“He is dead, Phil.  I found him lying in his bed as if asleep, but he was dead.”

I nodded soberly.  He was better dead, but I was glad he had not died by my hand.

“I have got him here—­” said Uncle George.

“Here?” and I jumped up quickly.

“In my boat down in Port du Moulin.”

“But why?”

“Because—­” and he stood looking at us, and Carette nodded understandingly. 
And at that he went on quickly—­“Because I have waited over twenty years,
Phil, and I am going to wait no longer,” and I understood.

“You are going to tell her?” I asked.

“Yes—­now.  I must.  But not all, I think.  We will see.  But not all if we can help it.  It will open the old wound, but, please God, I will heal it and she shall be happy yet.”

“Yes,” I said.  “I think you can heal the wound, Uncle George.  What do you want me to do?”

“Come with me, if you will;” and I kissed my wife and followed him out.

“You understand,” he said, as we went across the fields to Belfontaine.  “He was among Torode’s men.  I recognised him, and we smuggled him off so that he should not be hanged;” and on that understanding we knocked on the door and went in.

My grandfather was reading in one of his big books, my mother was at her knitting, and Krok was busy over a fishing-net.

“Ah, you two!” said my mother.  “What mischief are you plotting now?  It is like old times to see you with your heads together.  But, ma fe, you seem to have changed places.  What trouble have you been getting into, George?”

“Aw then, Rachel!—­It is out of trouble I am getting.  I bring you strange news;” and she sat looking up at him with deep wonder in her eyes.

Perhaps she saw behind his face into his thoughts—­into his heart.  For, as she gazed, a startled look came over her, and her face flushed and made her young again.

“What is it?”

“Paul Martel died yesterday.”

“Paul?” and her hand went quickly to her heart, as though to still a sudden stab of pain, and for the moment her face whitened and then dyed red again.

Krok had eyed Uncle George keenly from the moment he entered.  Now he did a strange thing.  He got up quietly and took down a lantern and went to the fire to light it.  Perhaps it had been an understood thing between them.  I do not know.

My mother looked at Krok and then at Uncle George, and my grandfather stood up.

“Yes,” said Uncle George with a grave nod.  “I have got him here—­in my boat in Port du Moulin, for I knew you could not credit it unless you saw him yourself.”

“But how—?” she faltered.

“He was among Torode’s crew—­he was wounded.  I recognised him, and we got him away lest—­well, you understand?  He has been living on the Ecrehous, and he died there yesterday.  Will you see him?” and he looked at her very earnestly, and she knew all that his look meant.