heaven!" Nor had he faltered while that heinous crime was committed, which called to Heaven for vengeance, the crime that could never hope for forgiveness, the sin against the Holy Ghost!

After that everything had been turmoil and confusion: he had tried to concentrate on his devotions, to recite the Prayers for the Dead, but all round him men shouted and women shrieked, and sacrilegious hands were laid on the dead body of his King. He tried to pray, for he was not afraid, although there were shouts of "A la lanterne, le calotin!" He was not afraid. He was ready to follow the son of St. Louis on the path to heaven. Rough hands seized him, and dragged him down the steps of the guillotine. Hideous faces leered at him from above. He must have partly lost consciousness when he felt himself raised on powerful shoulders and thought that he was being taken straight to the nearest lamp-post with a halter round his neck.

The next thing he remembered was walking through the fog, in company with a man who held him up while he walked: the man, apparently, who had rescued him from the howling mob. And then the warmth and comfort of this hospitable house: kind voices uttering words of welcome, a warm drink, a bed on which to stretch his aching limbs. And now this kind old man telling him that all was well: powerful friends would take him to La Rodière where he would be received with open arms, and where he could remain until such time as a more permanent refuge could be found for him. The abbé was bewildered. Who, he asked, were those wonderful friends who had rescued him at peril of their own lives, and now continued their work of mercy? But Levet couldn't tell him. He spoke vaguely of a man who was professor at a university and seemed to have marvellous courage, and limitless resources. He himself had only known him a little while. Who he was, he couldn't say. He came and went mysteriously and equally mysteriously would invariably be on the spot when innocent men, women or children's lives were threatened. His dead wife had looked upon the man as a messenger from heaven. There was no time to say more just now. Old Levet urged the abbé to hurry.

A moment or two later he was standing once again at the gate of his house, watching three figures move away up the road. They looked like

shadows in the fog. One of them was the Abbé Edgeworth. Levet didn't know the others. They had spoken to him in French, bringing a message from that mysterious Professor whom his dead wife had looked on as a messenger from heaven.

"Be sure," the priest had said when he finally took leave of his kind host, "be sure that he has a mandate from God."

These two who were emissaries of the Professor, had spoken French with a foreign accent. Levet thought they must have been English. But then it seemed incredible that foreigners would take any interest in the sufferings of Frenchmen who were loyal to their King. Englishmen especially. Why should they care? This awful revolution over here had nothing to do with them. Some people went so far as to assert that the English would soon declare war against France that is to say, not against France but against this abominable Republic which had established itself on a foundation of outrage and murder. Anyway, it was all quite inexplicable. Old Levet went indoors, very perplexed and shaking his head. He went straight into the room where his wife lay dead. Earlier in the day he had helped his daughter to set lighted candles at the head and foot of the bed and to dispose sprays of some everlasting shrub round the inert body of her who had been his life's companion for twenty-five years. Her hands were now reverently clasped round a crucifix.

Augustin was still in the room when Levet entered. He was talking in a subdued tone to a tall young man who had a tablet in his hand on which he was apparently making notes with a point of black lead. He was dressed in black from head to foot, with plain white frills at throat and wrists: he wore high boots, and his own hair, innocent of wig, was tied at the nape of the neck with a black bow. Apparently Levet knew that he was there, for he took no notice of him when he entered the room.

The young man, however, at once put tablet and pencil into his pocket and turned as if to go.

"Don't go, Pradel," Levet said curtly; "supper will be ready directly."

"If you will pardon me, Monsieur Levet," the other responded, "I will just say good night to Mademoiselle Blanche. I have been summoned to the château, and am already rather late.

"Some one ill up there?" the old man queried.

"Seemingly."

"Who is it?"

"They didn't tell me. Monsieur le Marquis's pet dog perhaps," the young doctor added with stinging bitterness, "or his favourite horse."

Levet made no remark on this. He moved to his wife's bedside, and Simon Pradel after bidding him and Augustin good night, went out of the room.

Blanche was in the sitting-room, apparently waiting for him.

"You are not going, Simon?" she asked eagerly as soon as he came through the door.

"I am afraid I must, Mademoiselle."

"Can't you stay and have supper with us?" she insisted so earnestly this time, that her voice shook a little and a few tears gathered in her eyes.

"I am sorry," he replied gently, "but I really must go."

"Why?"

He gave a slight shrug. "Professional visit, Mademoiselle," he said.

"You are going to the château," she retorted.

"What makes you say that?" he countered with a smile.

"You have your best clothes on, and your finest linen."

His smile broadened. It was a pleasant smile, which lent to his somewhat stern face a great deal of charm. He looked down ruefully at his well-worn suit of black.

"I have only this one," he said, "and I have great regard for clean linen."

Blanche said nothing for a moment or two. She was very obviously fighting a wave of emotion which caused her lips to quiver, and tears to gather thick and fast in her eyes. And all at once she moved up, close to him, and placed a hand on his arm.

"Don't go to the château, Simon," she entreated.

"My dear, I must. Madame la Marquise might be ill. Besides . . ."

"Besides what?" And as Simon didn't reply to this challenge, she went on vehemently: "You only go there because you hope to have a word or two with Cécile de la Rodière. You, a distinguished medical man, with medals and degrees from the great universities of Europe, you demean yourself by attending on these people's horses and dogs like any common veterinary lout. Have you no pride, Simon? And all the time you must know that that aristocrat's daughter can never be anything to you."

Pradel remained silent during this vehement tirade. He appeared detached and indifferent, as if the girl's lashing words were not addressed to him. Only the smile had vanished from his face leaving it rather pale and stern. When Blanche had finished speaking, chiefly because the words were choked in her throat, she sank into a chair and dissolved in tears. She cried and sobbed in a veritable paroxism of grief. Pradel waited in silence till the worst of that paroxism had passed, then he said gently:

"Mademoiselle Blanche, I am sure you meant kindly by me, when you struck at me with so much contempt and cruelty. I assure you that I bear you no ill-will for what you said just now. With your permission I will call in to-night on my way back from the château to see how your dear father is bearing up. Frankly, I am a little anxious about him. He is no age, but he has a tired heart, and he has had a great deal to endure to-day. Good night, Mademoiselle."