The priest paused. Bagot's face was all swimming with sweat, his body was rigid, but the veins of his neck knotted and twisted.
"For the love of God go on!" he said hoarsely.
"Yes, for the love of God. I have no money, I am poor, but the Company will always honor my orders, for I pay sometimes by the help of le bon Jésu. Well, I added some things to the list: a saddle, a rifle, and some flannel. But no, he would not. Once more I put many things down. It was a big bill—it would keep me poor for five years. To save your wife, John Bagot, you who drove her from your door, blaspheming and railing at such as I.... I offered the things, and told him that was all I could give. After a little he shook his head, and said that he must have the woman for his wife. I did not know what to add. I said, 'She is white, and the white people will never rest till they have killed you all, if you do this thing. The Company will track you down.' Then he said, 'The whites must catch me and fight me before they kill me.'... What was there to do?"
Bagot came near to the priest, bending over him savagely:
"You let her stay with them—you, with hands like a man!"
"Hush," was the calm, reproving answer. "I was one man, they were twenty."
"Where was your God to help you, then?"
"Her God and mine was with me."
Bagot's eyes blazed. "Why didn't you offer rum—rum? They'd have done it for that—one—five—ten kegs of rum!"
He swayed to and fro in his excitement, yet their voices hardly rose above a hoarse whisper all the time.