and a sweet memory for his wife.

What a strange idea! many may say, or something stronger.

Well.  It may be so.  But he did it.

When Tournier returned to the barracks

after his meeting with Cosin, he fell in with his young friend, who has already been alluded to, and whose name was Villemet.

“Somebody has been asking after you, Tournier.”

“Who was he?” but not the slightest curiosity was in the tone of enquiry.

“Our bishop.”

The interest fell lower, if possible.

“You mean the chaplain.  What does he want?”

“To see you.”

Tournier was a gentleman, and therefore repressed the exclamation that was rising to his lips, and simply said, “Oh!” in a very languid sort of way.

But it was true.  The chaplain to the prisoners had been asking after Tournier, expressing a very great desire to see him; and the Chaplain was none other than the Bishop of Moulines.  He had voluntarily come to England, out of pure compassion for his imprisoned

countrymen; and with true missionary zeal was giving himself up to their spiritual welfare.  He was a venerable-looking man, much respected by the prisoners generally.  It was a noble act of self-sacrifice. [44]

But his work among the prisoners was no sinecure.  Many of them were deeply tainted with the foul atheism engendered by the Revolution; many more with the practical atheism that comes of reckless living.  Scenes of cruelty and depravity would occasionally take place, only too likely where a large number of men were left so much to themselves.  Yet there were doubtless hundreds among them who, but for the demands of a most cruel war, would have been living the lives of peaceful, useful citizens.  It may be, moreover, that

among the officers there was infidelity behind the outward decorum of gentlemen.

So the good bishop had plenty on his hands, and he did his best patiently and perseveringly, though by no means always with success (as is the case still with good efforts, under much more favourable circumstances); and all but the vilest respected him, and many paid at least outward attention to his ministrations: and for this reason—because they felt there could not be the slightest doubt that his kind intentions were altogether sincere.

A few days afterwards, the bishop came up to Tournier as he was taking exercise in the paved portion of the yard, and shaking him with gentle courtesy by the hand, said, “Captain Tournier, will you oblige me by letting us have a short walk together?”  Then turning to others who were near, he added, with a pleasant smile, “Gentlemen, I hope you are all well this morning,” and putting his arm in Tournier’s went to the gate.  There was a guard-room and

a turnkey’s lodge outside.  A glance through the grating of the heavy door, and the wicket was instantly unlocked.

They proceeded together along the Peterborough road towards Yaxley.  The day was bright, and the broad distant view from the high ground they trod was very pretty, with comfortable-looking homesteads dotted about, the very picture of freedom and peace.

“The English have chosen an agreeable and healthy spot for us poor prisoners, Captain Tournier.”

He called himself a “prisoner,” but he was not.  And yet he was—a prisoner to sympathy with the unhappy.

“May I hope that you are becoming more reconciled with your lot, my friend,” he said, in a soft persuasive tone, as if he feared to seem intrusive.

“Not in the slightest degree, Monseigneur,” was the answer.  “Why should I?  Yet, believe me, I am exceedingly touched by your interesting yourself in me.”

“You say why should you become more reconciled with your lot.  My simple reply is, because it is God’s will.”

“I do not wish to shock you—you who are so good and true, and who hold so high a position in the church: but I will not deceive you, nor will I play the hypocrite even to gain your better opinion of me.  I will be plain and honest from the first; and, therefore, I tell you, I do not believe there is a God.”

The bishop did not withdraw his arm, nor start with horror, nor call him a fool (though he was one).  On the contrary, he pressed Tournier’s arm a little closer, and said, very softly, as a kind doctor might say when he finds a patient’s symptoms more serious than he thought, but does not therefore give him up, “I am so sorry.”

There was a pause for a minute or two, and they went on walking together.

Tournier was the first to speak.

“I cannot believe that a good God (and I do

not care to believe in an evil one—a devil, as the heathen do, so at least I have heard), but I cannot believe that a good God would blast my hopes as they have been blasted: and, therefore, I believe in none.  I cannot.  Excuse me, Monseigneur, but my reason refuses to let me do so.  I can only believe in fate.”

“And who regulates fate?” asked the bishop.

“Oh, I know not.  It regulates itself, I suppose.”

“And therefore is God,” said the bishop, as if he were musing.  “But tell me, my friend, how it is you take to heart so keenly the unkindness of fate (as you call it) to yourself, while thousands are buffeted by misfortunes, perhaps as great as your own, and yet maintain equanimity of mind, and even enjoy some pleasure in life?”

“They are not sensitive as I am.”

“And who makes the difference?”

“Fate—Chance—Destiny.”

“How miserable a notion!  However, I

should be wanting in my duty to Holy Church, of which I am an unworthy minister,” and here he disengaged his arm from Tournier’s, and looking him steadily in the face, with an expression, not of severity, but of yearning tenderness, that pierced the manly fellow’s heart more than a hundred anathemas would have done, “if I did not most solemnly warn thee that these notions of thine are damnable heresy, and that it behoves thee therefore to repent of this thy wickedness, if perhaps the thought of thine heart may be forgiven thee.”

And then the good bishop took him by the hand and added, “Still look on me as a would-be friend, and whenever you want me seek me, and better far, whenever you want God seek Him, and you shall surely find Him.”

He turned away and went to his lodging, not in the barracks, but in the village of Stilton, about a mile off.

Captain Tournier soon lost the impression made by the solemn words, but he never to his

dying day forgot the compassionate look that accompanied them.  The old priest left his mark.

Winter had passed, and Spring was far advanced before Tournier paid his first visit to Mr. Cosin.  It was not want of sociability or indifference to the friendship of such a very genial man that made him delay.  He himself was naturally a very jolly sort of fellow, so that his friend, Villemet, could not in the least make out the transformation.  In fact, he began to think him un peu timbré.  However, at last, he made up his mind to call at the Manor Farm; and one