right hand, over
into his left, he drew a small pistol from the breast of his coat and
fired. The report was sharp and loud; but it caused no uneasiness or
inquiry in the fort, owing to the fact that Indians invariably emptied
their guns when coming into the town.

Hamilton's aim, although hasty, was not bad. The bullet from his weapon
cut through Father Beret's clothes between his left arm and his body,
slightly creasing the flesh on a rib. Beyond him it struck heavily and
audibly. Alice fell limp and motionless to the soft wet ground, where
cold puddles of water were splintered over with ice. She lay pitifully
crumpled, one arm outstretched in the moonlight. Father Beret heard the
bullet hit her, and turned in time to see her stagger backward with a
hand convulsively pressed over her heart. Her face, slightly upturned
as she reeled, gave the moon a pallid target for its strengthening
rays. Sweet, beautiful, its rigid features flashed for a second and
then half turned away from the light and went down.

Father Beret uttered a short, thin cry and moved as if to go to the
fallen girl, but just then he saw Hamilton's sword pass over again into
his right hand, and knew that there was no time for anything but death
or fight. The good priest did not shirk what might have made the
readiest of soldiers nervous. Hamilton was known to be a great
swordsman and proud of the distinction. Father Beret had seen him fence
with Farnsworth in remarkable form, touching him at will, and in
ministering to the men in the fort he had heard them talk of the
Governor's incomparable skill.

A priest is, in perhaps all cases but the last out of a thousand, a man
of peace, not to be forced into a fight; but the exceptional one out of
the ten hundred it is well not to stir up if you are looking for an
easy victim. Hamilton was in the habit of considering every antagonist
immediately conquerable. His domineering spirit could not, when
opposed, reckon with any possibility of disaster. As he sprang toward
Father Beret there was a mutual recognition and, we speak guardedly,
something that sounded exactly like an exchange of furious execrations.
As for Father Beret's words, they may have been a mere priestly formula
of objurgation.

The moon was accommodating. With a beautiful white splendor it entered
a space of cloudless sky, where it seemed to slip along the dusky blue
surface among the stars, far over in the west.

"It's you, is it?" Hamilto