“I will bring him back,” he said. “I give you my word.”
“Good! That is all. My work is done now,” she said with a little sigh. “I have spoken true words.” Once more she kissed the crucifix.
“Listen,” said the sergeant. “The man you struck did not die. One of our men pulled him from the burning house. He lives today.”
“Sleeman is alive?” exclaimed Paul.
“Alive?” said the Indian woman. “Wait, Paul. You will let me speak.” She lay for some moments with eyes closed, then in a voice which shook with emotion she cried, “Alive? Ah! ah! I was glad he was dead, now I am glad he is alive. The good Father told me it was not good to go—to pass—with blood on the hands. The Holy Mother was praying for me! It is good!” She turned her dark eyes upon Paul. “No, Paul. You remember your word to your father. That is done.” She put her hand on his arm. “No! no! That is not the way of your people. For me? Perhaps. For you? No! It is not your law.” Again her eyes searched his pale set face.
“He would have wronged you, Onawata, my father’s wife. There is only one thing for me—only one.”
“Paul, I have brought you back to your people. I have kept you clean. You will be a great man among your people. You will promise me.” She raised herself on her arm. “I go—perhaps I shall see your father, my chief. I cannot go without your word. A-a-ah!” her voice rose in a wailing cry. “To him, to you, I brought only sorrow and shame. Lay on me no more, Paul. I have suffered much.” She fumbled under the pillow and drew out and unwrapped a small parcel, carefully wrapped in deer skin. “Take it, Paul. It is your mother’s good book. You will kiss it and say you will not kill the man—for her, for her, Paul!” Her voice rose in a cry, her hands reached trembling toward him.
The boy was terribly shaken with the struggle going on in his soul. He knew the book well. He took and turned it over in his hands, opened it at the fly-leaf, read in faded lettering the words written, he well remembered when, “For my son Paul, from his mother. ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’” The scene flooded his memory—the Pine Croft living room, his mother’s face with its wondering, tremulous smile as he told her how up through the tops of the pines, between the little white clouds he could see God looking down at him. He remembered how, as she was tucking him in that night, she brought him a new Bible, with his name in it and her name and the beautiful words about seeing God, and how she kissed the book and kissed him as she gave it into his hands. Like a mountain torrent sweeping away a dam, the surging tide of his emotion swept away his control. He dropped on his knees by the bed, pressed the words to his lips, sobbing.
“Oh, Mother, Mother! dear, dear Mother! For your sake! Yes, yes! for your sake!”
The men turned away and moved softly from the hut, leaving the two alone. The Indian woman lay back, spent and done. She had fulfilled her trust. She had brought back to his people, clean from lust and from blood, the son of the man who was to her as God Himself. Next day the sergeant went north on his quest, carrying a message to the Athabascan chief from his daughter.