It is Providence. Destiny. The all-knowing Pere Francois reveals
to her how strangely the life-path of the heiress has been guarded.
"My daughter," the priest solemnly says, "be comforted. Right shall
prevail. Trust me, trust Colonel Woods. Your child may fall heir
yet to a name and to her own inheritance. The ways of Him who
pardons are mysterious." He leaves her comforted and yet not daring
to break the seal of silence to the lovely claimants.
While Pere Francois confers with Natalie, as the moon sails high
in heaven over the fragrant pines, Woods and Peyton exchange a few
quiet words over their cigars.
By the repeater which Joe consults it is now a quarter of ten. The
two gentlemen stroll over the grassy plaza. By a singular provincial
custom each carries a neat navy revolver, where a hand could drop
easily on it. Joe also caresses his favorite knife in his overcoat
pocket.
In five minutes they are seated with Philip Hardin in his room. There
is an air of gloomy readiness in Hardin which shows the unbending
nature of the man. He is alone. Woods frankly says: "Judge Hardin,
I wish you to know my friend, Mr. Henry Peyton. If anything should
happen to me, he knows all my views. He will represent me.
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