a Pagan. . . . Will you permit me to light a cigarette? Thank you
. . . . You have said many harsh things about me: well, as you see,
I am amiable. I lived at Fort Anne before you came. They call me Pretty
Pierre. Why is my cheek so? Because I drink no wine; I eat not much.
Pardon, pork like that on your plate--no! no! I do not take green tea
as there in your cup; I do not love women, one or many. Again, pardon,
I say."

The other drew his brows together with an attempt at pious frowning and
indignation; but there was a cold, sneering smile now turned upon him,
and it changed the frown to anxiety, and made his lips twitch, and the
food he had eaten grow heavy within him.

"I come to the scandal slowly. The woman? She was a young girl
travelling from the far East, to search for a man who had--spoiled her.
She was found by me and another. Ah, you start so! . . . Will you
not listen? . . . Well, she died to-night."

Here the missionary gasped, and caught with both hands at the table.

"But before she died she gave two things into my hands: a packet of
letters--a man is a fool to write such letters--and a small bottle of
poison--laudanum, old-fashioned but sure. The letters were from the man
at Fort Anne--the man, you hear! The other was for her death, if he
would not take her to his arms again. Women are mad when they love.
And so she came to Fort Anne, but not in time. The scandal is great,
because the man is holy--sit down!"

The half-breed said the last two words sharply, but not loudly. They
both sat down slowly again, looking each other in the eyes. Then Pierre