venerable brows, as though he would see through him and beyond him to
that end; and at last he spoke in a low, firm voice:

"Pierre, you have been a bad man; but sometimes you have been generous,
and of a few good acts I know--"

"No, not good," the other interrupted. "I ask this of your charity."

"There is the law, and my conscience."

"The law! the law!" and there was sharp satire in the half-breed's voice.
"What has it done in the West? Think, 'mon pere!' Do you not know a
hundred cases where the law has dealt foully? There was more justice
before we had law. Law--" And he named over swiftly, scornfully, a
score of names and incidents, to which Father Corraine listened intently.
"But," said Pierre, gently, at last, "but for your conscience, m'sieu',
that is greater than law. For you are a good man and a wise man; and you
know that I shall pay my debts of every kind some sure day. That should
satisfy your justice, but you are merciful for the moment, and you will
spare until the time be come, until the corn is ripe in the ear. Why
should I plead? It is foolish. Still, it is my whim, of which, perhaps,
I shall be sorry tomorrow . . . Hark!" he added, and then shrugged
his shoulders and smiled. There were sounds of hoof beats coming faintly
to them. Father Corraine threw open the door of the other room of the
hut, and said "Go in there--Pierre. We shall see . . . we shall see."

The outlaw looked at the priest, as if hesitating; but, after, nodded
meaningly to himself, and entered the room and shut the door. The priest
stood listening. When the hoof-beats stopped, he opened the door, and
went out. In the dark he could see that men were dismounting from their