Side by side, the new-made senator and the old priest walk across the plaza. Success smiles on Hardin.
Local quid-nuncs mutter "Compromise," as they seek the spiritual consolation of the Magnolia Saloon and Palace Varieties. Is there to be no pistol practice after all?
Alas, these degenerate days! The camp has lost its glory. Betting has been two to one that Colonel Joe Woods riddles the Judge before the trial is over.
Now these bets will be off. A fraud on the innocent public. The decadence of Mariposa.
Yet, Hardin is not easy. In the first struggle of his life with a priest, Hardin feels himself no match for his passionless antagonist. The waxen mask of the Church hides the inner soul of the man.
Only when PŠre Fran‡ois turns his searching gaze on the Judge, parrying every move, does the lawyer feel how the immobility of the clergyman is proof against his wiles and professional ambushes.
PŠre Fran‡ois conducts Hardin into the room whence Natalie dismissed him, in her roused but sadly wounded spirit. She is there, waiting. Her face is marble in pallor.
With a grave bow, the old ecclesiastic retires to an adjoining room and leaves them alone. There is a writing table.
"Madame, to spare you discussion," Hardin remarks seriously, "I will write on two sheets of paper what I ask and what I offer. You may confer with your adviser. I will retire. You can add to either anything you propose. We can then, at once, observe if we can approach each other."
Natalie's stately head bows assent in silence. In five minutes Hardin hands her the two sheets.