The hour came. A girl had been found dying on the roadside beyond the Fort by the drunken doctor of the place and Pierre. Pierre was with her when she died.
“An’ who’s to bury her, the poor colleen”? said Shon McGann afterwards.
Pierre musingly replied: “She is a Protestant. There is but one man.”
After many pertinent and vigorous remarks, Shon added, “A Pagan is it, he calls you, Pierre, you that’s had the holy water on y’r forehead, and the cross on the water, and that knows the book o’ the Mass like the cards in a pack? Sinner y’ are, and so are we all, God save us! say I; and weavin’ the stripes for our backs He may be, and little I’d think of Him failin’ in that: but Pagan—faith, it’s black should be the white of the eyes of that preachin’ sneak, and a rattle of teeth in his throat—divils go round me!”
The half-breed, still musing, replied: “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth—is that it, Shon?” “Nivir a word truer by song or by book, and stand by the text, say I. For Papist I am, and Papist are you; and the imps from below in y’r fingers whip poker is the game; and outlaws as they call us both—you for what it doesn’t concern me, and I for a wild night in ould Donegal—but Pagan, wurra! whin shall it be, Pierre?”
“When shall it to be?”
“True for you. The teeth in his throat and a lump to his eye, and what more be the will o’ God. Fightin’ there’ll be, av coorse; but by you I’ll stand, and sorra inch will I give, if they’ll do it with sticks or with guns, and not with the blisterin’ tongue that’s lied of me and me frinds—for frind I call you, Pierre, that loved me little in days gone by. And proud I am not of you, nor you of me; but we’ve tasted the bitter of avil days together, and divils surround me, if I don’t go down with you or come up with you, whichever it be! For there’s dirt, as I say on their tongues, and over their shoulder they look at you, and not with an eye full front.”
Pierre was cool, even pensive. His lips parted slightly once or twice, and showed a row of white, malicious teeth. For the rest, he looked as if he were politely interested but not moved by the excitement of the other. He slowly rolled a cigarette and replied: “He says it is a scandal that I live at Fort Anne. Well, I was here before he came, and I shall be here after he goes—yes. A scandal—tsh! what is that? You know the word ‘Raca’ of the Book? Well, there shall be more ‘Raca; soon—perhaps. No, there shall not be fighting as you think, Shon; but—” here Pierre rose, came over, and spread his fingers lightly on Shon’s breast “but this thing is between this man and me, Shon McGann, and you shall see a great matter. Perhaps there will be blood, perhaps not—perhaps only an end.” And the half-breed looked up at the Irishman from under his dark brows so covertly and meaningly that Shon saw visions of a trouble as silent as a plague, as resistless as a great flood. This noiseless vengeance was not after his own heart. He almost shivered as the delicate fingers drummed on his breast.
“Angels begird me, Pretty Pierre, but it’s little I’d like you for enemy o’ mine; for I know that you’d wait for y’r foe with death in y’r hand, and pity far from y’r heart; and y’d smile as you pulled the black-cap on y’r head, and laugh as you drew the life out of him, God knows how! Arrah, give me, sez I, the crack of a stick, the bite of a gun, or the clip of a sabre’s edge, with a shout in y’r mouth the while!”
Though Pierre still listened lazily, there was a wicked fire in his eyes. His words now came from his teeth with cutting precision. “I have a great thought tonight, Shon McGann. I will tell you when we meet again. But, my friend, one must not be too rash—no, not too brutal. Even the sabre should fall at the right time, and then swift and still. Noise is not battle. Well, ‘au revoir!’ To-morrow I shall tell you many things.” He caught Shon’s hand quickly, as quickly dropped it, and went out indolently singing a favourite song,—“Voici le sabre de mon Pere!”