O'Connor had always walked like that, even on the trail.
Softly then the door reopened, and Father Layonne, the little missioner, came in.

Kent knew that this would be so, for Father Layonne knew neither code nor creed that did not reach all the hearts of the wilderness.

He came back, and sat down close to Kent, and took one of his hands and held it closely in both of his own.

They were not the soft, smooth hands of the priestly hierarchy, but were hard with the callosity of toil, yet gentle with the gentleness of a great sympathy.
He had loved Kent yesterday, when Kent had stood clean in the eyes of both God and men, and he still loved him today, when his soul was stained with a thing that must be washed away with his own life.
"I'm sorry, lad," he said.

"I'm sorry." Something rose up in Kent's throat that was not the blood he had been wiping away since morning.