square all accounts here, as you say, and for the last time; for never
again shall we meet, if it's within my will or doing. But I say I am the
debtor; and if I pay not here, there will come a time!" and he caught
his shoulder as it shrunk in pain of his wound. He tapped the wound
lightly, and said with irony: "This is my note of hand for my debt, Shon
McGann. Eh, bien!"

Then he tossed his fingers indolently towards Shon, and turning his eyes
slowly to Mary Callen, raised his hat in good-bye. She put out her hand
impulsively to him, but Pierre, shaking his head, looked away. Shon put
his hand gently on her arm. "No, no," he said in a whisper, "there can
be no touch of hands between us."

And Pierre, looking up, added: "C'est vrai. That is the truth. You go--
home. I got to hide. So--so." And he turned and went into the hut.

The others set their faces northward, and Father Corraine walked beside
Mary Callen's horse, talking quietly of their future life, and speaking,
as he would never speak again, of days in that green land of their birth.
At length, upon a dividing swell of the prairie, he paused to say
farewell.

Many times the two turned to see, and he was there, looking after them;
his forehead bared to the clear inspiring wind, his grey hair blown back,
his hands clasped. Before descending the trough of a great landwave,
they turned for the last time, and saw him standing motionless, the one
solitary being in all their wide horizon.

But outside the line of vision there sat a man in a prairie hut, whose
eyes travelled over the valley of blue sky stretching away beyond the