He was no longer the singer of songs or the man who was forever a boy; the mocking anger of a moment ago was gone; in its place was a consuming fury that sucked the blood from beneath his tan, leaving him the pallor of ashes, while his mouth twitched and his head rolled slightly from side to side like a palsied old man's.

The red of his lips was blanched, leaving two white streaks against a faded, muddy background, through which came strange and frightful oaths in a bastard tongue.

Runnion drew back, fearful, and the older man ceased chopping and let his axe hang loosely in his hand.

But evidently Poleon meant no violence, for he allowed the passion to run from him freely until it had spent its vigor, then said to Runnion: "M'sieu, eider you are brave man or dam' fool." "What do you mean, Frenchy ?" said the man addressed, uneasily.
"Somebody goin' die for w'at you say jus' now.

Mebbe it's goin' be you, m'sieu; mebbe it's goin' be him; I can't tell yet, but I'm hope an' pray it's goin' be you, biccause I t'ink w'at you say is a lie, an' nobody can spik dose kin' of lie 'bout Necia Gale." He went crashing blindly through the underbrush, his head wagging, his shoulders slumped loosely forward like those of a drunken man, his lips framing words they could not understand.
When he had disappeared Runnion drew a deep breath.
"I guess I've framed something for Mister Burrell this time." "You go about it queer," said Stark.