and compassionate tones of those who themselves have passed through deep humiliation.  He so edified those who heard his words that some who had felt drawn to see the spectacle of a Christian’s death fell on their knees as he spoke of heavenly things, and of the infinite glory of God, and gave thanks and praise to Him.  If he is leaving no worldly wealth to his family, no family can possess a greater blessing than this that he surely gained for them, a soul among the blessed, who will watch over you all and direct you in the path to heaven.”

These words made such a vivid impression upon Castanier that he instantly hurried from the house to the Church of Saint-Sulpice, obeying what might be called a decree of fate.  Melmoth’s repentance had stupefied him.

At that time, on certain mornings in the week, a preacher, famed for his eloquence, was wont to hold conferences, in the course of which he demonstrated the truths of the Catholic faith for the youth of a generation proclaimed to be indifferent in matters of belief by another voice no less eloquent than his own.  The conference had been put off to a later hour on account of Melmoth’s funeral, so Castanier arrived just as the great preacher was epitomizing the proofs of a future existence of happiness with all the charm of eloquence and force of expression which have made him famous.  The seeds of divine doctrine fell into a soil prepared for them in the old dragoon, into whom the Devil had glided.  Indeed, if there is a phenomenon well attested by experience, is it not the spiritual phenomenon commonly called “the faith of the peasant”?  The strength of belief varies inversely with the amount of use that a man has made of his reasoning faculties.  Simple people and soldiers belong to the unreasoning class.  Those who have marched through life beneath the banner of instinct are far more ready to receive the light than minds and hearts overwearied with the world’s sophistries.

Castanier had the southern temperament; he had joined the army as a lad of sixteen, and had followed the French flag till he was nearly forty years old.  As a common trooper, he had fought day and night, and day after day, and, as in duty bound, had thought of his horse first, and of himself afterwards.  While he served his military apprenticeship, therefore, he had but little leisure in which to reflect on the destiny of man, and when he became an officer he had his men to think of.  He had been swept from battlefield to battlefield, but he had never thought of what comes after death.  A soldier’s life does not demand much thinking.  Those who cannot understand the lofty political ends involved and the interests of nation and nation; who cannot grasp political schemes as well as plans of campaign and combine the science of the tactician with that of the administrator, are bound to live in a state of ignorance; the most boorish peasant in the most backward district in France is scarcely in a worse case.  Such men as these bear