Then there came the moment when I was compelled to say to him.  “I was married four years ago, and my husband is still living”—­a very bitter moment to me; perhaps more bitter than to him.  I knew we must see one another no more; and I who was so poor in friends, lost the dearest of them by those words.  That was a great shock to me.

But the next day came the second shock of meeting Kate Daltrey, my husband’s half-sister.  Martin had told me that there was a person in Guernsey who had traced my flight so far; but in my trouble and sorrow for him, I had not thought much of this intelligence.  I saw in an instant that I had lost all again, my safety, my home, my new friends.  I must flee once more, alone and unaided, leaving no trace behind me.  When old Mother Renouf, whom Tardif had set to watch me for very fear of this mischance, had led me away from Kate Daltrey to the cottage, I sought out Tardif at once.

He was down at the water’s edge, mending his boat, which lay with its keel upward.  He heard my footsteps among the pebbles, and turned round to greet me with one of his grave smiles, which had never failed me whenever I went to him.

“Mam’zelle is triste,” he said; “is there any thing I can do for you?”

“I must go away from here, Tardif,” I answered, with a choking voice.

A change swept quickly across his face, but he passed his hand for a moment over it, and then regarded me again with his grave smile.

“For what reason, mam’zelle?” he asked.

“Oh!  I must tell you every thing!” I cried.

“Tell me every thing,” he repeated; “it shall be buried here, in my heart, as if it was buried in the depths of the sea.  I will try not to think of it even, if you bid me.  I am your friend as well as your servant.”

Then leaning against his boat, for I could not control my trembling, I told him almost all about my wretched life, from which God had delivered me, leading me to him for shelter and comfort.  He listened with his eyes cast down, never once raising them to my face, and in perfect silence, except that once or twice he groaned within himself, and clinched his hard hands together.  I know that I could never have told my history to any other man as I told it to him, a homely peasant and fisherman, but with as noble and gentle a heart as ever beat.

“You must go,” he said, when I had finished.  His voice was hollow and broken, but the words were spoken distinctly enough for me to hear them.

“Yes, there is no help for me,” I answered; “there is no rest for me but death.”

“It would be better to die,” he said, solemnly, “than return to a life like that.  I would sooner bury you up yonder, in our little graveyard, than give you up to your husband.”

“You will help me to get away at once?” I asked.

“At once,” he repeated, in the same broken voice.  His face looked gray, and his mouth twitched.  He leaned against his boat, as if he could hardly stand; as I was doing myself, for I felt utterly weak and shaken.