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“The answer is well,” returned Fawdor; “but what is the greatest commandment that a man can make for himself?”

“Who can tell? What is the good of saying, ‘Thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath day,’ when a man lives where he does not know the days? What is the good of saying, ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ when a man has no heart to rob, and there is nothing to steal? But a man should have a heart, an eye for justice. It is good for him to make his commandments against that wherein he is a fool or has a devil. Justice,–that is the thing.”

“‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour’?” asked Fawdor softly.

“Yes, like that. But a man must put it in his own words, and keep the law which he makes. Then life does not give a bad taste in the mouth.”

“What commandments have you made for yourself, Pierre?”

The slumbering fire in Pierre’s face leaped up. He felt for an instant as his father, a chevalier of France, might have felt if a peasant had presumed to finger the orders upon his breast. It touched his native pride, so little shown in anything else. But he knew the spirit behind the question, and the meaning justified the man. “Thou shalt think with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one woman,” he said, and paused.

“Justice and mercy,” murmured the voice from the bed.

“Thou shalt keep the faith of food and blanket.” Again Pierre paused.

“And a man shall have no cause to fear his friend,” said the voice again.

The pause was longer this time, and Pierre’s cold, handsome face took on a kind of softness before he said, “Remember the sorrow of thine own wife.”

“It is a good commandment,” said the sick man, “to make all women safe whether they be true–or foolish.”

“The strong should be ashamed to prey upon the weak. Pshaw! such a sport ends in nothing. Man only is man’s game.”

Suddenly Pierre added: “When you thought you were going to die, you gave me some papers and letters to take to Quebec. You will get well. Shall I give them back? Will you take them yourself?”

Fawdor understood: Pierre wished to know his story. He reached out a hand, saying, “I will take them myself. You have not read them?”

“No. I was not to read them till you died–bien?” He handed the packet over.

“I will tell you the story,” Fawdor said, turning over on his side, so that his eyes rested full on Pierre.

He did not begin at once. An Esquimau dog, of the finest and yet wildest breed, which had been lying before the fire, stretched itself, opened its red eyes at the two men, and, slowly rising, went to the door and sniffed at the cracks. Then it turned, and began pacing restlessly around the room. Every little while it would stop, sniff the air, and go on again. Once or twice, also, as it passed the couch of the sick man, it paused, and at last it suddenly rose, rested two feet on the rude headboard of the couch, and pushed its nose against the invalid’s head. There was something rarely savage and yet beautifully soft in the dog’s face, scarred as it was by the whips of earlier owners. The sick man’s hand went up and caressed the wolfish head. “Good dog, good Akim!” he said softly in French. “Thou dost know when a storm is on the way; thou dost know, too, when there is a storm in my heart.”

Even as he spoke a wind came crying round the house, and the parchment windows gave forth a soft booming sound. Outside, Nature was trembling lightly in all her nerves; belated herons, disturbed from the freshly frozen pool, swept away on tardy wings into the night and to the south; a herd of wolves, trooping by the hut, passed from a short, easy trot to a low, long gallop, devouring, yet fearful. It appeared as though the dumb earth were trying to speak, and the mighty effort gave it pain, from which came awe and terror to living things.