"He's gone," echoed Ultor, with a strange glare.

"And you are safe," she added, clasping his hand.

He sighed a great sigh.

"And you don't think he's coming back?"

"He!--who?"

"The stranger who passed us but now. Do you know him, father?"

"Yes--and--no, child--I know him not--and yet I know him too well. Would
to heaven we could leave this accursed haunt tonight. Cursed be the
stupid malice that first provoked this horrible feud, which no sacrifice
and misery can appease, and no exorcism can quell or even suspend. The
wretch has come from afar with a sure instinct to devour my last
hope--to dog us into our last retreat--and to blast with his triumph the
very dust and ruins of our house. What ails that stupid priest that he
has given over his visits? Are _my_ children to be left without mass or
confession--the sacraments which _guard_ as well as save--because he
once loses his way in a mist, or mistakes a streak of foam in the brook
for a dead man's face? D--n him!"

"See, Alice, if he won't come," he resumed, "you must only _write_ your
confession to him in full--you and Una. Laurence is trusty, and will
carry it--and we'll get the bishop's--or, if need be, the Pope's leave
for him to give you absolution. I'll move heaven and earth, but you
_shall_ have the sacraments, poor children!--and see him. I've been a
wild fellow in my youth, and never pretended to sanctity; but I know