shut up. And Jack fiddled along cheerfully.

Then Bull returned to the attack, after having fortified himself in
the bar-room. And now he took national grounds. The French were, in
his opinion, a most despicable race. They were not a patch on the noble
American race. They talked too much, and their language was ridiculous.
They had a condemned, fool habit of taking off their hats when they
spoke to a lady. They ate frogs.

Having delivered himself of these sentiments in a loud voice, much to
the interruption of the music, he marched over to the table on which
Fiddlin' Jack was sitting, and grabbed the violin from his hands.

"Gimme that dam' fiddle," he cried, "till I see if there's a frog in
it."

Jacques leaped from the table, transported with rage. His face was
convulsed. His eyes blazed. He snatched a carving-knife from the dresser
behind him, and sprang at Corey.

"TORT DIEU!" he shrieked, "MON VIOLON! Ah'll keel you, beast!"

But he could not reach the enemy. Bill Moody's long arms were flung
around the struggling fiddler, and a pair of brawny guides had Corey
pinned by the elbows, hustling him backward. Half a dozen men thrust
themselves between the would-be combatants. There was a dead silence,
a scuffling of feet on the bare floor; then the danger was past, and a
tumult of talk burst forth.

But a strange alteration had passed over Jacques. He trembled. He turned
white. Tears poured down his cheeks. As Moody let him go, he dropped on
his knees, hid his face in his hands, and prayed in his own tongue.

"My God, it is here again! Was it not enough that I must be tempted once
before? Must I have the madness yet another time? My God, show the mercy
toward me, for the Blessed Virgin's sake. I am a sinner, but not the
second time; for the love of Jesus, not the second time! Ave Maria,
gratia plena, ora pro me!"

The others did not understand what he was saying. Indeed, they paid
little attention to him. They saw he was frightened, and thought it was
with fear. They were already discussing what ought to be done about the
fracas.

It was plain that Bull Corey, whose liquor had now taken effect
suddenly, and made him as limp as a strip of cedar bark, must be thrown
out of the door, and left to cool off on the beach. But what to do with
Fiddlin' Jack for his attempt at knifing--a detested crime? He might
have gone at Bull with a gun, or with a club, or with a chair, or with
any recognized weapon. But with a