his skin.

"Dear Pierre, then for your mother?"

He bowed his head.

"Not for all the people who love you and wait for you now by some warm
fire--some cozy fire, all yellow and bright?"

He took her hands and with them covered his eyes. "Listen: I have no
father; I have no mother."

"Pierre! Oh, Pierre, I'm sorry!"

"And for the rest of 'em, I've killed a man. The whole world hates me;
the whole world's hunting me."

The small hands tugged away. He dared not raise his bowed head for
fear of her eyes. And then the hands came back to him and touched
his face.

She was saying tremulously: "Then he deserved to be killed. There must
be men like that--almost. And I--like you still, Pierre."

"Really?"

"I almost think I like you more--because you could kill a man--and
then stay here for me."

"If you were a grown-up girl, do you know what I'd say?"