“That, reverend father, is not always easy, as the French would tell you; but for me, here, it happens to be very easy indeed, seeing that I am the unworthy sinner you condescend to compliment.”

“You?” He drew back, incredulous.  “You?” he repeated, thrusting the book into his pocket and groping on the rocky soil beside him.  “The finger of God, then, is in this.  What have I done with my candle?  Ah, here it is.  Oblige me by holding it—­so—­while I strike a light.”  I heard the rattle of a tinder-box.  “They sell these candles”—­here he caught a spark and blew—­“they sell these candles at the castle above.  The quality is indifferent and the price excessive; but I wander at night and pick up those which the soldiers drop—­an astonishing number, I can assure you.  See, it is lit!” He stretched out a hand and took the candle from me.  “Be careful of your footsteps, for the floor is rough.”

“But, pardon me; before I follow, I have a right to know upon what business.”

He turned and peered at me, holding the candle high.  “You are suspicious,” he said, almost querulously.

“It goes with my trade.”

“I take you to one who will be joyful to see you.  Will that suffice, my son?”

“Your description, reverend father, would include many persons—­from the Duke of Ragusa downwards—­whom, nevertheless, I have no desire to meet.”

“Well, I will tell you, though I was planning it for a happy surprise.  This person is a kinsman of yours—­a Captain Alan McNeill.”

I stepped back a pace and eyed him.  “Then,” said I, “your story will certainly not suffice; for I know it to be impossible.  It was only last April that I took leave of Captain Alan McNeill on the road to Bayonne and close to the frontier.  He was then a prisoner under escort, with a letter from Marmont ordering the Governor of Bayonne to clap him in irons and forward him to Paris, where (the Marshal hinted) no harm would be done by shooting him.”

“Then he must have escaped.”

“Pardon me, that again is impossible; for I should add that he was under some kind of parole.”

“A prisoner under escort, in irons—­condemned, or at least intended, to be shot—­and all the while under parole!  My friend, that must surely have been a strange kind of parole!”

“It was, and, saving your reverence, a cursed dirty kind.  But it sufficed for my kinsman, as I know to my cost.  For with the help of the partidas I rescued him, close to the frontier; and he—­like the fool, or like the noble gentleman he was—­declined his salvation, released the escort (which we had overpowered), shook hands with us, and rode forward to his death.”

“A brave story.”

“You would say so, did you know the whole of it.  There is no man alive whose hand I could grasp as proudly as I grasped his at the last:  and no other, alive or dead, of whom I could say, with the same conviction, that he made me at once think worse of myself and better of human nature.”