he was sure of prison, with a wife and three
small children weeping in 'The Red Eagle'; and there I come at great
expense and trouble to tell the truth--before all to tell the truth--and
save him and set him free. Yonder he is in the tavern, the work of my
hands, a gift to the world from an honest man with a good heart and a
sense of justice. But for me there would be a wife and three children
in the bondage of shame, sorrow, poverty and misery"--his eyes again
ravished the brown eyes of Palass Poucette's widow--"and here again I
drink to my own health and to that of all good people--with charity to
all and malice towards none!"

The little bottle of golden cordial was raised towards Mere Langlois.
The fingers of one hand, however, were again seeking those of the
comely young widow who was half behind him, when he felt them caught
spasmodically away. Before he had time to turn round he heard a voice,
saying: "I should have thought that 'With malice to all and charity
towards none,' was your motto, Dolores."

He knew that voice well enough. He had always had a lurking fear that
he would hear it say something devastating to him, from the great chair
where its owner sat and dispensed what justice a jury would permit
him to do. That devastating something would be agony to one who loved
liberty and freedom--had not that ever been his watchword, liberty and
freedom to do what he pleased in the world and with the world? Yes, he
well knew Judge Carcasson's voice. He would have recognized it in the
dark--or under the black cap. "M'sieu' le juge!" he said, even before
he turned round and saw the faces of the tiny Judge and his Clerk of
the Court. There was a kind of quivering about his mouth, and a startled
look in his eyes as he faced the two. But there was the widow of Palass
Poucette, and, if he was to pursue and frequent her, something must be
done to keep him decently figured in her eye and mind.

"It cost me three dollars to come here and save a man from jail to-day,
m'sieu' le juge," he added firmly. The Judge pressed the point of his
cane against the stomach of the hypocrite and perjurer. "If the
Devil and you meet, he will take off his hat to you, my escaped
anarchist"--Dolores started almost violently now--"for you can teach
him much, and Ananias was the merest aboriginal to you. But we'll get
you--we'll get you, Dolores. You saved that guilty fellow by a careful
and remarkable perjury to-day. In a long experience I h