"I'll do anything you like," whispered Mackintosh.
"Good chap. One of the best. They're children. I'm their father. A father don't let his children get into trouble if he can help it."
A ghost of a chuckle came out of his throat. It was astonishingly weird and ghastly.
"You're a religious chap, Mac. What's that about forgiving them? You know."
For a while Mackintosh did not answer. His lips trembled.
"Forgive them, for they know not what they do?"
"That's right. Forgive them. I've loved them, you know, always loved them."
He sighed. His lips faintly moved, and now Mackintosh had to put his ears quite close to them in order to hear.
"Hold my hand," he said.
Mackintosh gave a gasp. His heart seemed wrenched. He took the old man's hand, so cold and weak, a coarse, rough hand, and held it in his own. And thus he sat until he nearly started out of his seat, for the silence was suddenly broken by a long rattle. It was terrible and unearthly. Walker was dead. Then the natives broke out with loud cries. The tears ran down their faces, and they beat their breasts.