"Angels begird me, Pretty Pierre, but it's little I'd like you for enemy
o' mine; for I know that you'd wait for y'r foe with death in y'r hand,
and pity far from y'r heart; and y'd smile as you pulled the black-cap on
y'r head, and laugh as you drew the life out of him, God knows how!
Arrah, give me, sez I, the crack of a stick, the bite of a gun, or the
clip of a sabre's edge, with a shout in y'r mouth the while!"

Though Pierre still listened lazily, there was a wicked fire in his eyes.
His words now came from his teeth with cutting precision. "I have a
great thought tonight, Shon McGann. I will tell you when we meet again.
But, my friend, one must not be too rash--no, not too brutal. Even the
sabre should fall at the right time, and then swift and still. Noise is
not battle. Well, 'au revoir!' To-morrow I shall tell you many things."
He caught Shon's hand quickly, as quickly dropped it, and went out
indolently singing a favourite song,--"Voici le sabre de mon Pere!"

It was dark. Pretty Pierre stood still, and thought for a while. At
last he spoke aloud: "Well, I shall do it, now I have him--so!" And he
opened and shut his hand swiftly and firmly. He moved on, avoiding the
more habited parts of the place, and by a roundabout came to a house
standing very close to the bank of the river. He went softly to the door
and listened. Light shone through the curtain of a window. He went to
the window and looked beneath the curtain. Then he came back to the
door, opened it very gently, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.

A man seated at a table, eating, rose; a man on whom greed had set its
mark--greed of the flesh, greed of men's praise, greed of money. His
frame was thick-set, his body was heavily nourished, his eye was shifty
but intelligent; and a close observer would have seen something elusive,