He lifted his head and saw Frale's eyes fixed upon him sadly--almost as if he knew the bishop's thoughts. Yes, here was a soul worth while. Plainly there was but one course to pursue, and but one thread left to hold the young man to steadfast purpose. Using that thread, he would try. If he could be made to sacrifice for Cassandra some of his physical joy of life, seeking to give more than to appropriate to himself for his own satisfaction--if he could teach him the value of what she had done--could he rise to such a height, and learn self-control? The argument for repentance having come back to him void, the bishop began again. "You tell me Cassandra has given you her promise? What are you going to do about it?" "Hit's 'twixt her an' me," said the youth proudly. "No," thundered the bishop, all the man in him roused to beat into this crude, triumphant animal some sense of what Cassandra had really done. "No. It's betwixt you and the God who made you. You have to answer to God for what you do." He towered above him, and bending down, looked into Frale's eyes until the boy cowered and looked down, with lowered head, and there was silence. Then the bishop straightened himself and began pacing the room. At last he came to a stand and spoke quietly. "You have Cassandra's promise; what are you going to do about it?" Frale did not move or speak, and the bishop felt baffled. What was going on under that passive mask he dared not think. To talk seemed futile, like hammering upon a flint wall; but hammer he must, and again he tried. "You have taken a man's life; do you know what that means?" "Hangin', I reckon." "If it were only to hang, boy, it might be better for Cassandra. Think about it. If I help you, and shield you here, what are you going to do? What do you care most for in all this world? You who can kill a man and then not repent." "He hadn't ought to have riled me like he done; I--keer fer her." "More than for Frale Farwell?" The boy looked vaguely before him. "I reckon," was all he said. Again the bishop paced the floor, and waited. "I hain't afeared to work--right hard." "Good; what kind of work can you do?" Frale flushed a dark red and was silent. "Yes, I know you can make corn whiskey, but that is the devil's work. You're not to work for him any more." Again silence. At last, in a low voice, he ventured: "I'll do any kind o' work you-all gin' me to do--ef--ef only the officers will leave me be--an' I tol' Cass I'd larn writin'." "Good, very good. Can you drive a horse? Yes, of course." Frale's eyes shone. "I reckon." The bishop grew more hopeful. The holy greed for souls fell upon him. The young man must be guarded and watched; he must be washed and clothed, as well as fed, and right here the little wife must be consulted. He went out, leaving the youth to himself, and sought his brown-eyed, sweet-faced little wisp of a woman, where she sat writing his most pressing business letters for him.