they felt. The old priest was the least overcome, probably because he
ran the greatest danger. If a brave man is weighed down by great
calamities or the yoke of persecution, he begins, as it were, by
making the sacrifice of himself; and thereafter every day of his life
becomes one more victory snatched from fate. But from the way in which
the women looked at him it was easy to see that their intense anxiety
was on his account.

"Why should our faith in God fail us, my sisters?" he said, in low but
fervent tones. "We sang His praises through the shrieks of murderers
and their victims at the Carmelites. If it was His will that I should
come alive out of that butchery, it was, no doubt, because I was
reserved for some fate which I am bound to endure without murmuring.
God will protect His own; He can do with them according to His will.
It is for you, not for me that we must think."

"No," answered one of the women. "What is our life compared to a
priest's life?"

"Once outside the Abbaye de Chelles, I look upon myself as dead,"
added the nun who had not left the house, while the Sister that had
just returned held out the little box to the priest.

"Here are the wafers . . . but I can hear some one coming up the
stairs."

At this, the three began to listen. The sound ceased.

"Do not be alarmed if somebody tries to come in," said the priest.
"Somebody on whom we could depend was to make all necessary