d. Hate
need not disturb you.--I am a quick shot. I killed that mountain lion,
and I ate the haunch of deer I dragged from under her...."

He turned now, and, facing the doorway, looked out upon the village, to
the roof of a house which they both knew. "Hate," he said, "is not the
most wonderful thing. I saw a woman look once as though she could lose
the whole world--and her own soul. She was a good woman. The man was
bad--most: he never could be anything else. A look like that breaks the
nerve. It is not amusing. In time the man goes to pieces. But before
that comes he is apt to do strange things. Eh-so!"

He sat down, and, with his finger, wrote musingly in the dust upon the
table.

Liddall looked keenly at him, and replied more brusquely than he felt:
"Do you think it fair to stay--fair to her?"

"What if I should take her with me?" Pierre flashed a keen, searching
look after the words.

"It would be useless devilry."

"Let us drink," said Pierre, as he came to his feet quickly: "then for
the House of Lords" (the new and fashionable tavern).

They separated in the street, and Pierre went to the House of Lords
alone. He found a number of men gathered before a paper pasted on a
pillar of the veranda. Hearing his own name, he came nearer. A ranch man
was reading aloud an article from a newspaper printed two hundred miles
away. The article was headed, "A Villainous Plunderer." It had been
written by someone at Guidon Hill. All that was discreditable in
Pierre's life it set forth with rude clearness; he was credited with
nothing pardonable. In the crowd there were mutterings unmistakable to
Pierre. He suddenly came among them, caught a revolver from his pocket,
and shot over the reader's shoulder six times into the pasted strip of
newspaper.

The men dropped back. They were not prepared for warlike measures at
the moment. Pierre leaned his back against the pillar and waited. His
silence and coolness, together with an iron fierceness in his face, held
them from instant demonstration against him; but he knew that he must
face active peril soon. He pocketed his revolver and went up the hill
to the house of Kitty Cline's mother. It was the first time he had ever
been there. At the door he hesitated, but knocked presently, and was
admitted by Kitty, who, at sight of him, turned faint with sudden joy,
and grasped the lintel to steady herself.

Pierre quietly caught her about the waist, and shut the door. She
recover