which, fresh from their long neglect, seemed to have a certain
pathos. My guide, too, appeared to take on an added seriousness as
he read it, and I fancied that I could detect beneath his whimsical
manner something of manliness, almost of dignity. But while I looked
at him his former aspect, so subtly inhuman, so tantalizingly
familiar, crept back into his big eyes, repellant and attractive. I
resolved to make an end of the mystery if possible.

"My friend," I said, pointing to the smaller grave, "did Jo. Dunfer
murder that Chinaman?"

He was leaning against a tree and looking across the open space into
the top of another, or into the blue sky beyond. He neither withdrew
his eyes, nor altered his posture as he slowly replied:

"No, sir; he justifiably homicided him."

"Then he really did kill him."

"Kill 'im? I should say he did, rather. Doesn't everybody know
that? Didn't he stan' up before the coroner's jury and confess it?
And didn't they find a verdict of 'Came to 'is death by a wholesome
Christian sentiment workin' in the Caucasian breast'? An' didn't the
church at the Hill turn W'isky down for it? And didn't the sovereign
people elect him Justice of the Peace to get even on the gospelers?
I don't know where you were brought up."

"But did Jo. do that because the Chinaman did not, or would n'ot,
learn to cut down trees like a white man?"