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.