He feasted himself now on the beauty which was so like to that of the mother who had given up her life for his desire. And as he gazed a surge of deep, tender feeling recalled a hundred happy memories. And so for awhile he was filled with smiling thought.
But it passed. It passed with a suddenness that left a cold dew of fear upon his brow for all the warmth of the Arctic summer night. For even as memory had transported him to the days wherein his life had known no shadow, so it had brought him again to the recollection of the scene of mutilation he had witnessed at his Mission. There he had seen children, younger even than Felice, lying upon the ground limbless, headless, almost unrecognisable trunks.
An unconscious movement stirred him, and he shook his head as though in denial of his thought. Then he gazed down upon the sealed packet he was carrying in his hand. For long moments he looked at it, and then, of a sudden, his eyes came back to the face of the sleeping babe, and words came in a low, tender whisper.
“No, kiddie,” he murmured, “not while I have life. My poor Jean gave you to me, little bit. And you’re just mine. All I am in the world will defend you from harm such—such as—God! No. Not that. Psha! No, it couldn’t be.” He wiped his forehead with a hand that was unsteady. Then he forced a smile to his eyes just as he forced his fears back and strove to think of the thing he had spent so many hours preparing. He held up the packet in his hand before the child’s closed eyes. “This wasn’t sent my way for nothing,” he whispered. “It’s your luck, little kid. Yours. It’s for you, half of it. And—and if I should fail—well, there’s others’ll see you get it. My little kiddie. My little—”
He broke off. The man’s tender admonition died on his lips which closed almost with a snap. His whole attitude underwent a change. He sat rigid and listening, and his dark eyes were turned as though seeking to peer over his shoulder.
It was a sound. A sound that came from beyond the outer room. It was not from the direction of the kitchen place where Usak might be returning home. No. It came from beyond the front door of the shanty which was not the way Usak would come.
The missionary made no movement. Every sense was straining, every faculty was alert. Sounds came in the night. It was a common enough thing. But he had that in his mind now which gave to any sound in the night the possibility of a new interpretation.
The moments passed. The tension eased. And again the fathers eyes came back to the face of the sleeping child. But it was only for an instant. Of a sudden he dropped the sealed packet into the child’s cot and leapt to his feet.
Headlong he ran for the open doorway, and the purpose in his mind was obvious. He passed it, and ran for the loaded guns hanging upon the wall of his room. But he failed to reach them. A shot rang out and he stumbled. Putting forth a superhuman effort he sought to recover himself. But his legs gave under him and he crashed to the floor with the first tearful cry of his wakened child ringing in his ears.