The woman in the gallery was weeping silently behind her thick veil, and
her worn hand clutched the desk in front of her convulsively. Presently
she arose and made her way down the stair, almost unnoticed. Two or
three times Luc tried to speak, but could not. "Lift me up," he said
brokenly, at last.

Parpon and the Little Chemist raised him to his feet, and held him, his
shaking hands resting on their shoulders, his lank body tottering above
and between them.

Looking at the congregation, he said slowly: "I'll suffer till I die for
cursing my baptism, and God will twist my neck in purgatory for--"

"Luc," the Cure interrupted, "say that you repent."

"I'm sorry, and I ask you all to forgive me, and I'll confess to the
Cure, and take my penance, and--" he paused, for breathing hurt him.

At that moment the woman in black who had been in the gallery came
quickly forward. Parpon saw her, frowned, and waved her back; but she
came on. At the chancel steps she raised her veil, and a murmur of
recognition and wonder ran through the church. Pomfrette's face was
pitiful to see--drawn, staring.

"Junie!" he said hoarsely.

Her eyes were red with weeping, her face was very pale. "M'sieu' le
Cure" she said, "you must listen to me"--the Cure's face had become
forbidding--"sinner though I am. You want to be just, don't you? Ah,