on, believed
would be "to-morrow." Perhaps the air, the food, and life of Bonaventure
were the one medicine he needed!

But, in the moment Nicolas said to him that Bonaventure was just over
the hill, that they would be able to see it now, he had a sudden feeling
of depression. He felt that he would give anything to turn back. A
perspiration broke out on his forehead and his cheek. His eyes had a
wavering, anxious look. Some of that old sanity of the once healthy man
was making a last effort for supremacy, breaking in upon illusive hopes
and irresponsible deceptions.

It was only for a moment. Presently, from the top of the hill, they
looked down upon the long line of little homes lying along the banks of
the river like peaceful watchmen in a pleasant land, with corn and wine
and oil at hand. The tall cross on the spire of the Parish Church was
itself a message of hope. He did not define it so; but the impression
vaguely, perhaps superstitiously, possessed him. It was this vague
influence, perhaps (for he was not a Catholic), which made him
involuntarily lift his hat, as did Nicolas, when they passed a calvary;
which induced him likewise to make the sacred gesture when they met a
priest, with an acolyte and swinging censer, hurrying silently on to
the home of some dying parishioner. The sensations were different from
anything he had known. He had been used to the Catholic religion in
Ireland; he had seen it in France, Spain, Italy and elsewhere; but
here was something essentially primitive, archaically touching and
convincing.

His spirits came back with a rush; he had a splendid feeling of
exaltation. He was not religious, never could be, but he felt religious;
he was ill, but he felt that he was on the open highway to health; he
was dishonest, but he felt an honest man; he was the son of a peer, but
he felt himself brother to the fat miller by the roadway, to Baby, the
postmaster and keeper of the bridge, to the Regimental Surgeon, who
stood in his doorway, pulling at his moustache and blowing clouds of
tobacco smoke into the air.

Shangois, the notary, met his eye as they dashed on. A new
sensation--not a change in the elation he felt, but an instant's
interruption--came to him. He asked who Shangois was, and Nicolas told
him.

"A notary, eh?" he remarked gaily. "Well, why does he disguise himself?
He looks like a ragpicker, and has the eye of Solomon and the devil in
one. He ought to be in some Star Chamber--P