“There seemeth something below which angers you, my friend,” he said softly. “’Tis a battle-light flaming in your eyes.”

“’Tis the shame of it all which crazes me,” I responded, trembling with passion, yet yielding to the influence of his presence.  “You have not yet heard the story, so cannot rightly judge our position here.”

As briefly as possible I reviewed the adventures of our little party since leaving New Orleans, and it was good to observe with what growing interest he followed the simple story, interrupting with but few questions until I reached the end.  Then his soft hand closed warmly over mine, his eyes upon my face.

“It is a brave tale,” he said kindly, “one not unworthy the days of knighthood.  Yet, good friend, it is scarcely well for you to think thus tenderly regarding the wife of another.  ’T is against the laws of Holy Church, and can only lead to harm and suffering.  But, Mother of God! who am I to pass judgment?—­I, who am also guilty of this sin.”

He had uplifted his crucifix, sitting with bowed head before it, with so sad a face I could not forbear questioning.

“Have you, then, such another tale in your life?”

He did not look at me, yet hesitated not in reply.

“Ay, ’tis true, yet not so pure a one.  I like not to dwell upon it even in thought; but you have trusted me, and we are here together as men of a common race in face of death.  Perchance our hearts may better comprehend each other through such confidences.  Do you care to hear my tale?”

“I listen gladly, for in truth I know of nothing better to do,” I returned uneasily.  “Pish! but I feel as if we were locked in a cell awaiting the headsman.”

“Yet God can open the doors even as He did for Peter,” he said solemnly, fastening his eyes on the blue sky.  For a moment neither spoke; then the gentle voice took up the story, as if telling it over to himself.

“I was not always of the black robe; only six years since I wore the blue and gold of a soldier of France in the dragoon regiment of Auvergne.  I came of good family, and was even known and trusted of the King.  But let that pass.  We were stationed at Saint-Rienes, in the south country, as fair a spot, Monsieur, as this world holds, yet strangely inhabited by those discontented under the faith of Holy Church.  But we rode rough shod over all such in those days, for it was the will of the King to crush out heresy.  ’Tis a pleasure to see the shrinking of a heretic before the wrath of God.  Yet this tale has little to do with this service, however I love to dwell upon it.  As I said, we were quartered in garrison at Saint-Rienes, and it was there I first met Marie Fousard, the girl wife of a Captain in His Majesty’s Guard.  She was a creature of beauty, Monsieur, with clear cheeks, lips of the rose, and great trustful eyes.  I was but a boy then, she not much older in years, but with that knowledge of the world and of men which