“Madame,” replied the man, beckoning to two men who were approaching, “I could not accept it; nor will I accept the reward.  It is the price of blood.  But I am a minister of the gospel, ma’am, and in this godless generation it is my duty to see that the outraged dignity of the law is vindicated.  My associates, I regret to say, are actuated by different motives.”

“You just bet high on that!” exclaimed one of the two men who had approached, a low-browed, bestial ruffian.  “Half a’ thousan’ ’s more’n I could pan out in a fortnight, no matter how good luck I had.  Parson he is a fool, but we, hain’t no right to grumble ‘bout it, seein’ we git his share—­hey, Parleyvoo?”

“You speak truly, Mike,” replied his companion, a rather handsome looking Frenchman, of middle age.  “And yet Jean Glorieaux likes not the labor.  Were it not that he had lost his last ounce at monte, and had the fever for play still in his blood, not one sou would he earn in such ungentle a manner.”

“God’s worst curses on all of you!” cried the woman, with an energy which inspired her plain face and form with a terrible dignity and power, “if you lay a hand on a man who is the only friend a poor woman has ever found in the world!”

Glorieaux shuddered, and Mike receded a step or two:  but the ex-minister maintained the most perfect composure, and exclaimed: 

“Poor fools!  It is written, ‘The curse, causeless, shall not fall.’  And yet, madame, I assure you that I most tenderly sympathize with you in your misfortunes, whatever they may be.”

“Then let him alone!” cried the woman.  “My only child has been stolen away from me—­dear little Johnny—­and the man offered to go get him.  And you’ve made me betray him.  Oh, God curse you all!”

“Madame,” replied the still imperturbable parson, “the crime of blood-guiltiness cannot be imputed to you, for you did not know what you were doing.”

The woman leaned against a tree, and waited until Glorieaux declared to the parson he would abandon the chase.

“It is useless,” said he, striking a dramatic attitude, and pointing to the woman, “for her tears have quenched the fiery fever in the blood of Glorieaux.”

“Then I’ll git the hull thousand,” growled Mike, “an’ I’ll need it, too, if I’ve got to stand this sort of thing much longer.”

A confused sound of voices on the other side of the creek attracted the attention of the men, and caused the woman to raise her head.  A moment later Jude appeared, with a child in his arms, and plunged into the water.

“Now we’ll have him!” cried the parson; “and you, madame, will have your child.  Be ready to chase him, men, if he attempts to run when he gets ashore.”

“Go back! go back!” screamed the woman.  “They are after you, these men.  Try to—­”

The law-abiding parson placed his hand over the woman’s mouth, but found himself promptly flying backward through space, while Mike roared: