d gay, I have see what happened all over again.
I have see his strong hands; his bad face laugh at my words; I have see
him raise his riding-whip and cut me across the head. I have see him
stagger and fall from the blows I give him with the knife--the knife
which never was found--why, I not know, for I throw it on the ground
beside him! There, as I sit in the open day, a thousand times I have
see him shiver and fall, staring, staring at me as if he see a dreadful
thing. Then I stand up again and strike at him--at his ghost!--as I did
that day in the woods. Again I see him lie in his blood, straight and
white--so large, so handsome, so still! I have shed tears--but what are
tears! Blind with tears I have call out for the devils of hell to take
me with them. I have call on God to give me death. I have prayed, and I
have cursed. Twice I have travelled to the grave where he lies. I have
knelt there and have beg him to tell the truth to God, and say that he
torture me till I kill him. I have beg him to forgive me and to haunt
me no more with his bad face. But never--never--never--have I one quiet
hour until you come, M'sieu'; nor any joy in my heart till I tell you
the black truth--M'sieu'! M'sieu!"

He buried his face between Charley's feet, and held them with his hands.

Charley laid a hand on the shaggy head as though it were that of a
child. "Be still--be still, Jo," he said gently.

Since that night of St. Jean Baptiste's festival, no word of the past,
of the time when Charley turned aside the revanche of justice from a man
called Joseph Nadeau, had been spoken between them. Out of the delirium
of his drunken trance had come Charley's recognition of the man he knew
now as Jo Portugais. But the recognition had been sent again into the
obscurity whence it came, and had not been mentioned since. To outward
seeming they had gone on as before. As Charley saw the knotted brows,
the staring eyes, the clinched hands, the figure of the woodsman rigid
in its agony of remorse, he said to himself: "What right had I to save
this man's life? To have paid for his crime would have been easier for
him. I knew he was guilty. Perhaps it was my duty to see that every
condition, to the last shade of the law, was satisfied, but was it
justice to the poor devil himself? There he sits with a load on him that
weighs him down every hour of his life. I called him back; I gave him
life; but I gave him memory and remorse, and the ghosts that haunt