“That I might learn to bear—him,” she continued.
“Is he still—” Pierre paused.
She spoke up quickly. “Oh no, he has been free two years.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.” She waited for a minute, then said again, “I don’t know. When he was free, he came to me, but I—I could not. He thought, too, that because he had been in gaol, that I wouldn’t—be his wife. He didn’t think enough of himself, he didn’t urge anything. And I wasn’t ready—no—no—no—how could I be! I didn’t care so much about the gaol, but he had killed John Marcey. The gaol—what was that to me! There was no real shame in it unless he had done a mean thing. He had been wicked—not mean. Killing is awful, but not shameful. Think—the difference—if he had been a thief!”
Pierre nodded. “Then some one should have killed him!” he said. “Well, after?”
“After—after—ah, he went away for a year. Then he came back; but no, I was always thinking of that night I walked behind John Marcey’s body to the Fort. So he went away again, and we came here, and here we have lived.”
“He has not come here?”
“No; once from the far north he sent me a letter by an Indian, saying that he was going with a half-breed to search for a hunting party, an English gentleman and two men who were lost. The name of one of the men was Brickney.”
Pierre stopped short in a long whiffing of smoke. “Holy!” he said, “that thief Brickney again. He would steal the broad road to hell if he could carry it. He once stole the quarters from a dead man’s eyes. Mon Dieu! to save Brickney’s life, the courage to do that—like sticking your face in the mire and eating!—But, pshaw!—go on, p’tite Lucille.”