What was it, Gabriel? Something too
horrible to speak of? Is that what you're
whispering and trembling about? I said
nothing horrible. A crime? Bloodshed?
I know nothing of any crime or bloodshed
here—I must have been frightened
out of my wits to talk in that way! The
Merchant's Table? Only a big heap of old
stones! What with the storm, and thinking
I was going to die, and being afraid about
your father, I must have been light-headed.
Don't give another thought to that nonsense,
Gabriel! I'm better now. We shall all live
to laugh at poor grandfather for talking
nonsense about crime and bloodshed in his sleep.
Ah! poor old man—last night—light-headed
—fancies and nonsense of an old man—why
don't you laugh at it? I'm laughing—so
light-headed—so light—!"

He stopped suddenly. A low cry, partly
of terror and partly of pain, escaped him; the
look of pining anxiety and imbecile cunning
which had distorted his face while he had
been speaking, faded from it for ever. He
shivered a little—breathed heavily once or
twice—then became quite still. Had he died
with a falsehood on his lips?

Gabriel looked round, and saw that the
cottage-door was closed, and that his father
was standing against it. How long he had
occupied that position, how many of the old
man's last words he had heard, it was
impossible to conjecture, but there was a lowering
suspicion in his harsh face as he now looked
away from the corpse to his son, which made
Gabriel shudder; and the first question that
he asked, on once more approaching the
bedside, was expressed in tones which, quiet as
they were, had a fearful meaning in them.
"What did your grandfather talk about, last
night?" he asked.

Gabriel did not answer. All that he had
heard, all that he had seen, all the misery and
horror that might yet be to come, had stunned
his mind. The unspeakable dangers of his
present position were too tremendous to be
realised. He could only feel them vaguely as
yet in the weary torpor that oppressed his
heart: while in every other direction the use
of his faculties, physical and mental, seemed
to have suddenly and totally abandoned
him.

"Is your tongue wounded, son Gabriel, as
well as your arm?" his father went on, with
a bitter laugh. "I come back to you, saved by
a miracle; and you never speak to me. Would
you rather I had died than the old man
there? He can't hear you now—why
shouldn't you tell me what nonsense he was
talking last night?—You won't? I say, you
shall!" (He crossed the room and put his
back to the door.) "Before either of us leave
this place, you shall confess it! You know
that my duty to the Church bids me go at
once, and tell the priest of your grandfather's
death. If I leave that duty unfulfilled,
remember it is through your fault! You keep
me here—for here I stop till I am obeyed.
Do you hear that, idiot! Speak! Speak
instantly, or you shall repent it to the day of
your death! I ask again—what did your
grandfather say to you when he was wandering
in his mind, last night?"

"He spoke of a crime, committed by
another, and guiltily kept secret by him,"
answered Gabriel slowly and sternly. "And
this morning he denied his own words with
his last living breath. But last night, if he
spoke the truth—"

"The truth?" echoed Francois. "What
truth?" He stopped, his eyes fell, then
turned towards the corpse. For a few minutes
he stood steadily contemplating it; breathing
quickly, and drawing his hand several times
across his forehead. Then he faced his son
once more. In that short interval he had
become in outward appearance a changed
man: expression, voice, and manner, all were
altered. "Heaven forgive me!" he said,
"but I could almost laugh at myself, at this
solemn moment, for having spoken and acted
just now so much like a fool! Denied his
words, did he? Poor old man! they say sense
often comes back to light-headed people just
before death; and he is a proof of it. The
fact is, Gabriel, my own wits must have been
a little shaken—and no wonder:—by what I
went through last night and what I have
come home to this morning. As if you, or
anybody, could ever really give serious credit
to the wandering speeches of a dying old
man! (Where is Rose? Why did you send
her away?) I don't wonder at your still
looking a little startled, and feeling low in
your mind, and all that for you've had a
trying night of it; trying in every way. He
must have been a good deal shaken in his
wits, last night, between fears about himself,
and fears about me. (To think of my being
angry with you, Gabriel, for being a little
alarmed—very naturally—by an old man's
queer fancies!) Come out, Rose—come out
of the bedroom whenever you are tired of it:
you must learn sooner or later to look at
death calmly. Shake hands, Gabriel; and
let us make it up, and say no more about
what has passed. You won't? Still angry
with me for what I said to you just now?—
Ah! you'll think better abouf it, by the time
I return. Come out, Rose, we've no secrets
here."

"Where are you going to? " asked Gabriel,
as he saw his father hastily open the door.

"To tell the priest that one of his
congregation is dead, and to have the death
registered," answered François. "These are
my duties, and must be performed before I
take any rest."

He went out hurriedly, as he said these
words. Gabriel almost trembled at himself,
when he found that he breathed more freely,
that he felt less horribly oppressed both in
mind and body, the moment his father's back
was turned. Fearful as thought was now, it