my life. Miss Roussillon saved you by
shooting me, and I love her for it. Lay on, Father, I deserve more than
you can give me."

"Surely you do, my son, surely you do; but my love for you will not let
me give you pain. Ah, we priests have to carry all men's loads. Our
backs are broad, however, very broad, my son."

"And your fists devilish heavy, Father, devilish heavy."

The gentle smile again flickered over the priest's weather-beaten face
as he glanced sidewise at Farnsworth and said:

"Sometimes, sometimes, my son, a carnal weapon must break the way for a
spiritual one. But we priests rarely have much physical strength; our
dependence is upon--"

"To be sure; certainly," Farnsworth interrupted, rubbing his side,
"your dependence is upon the first thing that offers. I've had many a
blow; but yours was the solidest that ever jarred thy mortal frame,
Father Beret."

The twain began to laugh. There is nothing like a reminiscence to stir
up fresh mutual sympathy.

"If your intercostals were somewhat sore for a time, on account of a
contact with priestly knuckles, doubtless there soon set in a
corresponding uneasiness in the region of your conscience. Such shocks
are often vigorously alterative and tonic--eh, my son?"

"You jolted me sober, Father, and then I was ashamed of myself. But
where does all your tremendous strength lie? You don't look strong."

While speaking Farnsworth leaned near Father Beret and grasped his arm.
The young man started, for his fingers, instead of closing around a
flabby, shrunken old man's limb, spread themselves upon a huge, knotted
mass of iron muscles. With a quick movement Father Beret shook off
Farnsworth's hand, and said:

"I am no Samson, my son. Non sum qualis eram." Then, as if dismissing a
light subject for a graver one, he sighed and added; "I suppose there
is nothing that can be done for little Alice."

He called the tall, strong girl "little Alice," and so she seemed to
him. He could not, without direct effort, think of her as a
magnificently maturing woman. She had always been his spoiled pet
child, perversely set against the Holy Church, but dear to him
nevertheless.

"I came to you to ask that very question, Father," said Farnsworth.

"And what do I know? Surely, my son, you see how utterly helpless an
old priest is against all you British. And besides--"

"Father Beret," Farnsworth huskily interrupted, "is there a place that
you know of anywhere in which Mis