not dismayed, and they called him St. Anthony, and with a prophetic and
deadly patience waited. The time came when the missionary shook his
denouncing finger mostly at Pretty Pierre, who carefully nursed his
silent wrath until the occasion should arrive for a delicate revenge
which hath its hour with every man, if, hating, he knows how to bide the
will of Fate.

The hour came. A girl had been found dying on the roadside beyond the
Fort by the drunken doctor of the place and Pierre. Pierre was with her
when she died.

"An' who's to bury her, the poor colleen?" said Shon McGann afterwards.

Pierre musingly replied: "She is a Protestant. There is but one man."

After many pertinent and vigorous remarks, Shon added, "A Pagan is it, he
calls you, Pierre, you that's had the holy water on y'r forehead, and the
cross on the water, and that knows the book o' the Mass like the cards in
a pack? Sinner y' are, and so are we all, God save us! say I; and
weavin' the stripes for our backs He may be, and little I'd think of Him
failin' in that: but Pagan--faith, it's black should be the white of the
eyes of that preachin' sneak, and a rattle of teeth in his throat--divils
go round me!"

The half-breed, still musing, replied: "An eye for an eye, and a tooth
for a tooth--is that it, Shon?" "Nivir a word truer by song or by book,
and stand by the text, say I. For Papist I am, and Papist are you; and
the imps from below in y'r fingers whip poker is the game; and outlaws as
they call us both--you for what it doesn't concern me, and I for a wild
night in ould Donegal--but Pagan, wurra! whin shall it be, Pierre?"