“I would see this man who gave her peace,” he said gravely.
To the missionary the old chief brought rich gifts in furs and curiously wrought garments, refusing all gifts in return. It was not seemly that his dead should be in debt for any service done. Then the missionary, reading the grief and haughty pride in the piercing dark eyes, told him of his daughter’s last days, of her peace, her hope, and her willingness to go. And as he told the story the stern lines in the bronze face grew soft, the piercing eyes grew kind.
“Good man!” he said in English, offering his hand. “Good heart!” touching the missionary on the breast. “The Great Spirit will remember.” And in token of his gratitude he and his six men deigned to break bread at the missionary’s table and to accept gifts at the missionary’s hands.
After two days he made ready to go. Peter and Singing Water he was for taking with him.
“She gave them to me,” he said in his own speech, which Paul knew as well as he. “The little one will be in my heart and keep it warm. The boy will be my son. He will be chief of my people when my camp fire is cold.”
“No!” said Paul gently, but looking straight into the fierce old eyes. “They are my father’s children, my brother and my sister. Their mother put their hands in mine. They will tell you.”
Peter and Tanna were called.
“She gave me to him. I put my hands in his. I kissed the Holy Cross. He is my chief,” said Peter simply.
“And you, Singing Water?” inquired the chief, his voice soft and tender.
The little blind girl moved quickly to the old chief’s side, passed her fingers over the hard bronze face.