"You tell me Cassandra has given you her promise? What are
you going to do about it?"

"Hit's 'twixt her an' me," said the youth proudly.

"No," thundered the bishop, all the man in him roused to beat into this
crude, triumphant animal some sense of what Cassandra had really done.
"No. It's betwixt you and the God who made you. You have to answer to
God for what you do." He towered above him, and bending down, looked
into Frale's eyes until the boy cowered and looked down, with lowered
head, and there was silence.

Then the bishop straightened himself and began pacing the room. At last
he came to a stand and spoke quietly. "You have Cassandra's promise;
what are you going to do about it?"

Frale did not move or speak, and the bishop felt baffled. What was going
on under that passive mask he dared not think. To talk seemed futile,
like hammering upon a flint wall; but hammer he must, and again he
tried.

"You have taken a man's life; do you know what that means?"

"Hangin', I reckon."

"If it were only to hang, boy, it might be better for Cassandra. Think
about it. If I help you, and shield you here, what are you going to do?
What do you care most for in all this world? You who can kill a man and
then not repent."

"He hadn't ought to have riled me like he done; I--keer fer her."

"More than for Frale Farwell?"

The boy looked vaguely before him. "I reckon," was all he said.

Again the bishop paced the floor, and waited.

"I hain't afeared to work--right hard."

"Good; what kind of work can you do?" Frale flushed a dark red and was
silent. "Yes, I know you can make corn whiskey, but that is the devil's
work. You're not to work for him any more."

Again silence. At last, in a low voice, he ventured: "I'll do any kind
o' work you-all gin' me to do--ef--ef only the officers will leave me
be--an' I tol' Cass I'd larn writin'."

"Good, very good. Can you drive a horse? Yes, of course."

Frale's eyes shone. "I reckon."

The bishop grew more hopeful. The holy greed for souls fell upon him.
The young man must be guarded and watched; he must be washed and
clothed, as well as fed, and right here the little wife must be
consulted. He went out, leaving the youth to himself, and sought his
brown-eyed, sweet-faced little wisp of a woman, where she sat writing
his most pressing business letters for him.

"Dearest, may I interrupt you?"

"In a minute, James; in a minute. I'll just address these."

He dropped i