"No. And then we quarreled--I deserted her. When I came to seek her she
was gone--young, innocent, penniless, alone in Paris--I have sought her
and never found her."

"What is your name?" asked the priest suddenly with a fierce note in
his quivering voice.

"Father, can I be forgiven?" answered the man giving his name.

The dying soldier stared anxiously up at his bandaged comrade, at the
nun who had hid her face behind the shoulder of the priest. He noticed
that her body was shaking.

"And the woman's name?"

The priest suddenly sat upright. He shook off the sister's restraining
hand. He tore the bandage from his own face. He bent over the dying man
as he murmured the woman's name.

"Wretch," he cried, "look at me."

His face was gashed and cut and torn but something remained by which the
other recognized him.

"You!" he cried shrinking away.

"I loved her, too," said the priest. "I would have married her. When
she went away with you Holy Church received me."