had been chosen of purpose, in the hope that he might have an influence
on this revolted soul. It had, however, been of no use, and Grassette
had refused the advances and ministrations of the little good priest,
Father Laflamme, who had come from the coast of purpose to give him the
offices of the Church. Silent, obdurate, sullen, he had looked the
priest straight in the face and had said in broken English, "Non, I pay
my bill. Nom de diable, I will say my own Mass, light my own candle, go
my own way. I have too much."

Now, as he sat glooming, after his outbreak of oaths, there came a
rattling noise at the door, the grinding of a key in the lock, the
shooting of bolts, and a face appeared at the little wicket in the door.
Then the door opened and the Sheriff stepped inside, accompanied by a
white-haired, stately old man. At sight of this second figure--the
Sheriff had come often before, and would come for one more doleful walk
with him--Grassette started. His face, which had never whitened in all
the dismal and terrorising doings of the capture and the trial and
sentence, though it had flushed with rage more than once, now turned a
little pale, for it seemed as if this old man had stepped out of the
visions which had just passed before his eyes.

"His Honour, the Lieutenant-Governor, Sir Henri Robitaille, has come to
speak with you. . . . Stand up," the Sheriff added sharply, as
Grassette kept his seat.

Grassette's face flushed with anger, for the prison had not broken his
spirits; then he got up slowly. "I not stand up for you," he growled at
the Sheriff; "I stand up for him." He jerked his head towards Sir Henri
Robitaille. This grand Seigneur, with Michelin, had believed in him in
those far-off days which he had just been seeing over again, and all his