“Murder 'twill be,” the boy answered, in thick, low voice, and was across the room.
Outside Red Wull banged and clawed high up on the door with impotent pats.
The little man suddenly slipped his hand in his pocket, pulled out something, and flung it. The missile pattered on his son's face like a rain-drop on a charging bull, and David smiled as he came on. It dropped softly on the table at his side; he looked down and—it was the face of his mother which gazed up at him!
“Mither!” he sobbed, stopping short. “Mither! Ma God, ye saved him—and me!”
He stood there, utterly unhinged, shaking and whimpering.
It was some minutes before he pulled himself together; then he walked to the wall, took down a pair of shears, and seated himself at the table, still trembling. Near him lay the miniature, all torn and crumpled, and beside it the deep-buried axe-head.
He picked up the strap and began cutting it into little pieces.
“There! and there! and there!” he said with each snip. “An' ye hit me agin there may be no mither to save ye.”
M'Adam stood huddling in the corner. He shook like an aspen leaf; his eyes blazed in his white face; and he still nursed one arm with the other.
“Honor yer father,” he quoted in small, low voice.