Still he advanced, till his face almost touched the muzzle of the pistol. He seemed not to see it, or to have the least conception of his danger.
It was strange that Sandy did not pull. Maybe he was surprised at the singular action of the Parson. Perhaps he had his eye on the unlifted right hand of his antagonist. At all events he had the "drop," and could afford to wait the smallest part of a second, and see what he would do.
"I have been a-wait-ing"—the Parson halted and paused at the participle. "I have been a-wait-ing for you, Sandy, a long time."
His voice trembled. The voice that had thundered above a hundred bar-room fights, and had directed the men through many a difficulty in camp, was now low and uncertain.
"Sandy," he began again, and he took hold of the counter with his left hand, "I am a-going-a-way. Your cabin will be too small now, and I want you to promise me to take care of the Parsonage till I come back."
Sandy sank back closer still to the wall, and his arm hung down at his side.
"You will move into the Parsonage when it is all over. It's full of good things for Winter. You will take it, I say, at once. Promise me that."
The Parson's voice was a little severe here—more determined than before; and, as he concluded, he drew the key from his pocket and handed it to Sandy.
"You will?"
"Yes."