n me, and I for a
wild night in ould Donegal--but Pagan, wurra! whin shall it be, Pierre?"

"When shall it to be?"

"True for you. The teeth in his throat and a lump to his eye, and what
more be the will o' God. Fightin' there'll be, av coorse; but by you
I'll stand, and sorra inch will I give, if they'll do it with sticks or
with guns, and not with the blisterin' tongue that's lied of me and me
frinds--for frind I call you, Pierre, that loved me little in days
gone by. And proud I am not of you, nor you of me; but we've tasted the
bitter of avil days together, and divils surround me, if I don't go down
with you or come up with you, whichever it be! For there's dirt, as I
say on their tongues, and over their shoulder they look at you, and not
with an eye full front."

Pierre was cool, even pensive. His lips parted slightly once or twice,
and showed a row of white, malicious teeth. For the rest, he looked as
if he were politely interested but not moved by the excitement of
the other. He slowly rolled a cigarette and replied: "He says it is a
scandal that I live at Fort Anne. Well, I was here before he came, and I
shall be here after he goes--yes. A scandal--tsh! what is that? You
know the word 'Raca' of the Book? Well, there shall be more 'Raca;
soon--perhaps. No, there shall not be fighting as you think, Shon;
but--" here Pierre rose, came over, and spread his fingers lightly on
Shon's breast "but this thing is between this man and me, Shon McGann,
and you shall see a great matter. Perhaps there will be blood, perhaps
not--perhaps only an end." And the half-breed looked up at the Irishman
from under his dark brows so covertly and meaningly that Shon saw
visions of a trouble as silent as a plague, as resistless as a great
flood. This noiseless vengeance was not after his own heart. He almost
shivered as the delicate fingers drummed on his breast.

"Angels begird me, Pretty Pierre, but it's little I'd like you for enemy
o' mine; for I know that you'd wait for y'r foe with death in y'r hand,
and pity far from y'r heart; and y'd smile as you pulled the black-cap
on y'r head, and laugh as you drew the life out of him, God knows how!
Arrah, give me, sez I, the crack of a stick, the bite of a gun, or the
clip of a sabre's edge, with a shout in y'r mouth the while!"

Though Pierre still listened lazily, there was a wicked fire in his
eyes. His words now came from his teeth with cutting precision. "I
have a great thought to