Crowther came to his side, and stood there massively, while he filled his pipe.  “Piers,” he said, “I presume she knows all there is to know of that bad business?”

Piers rammed the poker a little deeper into the fire and said nothing.

But Crowther had broken through the barricade of silence at last, and would not be denied.

“Does she know, Piers?” he insisted.  “Did you ever tell her how the thing came to pass?  Does she know that the quarrel was forced upon you—­that you took heavy odds—­that you did not of your own free will avoid the consequences?  Does she know that you loved her before you knew who she was?”

He paused, but Piers remained stubbornly silent, still prodding at the red coals.

He bent a little, taking him by the shoulder.  “Piers, answer me!”

Again Piers’ eyes glanced upwards.  His face was hard.  “Oh, get away, Crowther!” he growled.  “What’s the good?” And then in his winning way he gripped Crowther’s hand hard.  “No, I never told her anything,” he said.  “And I made it impossible for her to ask.  I couldn’t urge extenuating circumstances because there weren’t any.  Moreover, it wouldn’t have made a ha’porth’s difference if I had.  So shunt the subject like a good fellow!  She must take me at my worst—­at my worst, do you hear?—­or not at all.”

“But, my dear lad, you owe it to her,” began Crowther gravely.

Piers cut him short with a recklessness that scarcely veiled the pain in his soul.  “No, I don’t!  I don’t owe her anything.  She doesn’t think any worse of me than I am.  She knows me jolly well,—­better than you do, most worthy padre-elect.  If she ever forgives me, it won’t be because she thinks I’ve been punished enough, but just because she is my mate,—­and she loves me.”  His voice sank upon the words.

“And you are going to wait for that?” said Crowther.

Piers nodded.  He dropped the poker with a careless clatter and stretched his arms high above his head.  “You once said something to me about the Hand of the Sculptor,” he said.  “Well, if He wants to do any shaping so far as I am concerned, now is His time.  I am willing to be shaped.”

“What do you mean?” asked Crowther.

Piers’ eyes were half-closed, and there was a drawn look about the lids as of a man in pain.  “I mean, my good Crowther,” he said, “that the mire and clay have ceased to attract me.  My house is empty—­swept and garnished,—­but it is not open to devils at present.  You want to know my plans.  I haven’t any.  I am waiting to be taken in hand.”

He spoke with a faint smile that moved Crowther to deep compassion.  “You will have to be patient a long while, maybe, sonny,” he said.