"No, no, Lotbiniere, none of it to white men. Not even to blacks and
coolies, but certainly none of it to white men."

"You speak from India where all French naturally are high-caste."

A look of pain came over Repentigny's features.

"No, Michel, that is not the reason. Alas! I once despised a man of
lower degree. My God, how could I do it again!" And his head dropped
upon his breast in profound dejection.

Lotbiniere started and paused, looking at him with great sympathy, a
cruel old remembrance awaking.

"By the curse of heaven, I have never forgotten it," continued the
other.

"Stay, stay," said Lotbiniere, leaning over and softly laying a hand on
his arm, "you were blameless; young blood was not to be controlled."

"It haunts me for ever," Repentigny went on; "in my wanderings all
around the world I see the blood of poor Philibert. I see again that
steep street of old Quebec. I hold again in my hand the requisition for
his rooms. I see the anger on his face, high-spirited citizen that he
was, that I should choose me out the best in his house and treat its
master as I did. I feel again my inconsiderate arrogance swelling my
veins. I hear his merited reproaches and maledictions. Rage and evil
pride overpower me, I draw and lunge. Alas! the flood of life-blood
rushes up the blade and warms my hand here, _here_."

"Calm yourself."

"He follows me."

"Nonsense, Pierre. No one is present," exclaimed Lotbiniere in a tone of
decision.

"Philibert's son. I met him in Quebec before I fled to France. I met him
in Paris before I fled to the East. I met him in Pondicherry. He settled
near me in Mahe. Now he is in Paris again. It is dreadful to be
reminded of your crime by an avenger. My death, when it comes, will be
by his hand, Michel."

"Have no fear. In twenty hours we can have him safe in a place whence
such as he never come out."

"That would be more terrible still. Shall I further wrong the wronged?
God would be against me as well as remorse. No, when he strikes it will
be just. I do not fear his sword, but the memory of his father's blood,
and that would grow redder on my hand if I injured the son. Oh, Michel,
is the Golden Dog still over the door of Philibert's house in Quebec?"

"Yes, Pierre; forget these things. Take a glass of wine."

"I remember its inscription"--

"_I am a dog gnawing a bone:
In gnawing it I take my repose.
A day will come which has not come,
When I will bit