“I killed him. He was stronger than I; and he battered me badly before I could close with him. Then I broke his right arm between my hands, so that he screamed; and after that I beat him with my fists, and when he fell, Red Pawl lifted him, and held him, and I beat him to death with my bare hands. The fight lasted from morning until halfway to noon. It was a good fight until I broke his arm; after that—He died on his feet, Red Pawl’s arms supporting him. And when he was dead, we left him there; and when the schooner made out of that anchorage, sir, the birds were already a heap of white upon him, where he lay.”
Black Pawl stopped, with that; and for a long time neither man spoke. At last, uneasy at the silence, Black Pawl laughed to hide his unrest.
“So, Father,” he said at last, “what has your God to say to that?”
“Have you ever found trace of your wife, Black Pawl?” the missionary asked.
“I found those men to whom he gave her. They denied the tale. But Red Pawl and I killed three of them, and broke the other two.”
The missionary made no comment; and Black Pawl asked again: “What will your God say to that, Father?”
Then the man of the church looked up at the other and said gently: “I am sorry for you, Dan Pawl.”
The Captain sneered. “Don’t waste sorrow on me. I’ve no regrets.”
“It is not because of the past that I am sorry for you,” replied the missionary. “It is because of that which must surely come.”