And thus it was that, seeing Tommy Dye riding toward him, he had only a grave word of greeting, without any of the merry banter that the adventurer had come to expect.  He stopped, however, feeling that Tommy had something to say, but he listened in rather abstracted silence, till Tommy spoke of having been to see the Sisters in order to tell them good-by.

“For I am going to Tippecanoe, too.  I leave to-night.  The general can’t go.  It looks like the wound from that infernal duel with Dickinson never would get well.  But I like to be where things are stirring, and I am going, anyhow.  So is Joe Daviess.”

“Yes, I know,” said Father Orin, sadly.  “Good men as well as bad must go, I suppose, if wars must be fought.”

Tommy Dye looked hard at him for a moment, and taking off his hat, rubbed his red hair the wrong way till it stood on end.  His stare gradually turned to a sort of sheepish embarrassment before he spoke;—­

“I’ll swear some of the babies up yonder ain’t much bigger than my fist!” he finally blurted out.  “I took the Sisters the wad I won on the last chicken fight.  ’Twasn’t much, but there ain’t any use taking it over the river for the red devils to get, if they get me—­and maybe they will—­for they say the Prophet is a fighter.  If the Shawnees don’t get me, I can make plenty more, so it’s just as broad as it’s long.  Anyhow, the Sisters will know what to do with the wad.  Say!  I wish it had been bigger.  They took me into the room where the youngsters stay,” he said huskily, rubbing his head harder than ever.  “They said—­them real ladies said—­that they would raise up the children to love me, and pray for me.  When I come away they cried—­them real ladies—­about me, old Tommy Dye, that ain’t even a heretic.”

“You are kind, my friend; you have a good heart, and you are generous,” said Father Orin; “but I wish you could earn your money in another and a better way.  Somehow it grates—­”

“Now, look here!” cried Tommy Dye, bristling at once, and jamming his hat back on his red head.  He was always cowed at the very sight of the gentle Sisters; but as man to man—­even though one be a priest—­he was up again at once, and quite ready to hold his own.  “Every man to his own notion,” he blustered and swaggered.  “I’ve got mine and you’ve got yours.  That’s my way of making a living, and I dare anybody to say it ain’t honest.  Just let any man come out flat foot and tell me so, face to face.  I play fair, and I bet as square as the next one.  I take my chances the same as the other man.  I may fight rough and tumble, but I always give warning, and I never gouge.  If any man’s got anything to say against my honesty or fairness, he’s only got to come on and say it.”

“Come, come!” said Father Orin, too sad to be amused at the outburst, as he might have been at another time.  “I beg your pardon if I have offended you.  I had no thought of doing that.  But I wish I could induce you to think before you go into danger.  All who go over yonder will not come back.  The Shawnees have been getting ready for this test of strength for a long time.  There is great danger.  I beg you, my friend, to think.  Will you come back with me to the chapel?  Just for a little while.  There is no one there, and we can have a quiet talk.”