I
love her more than her own blood-father. Bad luck, exciptin' her,
there was niver but one woman I loved, an' that woman had mated
beforetime. Not a soul did I brathe a word to, trust me, nor even
herself. But she died. God's love be with her."

His chin went down upon his chest and he quested back to a
flaxen-haired Saxon woman, strayed like a bit of sunshine into the
log store by the Dyea River. He looked up suddenly, and caught St.
Vincent's stare bent blankly to the floor as he mused on other things.

"A truce to foolishness, Vincent."

The correspondent returned to himself with an effort and found the
Irishman's small blue eyes boring into him.

"Are ye a brave man, Vincent?"

For a second's space they searched each other's souls. And in that
space Matt could have sworn he saw the faintest possible flicker or
flutter in the man's eyes.

He brought his fist down on the table with a triumphant crash. "By
God, yer not!"

The correspondent pulled the tobacco jug over to him and rolled a
cigarette. He rolled it carefully, the delicate rice paper crisping
in his hand without a tremor; but all the while a red tide mounting
up from beneath the collar of his shirt, deepening in the hollows of
the cheeks and thinning against the cheekbones above, creeping,
spreading, till all his face was aflame.

"'Tis good. An' likely it saves me fingers a dirty job. Vincent,
man, the girl child which is woman grown slapes in Dawson this night.
God help us, you an' me, but we'll niver hit again the pillow as
clane an' pure as she! Vincent, a word to the wise: ye'll niver lay
holy hand or otherwise upon her."

The devil, which Lucile had proclaimed, began to quicken,--a fuming,
fretting, irrational devil.

"I do not like ye. I kape me raysons to meself. It is sufficient.
But take this to heart, an' take it well: should ye be mad enough to
make her yer wife, iv that damned day ye'll niver see the inding, nor
lay eye upon the bridal bed. Why, man, I cud bate ye to death with
me two fists if need be. But it's to be hoped I'll do a nater job.
Rest aisy. I promise ye."

"You Irish pig!"

So the devil burst forth, and all unaware, for McCarthy found himself
eye-high with the muzzle of a Colt's revolver.

"Is it loaded?" he asked. "I belave ye. But why are ye lingerin'?
Lift the hammer, will ye?"

The correspondent's trigger-finger moved and there was a warning
click.

"Now pull it. Pull it, I say. As tho