“An’— an’— I give her to you,” he said. “She’s an angel, and she’s alone— needs some one— an’ you— you’ll be good to her. You must go down to her— Pierre Couchée’s cabin— on the Little Beaver. An’ you’ll be good to her— good to her—”
“I will go to her,” said Billy, softly. “And I swear here on my knees before the great and good God that I will do what an honorable man should do!”
Deane’s rigid body relaxed, and he sank back on his blankets with a sigh of relief.
“I worried— for her,” he said. “I’ve always believed in a God— though I killed a man— an’ He sent you here in time!” A sudden questioning light came into his eyes. “The man who stole little Isobel,” he breathed— “who was he?”
“Pelliter— the man out there— killed him when he came to the cabin,” said Billy. “He said his name was Blake— Jim Blake.”
“Blake! Blake! Blake!” Again Deane’s voice rose from the edge of death to a shriek. “Blake, you say? A great coarse sailorman, with red hair— red beard— yellow teeth like a walrus! Blake— Blake—” He sank back again, with a thrilling, half-mad laugh. “Then— then it’s all been a mistake— a funny mistake,” he said; and his eyes closed, and his voice spoke the words as though he were uttering them from out of a dream.
Billy saw that the end was near. He bent down to catch the dying man’s last words. Deane’s hands were as cold as ice. His lips were white. And then Deane whispered:
“We fought— I thought I killed him— an’ threw him into the sea. His right name was Samuelson. You knew him— by that name— but he went often— by Blake— Jim Blake. So— so— I’m not a murderer— after all. An’ he— he came back for revenge— and— stole— little— Isobel. I’m— I’m— not— a— murderer. You— you— will— tell— her. You’ll tell her— I didn’t kill him— after all. You’ll tell her— an’— be— good— good—”
He smiled. Billy bent lower.
“Again I swear before the good God that I will do what an honorable man should do,” he replied.