She interrupted him. "Do not speak, Pretty Pierre. You are a devil.
You will lie. Father--!" She waited. "What difference does it make to
you, Jen?" "What difference--what difference to me? That you should be
a murderer?"

"But that is not so, that is a dream of yours, Ma'm'selle," said Pierre.

She turned to her father again. "Father, will you tell the truth to me?
I warn you it will be better for you both."

The old man's brow was sullen, and his lips were twitching nervously.
"You care more for him than you do for your own flesh and blood, Jen.
There's nothing to get mad about like that. I'll tell you when he's
gone. . . . Let's--let's wake him," he added, nervously.

He stooped down and lifted the sleeping man to a sitting posture. Pierre
assisted him.

Jen saw that the half-breed believed Sergeant Tom could be wakened, and
her fear diminished slightly, if her indignation did not. They lifted
the soldier to his feet. Pierre pressed the point of a pin deep into his
arm. Jen started forward, woman-like, to check the action, but drew
back, for she saw heroic measures might be necessary to bring him to
consciousness. But, nevertheless, her anger broke bounds, and she said:
"Cowards--cowards! What spite made you do this?"

"Damnation, Jen," said the father, "you'll hector me till I make you
sorry. What's this Irish policeman to you? What's he beside your own
flesh and blood, I say again."