to the questions put by Père Sylvestre almost in a whisper, and coming from shaking pallid lips, all three made answer at once with vehement gesticulations after the manner of their countrymen.

As the curé recovered from the first paralyzing effects of the shock he had received, he began to gather up the thread of the triple discourse that flowed on in an uninterrupted torrent of words.

Lisbette was accused of murder; Lisbette was in prison.

One Antoine Martel had seen and admired the maiden of St. Lys, and she had not looked upon him with favorable eyes. On a certain evening he and she had been seen together on the shore, high words had been heard to pass between them, and there was one witness who had seen Lisbette Lamotte clench her hand and stamp her little sabot in hot anger.

That evening the girl came home alone; there was blood upon the bosom of her bodice, and upon her hand. A few hours later the body of Antoine Martel was found on the beach, lying where a little later the tide would have crept up and covered this record of a terrible crime, perhaps washed it out into the great open sea that tells no tales of secrets confided to its breast! Martel was stabbed to the heart, and the bloodstained knife with which the deed was done lay beside his lifeless body.

Père Sylvestre listened to every word of this recital; then he stood a moment bareheaded and with eyes raised heavenwards.

"My God, I thank thee!" he said solemnly, and then bowed his head, as though meekly receiving the cross now laid upon him.

wicked maiden, she is innocent of this crime; and God will show you that she is so in his own good time.”

"Holy Virgin but it is good to hear the father speak!'' said another woman, gentler and more kindlyhearted, and who would fain believe that the accused was innocent.

"Come into my house and rest, and take some new milk and fresh bread," she went on, pitying the dusty, weary traveller; but Père Sylvestre put her gently aside.

"God's blessing on thee and thine for thy charity! but I must not rest or refresh myself yet awhile. Will you guide me to the prison?" he added, turning to one of the men.

Of course a dozen offered; indeed all followed him, and all talked without ceasing.

But the cure heard never a word they said.

The prison of Mervaine-sur-mer was not an imposing edifice; it was but a common jail, used for the detention of ordinary offenders, yet now it had assumed dimensions of importance as the place where the girl charged with murder was imprisoned, and the place from whence she would be brought to the village court-house, accused by the public. prosecutor, and tried before the judge after the fashion of the time and place.

But had this jail been the terrible Bastile itself, the sound of the key in the door, the echo of his own footsteps in the narrow stone corridor leading to the cells, could not have more appalled the heart of Père Sylvestre.

No one but he was admitted, so the procession that had escorted him thither lingered about the gateway, as though some extreme satisfaction were to be derived from staring through the bars, and entering for the hundredth time into every particular of the crime.

Then they departed to the village and spread the news everywhere that

the reverend father, the curé of St. Lys, had come to seek Lisbette Lanotte, and was even now in the prison with her.

There were kind hearts that re'joiced to know the girl had one friend near in the terrible days that had come upon her; but even the kindest felt that strange pleasure in the excitement and thrill of the whole affair, so characteristic of the French people, and every one looked forward to the trial with delight, secret or avowed.

The arrival of the priest was looked upon as an added feature of interest in the tragedy; and one old woman, with a quaint appreciation of the picturesque position of affairs, remarked: "It is of a marvellous completeness that the good father should arrive! It is as a story one might read!"

Annette Bénoit revelled meanwhile in the notoriety that the coming trial brought her into.

"True," said she, "she grieved for the girl, so young and so unhappy; but Ciel! what would you? Lisbette, no doubt, had evil passions as others have, though her face was so fair to look upon.

Annette pitied herself, however, as being disgraced by such a relative. She pitied herself noisily, vehemently, ceaselessly; she moaned and wailed, and called upon the neighbors to feel for her, and pity her; and wrung her thin brown hands until, truth to say, people got rather tired.

She did all these things, but one thing she never did.

She never visited Lisbette in prison.

"Doubtless," said one neighbor, willing to curry favor with Annette in hopes of hearing every possible particular of the affair, "the good father will come and console thee, neighbor, in thy trouble?"

But Père Sylvestre had little thought of coming to console Annette Bénoit.

When the jailer unlocked the door of Lisbette's cell, and bade the priest enter, the poor child was sitting on the side of a low pallet beneath the grated window, her hands were clasped, her eyes were dull and glazed as though they saw nothing; but as the curé advanced into the light of the window, as she heard his voice speak her name and saw the yearning pity in his face, she gave a quick glad cry, and fell prone at his feet, clasping them with the poor little hands that were encircled by cruel gyves, as he had seen them in his dream!

He raised her tenderly from the ground, he spoke calmly of all that had befallen her, and, in ministering to this poor troubled spirit, he forgot his own weariness and hunger. He told her that he was God-sent in her sorrow by a strange dream of her pain; and then, when the poor child grew quiet and seemed to gain new courage from every word uttered by the dear familiar voice, he drew from her all the pitiful story.

The priest of God knew that the child of his spiritual care was innocent, but he saw that this innocence would be very hard to prove.

In those days, now long past, the investigation of crime and the meting out of justice were not what they are now; often the innocent suffered for the guilty; and, because he knew all this, Père Sylvestre would not buoy the girl's soul up with false hopes, but rather led her to try and feel that though her tender body might be given over to the executioner's hand, her soul would be given to God, and soon, in the rest and peace of paradise, earth's pains and sorrows would seem but as the phantoms of a dream.

As Lisbette listened, her troubled heart grew calm, even as the waters of Galilee sank to rest at the words of that Divine Master, in whose sacred footsteps his anointed servant now followed, sustaining the sorrowful, and comforting the heavy laden.

"I must leave thee now, child," said the curé; "I have to seek a lodging for the night; kneel while I bless thee in thy sorrow and humiliation, as I have done so often in the days of thy joy."

But Lisbette held up her hands, and looked in his face with great sorrowful eyes.

"Father, ask them to take them off," she said, touching the fetters with impatient fingers. "I cannot run away-why then should they chain me like this? and they hurt me so!"

He turned away for a moment, and then said in that quiet slow voice that always tells of emotion held down by an iron will: "Child, hast thou in thy bosom the crucifix I gave thee on the day of thy first communion?"

Lisbette made a gesture of as

sent.

"Draw it forth: let thine eyes grow to it; reflect if the pain of thy poor bonds is aught to the agony of the nails that pierced thy Saviour's hands; remember that for thy sins and mine he bore the anguish, then shall thine own seem light!

With hot tears rolling swiftly down her poor changed face, Lisbette kissed the image of the Redeemer, and, flinging herself upon her knees on the cold floor of the prison, cried in her pain: "By thy five wounds that bled for me, O Jesus, grant me patience now!'

As she thus knelt and wept and prayed, the curé laid his hand upon her bowed head; she heard him murmur a benediction, and when she looked up, the door through which he had passed was just closing.

CHAPTER III.

be with her and by her at the time of her trial.

When he was not with Lisbette, he might be seen kneeling before the altar in one of the churches of the town, pleading ceaselessly that help might be sent to his child in her sore need; pleading in the very presence of Christ himself, for the poor stricken, hunted lamb of his fold!

The people used to steal in softly to look at the curé's kneeling figure; the priests of Mervaine urged upon him that he was overtasking his already feeble strength, represented to him that his years and infirmities called for some relaxation and repose, and that after saying his early Mass he should take rest and refreshment. But he heeded not, and with fast and vigil and prayer, besieged heaven for succor for the child of his love and care. Some one had slain Antoine Martel. Some hand had driven home the knife to his heart; the bloodstained knife that the sea itself had refused to wash clean; for it had been found at the very edge of the tide-mark, yet unwet!

Whose, then, was the guilty hand? Père Sylvestre prayed that the heart of the murderer might be softened, and a full confession at length save Lisbette.

The morning of the trial dawned. The priest watched the sun rise; his aged limbs had known no repose through all the weary night before. Hour after hour he had knelt before the unshaded window, looking up to the quiet stars, shining in those dark, clear, purple skies, that all who have been in those countries know and love so well. The stars had faded in the day-dawn, and the hour was coming on apace when Lisbette must stand before a terrible

Daily Père Sylvestre visited Lisbette in the prison, and with some difficulty he obtained permission to

crowd seeming as though all made of eyes, staring at that one slight, pitiful centre figure!

Hours before the trial began every

nook and corner of the court-house was crowded; here and there the shrill voices of the women made a tumult as they fought for places; their high white-winged caps fluttered everywhere, and now and again the officials of the court had to interfere, and deal out a justice some what rough-handed. People clambered into apparently impossible places, and seemed to hold on to nothing in marvellous fashion.

Still an eager crowd swarmed about the doors, and on the pavement sundry mauvais sujets consoled themselves for their failure in getting places to see this thrilling drama of life and death, by playing baccaret with filthy cards and filthier fingers, while an interested group of spectators gathered round each set of players.

It was a sort of festa for Mervainesur-mer this trial, and if you could not have one sort of amusement, why, voila! you must console your self with another!

When Lisbette-poor, pale, shrinking Lisbette, came into the court, and by her side the venerable figure of the priest, a tressaillement went through the densely packed crowd, and tears were shed by the women; but more, it is to be feared, of excitement than of pity; for Antoine Martel, though a wild devil-may-care sort of fellow, had been a popular favorite with the townspeople of Mervaine. He was as handsome as a young Adonis, supple of form, dark-eyed, slender, could play the mandoline, and sing your heart out of your breast!

What if Theophile Le Moine's young sister came to shame, and died in some distant city, whither she had fled to hide herself from the eyes of her kinsfolks-girls are so bold-what would you?

You may blame a woman for a fall like that; hound her from the ranks of decent people, trample her under foot-pass her by but a man! Basta! that is so different! Also,

he was a grand sight to see, this beau garçon, this dark-eyed young sailor-dressed in his best at a festa— mind you that! There are few such men to look at nowadays! Thus reasoned Mervaine.

Where then should pity be found for Lisbette! Into the details of the trial I shall not enter, let it suffice to say that the law took its course-not always in those days a very straight course either!

The story of the murder ran plainly enough; and as the public prosecutor proceeded, the prejudice against the girl deepened and strengthened in the minds of the people. Other causes too had helped to make Lisbette unpopular even before this tragedy occurred. The maidens had been jealous, in that their lovers were ready to desert them to linger about the street near Annette Bénoit's door, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the violeteyed maid from the village two days journey across the hills. These attentions Lisbette did not receive in a gracious spirit, and at this the inconsistent ones were again angered.

"Elle se donne des airs,' said they; it was insupportable that she should do so!

The trial proceeded.

Slowly and distinctly the voice of the prosecutor told of that fatal meeting on the shore-the high words that had been overheard'how one witness had peeped slyly round a rock, and seen Lisbette Lamotte clench her hand, and stamp her sabot in hot anger, at Antoine standing by, black and sullen.

Then he spoke of the blood seen on the girl's bodice and on her hand that night.

"True," he urged, "it might be said that the accused made no effort to hide these stains; but, then, terror succeeds to crime committed in a moment of passion, and terror stupefies." Of what motives this murder was the offspring the accused herself only could tell he owned

this to be a mystery; still, the body of Antoine Martel was found on the shore, and the knife by the edge of the sea. "Providence," continued the prosecutor, "who watches over the affairs of men, hath so ordered it that this wicked woman should be brought to justice!"

When he said this he pointed with one hand to the round window in the roof of the court, and then closed his eyes and shook his head, as though his own eloquence was almost too much for him.

"Ciel, que c'est beau!" ejaculated one and another of the audience. But to Lisbette it seemed as though they must be denouncing some one else in so terrible a manner. Surely it could not be Lisbette! Lisbette, who had so short a time before knelt at the altar of the little church on the hillside. Lisbette, whom the good father had blessed but that very morning!

And watchful eyes saw her increased distress, and fed upon it; but Père Sylvestre took gently in his own the little restless hand that worked and twitched with nervous fear, and guided it to the rosary that hung from the girdle of her peasant's dress; thus silently he counselled the troubled heart to take refuge and seek fortitude in prayer. What a fearful interest, what a horrible fascination had Lisbette's supple swaying figure and tress-laden head for the surging crowd about her!

That wave of blood and anguish that was to sweep across fair France in dread '93, and bring with it the terrible guillotine, was yet to come at the time we write of; but still death at the executioner's hands was a fearful thing.

If the verdict was "guilty," the girl would be torn, perhaps shrieking, who knows, from the hands that would fain hold her back; her slender arms would be pinioned; she would be taken in the tax-cart to a neighboring town more than twice as large as Mervaine; those soft

curling tresses would be severed by the executioner's own hand; that graceful head would fall beneath the cruel axe!

"Dieu, que c'est interessante," gasped a shrivelled brown hag, as she thought of these things.

"But will she be permitted to speak?" asked another, her eyes almost starting out of her head with excitement as she spoke.

This question answered itself a moment later, as Lisbette rose to the call of the judge, and came forward to the front of the prisoner's box.

She leaned forward, deathly pale; her great eyes, distended with terror, gazed at the faces of her accusers. The curé's head sank low upon his breast; his lips moved in secret prayer. For what other weapon had he wherewith to defend the child?

Silence reigned for a short space; such a silence as that in which a man's sigh, or a woman's sob would pierce the ear like a cry.

Then the prisoner spoke:

"I am innocent-I am innocent of this crime! I know not how the man Antoine Martel came by his death; these hands of mine are innocent!" and she held up her poor little fettered wrists.

"You do not, however, deny that you quarrelled with the murdered man?" said the ever-pitiless voice of the prosecutor.

"I deny nothing that is true," replied Lisbette, gathering calmness and courage in her desperate need. "I did quarrel with him; he was a bad man; he had a black heart; he followed me to the shore, and spoke words no honest man should say, no honest maiden listen to," and up flew the hot blood to her cheek, and her eyes flashed like diamonds in the sunlight.

Then the men marvelled at her beauty, and thought of the pity it was that so fair a head should be taken off; but the women's sympathy was still with the murdered

man.