“I killed him in love, Father.”
“I know.”
Black Pawl was silent, with closed eyes for a little; and then he asked gently: “Think you, I’ve a right to see my girl again?”
The missionary said swiftly. “Dan, bring Ruth—swiftly.”
Dan, on his feet to go, echoed Black Pawl’s words with an amazed question in his voice. “His girl?” he asked.
“His daughter,” the man of the church told him. The missionary stayed by Black Pawl’s side, and Black Pawl, eyelids drooping, held his dead son closer in his arms. He heard Ruth’s step, and looked up as she bent above him.
“Eh, sweet!” he said wistfully. “Put your hand on my head. Your fingers in my hair. Your mother—used to do so.”
Black Pawl looked long at her; then his eyes closed again, and through the shut lids tears seeped, and ran down his cheeks, and dropped on the head of his son, held close against his breast. Ruth spoke to him; but he seemed not to hear her. For a little time he did not stir; but when they sought to lift Red Pawl away, his arms tightened their hold.
At the last, his eyes opened once more, and looked down upon his son. And he whispered huskily, for the breath was strangling in his lungs:
“Eh, Dan—my son! I fathered you in—love; but I bred you in hate—and rancor—and cruelty. And—I’ve killed you—at the last. But I always—loved you—little Dan.... My little—boy—”