“‘Mais,’ Shon,” mockingly rejoined the Frenchman, “this is not Ireland, but there is much like that to be done here. There is a roof, and there is that woman at Ward’s Mistake, and the brats—eh, by and by?”
Shon’s face clouded. He hesitated, then replied sharply: “That woman, do y’ say, Pierre, she that nursed me when the Honourable and meself were taken out o’ Sandy Drift, more dead than livin’; she that brought me back to life as good as ever, barrin’ this scar on me forehead and a stiffness at me elbow, and the Honourable as right as the sun, more luck to him! which he doesn’t need at all, with the wind of fortune in his back and shiftin’ neither to right nor left.—That woman! faith, y’d better not cut the words so sharp betune yer teeth, Pierre.”
“But I will say more—a little—just the same. She nursed you—well, that is good; but it is good also, I think, you pay her for that, and stop the rest. Women are fools, or else they are worse. This one? She is worse. Yes; you will take my advice, Shon McGann.” The Irishman came to his feet with a spring, and his words were angry.
“It doesn’t come well from Pretty Pierre, the gambler, to be revilin’ a woman; and I throw it in y’r face, though I’ve slept under the same blanket with ye, an’ drunk out of the same cup on manny a tramp, that you lie dirty and black when ye spake ill—of my wife.”
This conversation had occurred in a quiet corner of the bar-room of the Saints’ Repose. The first few sentences had not been heard by the others present; but Shon’s last speech, delivered in a ringing tone, drew the miners to their feet, in expectation of seeing shots exchanged at once. The code required satisfaction, immediate and decisive. Shon was not armed, and some one thrust a pistol towards him; but he did not take it. Pierre rose, and coming slowly to him, laid a slender finger on his chest, and said:
“So! I did not know that she was your wife. That is a surprise.”
The miners nodded assent. He continued:
“Lucy Rives your wife! Hola, Shon McGann, that is such a joke.”
“It’s no joke, but God’s truth, and the lie is with you, Pierre.”
Murmurs of anticipation ran round the room; but the half-breed said: “There will be satisfaction altogether; but it is my whim to prove what I say first; then”—fondling his revolver—“then we shall settle. But, see: you will meet me here at ten o’clock to-night, and I will make it, I swear to you, so clear, that the woman is vile.”