[Illustration:  “She was dreaming with unclosed eyes.”]

This strange land was full of phantoms.  Only the other night he had seen a face resembling Marie de Montbazon’s.  Bah!

“You are Sister Benie?” he said at once, narrowing his eyes.  “Faith,” he thought, “if all nuns were like this woman, Christianity were easy to embrace.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” replied the nun.  “Brother Jacques has sent me to you.  What may I do for you?”

“You were young once?”

This unusual question apparently had no effect upon her serenity.  “I am still young.  Those who give their hearts unreservedly to God never grow old.”

The marquis’s hand moved, restlessly.  “How long have you been in Quebec?”

“Fifteen years, Monsieur.  Shall I read to you?”

“No.  You came from France?” with a sick man’s persistence.

“Yes, Monsieur.  Is there something besides reading I can do?”

“Do I look ill?” querulously.

“You are burning with fever.”  She drew the cool palm of her hand across his heated forehead.

“Jehan!” called the marquis.  The touch of that hand had caused him an indescribable sensation.

“I am here, Monsieur,” replied Jehan.

Sister Benie leaned back out of the sunlight.

“A pitcher of water; I am thirsty.”

Jehan took the pitcher fumblingly.  He was yellow with fear and wonder.

“You have seen my son?” asked the marquis, when the door closed.

“You ought to be proud of such a son, Monsieur.”

The marquis was a bit disconcerted.  “I know him well.  Do you think he will become great and respected?”

“He has already become respected.”  She was vaguely distressed and puzzled.

“But will he become great?”

“That is for God to decide.”

“Of what consists greatness?”

“It is greatness to forgive.”

The marquis turned his head away.  He was chagrined.  “Monsieur le Comte will never become great then.  He will never forgive me for being his father.”

“Ah, Monsieur, I do not like that tone of yours.  There have been words between you, and you are not forgiving.  Do you not love your son?”

“The love of children is the woman’s part; man plays it but ill.  Perhaps there were some things which I failed to learn.”  Love his son?  A grim smile played over his purple lips.  Why, he had ceased even to love himself!

To her eyes the smile resembled a spasm of pain.  “Does your head ache?” she asked.  She put her arm under his head and placed it more comfortably on the pillow.

“Yes, my head is always aching.  I have not lived well, and nature is claiming her tithes.”  He closed his eyes, surrendering to the restful touch of the cool palm.  By and by he slept; and she sat there watching till morning merged into drowsy noon.  The agony was begun.  And while he slept the mask of calm left her face, revealing the soul.  From time to time she raised her eyes toward heaven, and continually her lips moved in prayer.