'There is but one HE for me,' he cried.

'May God spare that one! May He spare him to France, which needs him, to the Church, which hangs on him, and to me, who love him! Let him not fall in the hour of fruition.

O Lord, let him not fall!' And he sank on to a stool, and remained in that posture with his face in his hands, his broad shoulders shaken with grief.
'Come, sir,' I said, after a pause sacred to sorrow and dismay; 'let me remind you that while there is life there is hope.' 'Hope ?' 'Yes, M.de Rosny, hope,' I replied more cheerfully.

'He has work to do.

He is elected, called, and chosen; the Joshua of his people, as M.
d'Amours rightly called him.