“This is very wonderful—very wonderful indeed,” muttered the sick man. “I never heard of such a thing.”
“It is the religion Christ came into the world to teach mankind,” I answered. “He sets us the example, by promising forgiveness to the greatest of sinners who believe in Him, and who put their faith in Him, even at the tenth hour, like the thief on the cross. He tells us also to pray for our enemies; then, surely, I am but following his commands when I forgive you. I would say more of these things to you—I would entreat you to believe in that merciful Saviour, and to pray to Him for forgiveness; but I am a brother; I earnestly long to discover my lost sister, and I must first beg you to tell me all you know of her.”
“Sir, you have strangely moved me,” said the pirate, in a hoarse voice, turning his countenance towards me. “I own that I am the man you suppose, the pirate, Richard Kidd, as great a wretch as one who, years ago, bore that name. You tell me that you forgive me; but if you knew the injury I have inflicted on you for years back, I doubt that you could do so.”
“For years back!” I answered, in astonishment. “I do not understand you; yet I say, whatever the injury, I am bound to forgive you, and with God’s assistance I do so. But my sister? Tell me of my sister.”
“Then, sir, you are such a Christian as I remember, when a boy, I was told men should be; but you are the first I ever met. You would learn what has become of the little girl, Eva Seaworth, as she was called. Alas! I cannot tell you. The only good action I ever in my life attempted has been frustrated. I had preserved your little sister from all injury, and intended to have restored her to her friends in safety, when I lost her.”
“Explain, explain,” I cried in a tone of agony. “Do not you know where she is?”
“Indeed I do not,” was the answer. It struck a chill into my heart; and a stranger coming in would have found it difficult to say which of the two was the dying man.
“Can you give me no clue—can you not conjecture where she is?” I at length asked.
“Indeed I cannot, sir,” he answered. “I have no reason to suppose her dead; but I am utterly unable to tell you where she now is.”
“What! my sweet little sister! you deserted her!—wretch!” I cried, scarcely knowing what I said, and wringing my hands with the bitterness of heart. The next moment I regretted the exclamation.