“My father,” he said, in a voice that nevertheless trembled, “no one is more innocent than I of the blood shed—­”

“I believe it!” said the priest.

He paused a moment, during which he examined afresh his penitent; then, persisting in the belief that he was one of those timid members of the Assembly who sacrificed the inviolate and sacred head to save their own, he resumed in a grave voice:—­

“Reflect, my son, that something more than taking no part in that great crime is needed to absolve from guilt.  Those who kept their sword in the scabbard when they might have defended their king have a heavy account to render to the King of kings.  Oh, yes,” added the venerable man, moving his head from right to left with an expressive motion; “yes, heavy, indeed! for, standing idle, they made themselves the accomplices of a horrible transgression.”

“Do you believe,” asked the stranger, in a surprised tone, “that even an indirect participation will be punished?  The soldier ordered to form the line—­do you think he was guilty?”

The priest hesitated.  Glad of the dilemma that placed this puritan of royalty between the dogma of passive obedience, which according to the partisans of monarchy should dominate the military system, and the other dogma, equally imperative, which consecrates the person of the king, the stranger hastened to accept the hesitation of the priest as a solution of the doubts that seemed to trouble him.  Then, so as not to allow the old Jansenist time for further reflection, he said quickly:—­

“I should blush to offer you any fee whatever in acknowledgment of the funeral service you have just celebrated for the repose of the king’s soul and for the discharge of my conscience.  We can only pay for inestimable things by offerings which are likewise beyond all price.  Deign to accept, Monsieur, the gift which I now make to you of a holy relic; the day may come when you will know its value.”

As he said these words he gave the ecclesiastic a little box of light weight.  The priest took it as it were involuntarily; for the solemn tone in which the words were uttered, and the awe with which the stranger held the box, struck him with fresh amazement.  They re-entered the outer room, where the two nuns were waiting for them.

“You are living,” said the unknown, “in a house whose owner, Mucius Scaevola, the plasterer who lives on the first floor, is noted in the Section for his patriotism.  He is, however, secretly attached to the Bourbons.  He was formerly huntsman to Monseigneur the Prince de Conti, to whom he owes everything.  As long as you stay in this house you are in greater safety than you can be in any other part of France.  Remain here.  Pious souls will watch over you and supply your wants; and you can await without danger the coming of better days.  A year hence, on the 21st of January” (as he uttered these last words he could not repress an involuntary shudder), “I shall return to celebrate once more the Mass of expiation—­”