drew from his pocket a small bottle and a packet of letters, and held
them before him. "I have this to say: there are citizens of Fort Anne
who stand for justice more than law; who have no love for the ways of
St. Anthony. There is a Pagan, too, an outlaw, who knows when it is
time to give blow for blow with the holy man. Well, we understand each
other, 'hein?'"

The elusive, sinister look in the missionary's face was etched in strong
lines now. A dogged sullenness hung about his lips. He noticed that one
hand only of Pretty Pierre was occupied with the relics of the dead girl;
the other was free to act suddenly on a hip pocket. "What do you want
me to do?" he said, not whiningly, for beneath the selfish flesh and
shallow outworks there were the elements of a warrior--all pulpy now,
but they were there.

"This," was the reply: "for you to make one more outlaw at Fort Anne by
drinking what is in this bottle--sit down, quick, by God!" He placed the
bottle within reach of the other. "Then you shall have these letters;
and there is the fire. After? Well, you will have a great sleep, the
good people will find you, they will bury you, weeping much, and no one
knows here but me. Refuse that, and there is the other, the Law--ah,
the poor girl was so very young!--and the wild Justice which is sometimes
quicker than Law. Well? well?"

The missionary sat as if paralysed, his face all grey, his eyes fixed on
the half-breed. "Are you man or devil?" he groaned at length.

With a slight, fantastic gesture Pierre replied: "It was said that a
devil entered into me at birth, but that was mere scandal--'peut-etre.'
You shall think as you will."