The father, startled, turned shrinkingly on him, as though he had seen a
spirit.
"_M'sieu' le cure!_" he said in French, with an accent much poorer than
that of the priest, or even of his own son. He had learned French from
his wife; he himself was English.
The priest's quick eye had taken in the lighted candles at the little
shrine, even as he saw the painfully changed aspect of the man.
"The wife and child, Bagot?" he asked, looking round. "Ah, the boy!" he
added, and going toward the bed, continued, presently, in a low voice:
"Dominique is ill?"
Bagot nodded, and then answered: "A wildcat and then fever, Father
Corraine."
The priest felt the boy's pulse softly, then with a close personal look
he spoke hardly above his breath, yet distinctly, too:
"Your wife, Bagot?"
"She is not here, m'sieu'." The voice was low and gloomy.
"Where is she, Bagot?"
"I do not know, m'sieu'."
"When did you see her last?"
"Four weeks ago, m'sieu'."
"That was September, this is October--winter. On the ranches they let
their cattle loose upon the plains in winter, knowing not where they go,
yet looking for them to return in the spring. But a woman--a woman and a
wife--is different.... Bagot, you have been a rough, hard man, and you
have been a stranger to your God, but I thought you loved your wife and
child!"
The hunter's hands clenched, and a wicked light flashed up into his
eyes; but the calm, benignant gaze of the other cooled the tempest in
his veins.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25