The Father Superior locked away the packet and stood up. But the Boy was bending down fascinated, listening at the white lips. "There is gold there?" he repeated.
Out of the gulf came faintly back like an echo:
"Plenty o' gold there—plenty o' gold."
"Jee-rusalem!" He stood up and found himself opposite the contemplative face of the priest.
"We have neglected you, my son. Come upstairs to my room."
They went out, the old head bent, and full of thought; the young head high, and full of dreams. Oh, to reach this Minóok, where there was "plenty of gold, plenty of gold," before the spring floods brought thousands. What did any risk matter? Think of the Pymeuts doing their sixty miles over the ice just to apologise to Father Brachet for being Pymeuts. This other, this white man's penance might, would involve a greater mortification of the flesh. What then? The reward was proportionate—"plenty of gold." The faint whisper filled the air.
A little more hardship, and the long process of fortune-building is shortened to a few months. No more office grind. No more anxiety for those one loves.
Gold, plenty of gold, while one is young and can spend it gaily—gold to buy back the Orange Grove, to buy freedom and power, to buy wings, and to buy happiness!
On the stairs they passed Brother Paul and the native.
"Supper in five minutes, Father."