“Why do you pity me, Father?” he asked. “You’ve not told that.”
The calm eyes looked up at him; and the man of the church answered steadily: “Because of the thing that is before you, Cap’n Pawl.”
Black Pawl laughed. “Aye, you said that. Prophesy, Father—prophesy! What is before me?”
“You love your son?” asked the missionary. Black Pawl’s face twisted, and he laughed again.
“Oh, aye!” he said.
“Because he is your son, blood of your blood,” the man of the church defined. “But—you also hate your son.”
The Captain was smiling grimly. “Have it so. This is paradox, not prophecy.”
“There is evil in him,” said the missionary. “The blood that you gave him, the life you have shown him—these have bred evil in the man. And you have justice in you; and because of that justice, you hate the evil in Red Pawl. I pity you, Captain, because some day you must choose between the blood-son whom you love and the evil son whom you hate. And that will not be an easy choice.”
Black Pawl snapped his fingers. “Fiddle!” he exclaimed. “I’ve laid hands on him as a boy; I can do it still. I can chastise, if there’s need.”
“Red Pawl is no longer a boy,” replied the missionary. “He is the worst of you, alive before your eyes, my friend.”