The Bishop told the tale simply, accenting the folly of his own imprudence, and how he had been saved from the consequences of it by the quickness and wisdom of the young girl. Father Ponfret translated freely and with a fine flourish. Then the Bishop told of the coming of Rafe Gadbeau and how the man had died with the Sacrament. They nodded their heads in silence. There was nothing to be said. They knew who the man was. He had done wickedly. But the good God had stretched out the wing of His great Church over him at the last. Why say more? God was good. No?
Ruth Lansing went among her own hill people, grouped on the outskirts of the crowd that pressed around the Bishop, answering their eager questions 191 and asking questions of her own. There was just one question that she wanted to ask, but something kept it back from her lips. There was no reason at all why she should not ask them about Jeffrey Whiting. Some of them must at least have heard news of him, must know in what direction he had gone to fight the fire. But some unnamed dread seemed to take possession of her so that she dared not put her crying question into words.
Some one at her elbow, who had heard what the French people were saying, asked:
“You’re sure that was Gadbeau that crawled out of the fire and died, Miss Lansing?”
“Yes. I knew him well, of course. It was Gadbeau, certainly,” Ruth answered without looking up.
Then a tall young fellow in front of her said:
“Then that’s two of ’em done for. That was Gadbeau. And Jeff Whiting shot Rogers.”
“He did not!” Ruth blazed up in the young man’s face. “Jeffrey Whiting did not shoot Rogers! Rafe––!”
The horror of the thing she had been about to do rushed upon her and blinded her. The blood came rushing up into her throat and brain, choking her, stunning her, so that she gasped and staggered. The young man, Perry Waite, caught her by the arm as she seemed about to fall. She struggled a moment for control of herself, then managed to gasp: