a choking voice.

"It is well, then," Gaston murmured--and lay back upon the bed.

For a little while, Jean, dim-eyed, watched the other, a hundred
reminiscences of their work together stabbing at his heart, and then he
rose and began to remove what he could of the old fisherman's clothing.

"I will not touch the wound, Gaston," he said; "but the boots, _mon
brave_, and--"

Gaston did not answer. He appeared to have sunk into a semi-stupor,
from which even the removal of his clothes did not arouse him. Jean
pulled a blanket up around the other's form, and sat down again in the
chair.

Once, as Gaston muttered, Jean leaned forward toward the other.

"It is destiny--the Perigeau--the light is out--Rene, it is--" The
words trailed off into incoherency.

The minutes passed. Occasionally, with a spoon now, Jean poured a few
drops of brandy between Gaston's lips; otherwise, he sat there, his
head in his hands, tight-lipped, staring at the floor. Outside, that
vicious howl of wind seemed to have died away--perhaps it was hushed
because old Gaston was like this--Marie-Louise had been gone a long
time--presently she and Father Anton would be back, and--

He looked up to find Gaston's eyes open and fixed upon him feverishly,
the lips struggling to say something.

"What is it, Gaston?" he asked.

"The light, Jean," Gaston whispered. "It is--for--the last time. Go
and--light--the--great lamp."

"Yes, Gaston," Jean answered, and went from the room--but at the door
he covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook like a
child whose heart is broken, as his feet in that outer room crunched on
the shattered glass of the lamp that would never burn again. He dashed
the tears from his eyes, and for a moment stared unseeingly before him,
then turned and went back to Gaston's side again in the inner room.

Gaston's eyes searched his face eagerly.

"It burns?" he cried out.

"It burns," said Jean steadily.

And Gaston smiled, and the stupor fell upon him again.

And then after a long time Jean heard footsteps without, then the
opening of the front door--and then it seemed to Jean that a
benediction had fallen upon the room.

Framed in the doorway, a little worn black bag in his hand, his
_soutane_ splashed high with mud though it was caught up now around his
waist with a cord, stood Father Anton, the beloved of all
Bernay-sur-Mer. And, as he stood there and the kindly blue eyes
searched the figure on