The record-union., 1895-04-13

Cllne was Sllpplng by, ana tHer6 was no
help, no hope. He flung his whole soul
into the petition that some discovery
might be made in time.
lie was so lost in prayer that the sound
OF heavy footstep advancing up the aisle
did not at first surprise him; it reused
him from his abstraction, however, and
he rose to confront rough-looking man
In sailors dress, with a pale face and
tangled red beard. In his hand he car
ried long stocking of blue-gray wool
knotted to serve as purse.
what do you want with me so late?"
asked De Jacquemard, who did not rec
ognlze his visitor, but thought he must
have brought summons to some death
bed or hurried baptism.
Il would confess, father" was the an
swer in Surly tone.
Il do not usually hear confessions at
this hour. Would not the morning do as
well? Come early, before mass, and L
will hear YOU"
mo, the morning would not do as well
Tor 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
nave made his way in. But be could not
refuse such request, however inoppor-
tunely made, so he entered the confess
slonal and proceeded to put the usual
n6 put Ll0S6 aSlu6 ull-
answered, and proceeded to tell his story
in his own way. AS he listened 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
prayer?
The man stated that he was a sailor,
that ne belonged to Plougallec, and had
known Mother Nedelec and her boarding
ways of old. Then he went on to
relate III hoarse. rapid whisper how he
had been coming home on foot across
the mountains after long voyage, pen
niless, having squandered all his money
at Brest; how, as he passed the cottage
at the head OF the gorge, the thought had
come to him how lonesome it was, how
easy it would be to overcome the old
woman's feeble resistance, and possess
himself of her savings; how he had en-
tered the cottage and struck her down
with 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, he cried
out:
4ou 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? VIII you con-
fess this publicly morrow"
Nay, have done enough" was the
| answer. lake the money"
| All this time he had held his primitive
purse fast in his right 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 sew
eral pieces bounded off and rolled upon
the floor. The thought darted into Ar
| mands nina, as he stopped to gather
| them up, how Judas cast down the pieces
| of money in the Temple. He was not
STOPPING more than 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
and there a feeble and uncertain light.
| Armand hastened down the aisle 10 the
west door, but it 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. He, retraced his steps and looked
| into the sacristy; no one was there. He
! tried the handle, fancying he might have
! been mistaken in thinking he heard the
key turn in the lock, but it would not
yield. Could the stranger have been
| hidden in the church from the time OF
| evening service? He took lantern from
a shelf, lighted it, and explored every
| corner. All in vain; however he had ac.
compllshed 1t, the man had made good
! his escape Armand then looked at the
uOASy Al LIS uduOs 1u6r0 were seven
teen gold pieces; sixteen were Napoleons
and the seventeenth was an old Spanish
doubloon. Having counted them care
| fully, he put them into small iron box,
at present empty, which he used for
keeping aims for special purposes, and
| locked the box safely away in strong
cupboard in the wall. This done, he un-
locked the sacristy door and let himsel1
out, fastening it again behind him.
1T was q wild and blustarino NIGHT but
the rough wind was grateful to his fever
ish 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 stu
alton; to know the truth, and to be utterly
powerless to act; to have clue, and tc
feel that In following it he would be com
mitting a mortal SIN, was torture unut-
terable. Only one faint hope remained
the mans own conscience, not wholly
dead, might drive him into giving him
self up to justice, now that he knew thai
an innocent man was about to suffer toI
his crime. 1t was possible but was il
likely? His sudden disappearance looked
rather as though his confession had been
repeDted of so 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 o1
sleep. Wearied out as he was, slumb
l0Ii Oh ulIu anu D6 nli0-
| self walking near the scene of the mur-
der, but away from the cottage, through
the gorge towards the DEVILS Caldron
| 1t was very dark and he was alone; be
| wished to turn back, but could not; he
kept clam bering over the great powders
trying to get away, and all the time feel.
! ing himself drawn nearer and nearer tC
the chasm. The struggle was so grea
that he woke TO find himself clutchine
the edge of his wooden bedstead in al
agOnIZed grip. Such sleep was worse
! than waking; he resumed his walk and
till far on into the morning paced up and
down the narrow room trying to calm
his agitated thoughts. His haunting feal
was lest the confession had been almost
| involuntary, wrung by stress of remorse
from tortured soul, and that already
the guilty man had fled. 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 to him
as though he had it not.
In the course of the day a message
i came requesting the priest to visit al
old bedridden 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 nDOuU " leaNe bLe lOoh, Wn9n tDe
old man beckoned him back mysteri-
ously, 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 loud whisper, though there was nc
one within hearing.
Your son? l don't think 1 know him
l did not even know you had son." an.
swered De Jacquemard.
well, have not seen him these five
years." said the old man; land it is moi
that l want him; l would sooner that he
kept away. He has been a bad son, and
the truth is / am afraid of him; but they
say he has been near here, and [ cam
| rest TIL / KNOW. The last l heard %