BLACK PAWL and his daughter were together through that afternoon, below, in the cabin; and there they cast up the old accounts of the year. And there were times when they were unhappy; but for the most part they were very happy together. There was no more rancor in Black Pawl; he loved the world, and he loved his daughter, and he loved the memories she evoked in him. Into these few hours of life Black Pawl compressed more happiness than he had seen for twenty years; he was like a boy again, gay and youthful and mirthful. Yet was there a humility about him, and a deference.

At dusk he went on deck. Red Pawl was there, superintending the work on the bowsprit. Black Pawl looked at what was being done; and he said:

“Good work, Red!”

There was in him a desire to placate his son, to win back the old comradeship, to redeem Red Pawl from the evil that obsessed the man. But the mate looked up at his father’s words and said dourly:

“I do my work. No fear!”

Black Pawl scowled, for the old, quick anger was not entirely dead in him; nevertheless he curbed himself and turned away. Red was surprised at this. It was not like the Captain. Was his father slacking, weakening, losing his grip? He smiled furtively at his own thoughts, and his heart began to pound.

After supper Black Pawl went to his cabin, alone. He wanted to sleep; he undressed and blew out the whale-oil lamp that hung near his bunk’s head, and lay down.

But there was no sleep in him; he thought of Ruth, and could not sleep for happiness; he thought of his son, and could not sleep for sorrow and concern. He thought of his wife and he spoke with her in his thoughts.

There was a great peace between him and her in this communion in the night. Black Pawl was filled with peace. Even when he thought of his son, he was not disturbed; he was only sorrowful. He no longer blamed himself so bitterly on Red’s account; he felt himself in some measure absolved. It was as though he had made an atonement; it may have been that he was provisioning the immediate atonement he must make. He loved Red, his son; but in his heart, he condemned the man—condemned him with the stern justice which is both justice and love.

He had a great faith that Red should never harm Ruth. It was his task to guard her; and if his strength were not sufficient, strength would be given him. There was strength in her, for that matter. Thinking of this daughter of his, he was immensely proud of her. She was a woman, even as her mother had been. He thought, without disloyalty, that she was finer than her mother. And—she would never come to harm.

But—Red? What of him? Black Pawl wondered whether to tell Red that Ruth was his sister. He put the thought away. He had a feeling that this would be cowardice and shirking, that the issue was between Red and him. He was like Frankenstein; Red was a monster he had himself created and for which he must take responsibility. He could not beg off.

He had somewhat the attitude of the missionary. The man of the church, guessing Ruth was Black Pawl’s daughter, had yet kept silent. He had said that he felt the whole matter was in God’s hands. Black Pawl thought his problem was the same. He found peace in the thought. He could do his duty as he saw it—no more.

He said softly, in the darkness, to this God he had found that day: “It’s in Your hands, Sir.”

And he added: “But I’ll do my part of what’s to be done.”

So passed the night.