of passing into one of the council chambers, attracted possibly by the
lights. Tumult was in his heart, chaos in his brain; rage and
exultation, unbelief and credulity. He floated, drifted, dreamed. His
father! It was so fantastic. That cynical, cruel old man here in
Quebec!--to render common justice! . . . A lie! He had lied, then,
that mad night? There was a ringing in the Chevalier's ears and a
blurring in his eyes. He raised his clenched hands, only to drop them
limply, impotently. All these months wasted, all these longings and
regrets for nothing, all this suffering to afford Monsieur le Marquis
the momentary pleasure of seeing his own flesh and blood writhe! Hate.
As hot lead sinks into the flesh, so this word sank into the
Chevalier's soul, blotting out charity and forgiveness. Forgive? His
laughter rang out hard and sinister. Only God could forgive such a
wrong. How that wrinkled face roused the venom in his soul! Was the
marquis telling the truth? Had he lied? Was not this the culmination
of the series of tortures the marquis had inflicted upon him all these
years: to let him fly once more, only to drag him down into swallowing
mire from which he might never rise? And yet . . . if it were
true!--and the pall of shame and ignominy were lifted! The Chevalier
grew faint.

Diane! From beyond the wilderness spoke a voice, the luring voice of
love. Diane! He was free to seek her; no barrier stood between. He
could return to France. Her letter! He drew it forth, his hands
trembling like a woman's. "France is large. If you love me you will
find me. . . . I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times." There
was still the delicate odor of vervain--her perfume--clinging to it.
Ah, if that terrible old man were not lying again! If he but spoke the
truth!