"When shall it to be?"

"True for you. The teeth in his throat and a lump to his eye, and what
more be the will o' God. Fightin' there'll be, av coorse; but by you
I'll stand, and sorra inch will I give, if they'll do it with sticks or
with guns, and not with the blisterin' tongue that's lied of me and me
frinds--for frind I call you, Pierre, that loved me little in days gone
by. And proud I am not of you, nor you of me; but we've tasted the
bitter of avil days together, and divils surround me, if I don't go down
with you or come up with you, whichever it be! For there's dirt, as I
say on their tongues, and over their shoulder they look at you, and not
with an eye full front."

Pierre was cool, even pensive. His lips parted slightly once or twice,
and showed a row of white, malicious teeth. For the rest, he looked as
if he were politely interested but not moved by the excitement of the
other. He slowly rolled a cigarette and replied: "He says it is a
scandal that I live at Fort Anne. Well, I was here before he came, and I
shall be here after he goes--yes. A scandal--tsh! what is that? You
know the word 'Raca' of the Book? Well, there shall be more 'Raca; soon
--perhaps. No, there shall not be fighting as you think, Shon; but--"
here Pierre rose, came over, and spread his fingers lightly on Shon's
breast "but this thing is between this man and me, Shon McGann, and you
shall see a great matter. Perhaps there will be blood, perhaps not--
perhaps only an end." And the half-breed looked up at the Irishman from
under his dark brows so covertly and meaningly that Shon saw visions of a
trouble as silent as a plague, as resistless as a great flood. This
noiseless vengeance was not after his own heart. He almost shivered as
the delicate fingers drummed on his breast.