It left him no excuse for those intricacies of doubt, with which refined minds too often torture themselves; and as he paced feebly up and down the cell, all the long-withheld peace for which he had striven since his imprisonment seemed to flood into his soul.

How blessed--how undeservedly blessed--was his fate! Who or what was he that after such short, such mitigated sufferings, the crown of victory should be so near?
The way had seemed long to come, it was short to look back upon, and now the golden gates were almost reached, the everlasting doors were open.

A few more hours, and then--! and as Monsieur the Viscount buried his worn face in his hands, the tears that trickled from his fingers were literally tears of joy.
He groped his way to the stone, pushed some straw close to it, and lay down on the ground to rest, watched by Monsieur's Crapaud's fiery eyes.

And as he lay, faces seemed to him to rise out of the darkness, to take the form and features of the face of the priest, and to gaze at him with unutterable benediction.

And in his mind, like some familiar piece of music, awoke the words that had been written on the fly-leaf of the little book; coming back, sleepily and dreamily, over and over again-- "_Souvenez-vous du Sauveur! Souvenez-vous du Sauveur_!" (Remember the Saviour!) In that remembrance he fell asleep.
Monsieur the Viscount's sleep for some hours was without a dream.