From his brothers he would get no help. The least memory of those
sallow, hungry faces convinced him of that.
There remained the gaming table. In the north country he had watched
men sit in a silent circle, smoking, drinking, with the flare of an
oil-lamp against deep, seamed faces, and only the slip and whisper of
card against card.
Cold conscience tapped the shoulder of Pierre, remembering the lessons
of Father Victor, but a moment later his head went up and his eyes
were shining through the dark. After all, the end justified the means.
A moment later he was laughing softly as a boy in the midst of a
prank, and busily throwing off the robe of serge. Fumbling through the
night he located the shirt and trousers he had seen hanging from a
nail on the wall. Into these he slipped, and then went out under
the open sky.
The rest had revived the strength of the tough little cow-pony, and he
drove on at a gallop toward the twinkling lights of Morgantown. There
was a new consciousness about Pierre as if he had changed his whole
nature with his clothes.
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