“Hi, you monk! Dance!” cried Pietro; and the leathery ape footed it solemnly. The perspiration poured down Pietro's face. Over the faces of the two stern men fronting each other a smile came and broadened slowly, first over the younger's, then over the deacon's.
The deacon's smile died out first. He sat down on a rock, hid his face and groaned.
“I'm an evil-minded man,” he said; “I'm beaten.”
The other cocked his head on one side and listened. “Know what that tune is, Bob? I don't.”
He sat down in the old place again, took up the panes of glass and the copy of the will, hesitated, and put them down.
“I don't reckon you're beaten, Bob. You ain't got to the end of your hand yet. Got any children, Bob? Yes; said you had.”
“Five.”
“Call it a draw, Bob; I'll go you halves, counting in the monument.”
But the deacon only muttered to himself: “I'm an evil-minded man.”
Tom Rand meditatively wrapped the two documents around the revolvers.