“I wish to do you a service, Monsieur.”

“That is kind of you.  And what may this service be?”

“A simple warning.”

“Ah!”

“The Comte d’Herouville has no love for you.”

“Nor I for him.”  The Chevalier drew the coverlet to his chin and stared through the square port-hole.

“When we land you will still be weak.”

“Not so weak that I can not stand.”

“All this means that you will fight him?”

“It does.”

“A woman?”

“A woman, a vulgar jest and a glass of wine.  Monsieur le Comte and myself have been forbidden to meet under the pain of indefinite imprisonment.  Yonder it will be different.”

“Mademoiselle de Longueville . . .”

“Has forgotten the incident, as I had, till D’Herouville came on board in search of some woman.  Monsieur de Saumaise played him a trick of some kind, and I stepped between.”

“Can you be dissuaded?”

“Not the smallest particle.  I shall be strong, never fear.”

“I am drawn toward you, Monsieur.  I am a priest, but I love courage and the unconfused mind which accompanies it.  You are a brave man.”

“I?” humorously.

“Yes.  Who has heard you complain?”

“Against what?” The Chevalier had propped himself on his elbow.

The Jesuit closed his lips and shook his head.

“Against what?” with piercing eyes.  “Did I speak strange words when fever moved my tongue?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“You have said too much or too little,” sharply.

“I have heard of Monsieur d’Herouville; he is not a good man.”

“Against what did I not complain?” insistently.

“Against the misfortune which brought you here,” lowly.

“You know? . . .  From whom?” drawing his tongue across his parched lips.

“I have done wrong to excite you.  There were words passed to and fro that morning at the Corne d’Abondance.  Need I say more?  Monsieur de Saumaise knows, and the vicomte; why should you fear me, who have nothing but brotherly love for you?”

“What is your name?” sinking wearily back among the pillows.

“Father Jacques, or Brother Jacques, familiarly.”

“I mean your worldly name.”

“I have almost forgotten it,” evasively.

“You have not always been a priest?”

“Since I was eighteen.”  Silence.  “Have you anything on your mind of which you wish to be relieved?”

“Nothing.  One can not confess who is no nearer God than I.”

“Hush!  That is blasphemy.”

“I am sorely tried.”

“Your trials are but a pebble on the sea’s floor.  Always remember that, Monsieur; it will make the days less dark.  No matter how much you may suffer in the days to come, do not forget that at one time you enjoyed to the full all worldly pleasures; that to you was given the golden key of life as you loved it.  Thousands have been denied these, and your sufferings compared to theirs is as a child’s plaint compared to a man’s agony.  God has some definite purpose in crossing our paths.  Have patience.”