the Mont es Pendus, and writing his letter to Carterette concerning the
stolen book of church records, in a town of Brittany the Reverend Lorenzo
Dow lay dying. The army of the Vendee, under Detricand Comte de Tournay,
had made a last dash at a small town held by a section of the Republican
army, and captured it. On the prisons being opened, Detricand had
discovered in a vile dungeon the sometime curate of St. Michael's Church
in Jersey. When they entered on him, wasted and ragged he lay asleep on
his bed of rotten straw, his fingers between the leaves of a book of
meditations. Captured five years before and forgotten alike by the
English and French Governments, he had apathetically pined and starved to
these last days of his life.

Recognising him, Detricand carried him in his strong arms to his own
tent. For many hours the helpless man lay insensible, but at last the
flickering spirit struggled back to light for a little space. When first
conscious of his surroundings, the poor captive felt tremblingly in the
pocket of his tattered vest. Not finding what he searched for, he half
started up. Detricand hastened forward with a black leather-covered book
in his hand. Mr. Dow's thin trembling fingers clutched eagerly--it was
his only passion--at this journal of his life. As his grasp closed on
it, he recognised Detricand, and at the same time he saw the cross and
heart of the Vendee on his coat.

A victorious little laugh struggled in his throat. "The Lord hath
triumphed gloriously--I could drink some wine, monsieur," he added in the
same quaint clerical monotone.

Having drunk the wine he lay back murmuring thanks and satisfaction, his
eyes closed. Presently they opened. He nodded at Detricand.