There was a smile on Clearwater’s face—a smile which told of a dream of peace, and once an expression of compassion swept over the father’s face, as he dropped on one knee beside her couch.
In that second, no doubt, he lived over eighteen years of the past, and a thousand times regretted the oath he had taken. He, himself, stood on the precipice of death; when he had slain his child, the conspirators would coolly take his life, as they had already informed him.
It was a thrilling tableau.
In the father’s moment of indecision he heard a half-suppressed mockery of applause.
He glanced upward.
The contemptuous curling of the red lips was enough for him.
Then he turned again and raised the knife; but bent forward and kissed Clearwater’s lips.
That kiss startled the girl; she moved and opened her eyes.
Hondurah bit his lip, and the blade shot upward for the death-blow.
“Hondurah keeps his word!” he cried. “He will die—”