“Now, what’s the use of raking all that up again?  We’ve gone over all that—­and more than once—­haven’t we?  You thought one way and I another, when we had it out the other day.  And we’ve both got the same right now that we had then, to think as we like about something that neither of us knows the first blamed thing about, haven’t we?  Well, I think just the same now that I did then, and I reckon you do, too.  I haven’t seen any reason to change, have you?  I haven’t had any fresh news from up yonder”—­pointing heavenward—­“and I don’t suppose you have either.  So you see one of us is bound to be most damnable mistaken—­”

“Shut up,” shouted Father Orin, “you unmannerly rascal!  I have a great mind to jump down and pull you off that horse and give you a thrashing to teach you some respect for religion, and how to keep a civil tongue in your head.  And you know I could do it, too!”

They looked fiercely at each other for a moment.  Father Orin was of a fiery spirit, and all his goodness could not always subdue it.  Tommy Dye was a ready and a good fighter, but he paused now, and silently regarded the priest.  He looked at his large, sturdy form, at his brawny shoulders, at his deep chest and his long arms, remembering suddenly that he had seen him roll, with his own hands, the largest logs in the little chapel which no one else could move.

“I reckon you could,” Tommy Dye finally conceded frankly.

Father Orin burst into his good-humored, chuckling laugh, and Tommy Dye grinned, but their faces sobered instantly.  The pity of it touched and moved the priest through his sense of humor.  The gambler was softened and ashamed, he hardly knew why.  With one simultaneous impulse they sent their horses forward, and coming closer together clasped hands.

“God bless and guard you, my friend,” said Father Orin.  “You can’t keep me from saying that, and you can’t help my praying for your safety,” trying to smile.

Tommy Dye found nothing more to say and, laughing very loud, he put spurs to his horse and galloped away through the darkening forest.  Father Orin and Toby stood still looking after him till he had passed out of sight.  And then they turned to go on their way.  They went along in silence for a while, and at last Father Orin began the conversation with a heavy sigh.  “Well, old man, there’s another bad failure that we have got to set down in our book—­you and me.  That was another of the times when we didn’t know what to do.  That is to say, I didn’t.  I suppose you did—­you always do.  You never make mistakes and lose your temper like I do nearly every day.  If I could do my part as well as you do yours, we wouldn’t fail so often, would we, old man?”