I saluted him with a laugh of my own. "Then I will go, monsieur. Go
into the next room to change your clothing, or the guard may come in
and find you. One thing more. Remember you have overpowered Singing
Arrow, and taken your disguise by force. It may be well to lock her in
that inside room before you leave; but do as you like. I leave details
to you."

He made acknowledgment with a sweeping bow. "I will be a monster of
cruelty," he promised, and he pulled at imaginary mustachios like a
child at play.

Now it may be well to commend nonchalance, but there are bounds that
should not be passed. Had this man no reverence toward the mystery of
his own life that he jested on the edge of it? I had rather have seen
him with a rosary in his hand than with defiance on his lips.

"Is life all bitterness and sharp-edged laughter with you, monsieur?" I
asked bluntly. "This may be our last talk. It is hardly a seemly one.
If you have messages to send that will not compromise you, I will try
and get them through--in case our plans fail."

The prisoner eyed me oddly. "And in case you still live, monsieur," he
corrected. "You show much solicitude that I meet my end decorously,
yet I cannot see that you display any dolor over your own condition.
Why should I have less fortitude? You are like a man who cares not for
religion for himself, yet insists upon it for children and for his
womenkind,--for his inferiors in general. Why should you feel that I
need so much prompting?" His voice suddenly hardened. "Tell me. Is
it my youth that makes you feel yourself my mentor, or have I failed