“Remember you ain’t to hurt _him_!” screamed the woman; “nor her, neither—God forgive me. But bring Johnny—bring Johnny, and God be with you.” The woman stood with clasped hands watching Jude until he reached the opposite bank, shook himself, and disappeared, and then she leaned against a tree and trembled and cried until she was startled by hearing some one say: “Beg pardon, madame, but have you seen any one pass?” The woman raised her head, and saw a respectable, severe looking man, in clothing rather neater than was common along Spanish Creek. “Only one,” she replied, “and he’s the best man livin’. He’s gone to get Johnny—he won’t be gone long.” “Your husband, ma’am?” “Oh, no, sir; I never saw him before.” “One eye gone; broken nose; scar on right cheek; powder-marks on left——” “Yes, sir, that’s the man,” said the wondering woman. “Perhaps you may not have seen this?” said the man handing her one of the posters describing Jude. Then he uttered a 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.”