a single
spot in the world, you are tied by the leg, your wing is clipped--you
cannot have all. Quelle vie--what life!"

To this Macavoy said: "Spit-spat! But what the devil good does all yer
thinkin' do ye, Pierre? It's argufy here and argufy there, an' while yer
at that, me an' the rest av us is squeezin' the fun out o' life. Aw, go
'long wid ye. Y'are only a bit o' hell and grammar, annyway. Wid all yer
cuttin' and carvin' things to see the internals av thim, I'd do more
to the call av a woman's finger than for all the logic and knowalogy y'
ever chewed--an' there y'are, me little tailor o' jur'sprudince!"

"To the finger call of Hilton's wife, eh?"

Macavoy was not quite sure what Pierre's enigmatical tone meant. A wild
light showed in his eyes, and his tongue blundered out: "Yis, Hilton's
wife's finger, or a look av her eye, or nothin' at all. Aisy, aisy, ye
wasp! Ye'd go stalkin' divils in hell for her yerself, so ye would. But
the tongue av ye--but, it's gall to the tip."

"Maybe, my king. But I'd go hunting because I wanted; you because you
must. You're a slave to come and to go, with a Queen's seal on the
promissory."

Macavoy leaned back and roared. "Aw, that! The rose o' the valley--the
joy o' the wurruld! S't, Pierre--" his voice grew softer on a sudden, as
a fresh thought came to him--"did y' ever think that the child might be
dumb like the mother?"

This was a day in the early spring, when the snows were melting in the
hills, and freshets were sweeping down the valleys far and near. That
night a warm heavy rain came on, and in the morning every stream and
river was swollen to twice its size. The mountains seemed to have
stripped themselves of snow, and the vivid sun began at once to colour
the foothills with green. As Pierre and Macavoy stood at their door,
looking out upon the earth cleansing itself, Macavoy suddenly said: "Aw,
look, look, Pierre--her white duck off to the nest on Champak Hill!"

They both shaded their eyes with their hands. Circling round two or
three times above the Post, the duck then stretched out its neck to the
west, and floated away beyond Guidon Hill, and was hid from view.

Pierre, without a word, began cleaning his rifle, while Macavoy smoked,
and sat looking into the distance, surveying the sweet warmth and light.
His face blossomed with colour, and the look of his eyes was that of an
irresponsible child. Once or twice he smiled and puffed in his beard,
but perhaps tha