“I have no God,” answered Black Pawl; and his face was as his name.
The other shook his head. “Even a dog has his master for a god,” he declared. “The god of some men is drink; of others, the flesh; of others, the work of their hands. But the god of wise men is—God.” Looking steadily at Black Pawl, he asked again: “What is your god, my friend?”
The Captain laughed at that, stirring uneasily. “Spoken like a parson!” he retorted. “By their gods ye shall damn them: is that the idea?”
The missionary was silent for a little; then he smiled, and said: “I knew a man, once. He was an islander; and his god taught him to cut off the heads of his enemies, and cure them in smoke, and hang them up in his house. He was, I think, the finest man I ever knew—according to his lights. He had forty-two heads on the roof-tree of his hut; and I have no doubt—his own head was cut off finally—that he is clipping heads in paradise to-day.”
“And if the elders of your church heard you say that, Father,” Black Pawl told him, “they would cast you into outer darkness. Man, you were sent out here to tell the heathen they must love Christ or be damned. Were you not, now?”
“It was my friend’s faith to cut off the heads of his enemies,” said the missionary. “It is my faith to seek to show men the beauty of my faith. That is all the difference.”
“Your God believes in advertising?”
“Yes,” said the other; and he smiled again.
Black Pawl laughed. “That’s worth hearing,” he declared. “It’s sense. Most of your cloth tell us to be humble, to be meek and lowly, like cattle. Why is goodness humble, Father? Why is virtue shy, and vice a braggart?”
“Just what do you mean, Cap’n Pawl?” the missionary asked. “I am interested.”