young priest failed to quiet the patient.  Often Victor came in softly to find the Chevalier sleeping that restless sleep of the fever-bound and the priest, a hand propping his chin, lost in reverie.  One night Victor had been up with the Chevalier.  The berthroom was close and stifling.  He left the invalid in Breton’s care and sought the deck for a breath of air, cold and damp though it was.  Glancing up, he saw Brother Jacques pacing the poop-deck, his hands clasped behind him, his head bent forward, absorbed in thought.  Victor wondered about this priest.  A mystery enveloped his beauty, his uncommunicativeness.

Presently the Jesuit caught sight of the dim, half-recognizable face below.

“The Chevalier improves?” he asked.

“His mind has just cleared itself of the fever’s fog, thank God!” cried Victor, heartily.

“He will live, then,” replied Brother Jacques, sadly; and continued his pacing.  After a few moments Victor went below again, and the priest mused aloud:  “Yes, he will live; misfortune and misery are long-lived.”  All about him rolled the smooth waters, touched faintly with the first pallor of dawn.

On the sixteenth of April the Chevalier was declared strong enough to be carried up to the deck, where he was laid on a cot, his head propped with pillows in a manner such as to prevent the rise and fall of the ship from disturbing him.  O the warmth and glory of that spring sunshine!  It flooded his weak, emaciated frame with a soothing heat, a sense of gladness, peace, calm.  As the beams draw water from the rivers to the heavens, so they drew forth the fever-poison from his veins and cast it to the cleansing winds.  He was aware of no desire save that of lying there in the sun; of watching the clouds part, join, and dissolve, only to form again, when the port rose; of measuring the bright horizon when the port sank.  From time to time he held up his white hands and let the sun incarnadine them.  He spoke to no one, though when Victor sat beside him he smiled.  On the second day he feebly expressed a desire for some one to read to him.

“What shall I read, Paul?” asked Victor, joyously.

“You will find my Odyssey in the berthroom.  Read me of Ulysses when he finally arrived at Ithaca and found Penelope still faithful.”

“Monsieur,” said Chaumonot, who overheard the request, “would you not rather I should read to you from the life of Loyola?”

“No, Father,” gently; “I am still pagan enough to love the thunder of Homer.”

“If only I might convince you of the futility of such books!” earnestly.

“Nothing is futile, Father, which is made of grace and beauty.”

So Victor read from the immortal epic.  He possessed a fine voice, and being a musician he knew how to use it.  The voice of his friend and the warmth of the sun combined to produce a pleasant drowsiness to which the Chevalier yielded, gratefully.  That night he slept soundly.