you. I charge you again, Name the man who
killed him."

"I will die first," the priest reiterated, as
firmly as before.

"Die then!" said Jean. "Die in that
caldron of boiling oil."

"Give him time," cried Louis and Thomas
earnestly pleading together.

"We will give him time," said the younger
brother. "There is the clock yonder, against
the wall. We will count five minutes by it. In
those five minutes, let him make his peace with
God—or make up his mind to speak.

They waited, watching the clock. In that
dreadful interval, the priest dropped on his
knees and hid his face. The time passed in dead
silence.

"Speak! for your own sake, for our sakes,
speak!" said Thomas Siadoux, as the minute
hand reached the point at which the five minutes
expired.

The priest looked up—his voice died away
on his lips—the mortal agony broke out on his
face in great drops of sweat—his head sank
forward on his breast.

"Lift him!" cried Jean, seizing the priest
on one side. "Lift him, and throw him in!"

The two elder brothers advanced a step—and
hesitated.

"Lift him, on your oath over our father's
body!"

The two brothers seized him on the other
side. As they lifted him to a level with the
caldron, the horror of the death that threatened
him, burst from the lips of the miserable man in
a scream of terror. The brothers held him firm
at the caldron's edge. "Name the man!"
they said for the last time.

The priest's teeth chattered—he was speechless.
But he made a sign with his head—a
sign in the affirmative. They placed him in a
chair, and waited patiently until he was able to
speak.

His first words were words of entreaty. He
begged Thomas Siadoux to give him back the
crucifix. When it was placed in his possession,
he kissed it, and said faintly, "I ask pardon of
God for the sin that I am about to commit."
He paused; and then looked up at the younger
brother, who still stood in front of him. "l am
ready," he said. "Question me, and I will
answer."

Jean repeated the questions which he had put,
when the priest was first brought into the room.

"You know the murderer ot our father?"

"I know him."

"Since when?"

"Since he made his confession to me yesterday,
in the cathedral of Toulouse."

"Name him."

"His name is Cantegrel."

"The man who wanted to marry our aunt?"

"The same."

"What brought him to the confessional?"

"His own remorse."

"What were the motives for his crime?"

"There were reports against his character;
and he discovered that your father had gone
privately to Narbonne to make sure that they
were true."

"Did our father make sure of their truth?"

"He did."

"Would those discoveries have separated our
aunt from Cantegrel if our father had lived to
tell her of them?'

"They would. If your father had lived, he
would have told your aunt that Cantegrel was
married already; that he had deserted his wife
at Narbonne; that she was living there with
another man, under another name; and that
she had herself confessed it in your father's
presence."

"Where was the murder committed?"

"Between Villefranche and this village.
Cantegrel had followed your father to Narbonne;
and had followed him back again to
Villefranche. As far as that place he travelled
in company with others, both going and returning.
Beyond Villefranche, he was left alone at
the ford over the river. There, Cantegrel drew
the knife to kill him, before he reached home
and told his news to your aunt."

"How was the murder committed?"

"It was committed while your father was
watering his pony by the bank of the stream.
Cantegrel stole on him from behind, and struck
him as he was stooping over the saddle-bow."

"This is the truth, on your oath?"

"On my oath, it is the truth?"

"You may leave us."

The priest rose from his chair without assistance.
From the time when the terror of death
had forced him to reveal the murderer's name, a
great change had passed over him. He had given
his answers with the immovable calmness of a
man on whose mind all human interests had lost
their hold. He now left the room, strangely
absorbed in himself; moving with the mechanical
regularity of a sleep-walker; lost to all
perception of things and persons about him. At
the door he stopped—woke, as it seemed, from
the trance that possessed him—and looked at the
three brothers with a steady changeless sorrow,
which they had never seen in him before, which
they never afterwards forgot.

"I forgive you," he said, quietly and solemnly.
"Pray for me, when my time comes."

With those last words, he left them.

                        IV.
                 THE END.

THE night was far advanced; but the three
Brothers determined to set forth instantly for
Toulouse, and to place their information the
magistrate's hands, before the morning dawned.

Thus far, no suspicion had occurred to them
of the terrible consequences which were to
follow their night-interview with the priest. They
were absolutely ignorant of the punishment
to which a man in holy orders exposed himself,
if he revealed the secrets of the confessional.
No infliction of that punishment had been