again immediately; and that, as she read "_Erant
autem et mulieres de longe aspicientes_." "There were also women looking
on afar off."

And so the tale crept on, minute by minute, and the priest lay with
closed eyes to hear it; until the mocking was complete, and the darkness
of the sixth hour had come and gone, and the Saviour had cried aloud on
His Father, and given up the ghost; and the centurion that stood by had
borne witness. And the great Criminal slept in the garden, in the
sepulchre "wherein was never man yet laid."

There was a listening silence as the voice ceased without another falter.
Isabel laid the book down and looked at him again; and his eyes opened
languidly.

He had not yet said more than single words, and even now his voice was so
faint that she had to put her ear close to his mouth. It seemed to her
that his soul had gone into some inner secret chamber of profound peace,
so deep that it was a long and difficult task to send a thought to the
surface through his lips.

She could just hear him, and she answered clearly and slowly as to a
dazed child, pausing between every word.

"I cannot get a priest; it is not allowed."

Still his eyes bent on her; what was it he said? what was it?...

Then she heard, and began to repeat short acts of contrition clearly and
distinctly, pausing between the phrases, in English, and his eyes closed
as she began:

"O my Jesus--I am heartily sorry--that I have--crucified thee--by my
sins--Wash my soul--in Thy Precious Blood. O my God--I am sorry--that I
have--displeased Thee--because thou art All-good. I hate all the
sins--that I have done--against Thy Divine Majesty."

And so phrase after phrase she went on, giving him time to hear and to
make an inner assent of the will; and repeating also other short vocal
prayers that she knew by heart. And so the delicate skein of prayer rose
from the altar where this morning sacrifice lay before God, waiting the
consummation of His acceptance.

Presently she ended, and he lay again with closed eyes and mute face.
Then again they opened, and she bent down to listen....

"It will all be well with me," she answered, raising her head again.
"Mistress Margaret has written from Brussels. I shall go there for a
while.... Yes, Mr. Buxton will take me; next week: he goes to Normandy,
to his estate."

Again his lips moved and she listened....

A faint flush came over her face. She shook her head.

"I do not know; I think