So Dan was no sure shield. Who else remained? One by one, Black Pawl considered each expedient. And there was none that satisfied him; there was no power aboard the Deborah to protect the girl, once he, Black Pawl, was gone.
There was no evasion in Black Pawl, no shirking his responsibility. Red was his responsibility.
The conclusion was inescapable. There was no anger in him toward his son; there was no hatred. There was only a deep love, and a deeper sorrow and grief. He stirred where he sat; and slowly, by infinite degrees, he opened his eyes.
He saw the Deborah, the schooner he loved, the world he had ruled. He saw the blue sky above him, and the furled canvas on the boom. He saw the group of white-faced men by the mainmast, and he saw Spiess scrubbing grimly at the deck, oblivious of all that passed. He wondered if Dan Darrin would be coming on deck soon. Dan and the missionary and the girl must still be asleep in their cabins, below. It was as well.
He swept his weary eyes about the whole spread of deck before him; and he found Red Pawl. Red had not moved. He was still leaning against the rail, watching his father die.
Black Pawl tried to speak; but there was a bubbling in his throat, and it was hard. He conquered that handicap by sheer will to conquer; and he said in a voice that was firm enough, though it was very low:
“Red, he’s killed me.”
Red Pawl did not answer for a moment; then he said evenly: “Aye, he’s killed you.”
The Captain was mustering strength. “Come here, Red,” he said. “I’ve—things to say. And it’s hard—talking.”
Red hesitated; then he came slowly across and stood above his father, looking down at him.