The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1893-12-20

Nndl 90 YOU want Win me so late
asked de Jacquemard, who did not rec
ognize his visitor. but thought he must
have brought d summons to some DEATH
bed or hurried baptism.
Il would confess, father" was the an
swer in a surly tone.
Il do not usually hear confessions at
this hour. Would not the morning do
as well? Come early, before mass, and
/ will hear you
'No. the morning would not do as well
for me. VIII you hear me or nor
Struck with the strangeness of the
mans tone, Armand recollected the
locked doors. and the wonder flashed
across his mind how could the fellow
have made his way in. But he could
not refuse such a request however in
opportunely made, so he entered the
confessional and proceeded to put the
usual questions The penitent put these
aside unanswered and proceeded to tell
his story in his own way. AS he list
ened the priest felt his heart stand
still; a cold shudder ran over him; his
hair bristled upon his head: was this
the answer to his prayers?
The man stated that he was a sailor,
that he belonged to Plougallec. and had
known Mother Nedelec and her boarding
ways of old Then he went on to relate
in a hoarse, rapid whisper how he had
been coming home on foot across the
mountains after long voyage, penni-
at BreSt; how, as he passed the cottage
at the head Of the gorge, the thought
had come to him how lonesome II was,
how easy IL would be to overcome the
old woman's feeble resistance, and pos
sess himself Of her savings; how he had
entered the cottage and struck her down
with a cowardly blow from behind, be-
fore she had time TO turn or cry, and
had left her lying there in her blood.
Then he stopped, and the priest. who
had listened as one paralyzed, cried out:
You must give yourself up to justice;
it is the only expiation you can make.
Do you know that an innocent man is
suffering for your crime? Will you con-
fess this publicly tomorrow
Nay. have done enough" was the
answer. Take the money"
All this time he had held his primitive
purse fast in his hand. Now he poured
out the gold coins into his left, and
flung them on the ledge in front of the
confessional with such force that several
pieces bounded off and rolled upon the
floor. The thought darted into Armand's
mind, as he stopped to gather them up,
how Judas cast down the pieces of
money in the temple. He was not stoop-
ing more than a moment, but when he
raised his head his strange penitent was
gone
The church was very dark; only the
hanging lamps before the altar cast here
a
Armand FASTENED down the aisle to the
west door, but ii was locked. The man
might be lurking in the south porch,
hidden In the shadow of the deep inter-
secting arches; but no, that door too
was fast. lie retracted his steps and
looked into the sacristy; no one was
there. He tried the handle, fancying
he might have been mistaken in think
ing he heard the key turn in the lock,
but IL would not yield. Could the
II 4
from the time Of evening service? He
took a lantern from a shelf, lighted it,
and explored every corner. All in vain;
however he had accomplished it, the
man had made good his escape. Ar
mand then looked at the money in his
hand. There were seventeen gold pieces;
sixteen were Napoleons, and the seven
teenth was an old Spanish doubloon.
Having counted them carefully, he put
them into a small iron box, at present
empty, which he used for keeping aims
for special purposes, and locked the box
safely away in a strong cupboard in the
wall This done, he unlocked the sacris-
ty door and let himself out, fastening it
again behind him.
1t was a wild and clustering night, but
the rough wind was grateful to his fe-
verish blood. He was agitated and per-
picked, and for hours he paced up and
down his room, distracted as to what
could be done. 1t was an agonizing sit
uatiOn; to know the truth and to be ut
terly poWerlesS to act: to have a clew,
and to feel that in following it he would
be committing mortal sin, was torture
unutterable. Only the faint hope re-
NAMED; the mans own conscience, not
wholly dead, might drive him into CIV
ing himself up to justice, now that he
knew that an innocent man was about
to suffer for his crime. 1t was possible;
but was it likely? His sudden disap-
pearance looked rather as though his
confession had been repented of as soon
as made.
Dawn came at last, and Armand threw
himself on his bed to rest his limbs for
an hour or so, though with little hope
of sleep. Wearied out as he was, slum-
Der fell on him suddenly and he found
himself walking near the scene Of the
murder, but away from the cottage,
through the gorge toward the Devils
cauldrOn. 1t was very dark and he was
alone; he wished to turn back, but could
not: he kept clambering over the great
powders, trying to get away, and ali
the time feeling himself drawn nearer
and nearer to the chasm. The struggle
was so great that he woke, to find him.
self clutchins the edge Of his wooden
bedstead in an agoniZed grip. Such
sleep was worse than waking; he re-
sumed his walk. and till far on into the
morning paced up and down the narrow
room. trying to calm his agitated
the confession had been almost involun-
tary. wrung by stress of remorse from
tortured soul and that already the
guilty man had fed. There seemed but
little probability either that he would
give himself up or that anything would
happen to reveal the truth in the little
time that yet remained. For himself
Armand was powerless: his lips were
sealed; this knowledge must be 10 him
as though he had 1t not.
In the course of the day a message
came requesting the priest to visit an
old bed-ridden parishioner Loic Goan by
name. living in lonely part of the hills
NOT far from the cottage of Mother Nede-
lee. His ministratiOns over, Armand
was about to leave the room, when the
old man beckoned him back mysterious
Nv. and signed TO him to stoop down his
ear to his lips.
Have you heard anything of my son
down in the village, my father" he
asked In a loud whisper, though there
was no one within hearing.
Your son? I don't think know him.
I did not even know you had son"
answered De Jacquemard.
well I have not seen him these five
years" said the old man; and it is not
that l want him; / would sooner that
he kept away. He has been a bad son,
and the truth is l am afraid Of him; but
they say he has been seen near here,
and l can't rest till | know. The last
] heard of him he had gone on a voyage
to China, but he would be back by this
time. He must know that it's no use