“I think you are the most unhappy man I have ever known.”
Black Pawl moved abruptly; he took six steps away and six steps back, then leaned against the rail again, unsmiling. And at last he lifted his head and dropped his hand on the missionary’s shoulder. “Father,” he said, “if your faith is worth anything, it must be practical. It must solve the problems of this world. Am I right?”
“Yes, my friend.”
The captain of the Deborah nodded. “I am going to tell you a story of myself,” he said. “Let your God write the answer to the riddle, if he can.”
The missionary inclined his head. “Tell, if you wish to tell,” he said.
“Listen, then,” Black Pawl bade the missionary. “You and I are poured in different molds, Father. But in one matter men are much alike. Did you ever love a woman?”
“Yes.”
Black Pawl was gazing off across the purple night; it was almost as if the other were not there.
“I loved a woman,” he went on. “I—loved her. There was always an overflowing measure of life in me, perhaps. I poured it out on her. And she loved me as fully. She was tall and fair, and quiet as deep waters, Father. And she was very beautiful to look upon. Still—others thought her cold; she was not cold to me. There was a flame before us, and when we stepped into that flame hand in hand, we burned like welding metals. Burned, yet were not consumed! And we were welded like the metals, flesh and flesh, and soul and soul. We were no longer two people in those days; we were one. When others were about, we were like others, bantering, laughing, at ease—for each of us knew. But when we were alone, we were a living fire. Sometimes, seeing man and wife since then, I wonder if they are as we were. I wonder if behind the calm countenance of their open daily life there is such a passionate devotion as that which welded us two.