beads, some of the choir forgot their chanting. A strange feeling passed
through the church, and reached and startled the Cure as he recited the
Mass. He turned round and saw Parpon laying Pomfrette down at the
chancel steps. His voice shook a little as he intoned the ritual, and as
he raised the sacred elements tears rolled down his cheeks.

From a distant corner of the gallery a deeply veiled woman also looked
down at Pomfrette, and her hand trembled on the desk before her.

At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps. "What is it,
Parpon?" he asked gravely.

"It is Luc Pomfrette, M'sieu' le Cure." Pomfrette's eyes were closed.

"He swore that he would never come to Mass again," answered the good
priest.

"Till he was carried, M'sieu' le Cure--and I've carried him."

"Did you come of your own free will, and with a repentant heart, Luc
Pomfrette?" asked the Cure.

"I did not know I was coming--no." Pomfrette's brown eyes met the
priest's unflinchingly.

"You have defied God, and yet He has spared your life."

"I'd rather have died," answered the sick man simply.

"Died, and been cast to perdition!"