shrill whistle.

The woman read the paper through, and cried:

"It's somebody else--it _must_ be--no murderer would be so kind to a
poor, friendless woman. Oh, God, have I betrayed him? _Don't_ take him,
sir--it must be somebody else. I wish I had money--I would pay you more
than the reward, just to go away and let him alone."

"Madame," replied the man, beckoning to two men who were approaching, "I
could not accept it; nor will I accept the reward. It is the price of
blood. But I am a minister of the gospel, ma'am, and in this godless
generation it is my duty to see that the outraged dignity of the law is
vindicated. My associates, I regret to say, are actuated by different
motives."

"You just bet high on that!" exclaimed one of the two men who had
approached, a low-browed, bestial ruffian. "Half a' thousan' 's more'n I
could pan out in a fortnight, no matter how good luck I had. Parson he
is a fool, but _we_, hain't no right to grumble 'bout it, seein' we git
his share--hey, Parleyvoo?"

"You speak truly, Mike," replied his companion, a rather handsome
looking Frenchman, of middle age. "And yet Jean Glorieaux likes not the
labor. Were it not that he had lost his last ounce at monte, and had the
fever for play still in his blood, not one sou would he earn in such
ungentle a manner."

"God's worst curses on all of you!" cried the woman, with an energy
which inspired her plain face and form with a terrible dignity and
power, "if you lay a hand on a man who is the only friend a poor woman
has ever found in the world!"

Glorieaux shuddered, and Mike receded a step or two: but the ex-minister
maintained the most perfect composure, and exclaimed:

"Poor fools! It is written, 'The curse, causeless, shall not fall.' And
yet, madame, I assure you that I most tenderly sympathize with you in
your misfortunes, whatever they may be."

"Then let him alone!" cried the woman. "My only child has been stolen
away from me--dear little Johnny--and the man offered to go get him. And
you've made me betray him. Oh, God curse you all!"

"Madame," replied the still imperturbable parson, "the crime of
blood-guiltiness cannot be imputed to you, for you did not know what you
were doing."

The woman leaned against a tree, and waited until Glorieaux declared to
the parson he would abandon the chase.

"It is useless," said he, striking a dramatic attitude, and pointing to
the woman, "for her tears have quenched the fiery fever in the