"I buried Irene on the side of the mountain under a big, rough rock, and I didn't carve nothing on the rock. Then I took you, Pierre, and I knew I wasn't no sort of a man to raise up the son of Irene; so I brought you to Father Victor on a winter night and left you in his arms. That was after I'd done my best to raise you and you was just about old enough to chatter a bit. There wasn't nothing else to do. My wife, she went pretty near crazy when I brought you home. And she'd of killed you, Pierre, if I hadn't took you away. "You see, I was married before I met Irene. So there ain't no alibi for me. But me being so close to hell now, I look back to that time, and somehow I see no wrong in it still. "And if I done wrong then, I've got my share of hell-fire for it. Here I lie, with my boys, Bill and Bert, sitting around in the corner of the room waiting for me to go out. They ain't men, Pierre. They're wolves in the skins of men. They're the right sons of their mother. When I go out they'll grab the coin I've saved up, and leave me to lie here and rot, maybe. "Lad, it's a fearful thing to die without having no one around that cares, and to know that even after I've gone out I'm going to lie here and have my dead eyes looking up at the ceiling. So I'm writing to you, Pierre, part to tell you what you ought to know; part because I got a sort of crazy idea that maybe you could get down here to me before I go out. "You don't owe me nothing but hard words, Pierre; but if you don't try to come to me, the ghost of your mother will follow you all your life, lad, and you'll be seeing her blue eyes and the red-gold of her hair in the dark of the night as I see it now. Me, I'm a hard man, but it breaks my heart, that ghost of Irene. So here I'll lie, waiting for you, Pierre, and lingering out the days with whisky, and fighting the wolf eyes of them there sons of mine. If I weaken--If they find they can look me square in the eye--they'll finish me quick and make off with the coin. Pierre, come quick. "MARTIN RYDER." The hand of Pierre dropped slowly to his side, and the letter fluttered with a crisp rustling to the floor. CHAPTER 3 Then came a voice that startled the two priests, for it seemed that a fourth man had entered the room, so changed was it from the musical voice of Pierre. "Father Victor, the roan is a strong horse. May I take him?" "Pierre!" and the priest reached out his bony hands. But the boy did not seem to notice or to understand. "It is a long journey, and I will need a strong horse. It must be eight hundred miles to that town." "Pierre, what claim has he upon you? What debt have you to repay?" And Pierre le Rouge answered: "He loved my mother." "You are going?" The boy asked in astonishment: "Would you not have me go, Father?" And Jean Paul Victor could not meet the sorrowful blue eyes.