He pointed to the little shrine of the Virgin, where now his candles were burning.  The priest’s grave eyes did not change expression at all, but looked out wisely, as though he understood everything before it was told.

Bagot continued:  “I didn’t notice it, but she had put some flowers there.  She said something with an edge, her face all snapping angry, threw the things down, and called me a heathen and a wicked heretic—­and I don’t say now but she’d a right to do it.  But I let out then, for them stolen pelts was rasping me on the raw.  I said something pretty rough, and made as if I was goin’ to break her in two—­just fetched up my hands, and went like this!—­”

With a singular simplicity he made a wild gesture with his hands, and an animal-like snarl came from his throat.  Then he looked at the priest with the honest intensity of a boy.

“Yes, that was what you did—­what was it you said which was ’pretty rough’?”

There was a slight hesitation, then came the reply: 

“I said there was enough powder spilt on the floor to kill all the priests in heaven.”

A fire suddenly shot up into Father Corraine’s face, and his lips tightened for an instant, but presently he was as before, and he said: 

“How that will face you one day, Bagot!  Go on.  What else?”

Sweat began to break out on Bagot’s face, and he spoke as though he were carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders, low and brokenly.

“Then I said, ’And if virgins has it so fine, why didn’t you stay one?’”

“Blasphemer!” said the priest in a stern, reproachful voice, his face turning a little pale, and he brought the crucifix to his lips.  “To the mother of your child—­shame!  What more?”

“She threw up her hands to her ears with a wild cry, ran out of the house, down the hills, and away.  I went to the door and watched her as long as I could see her, and waited for her to come back—­but she never did.  I’ve hunted and hunted, but I can’t find her.”  Then, with a sudden thought, “Do you know anything of her, m’sieu’?”

The priest appeared not to hear the question.  Turning for a moment toward the boy, who now was in a deep sleep, he looked at him intently.  Presently he spoke.

“Ever since I married you and Lucette Barbond you have stood in the way of her duty, Bagot.  How well I remember that first day when you knelt before me!  Was ever so sweet and good a girl—­with her golden eyes and the look of summer in her face, and her heart all pure!  Nothing had spoiled her—­you cannot spoil such women—­God is in their hearts.  But you, what have you cared?  One day you would fondle her, and the next you were a savage—­and she, so gentle, so gentle all the time.  Then, for her religion and the faith of her child—­she has fought for it, prayed for it, suffered for it.  You thought you had no need of religion, for you had so much happiness, which you did not deserve—­that was it.  But she—­with all a woman suffers, how can she bear life—­and man—­without God?  No, it is not possible.  And you thought you and your few superstitions were enough for her.—­Ah, poor fool!  She should worship you!  So selfish, so small, for a man who knows in his heart how great God is.  You did not love her.”