“'If you know any one of the ringleaders, Deemster,' he said, with a look into my face--somebody had been with him--there are tell-tales everywhere----” “It's the way of the world still,” said Pete. “'Tell him,' said he, 'that I don't want to take the life of any man--I don't want to send any one to penal servitude.'” It was useless to protest. The man was mad, but he was in earnest. His plan was folly--frantic folly--but it was based on a sort of legal right. “So, for the Lord's sake, Pete, stop this thing. Stop it at once, and finally. It's life or death. If ever you thought my word worth anything, you'll do as I bid you, now. God knows where I should be myself if the Governor were to do what he threatens. Stop it, stop it; I haven't slept for thinking of it.” Pete had been sitting at the table, chewing the tip of the pen, and now he lifted to the paleness and wildness of Philip's face a cool, bold smile. “It's good of you, Phil.... We've a right to be there, though, haven't we?” “You've a right, certainly, but----” “Then, by gough, we'll go,” said Pete, dropping the pen, and bringing his fist down on the table. “The penalty will be yours, Pete--yours. You are the man who will suffer--you first--you alone.” Pete smiled again. “No use--I'm incorr'iblê. I'm like Dan-ny-Clae, the sheep-stealer, when he came to die. 'I'm going to eternal judgment--what'll I do?' says Dan. 'Give back all you've stolen,' says the parzon. 'I'll chance it first,' says the ould rascal. It's the other fellow that's for stealing this time; but I'll chance it, Philip. Death it may be, and judgment too, but I'll chance it, boy.” Philip's eyes wandered over the floor. “Then you'll not change your plan for anything I've told you?” “I will, though,” said Pete, “for one thing, anyway. _You_ shan't be getting into trouble--I'll be spokesman for the fishermen myself. Oh, I'll spake enough if they get my dander up. I'll just square my arms acrost my chest and I'll say, 'Your Excellency,' I'll say, 'you can't do it, and you shan't do it--_because it isn't_ right.' But chut! botheration to all such bobbery! Look here--man alive, look here! She's not forgetting the lil one, you see,” and, making a proud sweep of the hand, Pete pointed to the scarlet hood. It had been put to sit across the back of a china dog on the mantelpiece, with Pete's half sheet of paper pinned to the strings. Philip recognised it. The hood was the present he had made as godfather. His eyes blinked, his mouth twitched, the cords of his forehead moved. “So she--she sent that,” he stammered. “Listen here,” said Pete, and he unpinned the paper and read the message aloud, with flourishes of voice and gesture--“For lil Katherine from her loving mother... papa not to worry... love to all inquiring friends... best respects to the Dempster if Im not forgot at him.” Then in an off-hand way he tossed the paper into the fire. “Aw, what's a bit of a letter,” he said largely, as it took flame and burned.