“Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one woman.”
“For the girl. There was the thing that clamped my heart. Never a message from her or her brother. Surely they knew, and yet never, thought I, a good word for me to the governor. They had forgotten the faith of food and blanket. And she—she must have seen that I could have worshipped her, had we been in the same way of life. Before the better days came to me I was hard against her, hard and rough at heart.”
“Remember the sorrow of thine own wife.” Pierre’s voice was gentle.
“Truly, to think hardly of no woman should be always in a man’s heart. But I have known only one woman of my race in twenty-five years!”
“And as time went on?”
“As time went on, and no word came, I ceased to look for it. But I followed that chart spiked with the captain’s pencil, as he had done it in season and out of season, and by and by I ceased to look for any word. I even became reconciled to my life. The ambitious and aching cares of the world dropped from me, and I stood above all—alone in my suffering, yet not yielding. Loneliness is a terrible thing. Under it a man—”
“Goes mad or becomes a saint—a saint!” Pierre’s voice became reverent.
Fawdor shook his head, smiling gently. “Ah no, no. But I began to understand the world, and I loved the north, the beautiful hard north.”
“But there is more?”
“Yes, the end of it all. Three days before you came I got a packet of letters, not by the usual yearly mail. One announced that the governor was dead. Another—”