and with certain adornments that spoke of some degree of culture.
Near one side of the shack stood the clay oven stove, which served
the double purpose of heating the room and of cooking Portnoff's
food. Like many of the Galician cabins, Portnoff's stood in the
midst of a garden, in which bloomed a great variety of brilliant
and old-fashioned flowers and shrubs, while upon the walls and
climbing over the roof, a honeysuckle softened the uncouthness
of the clay plaster.

It was toward the end of the third week which followed French's
return that Portnoff and Malkarski were sitting late over their
pipes and beer. The shack was illumined with half a dozen candles
placed here and there on shelves attached to the walls. The two men
were deep in earnest conversation. At length Portnoff rose and
began to pace the little room.

"Malkarski," he cried, "you are asking too much. This delay is
becoming impossible to me."

"My brother," said Malkarski, "you have waited long. There must be
no mistake in this matter. The work must be thoroughly done, so let
us be patient. And meantime," he continued with a laugh, "he is
having suffering enough. The loss of this mine is like a knife
thrust in his heart. It is pleasant to see him squirm like a
reptile pierced by a stick. He is seeking large compensation for
the work he has done,--three thousand dollars, I believe. It is
worth about one."

Portnoff continued pacing up and down the room.

"Curse him! Curse him! Curse him!" he cried, lifting his clenched
hands above his head.

"Be patient, brother."

"Patient!" cried Portnoff. "I see blood. I hear cries of women and
children. I fall asleep and feel my fingers in his throat. I wake
and find them empty!"

"Aha! I too," growled Malkarski. "But patience, patience, brother!"

"Malkarski," cried Portnoff, pausing in his walk, "I have suffered
through this man in my country, in my people, in my family, in my
heart!"

"Aha!" ejaculated old Malkarski with fierce emphasis, "have you?
Do you know what suffering is? But--yes, Portnoff, we must be
patient yet." As he spoke he took on a dignity of manner and
assumed an attitude of authority that Portnoff was quick to
recognize.

"You speak truly," replied the latter gravely. "I heard a good
thing to-day," he continued with a change of tone. "It seems
that Sprink--"

"Sprink!" muttered Malkarski with infinite contempt, "a rat, a pig!
Why speak of him?"

"It is a good story," replie