On Dr. Dunlap’s face the unshorn beard developed like thorns on a mask of wax.  The spirit of manly beauty no longer infused it.

“Why didn’t you tell me this at first?” he asked roughly.

“Is the name of Zhone so pleasant to you?” hinted the shrugging friar.  “But take an old churchman’s advice now, my son, and make up your quarrel with the lawyer.  There will be occasion.  That pretty young thing has crossed the sea to die.  I heard her cough.”

The doctor’s voice was husky as he attempted to inquire,—­

“Did you hear what she was called?”

“Mademoiselle Mareea Zhone.”

The young man sagged forward over his violin.  Father Baby began to realize that his revel was over, and reluctantly stuck his toes again into his wooden shoes.

“Will you have something to eat and drink before you start?”

“I don’t want anything to eat, and I am not going to Colonel Menard’s to-night.”

“But, my son,” reasoned the staring friar, “are you going to quit your victuals and all good company because one more Zhone has come to town, and that one such a small, helpless creature?  Mademoiselle Saucier will be at Menard’s.”

Dr. Dunlap wiped his forehead.  He, and not the cool friar, appeared to have been the dancer.  A chorus of slaves singing on some neighboring gallery could be heard in the pause of the violin.  Beetles, lured by the shop candles, began to explore the room where the two men were, bumping themselves against the walls and buzzing their complaints.

“A man is nothing but a young beast until he is past twenty-five years old,” said Dr. Dunlap.

Father Baby added his own opinion to this general remark.—­

“Very often he is nothing but an old beast when you catch him past seventy.  But it all depends on what kind of a man he is.”

“Friar, do you believe in marriage?”

“How could I believe in marriage?”

“But do you believe in it for other people?”

“The Church has always held it to be a sacred institution.”

Dr. Dunlap muttered a combination of explosive words which he had probably picked up from sailors, making the churchman cross himself.  He spoke out, with a reckless laugh:—­

“I married as soon as I came of age, and here I am, ruined for my prime by that act.”

“What!” exclaimed Father Baby, setting his hands on his hips, “you a man of family, and playing bachelor among the women of Kaskaskia?”

“Oh, I have no wife now.  She finally died, thank Heaven.  If she had only died a year sooner!  But nothing matters now.”

“My son,” observed Father Baby severely, “Satan has you in his net.  You utter profane words, you rail against institutions sanctioned by the Church, and you have desired the death of a human being.  Repent and do penance”—­

“You have a customer, friar,” sneered the young man, lifting his head to glance aside at a figure entering the shop.  “Vigo’s idiot slave boy is waiting to be cheated.”