"Come," said I, "you're going to get a grip on yourself, mon ami. You're going to get out of this wretched, unkempt state of melancholia at once. Tanrade has told me much. You know as well as I do, the village is a nest of gossip—that they make a mountain out of a molehill; if I were a pirate chief and had captured this vagabond port, I'd have a few of those wagging tongues taken out and keel-hauled in the bay."
He started as if in pain, and again turned his haggard eyes to mine.
"I don't believe there's a word of truth in it," I declared hotly.
"There—is," he returned hoarsely, trembling so his voice faltered—"I am—a thief."
He sat bolt-upright in his chair, staring at me like a man who had suddenly become insane. His declaration was so sudden and amazing, that for some moments I knew not what to reply, then a feeling of pity took possession of me. He was still my friend, whatever he had done. I saw his gaze revert to the crucifix hanging between the steel engravings of two venerable saints, over the mantel back of the stove—a mantel heaped with old shot bags and empty cartridge shells.
"How the devil did it happen?" I blurted out at length. "You don't mean to say you stole the money?"
"Spent it," he replied half inaudibly.
"How spent it? On yourself?"
"No, no! Thank God—"