sponsiveness to Garnache's jesting humour. Garnache, wondering what
might be toward in the fellow's mind, watched him closely.

Suddenly the little man--he was a short, bowlegged, sinewy
fellow--heaved a great sigh as he plucked idly at a weed that grew
between two stones of the inner courtyard, where they were seated on the
chapel steps.

"You are a dull comrade to-day, compatriot," said Garnache, clapping him
on the shoulder.

"It is the Day of the Dead," the fellow answered him, as though that
were an ample explanation. Garnache laughed.

"To those that are dead it no doubt is; so was yesterday, so will
to-morrow be. But to us who sit here it is the day of the living."

"You are a scoffer," the other reproached him, and his rascally face was
oddly grave. "You don't understand."

"Enlighten me, then. Convert me."

"It is the day when our thoughts turn naturally to the dead, and mine
are with my mother, who has lain in her grave these three years. I am
thinking of what she reared me and of what I am."

Garnache made a grimace which the other did not observe. He stared at
the little cut-throat, and there was some dismay in his glance. What
ailed the rogue? Was he about to repent him of his sins, and to have
done with villainy and treachery; was he minded to slit no more gullets
in the future, be faithful to the hand that paid him, and lead a
godlier life? Peste! That was a thing that would nowise suit Monsieur
de Garnache's ends just then. If Arsenio had a mind to reform, let him
postpone that reformation until Garnache should have done with him. So
he opened his lips and let out a deep guffaw of mockery.

"We shall have you turning monk," said he, "a candidate for canonization
going barefoot, with flagellated back and shaven head. No more wine, no
more dice, no more wenches, no more--"

"Peace!" snapped the other.

"Say 'Pax,"' suggested Garnache, "'Pax tecum,' or `vobiscum.' It is thus
you will be saying it later."

"If my conscience pricks me, is it aught to you? Have you no conscience
of your own?"

"None. Men wax lean on it in this vale of tears. It is a thing invented
by the great to enable them to pursue the grinding and oppression of the
small. If your master pays you ill for the dirty work you do for him
and another comes along to offer you some rich reward for an omission in
that same service, you are warned that if you let yourself be tempted,
your conscience will plague you afterwards. Pish!