Had Charley been a prisoner in the dock, he could not have had a moment
of deeper amazement--even if after the jury had said Guilty, a piece of
evidence had been handed in, proving innocence, averting the death
sentence. A wave of excitement passed over him, leaving him cold and
still. In the other room a girl put her hand to her mouth to stifle a
cry of joy.

Charley bowed. "You made a mistake, Monsieur--pray do not apologise," he
said.




CHAPTER XXXIV

IN AMBUSH

Weeks went by. Summer was done, autumn was upon the land. Harvest-home
had gone, and the "fall" ploughing was forward. The smell of the burning
stubble, of decaying plant and fibre, was mingling with the odours of the
orchards and the balsams of the forest. The leafy hill-sides, far and
near, were resplendent in scarlet and saffron and tawny red. Over the
decline of the year flickered the ruined fires of energy.

It had been a prosperous summer in the valley. Harvests had been reaped
such as the country had not known for years--and for years there had been
great harvests. There had not been a death in the parish all summer, and
births had occurred out of all usual proportion.

When Filion Lacasse commented thereon, and mentioned the fact that even