"
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.
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