"In a good cause—yes."
Peter was thoughtful as his cheerful and comforting companion fastened a bandage over his closed eye.
"Sunday isn't such a bad day for a fight," he argued. "You could get Aleck Curry out in the woods somewhere, tell 'im you wanted to show him something, an' I could sneak up—an' we could have it right there. I ain't—I mean I'm not afraid of Sunday!"
"I'm not thinking so much of you as I am of myself," said the little man, laughing softly. "I mustn't let pleasure come before duty—on Sunday. You see, I have to preach tomorrow."
"You have to—what?"
"Preach. Down there in the little church. I'm Father Albanel, Peter."
For the second time in the last half-hour Peter's earth seemed slipping unevenly under his feet. Father Albanel! Mona had told him about the wonderful forest missioner who had no church and no set religion, but who wandered through hundreds of miles of wilderness, preaching the faith of God wherever he went, and who came every few weeks to Five Fingers. "All the forest people love him, and he is so good I think God must love him most of all," she had said. "He buried my father and mother." And this was Father Albanel—this little man with the jolly face and twinkling eyes, and he—Peter McRae—had invited him to witness a fight on Sunday! He squirmed uneasily. He could feel the hot blood rising up through his neck into his face. He wet his swollen lips and tried to save himself.
"I didn't know you was the preacher," he said. "I guess mebbe it isn't right to fight on Sunday."
Father Albanel's hands pressed gently upon the boy's thin shoulders. "It's right to fight any time, Peter—when you have a just fight to make. God loves a peacemaker but He also has no use for a coward—and no one but a coward would refuse to fight for Mona. Will you come and hear me tomorrow?"
"I'll come," promised Peter.