And that is what you are going to do, M'sieu
Carrigan. You are going to keep to yourself the thing that
happened behind the rock. You are going to keep to yourself the
mumblings of our poor mad Andre. Never will they pass your lips. I
know. I swear it. I stake my life on it!" St. Pierre was talking
slowly and unexcitedly. There was an immeasurable confidence in
his deep voice. It did not imply a threat or a warning. He was
sure of himself. And his eyes had deepened into blue again and
were almost friendly.
"You would stake your life?" repeated Carrigan questioningly. "You
would do that?"
St. Pierre rose to his feet and looked about the cabin with a
shining light in his eyes that was both pride and exaltation. He
moved toward the end of the room, where the piano stood, and for a
moment his big fingers touched the keys; then, seeing the lacy bit
of handkerchief that lay there, he picked it up--and placed it
back again. Carrigan did not urge his question, but waited. In
spite of his effort to fight it down he found himself in the grip
of a mysterious and growing thrill as he watched St. Pierre. Never
had the presence of another man had the same effect upon him, and
strangely the thought came to him that he was matched--even
overmatched.
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