and saw Rose kneeling by his side—when
he felt the calmness of the solemn night
and the still sea filling his heart—when the
sounds of the first prayers spoke with a dread
spiritual language of their own to his soul—
then, the remembrance of the confession
which he had neglected, and the terror of
receiving unprepared the sacrament which he
knew would be offered to him—grew too vivid
to be endured: the sense that he merited no
longer, though once worthy of it, the confidence
in his perfect truth and candour placed
in him by the woman with whom he was soon
to stand before the altar, overwhelmed him
with shame: the mere act of kneeling among
that congregation, the passive accomplice by
his silence and secresy, for aught he knew to
the contrary, of a crime which it was his
bounden duty to denounce, appalled him as if
he had already committed sacrilege that could
never be forgiven. Tears flowed down his
cheeks, though he strove to repress them: sobs
burst from him, though he tried to stifle them.
He knew that others besides Rose were looking
at him in astonishment and alarm; but he
could neither control himself, nor move to
eave his place, nor raise his eyes even—until
suddenly he felt a hand laid on his shoulder.
That touch, slight as it was, ran through him
instantly. He looked up, and saw Father
Paul standing by his side.

Beckoning to him to follow, and signing to
the congregation not to suspend their devotions,
he led Gabriel out of the assembly—
then paused for a moment, reflecting—then
beckoning again, took him into the cabin of
the ship, and closed the door carefully.

"You have something on your mind," he
said simply and quietly, taking the young
man by the hand. " I may be able to relieve
you, if you tell me what it is."

As Gabriel heard these gentle words, and
saw, by the light of a lamp which burnt
before a cross fixed against the wall, the sad
kindness of expression with which the priest
was regarding him, the oppression that had
lain so long on his heart seemed to leave it in
an instant. The haunting fear of ever
divulging his fatal suspicions and his fatal
secret had vanished, as it were, at the touch
of Father Paul's hand. For the first time,
he now repeated to another ear—the sounds
of prayer and praise rising grandly the while
from the congregation above—his grandfather's
death-bed confession, word for word
almost, as he had heard it in the cottage on
the night of the storm.

Once, and once only, did Father Paul interrupt
the narrative, which in whispers was addressed
to him. Gabriel had hardly repeated
the first two or three sentences of his grandfather's
confession, when the priest, in quick
altered tones, abruptly asked him his name
and place of abode. As the question was
answered, Father Paul's calm face became
suddenly agitated; but the next moment,
resolutely resuming his self-possession, he
bowed his head, as a sign that Gabriel was
to continue; clasped his trembling hands,
and raising them as if in silent prayer,
fixed his eyes intently on the cross. He
never looked away from it while the terrible
narrative proceeded. But when Gabriel
described his search at The Merchant's
Table; and, referring to his father's behaviour
since that time, appealed to the priest to
know whether he might, even yet, in defiance
of appearances, be still filially justified in
doubting whether the crime had really been
perpetrated—then Father Paul moved near
to him once more, and spoke again.

"Compose yourself, and look at me," he
said, with all and more than all his former
sad kindness of voice and manner. " I can
end your doubts for ever. Gabriel, your
father was guilty in intention and in act;
but the victim of his crime still lives. I can
prove it."

Gabriel's heart beat wildly; a deadly coldness
crept over him, as he saw Father Paul
loosen the fastening of his cassock round
the throat. At that instant the chanting of
the congregation above ceased; and then,
the sudden and awful stillness was deepened
rather than interrupted by the faint sound of
one voice praying. Slowly and with trembling
fingers the priest removed the band round
his neck—paused a little—sighed heavily—
and pointed to a scar which was now plainly
visible on one side of his throat. He said
something, at the same time; but the bell
above tolled while he spoke. It was the
signal of the elevation of the Host. Gabriel
felt an arm passed round him, guiding him to
his knees, and sustaining him from sinking to
the floor. For one moment longer he was
conscious that the bell had stopped, that there
was dead silence, that Father Paul was
kneeling by him beneath the cross, with
bowed head— then all objects around
vanished; and he saw and knew nothing
more.

When he recovered his senses, he was still
in the cabin—the man whose life his father
had attempted was bending over him, and
sprinkling water on his face—and the clear
voices of the women and children of the congregation
were joining the voices of the men
in singing the Agnus Dei.

"Look up at me without fear, Gabriel,"
said the priest. " I desire not to avenge
injuries: I visit not the sins of the father on
the child. Look up, and listen! I have
strange things to speak of; and I have a
sacred mission to fulfil before the morning, in
which you must be my guide."

Gabriel attempted to kneel and kiss his
hand, but Father Paul stopped him, and
said, pointing to the cross: " Kneel to that—
not to me: not to your fellow-mortal, and
your friend—for I will be your friend,
Gabriel; believing that God's mercy has
ordered it so. And now listen to me," he
proceeded, with a brotherly tenderness in his