s a devil. Justice,--that is the thing."

"'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour'?" asked
Fawdor softly.

"Yes, like that. But a man must put it in his own words, and keep the
law which he makes. Then life does not give a bad taste in the mouth."

"What commandments have you made for yourself, Pierre?"

The slumbering fire in Pierre's face leaped up. He felt for an instant
as his father, a chevalier of France, might have felt if a peasant had
presumed to finger the orders upon his breast. It touched his native
pride, so little shown in anything else. But he knew the spirit behind
the question, and the meaning justified the man. "Thou shalt think
with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one woman," he said, and
paused.

"Justice and mercy," murmured the voice from the bed.

"Thou shalt keep the faith of food and blanket." Again Pierre paused.

"And a man shall have no cause to fear his friend," said the voice
again.

The pause was longer this time, and Pierre's cold, handsome face took
on a kind of softness before he said, "Remember the sorrow of thine own
wife."

"It is a good commandment," said the sick man, "to make all women safe
whether they be true--or foolish."

"The strong should be ashamed to prey upon the weak. Pshaw! such a sport
ends in nothing. Man only is man's game."

Suddenly Pierre added: "When you thought you were going to die, you gave
me some papers and letters to take to Quebec. You will get well. Shall I
give them back? Will you take them yourself?"

Fawdor understood: Pierre wished to know his story. He reached out a
hand, saying, "I will take them myself. You have not read them?"

"No. I was not to read them till you died--bien?" He handed the packet
over.

"I will tell you the story," Fawdor said, turning over on his side, so
that his eyes rested full on Pierre.

He did not begin at once. An Esquimau dog, of the finest and yet wildest
breed, which had been lying before the fire, stretched itself, opened
its red eyes at the two men, and, slowly rising, went to the door and
sniffed at the cracks. Then it turned, and began pacing restlessly
around the room. Every little while it would stop, sniff the air, and go
on again. Once or twice, also, as it passed the couch of the sick man,
it paused, and at last it suddenly rose, rested two feet on the rude
headboard of the couch, and pushed its nose against the invalid's head.
There was something rarely savage an