With the child resting upon her back within the blanket, she came and laid a hand upon the Ancient's shoulder. He peered up with dreary eyes and would have forced a smile into the long wrinkles of his shrunken countenance.
'So, child; you have come.' Such was his greeting.
'For the last time, old Father. To seek one more service, then to trouble you no more.'
'It is no pain to succour those we love. The life fades from my body, yet the warm love remains still within. Sit at my feet, child, as you were wont to do. Tell me what it is you desire.'
She did so, yet in the motion a soft fluffy head brushed the old man's knee. A shudder convulsed him, as he endeavoured to drag the stiff limbs from the hateful contact. Feebly and vengefully he cried, 'Take that away, child! Why have you brought him here to torment my eyes?'
Not a muscle of the girl's face moved. 'I forgot,' she said coldly.
Then she arranged the blanket at the foot of a tall pine, wrapped up the child in it, and returned.
The Ancient spoke. 'Daughter, I know the matter on which you would speak. Make speed with the work, for my body strength has gone. I would wish to see the end, so may I tell all to your father in the joy land. Memory is now a faint shadow of the past. Yet will I speak on those things I may see dimly with the mind. A white man has destroyed your heart, my daughter; he has betrayed you; he has left you to the death misery. You would have punishment brought upon that man. Is it not so, my daughter?'
'It is so, old Father,' came the stern reply.
'Methinks there is still a faint shadow of memory remaining. It tells me that on a certain night I prayed you to listen to wise words. But you cast aside the love advice. So the anger grew upon me, and I said that surely a day would come when you would creep to me with a heart of sorrow, when you would pray me for help in the work of vengeance. Methinks that memory is not all shadow.'
'It is truth. I ask not for pity. I have prepared this suffering for myself. Let the dead past lie dead.'
'I would not call up the black tale of grief to wound you, child. Youth follows the unreasoning heart always. Now it but remains to find the remedy, to strike, to kill.'
All the malevolence in his nature poured forth in the whispered sounds. His wrinkled face grew hideous as he looked at her, the grey-white hair hanging in sparse lines along the neck.