"I am Raymond Chapelle," Raymond answered--and abruptly lowered the lantern, and a twisted smile of pain gathered on his lips. "You have heard the name, Monsignor--all French Canada has heard it." The Bishop's hand dropped heavily to his side.
"Yes, I have heard it," he said sternly. "I have heard that it was a proud name dishonoured, a princely fortune dissolutely wasted. And you are Raymond Chapelle, you say! I have heard this much, that you had disappeared, but after that----"
Raymond put his head down into his hands, and drew his hands tightly across his face.
"This is the end of the story," he said. "Listen, Monsignor"--he raised his head again. "You have heard, too, of the murder of Théophile Blondin that was committed here a little while ago. It is for that murder that François Aubert was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged." He paused an instant, his lips tight. "Monsignor, it is I who killed Théophile Blondin. It is I who, since that night, have lived here as the curé--as Father François Aubert."
How ghastly white the aged face was! As ghastly as his own must be! The other's hands were gripping viselike at his shoulders.
"Are you mad!" the Bishop whispered hoarsely. "Do you know what you are saying!"
"I know"--there was a sort of unnatural calm and finality in Raymond's tones now. "I was on the train the night that Father Aubert came to St. Marleau. I had a message for the mother of a man who was killed in the Yukon, Monsignor. The mother lived here. There was a wild storm that night. There was no wagon to be had, and we both walked from the station. But I did not walk with the priest. You, who have heard of Raymond Chapelle, know why--I despised a priest--I knew no God. Monsignor"--he turned and pointed suddenly--"you see that light through the trees? It is the light I saw that night, as I stumbled over the body of a man lying here in the road. The man was Father Aubert. The limb of a tree had fallen and struck him on the head. I thought him dead. I went over to that house for help."
He paused again. The Bishop's hands, withdrawn,* were clasped now upon a golden crucifix--it was like his own crucifix, only it was larger, much larger than his own. But the Bishop's white face was still close to his; and the blue eyes seemed to have grown darker, and were upon him in a fixed, tense way, as though to read his soul.