The good priest stalked on to his presbytere, and then to his church, to see that all should be ready for reveillon that night, and he was returning to the chateau to tea when he met Henry taking a walk.

After lunch Sabine had gone off with Moravia to Girolamo’s nurseries, and Lord Fordyce had felt he must go out and get some air.  Mr. Cloudwater had started with Madame Imogen in the motor on a commission to their little town directly they had all left the dining-room.  Thus Henry was alone.

He greeted the Pere Anselme gladly.  The old priest’s cultivated mind was to him always a source of delight.

So he turned back and walked with him into the garden and along by the sea wall, instead of across the causeway and to the house.  This was the doing of the Pere Anselme, for he felt now might be his time.

Henry had been growing more and more troubled while he had been out by himself.  He could not disguise the fact that there was some great change in Sabine, and now his anxious mood craved sympathy and counsel from this her great friend.

“Madame Howard does not look quite well, Father,” he remarked, after they had pulled some modern philosophies to pieces, and there had been a pause.  “She is so nervous—­what is the cause of it, do you know?  Perhaps this place does not suit her in the winter.  It is so very cold.”

“Yes, it is cold—­but that is not the reason.”  And the Pere Anselme drew closer his old black cloak.  “There are other and stronger causes for the state in which we find the Dame Sabine.”

Henry peered into his face anxiously in the gray light—­it was four o’clock, the day would soon be gone.  He knew that these words contained ominous meaning, and his voice was rather unsteady as he asked: 

“What are the reasons, Father?  Please tell me if you are at liberty to do so.  To me the welfare of this dear lady is all that matters in life.”

The Cure of Heronac cleared his throat, and then he said gently: 

“I spoke once before to you about the cinders and as to whether or no they were still red.  That is what causes her to be restless—­she has found that they are yet alight.”

Lord Fordyce was a brave man, but he grew very pale.  It seemed that suddenly all the fears which his heart had sheltered, though would not own as facts, were rising before him like giant skeletons, concrete and distinct.

“But the divorce is going well!” he exclaimed a little passionately, his hurt was so great.  “She told me so last night; she will be free some time in January, and will then be my wife.”

His happiness should not be torn from him without a desperate fight.

The priest’s voice was very sad as he answered: 

“That is so.  She will, no doubt, be ready to marry you whenever you ask it is for you to demand of yourself whether you will accept her sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice!  I would never dream of any sacrifice.  It is unthinkable, Father!”