It was now the time when the ever-gathering storm of the French Revolution had risen to its hurricane climax3. Those chiefs of the new republic were in power whose last, worst madness it was to decree the extinction4 of religion and the overthrow5 of everything that outwardly symbolized6 it throughout the whole of the country that they governed. Already this decree had been executed to the letter in and around Paris; and now the soldiers of the Republic were on their way to Brittany, headed by commanders whose commission was to root out the Christian7 religion in the last and the surest of the strongholds still left to it in France.
These men began their work in a spirit worthy8 of the worst of their superiors who had sent them to do it. They gutted9 churches, they demolished10 chapels11, they overthrew12 road-side crosses wherever they found them. The terrible guillotine devoured13 human lives in the villages of Brittany as it had devoured them in the streets of Paris; the musket14 and the sword, in highway and byway, wreaked15 havoc16 on the people—even on women and children kneeling in the act of prayer; the priests were tracked night and day from one hiding-place, where they still offered up worship, to another, and were killed as soon as overtaken—every atrocity17 was committed in every district; but the Christian religion still spread wider than the widest bloodshed; still sprang up with ever-renewed vitality18 from under the very feet of the men whose vain fury was powerless to trample19 it down. Everywhere the people remained true to their Faith; everywhere the priests stood firm by them in their sorest need. The executioners of the Republic had been sent to make Brittany a country of apostates20; they did their worst, and left it a country of martyrs21.
One evening, while this frightful22 persecution23 was still raging, Gabriel happened to be detained unusually late at the cottage of Perrine’s father. He had lately spent much of his time at the farm house; it was his only refuge now from that place of suffering, of silence, and of secret shame, which he had once called home! Just as he had taken leave of Perrine for the night, and was about to open the farmhouse24 door, her father stopped him, and pointed25 to a chair in the chimney-corner.
“Leave us alone, my dear,” said the old man to his daughter; “I want to speak to Gabriel. You can go to your mother in the next room.”
The words which Pere Bonan—as he was called by the neighbors—had now to say in private were destined26 to lead to very unexpected events. After referring to the alteration27 which had appeared of late in Gabriel’s manner, the old man began by asking him, sorrowfully but not suspiciously, whether he still preserved his old affection for Perrine. On receiving an eager answer in the affirmative, Pere Bonan then referred to the persecution still raging through the country, and to the consequent possibility that he, like others of his countrymen, might yet be called to suffer, and perhaps to die, for the cause of his religion. If this last act of self-sacrifice were required of him, Perrine would be left unprotected, unless her affianced husband performed his promise to her, and assumed, without delay, the position of her lawful28 guardian29. “Let me know that you will do this,” concluded the old man; “I shall be resigned to all that may be required of me, if I can only know that I shall not die leaving Perrine unprotected.” Gabriel gave the promise—gave it with his whole heart. As he took leave of Pere Bonan, the old man said to him:
“Come here to-morrow; I shall know more then than I know now—I shall be able to fix with certainty the day for the fulfillment of your engagement with Perrine.”
Why did Gabriel hesitate at the farmhouse door, looking back on Pere Bonan as though he would fain say something, and yet not speaking a word? Why, after he had gone out and had walked onward31 several paces, did he suddenly stop, return quickly to the farmhouse, stand irresolute32 before the gate, and then retrace33 his steps, sighing heavily as he went, but never pausing again on his homeward way? Because the torment34 of his horrible secret had grown harder to bear than ever, since he had given the promise that had been required of him. Because, while a strong impulse moved him frankly35 to lay bare his hidden dread36 and doubt to the father whose beloved daughter was soon to be his wife, there was a yet stronger passive influence which paralyzed on his lips the terrible confession37 that he knew not whether he was the son of an honest man, or the son of an assassin, and a robber. Made desperate by his situation, he determined38, while he hastened homeward, to risk the worst, and ask that fatal question of his father in plain words. But this supreme39 trial for parent and child was not to be. When he entered the cottage, Francois was absent. He had told the younger children that he should not be home again before noon on the next day.
Early in the morning Gabriel repaired to the farmhouse, as he had been bidden. Influenced, by his love for Perrine, blindly confiding40 in the faint hope (which, in despite of heart and conscience, he still forced himself to cherish) that his father might be innocent, he now preserved the appearance at least of perfect calmness. “If I tell my secret to Perrine’s father, I risk disturbing in him that confidence in the future safety of his child for which I am his present and only warrant.” Something like this thought was in Gabriel’s mind, as he took the hand of Pere Bonan, and waited anxiously to hear what was required of him on that day.
“We have a short respite41 from danger, Gabriel,” said the old man. “News has come to me that the spoilers of our churches and the murderers of our congregations have been stopped on their way hitherward by tidings which have reached them from another district. This interval42 of peace and safety will be a short one—we must take advantage of it while it is yet ours. My name is among the names on the list of the denounced. If the soldiers of the Republic find me here—but we will say nothing more of this; it is of Perrine and of you that I must now speak. On this very evening your marriage may be solemnized with all the wonted rites43 of our holy religion, and the blessing44 may be pronounced over you by the lips of a priest. This evening, therefore, Gabriel, you must become the husband and the protector of Perrine. Listen to me attentively45, and I will tell you how.”
This was the substance of what Gabriel now heard from Pere Bonan:
Not very long before the persecutions broke out in Brittany, a priest, known generally by the name of Father Paul, was appointed to a curacy in one of the northern districts of the province. He fulfilled all the duties of his station in such a manner as to win the confidence and affection of every member of his congregation, and was often spoken of with respect, even in parts of the country distant from the scene of his labors47. It was not, however, until the troubles broke out, and the destruction and bloodshed began, that he became renowned48 far and wide, from one end of Brittany to another. From the date of the very first persecutions the name of Father Paul was a rallying-cry of the hunted peasantry; he was their great encouragement under oppression, their example in danger, their last and only consoler in the hour of death. Wherever havoc and ruin raged most fiercely, wherever the pursuit was hottest and the slaughter49 most cruel, there the intrepid50 priest was sure to be seen pursuing his sacred duties in defiance51 of every peril52. His hair-breadth escapes from death; his extraordinary re-appearances in parts of the country where no one ever expected to see him again, were regarded by the poorer classes with superstitious53 awe54. Wherever Father Paul appeared, with his black dress, his calm face, and the ivory crucifix which he always carried in his hand, the people reverenced55 him as more than mortal; and grew at last to believe, that, single-handed, he would successfully defend his religion against the armies of the Republic. But their simple confidence in his powers of resistance was soon destined to be shaken. Fresh re-enforcements arrived in Brittany, and overran the whole province from one end to the other. One morning, after celebrating service in a dismantled56 church, and after narrowly escaping with his life from those who pursued him, the priest disappeared. Secret inquiries57 were made after him in all directions; but he was heard of no more.
Many weary days had passed, and the dispirited peasantry had already mourned him as dead, when some fishermen on the northern coast observed a ship of light burden in the offing, making signals to the shore. They put off to her in their boats; and on reaching the deck saw standing58 before them the well-remembered figure of Father Paul.
The priest had returned to his congregations, and had founded the new altar that they were to worship at on the deck of the ship! Razed59 from the face of the earth, their church had not been destroyed—for Father Paul and the priests who acted with him had given that church a refuge on the sea. Henceforth, their children could still be baptized, their sons and daughters could still be married, the burial of their dead could still be solemnized, under the sanction of the old religion for which, not vainly, they had suffered so patiently and so long.
Throughout the remaining time of trouble the services were uninterrupted on board the ship. A code of signals was established by which those on shore were always enabled to direct their brethren at sea toward such parts of the coast as happened to be uninfested by the enemies of their worship. On the morning of Gabriel’s visit to the farmhouse these signals had shaped the course of the ship toward the extremity61 of the peninsula of Quiberon. The people of the district were all prepared to expect the appearance of the vessel62 some time in the evening, and had their boats ready at a moment’s notice to put off, and attend the service. At the conclusion of this service Pere Bonan had arranged that the marriage of his daughter and Gabriel was to take place.
They waited for evening at the farmhouse. A little before sunset the ship was signaled as in sight; and then Pere Bonan and his wife, followed by Gabriel and Perrine, set forth60 over the heath to the beach. With the solitary63 exception of Francois Sarzeau, the whole population of the neighborhood was already assembled there, Gabriel’s brother and sisters being among the number.
It was the calmest evening that had been known for months. There was not a cloud in the lustrous64 sky—not a ripple65 on the still surface of the sea. The smallest children were suffered by their mothers to stray down on the beach as they pleased; for the waves of the great ocean slept as tenderly and noiselessly on their sandy bed as if they had been changed into the waters of an inland lake. Slow, almost imperceptible, was the approach of the ship—there was hardly a breath of wind to carry her on—she was just drifting gently with the landward set of the tide at that hour, while her sails hung idly against the masts. Long after the sun had gone down, the congregation still waited and watched on the beach. The moon and stars were arrayed in their glory of the night before the ship dropped anchor. Then the muffled66 tolling67 of a bell came solemnly across the quiet waters; and then, from every creek68 along the shore, as far as the eye could reach, the black forms of the fishermen’s boats shot out swift and stealthy into the shining sea.
By the time the boats had arrived alongside of the ship, the lamp had been kindled69 before the altar, and its flame was gleaming red and dull in the radiant moonlight. Two of the priests on board were clothed in their robes of office, and were waiting in their appointed places to begin the service. But there was a third, dressed only in the ordinary attire70 of his calling, who mingled71 with the congregation, and spoke46 a few words to each of the persons composing it, as, one by one, they mounted the sides of the ship. Those who had never seen him before knew by the famous ivory crucifix in his hand that the priest who received them was Father Paul. Gabriel looked at this man, whom he now beheld72 for the first time, with a mixture of astonishment73 and awe; for he saw that the renowned chief of the Christians74 of Brittany was, to all appearance, but little older than himself.
The expression on the pale, calm face of the priest was so gentle and kind, that children just able to walk tottered75 up to him, and held familiarly by the skirts of his black gown, whenever his clear blue eyes rested on theirs, while he beckoned76 them to his side. No one would ever have guessed from the countenance77 of Father Paul what deadly perils78 he had confronted, but for the scar of a saber-wound, as yet hardly healed, which ran across his forehead. That wound had been dealt while he was kneeling before the altar in the last church in Brittany which had escaped spoliation. He would have died where he knelt, but for the peasants who were praying with him, and who, unarmed as they were, threw themselves like tigers on the soldiery, and at awful sacrifice of their own lives saved the life of their priest. There was not a man now on board the ship who would have hesitated, had the occasion called for it again, to have rescued him in the same way.
The service began. Since the days when the primitive79 Christians worshiped amid the caverns80 of the earth, can any service be imagined nobler in itself, or sublimer81 in the circumstances surrounding it, than that which was now offered up? Here was no artificial pomp, no gaudy82 profusion83 of ornament84, no attendant grandeur85 of man’s creation. All around this church spread the hushed and awful majesty86 of the tranquil87 sea. The roof of this cathedral was the immeasurable heaven, the pure moon its one great light, the countless88 glories of the stars its only adornment89. Here were no hired singers or rich priest-princes; no curious sight-seers, or careless lovers of sweet sounds. This congregation and they who had gathered it together, were all poor alike, all persecuted90 alike, all worshiping alike, to the overthrow of their worldly interests, and at the imminent91 peril of their lives. How brightly and tenderly the moonlight shone upon the altar and the people before it! how solemnly and divinely the deep harmonies, as they chanted the penitential Psalms92, mingled with the hoarse93 singing of the freshening night breeze in the rigging of the ship! how sweetly the still rushing murmur94 of many voices, as they uttered the responses together, now died away, and now rose again softly into the mysterious night!
Of all the members of the congregation—young or old—there was but one over whom that impressive service exercised no influence of consolation95 or of peace; that one was Gabriel. Often, throughout the day, his reproaching conscience had spoken within him again and again. Often when he joined the little assembly on the beach, he turned away his face in secret shame and apprehension96 from Perrine and her father. Vainly, after gaining the deck of the ship, did he try to meet the eye of Father Paul as frankly, as readily, and as affectionately as others met it. The burden of concealment97 seemed too heavy to be borne in the presence of the priest—and yet, torment as it was, he still bore it! But when he knelt with the rest of the congregation and saw Perrine kneeling by his side—when he felt the calmness of the solemn night and the still sea filling his heart—when the sounds of the first prayers spoke with a dread spiritual language of their own to his soul—then the remembrance of the confession which he had neglected, and the terror of receiving unprepared the sacrament which he knew would be offered to him—grew too vivid to be endured; the sense that he merited no longer, though once worthy of it, the confidence in his perfect truth and candor98 placed in him by the woman with whom he was soon to stand before the altar, overwhelmed him with shame: the mere99 act of kneeling among that congregation, the passive accomplice100 by his silence and secrecy101, for aught he knew to the contrary, of a crime which it was his bounden duty to denounce, appalled102 him as if he had already committed sacrilege that could never be forgiven. Tears flowed down his cheeks, though he strove to repress them: sobs103 burst from him, though he tried to stifle104 them. He knew that others besides Perrine were looking at him in astonishment and alarm; but he could neither control himself, nor move to leave his place, nor raise his eyes even—until suddenly he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. That touch, slight as it was, ran through him instantly. He looked up, and saw Father Paul standing by his side.
Beckoning105 him to follow, and signing to the congregation not to suspend their devotions, he led Gabriel out of the assembly—then paused for a moment, reflecting—then beckoning him again, took him into the cabin of the ship, and closed the door carefully.
“You have something on your mind,” he said, simply and quietly, taking the young man by the hand. “I may be able to relieve you, if you tell me what it is.”
As Gabriel heard these gentle words, and saw, by the light of a lamp which burned before a cross fixed106 against the wall, the sad kindness of expression with which the priest was regarding him, the oppression that had lain so long on his heart seemed to leave it in an instant. The haunting fear of ever divulging107 his fatal suspicions and his fatal secret had vanished, as it were, at the touch of Father Paul’s hand. For the first time he now repeated to another ear—the sounds of prayer and praise rising grandly the while from the congregation above—his grandfather’s death-bed confession, word for word almost, as he had heard it in the cottage on the night of the storm.
Once, and once only, did Father Paul interrupt the narrative108, which in whispers was addressed to him. Gabriel had hardly repeated the first two or three sentences of his grandfather’s confession, when the priest, in quick, altered tones, abruptly109 asked him his name and place of abode110.
As the question was answered, Father Paul’s calm face became suddenly agitated111; but the next moment, resolutely112 resuming his self-possession, he bowed his head as a sign that Gabriel was to continue; clasped his trembling hands, and raising them as if in silent prayer, fixed his eyes intently on the cross. He never looked away from it while the terrible narrative proceeded. But when Gabriel described his search at the Merchant’s Table; and, referring to his father’s behavior since that time, appealed to the priest to know whether he might even yet, in defiance of appearances, be still filially justified113 in doubting whether the crime had been really perpetrated—then Father Paul moved near to him once more, and spoke again.
“Compose yourself, and look at me,” he said, with his former sad kindness of voice and manner. “I can end your doubts forever. Gabriel, your father was guilty in intention and in act; but the victim of his crime still lives. I can prove it.”
Gabriel’s heart beat wildly; a deadly coldness crept over him as he saw Father Paul loosen the fastening of his cassock round the throat.
At that instant the chanting of the congregation above ceased; and then the sudden and awful stillness was deepened rather than interrupted by the faint sound of one voice praying. Slowly and with trembling fingers the priest removed the band round his neck—paused a little—sighed heavily—and pointed to a scar which was now plainly visible on one side of his throat. He said something at the same time; but the bell above tolled115 while he spoke. It was the signal of the elevation116 of the Host. Gabriel felt an arm passed round him, guiding him to his knees, and sustaining him from sinking to the floor. For one moment longer he was conscious that the bell had stopped, that there was dead silence, that Father Paul was kneeling by him beneath the cross, with bowed head—then all objects around vanished; and he saw and knew nothing more.
When he recovered his senses, he was still in the cabin; the man whose life his father had attempted was bending over him, and sprinkling water on his face; and the clear voices of the women and children of the congregation were joining the voices of the men in singing the Agnus Dei.
“Look up at me without fear, Gabriel,” said the priest. “I desire not to avenge117 injuries: I visit not the sins of the father on the child. Look up, and listen! I have strange things to speak of; and I have a sacred mission to fulfill30 before the morning, in which you must be my guide.”
Gabriel attempted to kneel and kiss his hand but Father Paul stopped him, and said, pointing to the cross: “Kneel to that—not to me; not to your fellow-mortal, and your friend—for I will be your friend, Gabriel; believing that God’s mercy has ordered it so. And now listen to me,” he proceeded, with a brotherly tenderness in his manner which went to Gabriel’s heart. “The service is nearly ended. What I have to tell you must be told at once; the errand on which you will guide me must be performed before to-morrow dawns. Sit here near me, and attend to what I now say!”
Gabriel obeyed; Father Paul then proceeded thus:
“I believe the confession made to you by your grandfather to have been true in every particular. On the evening to which he referred you, I approached your cottage, as he said, for the purpose of asking shelter for the night. At that period I had been studying hard to qualify myself for the holy calling which I now pursue; and, on the completion of my studies, had indulged in the recreation of a tour on foot through Brittany, by way of innocently and agreeably occupying the leisure time then at my disposal, before I entered the priesthood. When I accosted118 your father I had lost my way, had been walking for many hours, and was glad of any rest that I could get for the night. It is unnecessary to pain you now, by reference to the events which followed my entrance under your father’s roof. I remember nothing that happened from the time when I lay down to sleep before the fire, until the time when I recovered my senses at the place which you call the Merchant’s Table. My first sensation was that of being moved into the cold air; when I opened my eyes I saw the great Druid stones rising close above me, and two men on either side of me rifling my pockets. They found nothing valuable there, and were about to leave me where I lay, when I gathered strength enough to appeal to their mercy through their cupidity119. Money was not scarce with me then, and I was able to offer them a rich reward (which they ultimately received as I had promised) if they would take me to any place where I could get shelter and medical help. I supposed they inferred by my language and accent—perhaps also by the linen120 I wore, which they examined closely—that I belonged to the higher ranks of the community, in spite of the plainness of my outer garments; and might, therefore, be in a position to make good my promise to them. I heard one say to the other, ‘Let us risk it’; and then they took me in their arms, carried me down to a boat on the beach, and rowed to a vessel in the offing. The next day they disembarked me at Paimboeuf, where I got the assistance which I so much needed. I learned, through the confidence they were obliged to place in me in order to give me the means of sending them their promised reward, that these men were smugglers, and that they were in the habit of using the cavity in which I had been laid as a place of concealment for goods, and for letters of advice to their accomplices121. This accounted for their finding me. As to my wound, I was informed by the surgeon who attended me that it had missed being inflicted122 in a mortal part by less than a quarter of an inch, and that, as it was, nothing but the action of the night air in coagulating the blood over the place, had, in the first instance, saved my life. To be brief, I recovered after a long illness, returned to Paris, and was called to the priesthood. The will of my superiors obliged me to perform the first duties of my vocation123 in the great city; but my own wish was to be appointed to a cure of souls in your province, Gabriel. Can you imagine why?”
The answer to this question was in Gabriel’s heart; but he was still too deeply awed124 and affected125 by what he had heard to give it utterance126.
“I must tell you, then, what my motive127 was,” said Father Paul. “You must know first that I uniformly abstained128 from disclosing to any one where and by whom my life had been attempted. I kept this a secret from the men who rescued me—from the surgeon—from my own friends even. My reason for such a proceeding129 was, I would fain believe, a Christian reason. I hope I had always felt a sincere and humble130 desire to prove myself, by the help of God, worthy of the sacred vocation to which I was destined. But my miraculous131 escape from death made an impression on my mind, which gave me another and an infinitely132 higher view of this vocation—the view which I have since striven, and shall always strive for the future, to maintain. As I lay, during the first days of my recovery, examining my own heart, and considering in what manner it would be my duty to act toward your father when I was restored to health, a thought came into my mind which calmed, comforted, and resolved all my doubts. I said within myself, ‘In a few months more I shall be called to be one of the chosen ministers of God. If I am worthy of my vocation, my first desire toward this man who has attempted to take my life should be, not to know that human justice has overtaken him, but to know that he has truly and religiously repented133 and made atonement for his guilt114. To such repentance134 and atonement let it be my duty to call him; if he reject that appeal, and be hardened only the more against me because I have forgiven him my injuries, then it will be time enough to denounce him for his crimes to his fellow-men. Surely it must be well for me, here and hereafter, if I begin my career in the holy priesthood by helping135 to save from hell the soul of the man who, of all others, has most cruelly wronged me.’ It was for this reason, Gabriel—it was because I desired to go straightway to your father’s cottage, and reclaim136 him after he had believed me to be dead—that I kept the secret and entreated137 of my superiors that I might be sent to Brittany. But this, as I have said, was not to be at first, and when my desire was granted, my place was assigned me in a far district. The persecution under which we still suffer broke out; the designs of my life were changed; my own will became no longer mine to guide me. But, through sorrow and suffering, and danger and bloodshed, I am now led, after many days, to the execution of that first purpose which I formed on entering the priesthood. Gabriel, when the service is over, and the congregation are dispersed138, you must guide me to the door of your father’s cottage.”
He held up his hand, in sign of silence, as Gabriel was about to answer. Just then the officiating priests above were pronouncing the final benediction139. When it was over, Father Paul opened the cabin door. As he ascended140 the steps, followed by Gabriel, Pere Bonan met them. The old man looked doubtfully and searchingly on his future son-in-law, as he respectfully whispered a few words in the ear of the priest. Father Paul listened attentively, answered in a whisper, and then turned to Gabriel, first begging the few people near them to withdraw a little.
“I have been asked whether there is any impediment to your marriage,” he said, “and have answered that there is none. What you have said to me has been said in confession, and is a secret between us two. Remember that; and forget not, at the same time, the service which I shall require of you to-night, after the marriage-ceremony is over. Where is Perrine Bonan?” he added, aloud, looking round him. Perrine came forward. Father Paul took her hand and placed it in Gabriel’s. “Lead her to the altar steps,” he said, “and wait there for me.”
It was more than an hour later; the boats had left the ship’s side; the congregation had dispersed over the face of the country—but still the vessel remained at anchor. Those who were left in her watched the land more anxiously than usual; for they knew that Father Paul had risked meeting the soldiers of the Republic by trusting himself on shore. A boat was awaiting his return on the beach; half of the crew, armed, being posted as scouts141 in various directions on the high land of the heath. They would have followed and guarded the priest to the place of his destination; but he forbade it; and, leaving them abruptly, walked swiftly onward with one young man only for his companion.
Gabriel had committed his brother and his sisters to the charge of Perrine. They were to go to the farmhouse that night with his newly-married wife and her father and mother. Father Paul had desired that this might be done. When Gabriel and he were left alone to follow the path which led to the fisherman’s cottage, the priest never spoke while they walked on—never looked aside either to the right or the left—always held his ivory crucifix clasped to his breast. They arrived at the door.
“Knock,” whispered Father Paul to Gabriel, “and then wait here with me.”
The door was opened. On a lovely moonlight night Francois Sarzeau had stood on that threshold, years since, with a bleeding body in his arms. On a lovely moonlight night he now stood there again, confronting the very man whose life he had attempted, and knowing him not.
Father Paul advanced a few paces, so that the moonlight fell fuller on his features, and removed his hat.
Francois Sarzeau looked, started, moved one step back, then stood motionless and perfectly142 silent, while all traces of expression of any kind suddenly vanished from his face. Then the calm, clear tones of the priest stole gently on the dead silence. “I bring a message of peace and forgiveness from a guest of former years,” he said; and pointed, as he spoke, to the place where he had been wounded in the neck.
For one moment, Gabriel saw his father trembling violently from head to foot—then his limbs steadied again—stiffened suddenly, as if struck by catalepsy. His lips parted, but without quivering; his eyes glared, but without moving in the orbits. The lovely moonlight itself looked ghastly and horrible, shining on the supernatural panic deformity of that face! Gabriel turned away his head in terror. He heard the voice of Father Paul saying to him: “Wait here till I come back.”
Then there was an instant of silence again—then a low groaning143 sound that seemed to articulate the name of God; a sound unlike his father’s voice, unlike any human voice he had ever heard—and then the noise of a closing door. He looked up, and saw that he was standing alone before the cottage.
Once, after an interval, he approached the window.
He just saw through it the hand of the priest holding on high the ivory crucifix; but stopped not to see more, for he heard such words, such sounds, as drove him back to his former place. There he stayed, until the noise of something falling heavily within the cottage struck on his ear. Again he advanced toward the door; heard Father Paul praying; listened for several minutes; then heard a moaning voice, now joining itself to the voice of the priest, now choked in sobs and bitter wailing144. Once more he went back out of hearing, and stirred not again from his place. He waited a long and a weary time there—so long that one of the scouts on the lookout145 came toward him, evidently suspicious of the delay in the priest’s return. He waved the man back, and then looked again toward the door. At last he saw it open—saw Father Paul approach him, leading Francois Sarzeau by the hand.
The fisherman never raised his downcast eyes to his son’s face; tears trickled146 silently over his cheeks; he followed the hand that led him, as a little child might have followed it, listened anxiously and humbly147 at the priest’s side to every word that he spoke.
“Gabriel,” said Father Paul, in a voice which trembled a little for the first time that night—“Gabriel, it has pleased God to grant the perfect fulfillment of the purpose which brought me to this place; I tell you this, as all that you need—as all, I believe, that you would wish—to know of what has passed while you have been left waiting for me here. Such words as I have now to speak to you are spoken by your father’s earnest desire. It is his own wish that I should communicate to you his confession of having secretly followed you to the Merchant’s Table, and of having discovered (as you discovered) that no evidence of his guilt remained there. This admission, he thinks, will be enough to account for his conduct toward yourself from that time to this. I have next to tell you (also at your father’s desire) that he has promised in my presence, and now promises again in yours, sincerity148 of repentance in this manner: When the persecution of our religion has ceased—as cease it will, and that speedily, be assured of it—he solemnly pledges himself henceforth to devote his life, his strength and what worldly possessions he may have, or may acquire, to the task of re-erecting and restoring the road-side crosses which have been sacrilegiously overthrown149 and destroyed in his native province, and to doing good, go where he may. I have now said all that is required of me, and may bid you farewell—bearing with me the happy remembrance that I have left a father and son reconciled and restored to each other. May God bless and prosper150 you, and those dear to you, Gabriel! May God accept your father’s repentance, and bless him also throughout his future life!”
He took their hands, pressed them long and warmly, then turned and walked quickly down the path which led to the beach. Gabriel dared not trust himself yet to speak; but he raised his arm, and put it gently round his father’s neck. The two stood together so, looking out dimly through the tears that filled their eyes to the sea. They saw the boat put off in the bright track of the moonlight, and reach the vessel’s side; they watched the spreading of the sails, and followed the slow course of the ship till she disappeared past a distant headland from sight.
After that, they went into the cottage together. They knew it not then, but they had seen the last, in this world, of Father Paul.
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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4
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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5
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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6
symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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8
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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9
gutted
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| adj.容易消化的v.毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的过去式和过去分词 )；取出…的内脏 | |
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10
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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11
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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12
overthrew
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| overthrow的过去式 | |
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13
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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14
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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15
wreaked
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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17
atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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18
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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19
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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20
apostates
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| n.放弃原来信仰的人( apostate的名词复数 )；叛教者；脱党者；反叛者 | |
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21
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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22
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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23
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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24
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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25
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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26
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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27
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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28
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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29
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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30
fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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31
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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32
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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33
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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34
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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35
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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36
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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37
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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38
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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39
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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40
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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41
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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42
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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43
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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44
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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45
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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46
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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47
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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48
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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49
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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50
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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51
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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52
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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53
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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54
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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55
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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56
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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57
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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58
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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59
razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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61
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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62
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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63
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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64
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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65
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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66
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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67
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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68
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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69
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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70
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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71
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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72
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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73
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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74
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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75
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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76
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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78
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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79
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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80
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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81
sublimer
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| 使高尚者，纯化器 | |
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82
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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83
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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84
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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85
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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86
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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87
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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88
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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89
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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90
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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91
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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92
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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93
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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94
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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95
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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96
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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97
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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98
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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99
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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100
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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101
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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102
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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103
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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104
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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105
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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106
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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107
divulging
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| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的现在分词 ) | |
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108
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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109
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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110
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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111
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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112
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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113
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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114
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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115
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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116
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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117
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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118
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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119
cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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120
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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121
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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122
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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124
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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126
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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127
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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128
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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129
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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130
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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131
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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132
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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133
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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135
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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136
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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137
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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139
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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140
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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142
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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143
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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144
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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145
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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146
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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147
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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148
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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149
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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150
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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