“It has come,” said the missionary. “But it is not finished.”
“You’re a persistent prophet, at least,” the Captain answered. “What more will there be?”
The other replied: “Have you marked the mate’s fashion of whispering among the crew?”
“Yes; Red was always a whisperer.”
“Is there no harm to be foreseen in that?”
Black Pawl chuckled and waved his hand. “I’m harsh with my men, but they love me,” he boasted. “They even tell me what Red whispers to them. Not one would listen to him.”
“Not one?” the missionary asked; and Black Pawl said again:
“Not one.”
He spoke surely. But there was doubt in him; there was a dreadful doubt which he would not admit, but could not down. He had seen, as well as any man, the blackness of Red’s heart in the man’s eye after their conflict. He had seen the evil in the man; and because Red was his son, and because Red was evil, Black Pawl’s heart was near the breaking-point.
He hid this, or sought to hide it, as he was accustomed to hide all the tragedy in his life. He became more boisterous, more bold, more given to the mockery of his laughter. A devil of recklessness came to life in him. The native decency of him was drowned in the agony of Red’s self-betrayal. Red was his son, his only blood in all the world; and if Red Pawl were worthless, what was there left in life? What use in righteousness?