for," he concluded decisively. "'T wa'n't called for," he reiterated again and again, pacing up and down and waiting for Lon McFane.
And Lon McFane—his face was hot and tongue rapid as he flaunted insurrection in the face of the Church. "Then, father," he cried, "it 's with an aisy heart I 'll roll in me flamy blankets, the broad of me back on a bed of coals. Niver shall it be said Lon McFane took a lie 'twixt the teeth without iver liftin' a hand! An' I 'll not ask a blessin'. The years have been wild, but it 's the heart was in the right place."
"But it 's not the heart, Lon," interposed Father Roubeau; "it 's pride that bids you forth to slay your fellow man."
"Yer Frinch," Lon replied. And then, turning to leave him, "An' will ye say a mass if the luck is against me?"
But the priest smiled, thrust his moccasined feet to the fore, and went out upon the white breast of the silent river. A packed trail, the width of a sixteen-inch sled, led out to the water-hole. On either side lay the deep, soft snow. The men trod in single file, without conversation; and the black-stoled priest in
