The missionary looked aft and saw Black Pawl on his quarterdeck. He turned to the girl, and smiled, and said: “Come!”
They walked side by side toward the starboard deck-steps. Black Pawl studied them as they approached, but made no move to meet them. The missionary stood aside to let the girl climb to the quarter, then followed her and approached Black Pawl. He was an old man, with white hair and kindly eyes and lips; a man mellowed by right living and right thinking; a broad man, without cant and without guile. This was written plain in his face; but that spirit of mockery which lived in Black Pawl moved him to say in greeting:
“Good morning, Father!”
He knew quite well that this missionary was not of that church which is father and mother to her people; he also knew that clergy of another cloth, if they are meanly made, resent the appellation he had given this man. But the missionary only smiled and said in his gentle, firm tones without a note of pique:
“Good morning, Cap’n Pawl.”
And by this Black Pawl knew him for a man, and thrust out his big hand. They gripped.
“My name is Samuel Poor,” the missionary said; “and this is Ruth Lytton.”
He gestured toward the girl; and Black Pawl, turning, saw her at close range, and his heart for an instant stood still.
She was tall and strongly made, and sweetly. Further, she was beautiful. But there was something else in her face, and in her eyes, which pierced the Captain’s consciousness. For an instant his face was a mask of tragedy. The missionary was looking at the girl, and did not see; but the girl saw and was troubled.
Then Black Pawl smiled. There was beauty in the man when he smiled—beauty, and the radiance of strength, and the glory of audacity. He took her hand.