Maria began to rock herself again, and to mutter. The commissioner changed his attack.
“Who's this man, Maria?” he suddenly asked, pointing to Charley Seguis.
“Your legitimate son and rightful heir,” snapped the squaw, and she went on rocking, while McTavish wrestled with a deadly impulse to strangle her.
“When was he born?”
“In November, 1873, seven months after you sent me away.” McTavish did not question this. Acting on Donald's advice, he had observed the half-breed closely, and had detected unmistakable signs of McTavish blood. Furthermore, the man looked his age.
The commissioner turned to Seguis, and questioned him in regard to certain events he would remember, had he been alive at the time Maria claimed.
He answered correctly in all regards, and with a naturalness that showed he had not been coached. The commissioner was satisfied that here was his first-born, and the pang that went through his heart was like a red-hot arrow. But he turned his mind to the necessities of the occasion, not yielding to its griefs.
“Maria,” he said despairingly, “you know we were never married. You know you came to me willingly and gladly, when I offered you the only life I would permit myself to offer an Indian. You came as my companion until such time as we should see fit to separate; in fact, you were the first to put the idea into my mind. That paper shows me you have done something very wrong. I can't now disprove the statements there: that will come later. But what I want to say now is that you are forcing through one of the dirtiest pieces of work that ever took place in the Company.”
Fitzpatrick feebly pawed his beard, and his eyes glittered with triumph. This was what he had waited for—to see the commissioner slowly come to his knees before a filthy squaw, and plead for his life!
“You don't hate me,” McTavish continued, “for I never wronged you. When you left me, I gave you enough to make you comfortable. Why did you not tell me of this child?