But Red Pawl did not see. He was looking toward the cabin companion, down which the girl had disappeared.
CHAPTER V
THE grim story which the missionary had heard from Black Pawl stayed in his mind; he could not put it aside. He thought upon it constantly, wondering, seeking, puzzling for the key.
He hesitated to speak of it again to Black Pawl. Since that night of confidences the Captain had avoided him, with something shame-faced in his manner, as if he regretted having spoken. The man of the church was not one to harass another; he knew Black Pawl must hate to think or speak of that which had passed. But the missionary’s mind dwelt on it constantly; he watched Black Pawl, and pondered.
There is a certain comfort and solace in talking of our own miseries. It is as though, by revealing them to others, we shift the burden of the load from our own shoulders. Black Pawl, until he spoke to the missionary, had never tasted this measure of comfort; and having tasted, it was inevitable, finally, that he should seek it again. The missionary understood this, as he considered the matter; and so he waited with some patience, and in the end, as he expected, Black Pawl brought up the tale once more.
“I’ve been wondering, Father,” he said with a mockery of respect in his tones, “just what you meant by saying you pitied me for what must surely come.”
The missionary did not answer at once; and when he did, it was with another question. “Black Pawl,” he said, “are you sure your wife and your child are dead?”
The Captain laughed bitterly. “Sure.”
“You told me the—evil men—denied the thing.”
“At first, yes,” said Black Pawl. “But at the last, just before I broke his neck, seeking to save the worthless life in him, the chief of them admitted the whole.”