“The fiend is on the wing again,” said Jean-Marie; “but as he passed I felt as if the finger of God touched my brow.  It can do us no harm.”

“I, too, felt that heavenly caress!” exclaimed the old priest.  “And I!” “And I!” “And I!” came from every grave but the baby’s.

The priest of earth, deeply thankful that his simple device had comforted them, went rapidly down the road to the castle.  He forgot that he had not broken his fast nor slept.  The count was one of the directors of the railroad, and to him he would make a final appeal.

It was early, but no one slept at Croisac.  The young countess was dead.  A great bishop had arrived in the night and administered extreme unction.  The priest hopefully asked if he might venture into the presence of the bishop.  After a long wait in the kitchen, he was told that he could speak with Monsieur l’Eveque.  He followed the servant up the wide spiral stair of the tower, and from its twenty-eighth step entered a room hung with purple cloth stamped with golden fleurs-de-lis.  The bishop lay six feet above the floor on one of the splendid carved cabinet beds that are built against the walls in Brittany.  Heavy curtains shaded his cold white face.  The priest, who was small and bowed, felt immeasurably below that august presence, and sought for words.

“What is it, my son?” asked the bishop, in his cold weary voice.  “Is the matter so pressing?  I am very tired.”

Brokenly, nervously, the priest told his story, and as he strove to convey the tragedy of the tormented dead he not only felt the poverty of his expression—­for he was little used to narrative—­but the torturing thought assailed him that what he said sounded wild and unnatural, real as it was to him.  But he was not prepared for its effect on the bishop.  He was standing in the middle of the room, whose gloom was softened and gilded by the waxen lights of a huge candelabra; his eyes, which had wandered unseeingly from one massive piece of carved furniture to another, suddenly lit on the bed, and he stopped abruptly, his tongue rolling out.  The bishop was sitting up, livid with wrath.

“And this was thy matter of life and death, thou prating madman!” he thundered.  “For this string of foolish lies I am kept from my rest, as if I were another old lunatic like thyself!  Thou art not fit to be a priest and have the care of souls.  To-morrow—­”

But the priest had fled, wringing his hands.

As he stumbled down the winding stair he ran straight into the arms of the count.  Monsieur de Croisac had just closed a door behind him.  He opened it, and, leading the priest into the room, pointed to his dead countess, who lay high up against the wall, her hands clasped, unmindful for evermore of the six feet of carved cupids and lilies that upheld her.  On high pedestals at head and foot of her magnificent couch the pale flames rose from tarnished golden candlesticks.  The blue hangings of the room, with their white fleurs-de-lis, were faded, like the rugs on the old dim floor; for the splendor of the Croisacs had departed with the Bourbons.  The count lived in the old chateau because he must; but he reflected bitterly to-night that if he had made the mistake of bringing a young girl to it, there were several things he might have done to save her from despair and death.