The terror fled from Tom's soul; the hate and anger too; and as he looked up at Jean's battered, sorrowful face, he broke down and wept like a child.
"Oh, my God, my God!" he moaned. "Why did we do it? Pamphile dead; Pat dead; and I, I might as well be dead too. My God! My God!"
"Pat is not dead, Tom. I hear him, I think. Yes, there he comes. Thank God. Pat is all right, Tom, and you are all right too. Brace up, old man. But Pamphile? Mon Dieu! What have I done? Tom, I am going away. You will look after Pamphile--you and Pat. There will be some expense--I will pay it. And the mail contract----"
"Damn the mail contract!"
"But no, Tom; it is yours now. You will drive the mail to-morrow, will you not? The mail must go--Her Majesty's Mail."
"Yes, I will do it, Jean; but it will be yours when you come back."
"I am not coming back, Tom. Good-bye."
"Jean Baptiste," said Tom, grasping the extended hand, "you have been damn good to us that have been damn mean to you, and it's damn sorry I am for all our damned cussedness. Come back soon, and we'll be good neighbours and friends, by God, we will."
As Jean strode along toward his home he saw Blanchette by the path, weeping bitterly.
"Ah, Blanchette, it is you. And you saw it all."