“I will be more than a son. Sons hurt their fathers and accept all from them and give little. You lifted me out of the abyss and brought me back to life. You took on yourself the burden laid on me, to save those who trusted me, knowing nothing of my crime,––and now you drag my very soul from hell. I will do more than be your son––I will give you the life you saved. Who are you?”
Then the big man gave his name, making no reciprocal demand. What mattered a name? It was the man, by whatever name, he wanted.
“I am an Irishman by birth, and my name is Larry Kildene. If you’ll go to a little county not so far from Dublin, but to the north, you’ll find my people.”
He was looking away toward the top of the mountain as he spoke, and was seeing his grandfather’s house as he had seen it when a boy, and so he did not see the countenance of the young man at his side. Had he done so, he would not have missed knowing what the young man from that moment knew, and from that moment, out of the love now awakened in his heart for the big man, carefully concealed, giving thanks that he had not told his name.
For a long minute they stood thus looking away from each other, while Harry King, by a mighty effort, gained control of his features, and his voice. Then although white to the lips, he spoke quietly: “Harry King––the murderer––be the son of Larry Kildene––Larry Kildene––I––to slink away in the hills––forever to hide––”
“No more of that. I’ll show you a new life. Give me your hand, Harry King.” And the young man extended both hands in a silence through which no words could have been heard.