his to the Camp of the Great Fires."

It was long before Tybalt spoke, but at last he said: "If I could but tell
it as you have told it to me, Pierre!" Pierre answered: "Tell it with
your tongue, and this shall be nothing to it, for what am I? What English
have I, a gipsy of the snows? But do not write it, mais non! Writing
wanders from the matter. The eyes, and the tongue, and the time, that is
the thing. But in a book--it will sound all cold and thin. It is for the
north, for the camp-fire, for the big talk before a man rolls into his
blanket, and is at peace. No, no writing, monsieur. Speak it everywhere
with your tongue."

"And so I would, were my tongue as yours. Pierre, tell me more about the
letters at Fort O'Glory. You know his name--what was it?"

"You said five hundred dollars for one of those letters. Is it not?"

"Yes." Tybalt had a new hope.

"T'sh! What do I want of five hundred dollars! But, here, answer me a
question: Was the lady--his wife, she that was left in England--a good
woman? Answer me out of your own sense, and from my story. If you say
right you shall have a letter--one that I have by me."

Tybalt's heart leapt into his throat. After a little he said huskily:
"She was a good woman--he believed her that, and so shall I."

"You think he could not have been so great unless, eh? And that 'Charles
Rex,' what of him?"