"Course, each man has his particular altar. Mine's in that cabin
up at the bend o' the river. Maria lives there. God never did
cleaner work, 'an when He made Maria. Lovin, her's sacrament.
She's so clean, an' pure, an' honest, an' big-hearted! In forty
year I've never jest durst brace right up to Maria an' try to put
in words what she means to me. Never saw nothin' else as
beautiful, or as good. No flower's as fragrant an' smelly as her
hair on her pillow. Never tapped a bee tree with honey sweet as
her lips a-twitchin' with a love quiver. Ain't a bird 'long the
ol' Wabash with a voice up to hers. Love o' God ain't broader'n
her kindness. When she's been home to see her folks, I've been
so hungry for her 'at I've gone to her closet an' kissed the hem
o' her skirts more'n once. I've never yet dared kiss her feet,
but I've always wanted to. I've laid out 'at if she dies first,
I'll do it then. An' Maria 'ud cry her eyes out if you'd a-hit
the redbird. Your trappin's look like you could shoot. I guess
'twas God made that shot fly the mark. I guess--"

"If you can stop, for the love of mercy do it!" cried the hunter.

His face was a sickly white, his temples wet with sweat, and his
body trembling. "I can't endure any more. I don't suppose you
think I've any human instincts at all; but I have a few, and I
see the way to arouse more. You probably won't believe me, but
I'll never kill another innocent harmless thing; and I will never
lie again so long as I live."

He leaned his gun against the thorn tree, and dropped the
remainder of his hunter's outfit beside it on the ground.