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But the man replied: “I have nothing to say to you. You are–“

The half-breed interrupted: “Yes, I know, a Pagan fattening–” here he smiled, and looked at his thin hands–“fattening for the shambles of the damned, as you have said from the pulpit, Reverend Ezra Badgley. But you will permit me–a sinner as you say–to speak to you like this while you sit down and eat. I regret to disturb you, but you will sit, eh?”

Pierre’s tone was smooth and low, almost deferential, and his eyes, wide open now, and hot with some hidden purpose, were fixed compellingly on the man. The missionary sat, and, having recovered slightly, fumbled with a knife and fork. A napkin was still beneath his greasy chin. He did not take it away.

Pierre then spoke slowly: “Yes, it is a scandal concerning a sinner–and a Pagan…. Will you permit me to light a cigarette? Thank you…. You have said many harsh things about me: well, as you see, I am amiable. I lived at Fort Anne before you came. They call me Pretty Pierre. Why is my cheek so? Because I drink no wine; I eat not much. Pardon, pork like that on your plate–no! no! I do not take green tea as there in your cup; I do not love women, one or many. Again, pardon, I say.”

The other drew his brows together with an attempt at pious frowning and indignation; but there was a cold, sneering smile now turned upon him, and it changed the frown to anxiety, and made his lips twitch, and the food he had eaten grow heavy within him.

“I come to the scandal slowly. The woman? She was a young girl travelling from the far East, to search for a man who had–spoiled her. She was found by me and another. Ah, you start so!… Will you not listen?… Well, she died to-night.”

Here the missionary gasped, and caught with both hands at the table.

“But before she died she gave two things into my hands: a packet of letters–a man is a fool to write such letters–and a small bottle of poison–laudanum, old-fashioned but sure. The letters were from the man at Fort Anne–the man, you hear! The other was for her death, if he would not take her to his arms again. Women are mad when they love. And so she came to Fort Anne, but not in time. The scandal is great, because the man is holy–sit down!”

The half-breed said the last two words sharply, but not loudly. They both sat down slowly again, looking each other in the eyes. Then Pierre drew from his pocket a small bottle and a packet of letters, and held them before him. “I have this to say: there are citizens of Fort Anne who stand for justice more than law; who have no love for the ways of St. Anthony. There is a Pagan, too, an outlaw, who knows when it is time to give blow for blow with the holy man. Well, we understand each other, ‘hein?'”

The elusive, sinister look in the missionary’s face was etched in strong lines now. A dogged sullenness hung about his lips. He noticed that one hand only of Pretty Pierre was occupied with the relics of the dead girl; the other was free to act suddenly on a hip pocket. “What do you want me to do”? he said, not whiningly, for beneath the selfish flesh and shallow outworks there were the elements of a warrior–all pulpy now, but they were there.

“This,” was the reply: “for you to make one more outlaw at Fort Anne by drinking what is in this bottle–sit down, quick, by God!” He placed the bottle within reach of the other. “Then you shall have these letters; and there is the fire. After? Well, you will have a great sleep, the good people will find you, they will bury you, weeping much, and no one knows here but me. Refuse that, and there is the other, the Law–ah, the poor girl was so very young!–and the wild Justice which is sometimes quicker than Law. Well? well?”