you wouldn't see him for a time. So it seemed to me that he made up his
mind to think nothing of Cynthie, and to say nothing."

"Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!"

The strange, sweet, singing voice sounded nearer. "She's coming this way,
Pierre," said Lawless.

"I hope not to see her. What is the good!"

"Well, let us have the rest of the story."

"Her brother Fenn was in Fingall's gang. One day there was trouble. Fenn
called Fingall a liar. The gang stopped piling; the usual thing did not
come. Fingall told him to leave the yard, and they would settle some
other time. That night a wicked thing happened. We were sitting in the
bar-room when we heard two shots and then a fall. We ran into the other
room; there was Fenn on the floor, dying. He lifted himself on his elbow,
pointed at Fingall--and fell back. The father of the boy stood white and
still a few feet away. There was no pistol showing--none at all.

"The men closed in on Fingall. He did not stir--he seemed to be thinking
of something else. He had a puzzled, sorrowful look. The men roared round
him, but he waved them back for a moment, and looked first at the father,
then at the son. I could not understand at first. Someone pulled a pistol
out of Fingall's pocket and showed it. At that moment Cynthie came in.
She gave a cry. By the holy! I do not want to hear a cry like that often.
She fell on her knees beside the boy, and caught his head to her breast.
Then with a wild look she asked who did it. They had just taken Fingall
out into the bar-room. They did not tell her his name, for they knew that