u."

He made acknowledgment with a sweeping bow. "I will be a monster of
cruelty," he promised, and he pulled at imaginary mustachios like a
child at play.

Now it may be well to commend nonchalance, but there are bounds that
should not be passed. Had this man no reverence toward the mystery of
his own life that he jested on the edge of it? I had rather have seen
him with a rosary in his hand than with defiance on his lips.

"Is life all bitterness and sharp-edged laughter with you, monsieur?" I
asked bluntly. "This may be our last talk. It is hardly a seemly one.
If you have messages to send that will not compromise you, I will try
and get them through--in case our plans fail."

The prisoner eyed me oddly. "And in case you still live, monsieur," he
corrected. "You show much solicitude that I meet my end decorously,
yet I cannot see that you display any dolor over your own condition.
Why should I have less fortitude? You are like a man who cares not for
religion for himself, yet insists upon it for children and for his
womenkind,--for his inferiors in general. Why should you feel that I
need so much prompting?" His voice suddenly hardened. "Tell me. Is
it my youth that makes you feel yourself my mentor, or have I failed
you in any way? Answer." And he gave the stamp of the foot that I had
heard once before.

How could I answer but with laughter? "You are a leopard, and a lamb,
and a bantam cock all in one," I jeered at him. "No wonder that I feel
you need a priest to shrive you;" and I laughed again, and would not
notice the hurt shining of his eyes as I went away.

CHAPTER VII

THE BEGINNING

I had not vaunted idly when I told the prisoner that our plans were
ready. I had scarcely dropped the latch of the commandant's door when
I saw Singing Arrow sauntering near.

She was graceful in her finery. Even a white man might commend. Her
skin garments looked soft and clean, and draped her cunningly. In the
dusk and the firelight with the bright blanket falling from her hair,
she looked so winning that I thought the guards could find excuse if
the prisoner loitered at the window.

And loiter he did. I sauntered and watched while the prisoner and
Singing Arrow threw glances that proved them no tyros in the game of
love and life. The comedy was pleasing, and I did not wonder that the
guards tilted their heads to one side, and looked on with grins.
Singing Arrow bridled, and drew away and