the priest, and gripped the Englishman.

"If you go back, I go with you!" I raged in his ear. Then I turned to
Father Carheil. "Are you going to report this, father? It is as the
Englishman says. I take him as the only way to save him from torture.
May we go?"

The father thought a moment. "No," he said.

I gripped my sword. "You have seen torture, Father Carheil. Would you
hand this man over to it?"

The father looked at me as if I were print for his reading. "I am
piecing facts together," he said, with unmoved slowness. "Singing
Arrow is in league with you, for the prisoner is wearing her clothes.
The Indians are wild with brandy, which, it is rumored, Singing Arrow
furnished. The brandy must have come from you. Is that so? Answer
me. Answer, in the name of the Holy Church. Is that so?"

I bowed. "You are a logician," I said bitterly. "Father, I can hear
the tom-toms. It is a miracle that we have escaped undetected so long.
Our respite cannot last many minutes longer. May we go?"

My tone seemed to reach him, and he wavered a moment. "Perhaps," he
began haltingly; then he backed several paces. "No!" he cried, all his
small wiry figure suddenly tense. "No! You are a dangerous man. You
carry brandy, and no one knows your errand. If I let you go, I may
save one man from torture,--which, after all, is but an open door to
the blessed after life,--but I shall be letting you carry brandy and
perdition on to scores of souls. No." And he opened his mouth to call