"I cannot let you take it, my son," said Father Beret "You have its mate, that should satisfy you."
"No, Colonel Hamilton took it," Farnsworth quickly replied. "If I could I would gladly return it to its owner. I am not a thief, Father, and I am ashamed of—of—what I did when I was drunk."
The priest looked sharply into Farnsworth's eyes and read there something that reassured him. His long experience had rendered him adept at taking a man's value at a glance. He slightly lifted his face and said: "Ah, but the poor little girl! why do you persecute her? She really does not deserve it. She is a noble child. Give her back to her home and her people. Do not soil and spoil her sweet life."
It was the sing-song voice used by Father Beret in his sermons and prayers; but something went with it indescribably touching. Farnsworth felt a lump rise in his throat and his eyes were ready to show tears. "Father," he said, with difficulty making his words distinct, "I would not harm Miss Roussillon to save my own life, and I would do anything—" he paused slightly, then added with passionate force; "I would do anything, no matter what, to save her from the terrible thing that now threatens her."
Father Beret's countenance changed curiously as he gazed at the young man and said:
"If you really mean what you say, you can easily save her, my son."
"Father, by all that is holy, I mean just what I say."
"Swear not at all, my son, but give me your hand."
The two men stood with a tight grip between them and exchanged a long, steady, searching gaze.
A drizzling rain had begun to fall again, with a raw wind creeping from the west.