to-night."

Gaston lay quiet for a little while--so long that Jean thought the
other had not heard the question. Then the old fisherman spoke again.

"Marie-Louise will tell you. I have other things to say, and I have
not strength enough for all. It is hard to talk. Give me the cognac
again, Jean."

He drank almost greedily this time, and, as Jean held up his head that
he might do so the more readily, the grim