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PAGE 10

Peter, the Parson
by [?]

In the late afternoon his halting feet approached the mine; as he drew near the clearing he heard a sound of many voices shouting together, followed by a single cry, and a momentary silence more fearful than the clamor. The tormentors were at work. The parson ran forward and, passing the log huts which lay between, came out upon the scene. A circle of men stood there around a stake. Fastened by a long rope, crouched the wretched prisoner, his face turned to the color of dough, his coarse features drawn apart like an animal in terror, and his hoarse voice never ceasing its piteous cry, “Have mercy, good gentlemen! Dear gentlemen, have mercy!”

At a little distance a fire of logs was burning, and from the brands scattered around it was evident that the man had served as a target for the fiery missiles; in addition he bore the marks of blows, and his clothes were torn and covered with mud as though he had been dragged roughly over the ground. The lurid light of the fire cast a glow over the faces of the miners, behind rose the Iron Mountain, dark in shadow, and on each side stretched out the ranks of the white pine-trees like ghosts assembled as silent witnesses against the cruelty of man. The parson rushed forward, broke through the circle, and threw his arms around the prisoner at the stake, protecting him with his slender body.

“If ye kill him, ye must kill me also,” he cried, in a ringing voice.

On the border, the greatest crime is robbery. A thief is worse than a murderer; a life does not count so much as life’s supplies. It was not for the murderer that the Lynch law was made, but for the thief. For months these Algonquin miners had suffered loss; their goods, their provisions, their clothes, and their precious whisky had been stolen, day after day, and all search had proved vain; exasperated, several times actually suffering from want, they had heaped up a great store of fury for the thief, fury increased tenfold when, caught at last, he proved to be no other than Brother Saul, the one man whom they had trusted, the one man whom they had clothed and fed before themselves, the one man from whom they had expected better things. An honest, bloodthirsty wolf in his own skin was an animal they respected; indeed, they were themselves little better. But a wolf in sheep’s clothing was utterly abhorrent to their peculiar sense of honor. So they gathered around their prey, and esteemed it rightfully theirs; whisky had sharpened their enjoyment.

To this savage band, enter the little parson.”What! Are ye men?” he cried.”Shame, shame, ye murderers!”

The miners stared at the small figure that defied them, and for the moment their anger gave way before a rough sense of the ludicrous.

“Hear the little man,” they cried.”Hurrah, Peter! Go ahead!”

But they soon wearied of his appeal and began to answer back.

“What are clothes or provisions to a life?” said the minister.

“Life aint worth much without ’em, parson,” replied a miner.”He took all we had, and we’ve gone cold and hungry ‘long of him, and he knowed it. And all the time we was a-giving him of the best, and a-believing his praying and his preaching.”

“If he is guilty, let him be tried by the legal authorities.”

“We’re our own legal ‘thorities, Parson.”

“The country will call you to account.”

“The country won’t do nothing of the kind. Much the country cares for us poor miners frozen up here in the woods! Stand back, Parson. Why should you bother about Saul? You always hated him”

“Never! Never!” answered the parson earnestly.

“You did too, and he knowed it.’Twas because he was dirty and couldn’t mince his words as you do.”

The parson turned to the crouching figure at his side.”Friend,” he said, “if this is true,–and the heart is darkly deceitful and hides from man his own worst sins,–I humbly ask your forgiveness.”

“O come! None of your gammon,” said another miner impatiently.”Saul didn’t care whether you liked him or not, for he knowed you was only a coward.”

“‘Fraid of a dog! ‘Fraid of a dog!” shouted half a dozen voices, and a frozen twig struck the parson’s cheek, and drew blood.