av the likes
o' that wid me. For I've swallowed a tribe av divils. It's fightin' you
want. Well, I'll do it--I've an itch for the throats av men, but a fool
I'll be no more wid wimin, white or red--that hell-cat that spoilt me
life an' killed me child, or--"

A sob clutched him in the throat.

"You had a child, then?" asked Pierre gently.

"An angel she was, wid hair like the sun, an' 'd melt the heart av an
iron god: none like her above or below. But the mother, ah, the mother
of her! One day whin she'd said a sharp word, wid another from me, an'
the child clinging to her dress, she turned quick and struck it, meanin'
to anger me. Not so hard the blow was, but it sent the darlin's head
agin' the chimney-stone, and that was the end av it. For she took to her
bed, an' agin' the crowin' o' the cock wan midnight, she gives a little
cry an' snatched at me beard. 'Daddy,' says she, 'daddy, it hurts!' An'
thin she floats away, wid a stitch av pain at her lips."

Macavoy sat down now, his fingers fumbling in his beard. Pierre was
uncomfortable. He could hear of battle, murder, and sudden death
unmoved--it seemed to him in the game; but the tragedy of a child, a
mere counter yet in the play of life--that was different. He slid a hand
over the table, and caught Macavoy's arm. "Poor little waif!" he said.

Macavoy gave the hand a grasp that turned Pierre sick, and asked: "Had
ye iver a child av y'r own, Pierre-iver wan at all?"

"Never," said Pierre dreamily, "and I've travelled far. A child--a
child--is a wonderful thing.... Poor little waif!"

They both sat silent for a moment. Pierre was about to rise, but Macavoy
suddenly pinned him to his seat with this question: "Did y' iver have a
wife, thin, Pierre?"

Pierre turned pale. A sharp breath came through his teeth. He spoke
slowly: "Yes, once."

"And she died?" asked the other, awed.

"We all have our day," he replied enigmatically, "and there are worse
things than death.... Eh, well, mon ami, let us talk of other things.
To-morrow we go to conquer. I know where I can get five men I want. I
have ammunition and dogs."

A few minutes afterwards Pierre was busy in the settlement. At the
Fort he heard strange news. A new batch of settlers was coming from the
south, and among them was an old Irishwoman who called herself now Mrs.
Whelan, now Mrs. Macavoy. She talked much of the lad she was to find,
one Tim Macavoy, whose fame Gossip had brought to her at last.

She ha