THE grim story which the missionary had heard from Black Pawl stayed in his mind; he could not put it aside. He thought upon it constantly, wondering, seeking, puzzling for the key.

He hesitated to speak of it again to Black Pawl. Since that night of confidences the Captain had avoided him, with something shame-faced in his manner, as if he regretted having spoken. The man of the church was not one to harass another; he knew Black Pawl must hate to think or speak of that which had passed. But the missionary’s mind dwelt on it constantly; he watched Black Pawl, and pondered.

There is a certain comfort and solace in talking of our own miseries. It is as though, by revealing them to others, we shift the burden of the load from our own shoulders. Black Pawl, until he spoke to the missionary, had never tasted this measure of comfort; and having tasted, it was inevitable, finally, that he should seek it again. The missionary understood this, as he considered the matter; and so he waited with some patience, and in the end, as he expected, Black Pawl brought up the tale once more.

“I’ve been wondering, Father,” he said with a mockery of respect in his tones, “just what you meant by saying you pitied me for what must surely come.”

The missionary did not answer at once; and when he did, it was with another question. “Black Pawl,” he said, “are you sure your wife and your child are dead?”

The Captain laughed bitterly. “Sure.”

“You told me the—evil men—denied the thing.”

“At first, yes,” said Black Pawl. “But at the last, just before I broke his neck, seeking to save the worthless life in him, the chief of them admitted the whole.”

The missionary considered, eyes afar with his thoughts. “Was there any way,” he asked, “by which you might have known them, if you had ever found the two? Not your wife only, but—your daughter.”

“Aye,” said Black Pawl. “I would know.” His voice was dead in his throat.

“But you never saw the child.”

“No.”

“How could you know?”

The Captain flung about, and asked harshly: “Should I not know my own?”

There was a gentle persistence in the missionary. He ignored the rebuff. “Cap’n Pawl,” he said, “there are strange chances in this world. It is impossible ever to be sure.”

“It is not impossible,” said the Captain. “For I am sure.”

“That dying man may have lied.”

Black Pawl threw back his head. “Father,” he said, “I thought of that. I called him a liar. And he showed me a drawer hidden in the cabin of their filthy schooner; and from the drawer he picked out for me a wedding-ring. I knew it. So was I sure.”

“So—the wedding-ring.” It was as though the missionary spoke to himself; then he asked: “Have you the ring?”

“Aye,” answered Black Pawl.

The man of the church considered a moment.

“You gave her other—jewels, I have no doubt,” he suggested. “Did this man have them as well?”

Black Pawl shook his head. “She was not one for such baubles. There was only a little locket. When I left her, at the last, with our son, we made a daguerreotype of him, that she might wear it in this locket about her throat. It was not worth the stealing, or it was lost before the end. At least, this man had it not.”

“You asked him for it?”

“No. When he showed me the wedding-ring, he was in five seconds of death.”

“What was that locket like?” the missionary pursued.

But Black Pawl could endure no more. “Man,” he cried, “have done!” His voice broke with a laugh. “This digging in dead years is fool’s work, Father,” he said. “Have done with it, for good and all.”

For a space of minutes the missionary stood musing, while Black Pawl paced the deck behind him, now and again roaring orders to laggers amidships. In the end he paused, then drew near the missionary again.

“Why do you pity me, Father?” he asked. “You’ve not told that.”

The calm eyes looked up at him; and the man of the church answered steadily: “Because of the thing that is before you, Cap’n Pawl.”

Black Pawl laughed. “Aye, you said that. Prophesy, Father—prophesy! What is before me?”

“You love your son?” asked the missionary. Black Pawl’s face twisted, and he laughed again.

“Oh, aye!” he said.

“Because he is your son, blood of your blood,” the man of the church defined. “But—you also hate your son.”

The Captain was smiling grimly. “Have it so. This is paradox, not prophecy.”

“There is evil in him,” said the missionary. “The blood that you gave him, the life you have shown him—these have bred evil in the man. And you have justice in you; and because of that justice, you hate the evil in Red Pawl. I pity you, Captain, because some day you must choose between the blood-son whom you love and the evil son whom you hate. And that will not be an easy choice.”

Black Pawl snapped his fingers. “Fiddle!” he exclaimed. “I’ve laid hands on him as a boy; I can do it still. I can chastise, if there’s need.”

“Red Pawl is no longer a boy,” replied the missionary. “He is the worst of you, alive before your eyes, my friend.”

“Well?” the Captain challenged. “Is it not something to see your sins so plainly?”

The missionary hesitated; then he held out his hand and smiled. “Captain,” he said, “you are a man, and my friend. Whether you believe in their worth or no, you have my prayers.”

“They’ll do no harm, at the least,” answered Black Pawl; and a simple and honest gratitude for this friendship was behind the mockery in his tones.