wrist had made it needful for him to disappear. Given his bleeding hand,
and the previous suspicions levelled against him, he would never have
convinced anybody of his innocence. And yet, even allowing for these
surmises, the affair remained wrapt in darkness: a crime on Guillaume's
part seemed a possibility, and to Pierre it was all dreadful to think of.

Guillaume, by the trembling of his brother's moist, yielding hand, must
in some degree have realised the prostration of his poor mind, already
shattered by doubt and finished off by this calamity. Indeed, the
sepulchre was empty now, the very ashes had been swept out of it.

"My poor little Pierre," the elder brother slowly said. "Forgive me if I
do not tell you anything. I cannot do so. And besides, what would be the
use of it? We should certainly not understand one another. . . . So let
us keep from saying anything, and let us simply enjoy the delight of
being together and loving one another in spite of all."

Pierre raised his eyes, and for a long time their glances lingered, one
fixed on the other. "Ah!" stammered the priest, "how frightful it all
is!"

Guillaume, however, had well understood the mute inquiry of Pierre's
eyes. His own did not waver but replied boldly, beaming with purity and
loftiness: "I can tell you nothing. Yet, all the same, let us love each
other, my little Pierre."

And then Pierre for a moment felt that his brother was above all base
anxiety, above the guilty fear of the man who trembles for himself. In
lieu thereof he seemed to be carried away by the passion of some great
design, the noble thought of concealing some sovereign idea, some secret