which he doesn't need at all, with the wind of fortune in his back and
shiftin' neither to right nor left. --That woman! faith, y'd better not
cut the words so sharp betune yer teeth, Pierre."

"But I will say more--a little--just the same. She nursed you--well,
that is good; but it is good also, I think, you pay her for that, and
stop the rest. Women are fools, or else they are worse. This one? She
is worse. Yes; you will take my advice, Shon McGann." The Irishman came
to his feet with a spring, and his words were angry.

"It doesn't come well from Pretty Pierre, the gambler, to be revilin'
a woman; and I throw it in y'r face, though I've slept under the same
blanket with ye, an' drunk out of the same cup on manny a tramp, that you
lie dirty and black when ye spake ill--of my wife."

This conversation had occurred in a quiet corner of the bar-room of the
Saints' Repose. The first few sentences had not been heard by the others
present; but Shon's last speech, delivered in a ringing tone, drew the
miners to their feet, in expectation of seeing shots exchanged at once.
The code required satisfaction, immediate and decisive. Shon was not
armed, and some one thrust a pistol towards him; but he did not take it.
Pierre rose, and coming slowly to him, laid a slender finger on his
chest, and said:

"So! I did not know that she was your wife. That is a surprise."

The miners nodded assent. He continued:

"Lucy Rives your wife! Hola, Shon McGann, that is such a joke."