The King's Arrow Part 35

"What do you mean?" the man asked in surprise.

"Just what I said. The rebels planned to wipe out the Loyalists down river, and it looks to me as if they are about to try the same upon the ones on the A-jem-sek."

"Nonsense, girl," was the impatient reply. "It is foolish to think of such a thing."

"Well, what is the meaning, then, of this gathering of men from various parts who are so anxious to do something before the rangers arrive?

They surely intend some mischief."

"Just a little fun, Miss, that's all. The boys like a lark occasionally. It keeps them in good spirits."

"Are they all like Dave?"

"Why, don't you like him?"

"No, I do not. He has evil eyes."

"Dave is not as bad as you think. He is a weak creature, with little brains, and no sense at all. But the rest are not a bad lot, though rather rough at times, especially when they are drinking. But let us forget all about them for the present. Read some to me. Let it be Timon again. I feel in a mood for him to-day. If you knew Latin, I would have you read about Old Aeneas. I like Virgil's full sounding sentences, 'Arma virumque cano.' There's nothing like them."

"Yes, there is," Jean quietly replied, as she rose to her feet, crossed the room, and took down a book from a small shelf on the wall. This she opened as soon as she had taken her seat before the fire, and turned over several pages.

"Here is something better than Virgil," she said, "and I am going to read from it now. It will do both of us much good."

"Is that the Bible, Miss?"

"It is, and from all appearances you have not read much from it of late. It is very dusty."

"That's true, and I don't want to hear it now. I don't like it."

"Neither do we like medicine, Mr. Timon. But when we are sick we take it whether we like it or not. It is for our good."

"So you think I am sick?"

"There is something wrong with you, I am sure, more serious than your injured side. This is the only thing, I believe, that will help you."

"But I won't listen."

"You don't have to. I am going to read it, though. You liked the verse of the hymn I sang, didn't you?"

"Oh, that was different. It was your voice I liked, but not the sentimental mush of words."

"Well, then, you can listen to my voice now if you want to. But I guess you will listen to the words, too, unless you are different from what I think you are."

"What makes you say that?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Certainly."

Jean gazed into the fire for a few minutes, while the man watched her curiously.

"Go on," he ordered. "Out with it."

"I believe you are trying to be what you are not," the girl bluntly charged. "At first I thought you were a brute, and I was afraid of you. But since I have learned what an educated man you are, and watched you after your outburst about the King and the Loyalists, I have come to the conclusion that you are fighting against your best convictions."

"Why, girl, you surprise me!" the man gasped.

"Perhaps so, Mr. Timon. But can you truthfully say that I am not right? You cannot, and I know that you have nothing in common with such a creature as that Dave who was here. It isn't natural for a man like you to be in league with a gang of rebels. There, now, I have told you what I think, so you can say what you like. I am going to read the Master's words, for I believe you need them."

Although outwardly calm, Jean's heart was beating fast. She expected to hear the man deny what she had said, or say something in his own defence. When, however, he remained silent, she glanced at him, and then turned her eyes upon the open page.

"Ye have heard that it was said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you and pray for them that despitefully use you, and persecute you."

"Stop, stop!" the man cried. "I can't stand those words. They are not meant for me. I can't pray for my enemies. Do you think I can pray for King George?"

"That is for you to decide, Mr. Timon. I am sure that I can pray for those who carried me away from home. Don't you think that they need it?"

Jean was about to close the book, when her eyes rested upon some words on the front page. As she looked, her face turned pale, and she gave a slight gasp of astonishment.

"What is the matter?" the man asked.

But the girl did not hear him. Her eyes were fixed upon the words

"To darling Dane, With Mother's best love.

May G.o.d bless and keep you."

Her heart almost stopped beating as she stared at the writing, especially the word "Dane." What did it mean? she asked herself. It must be her own Dane; there could not be two. Was this his book? Was this his home? Then a sudden thought flashed into her mind, and something which had greatly worried and puzzled her pa.s.sed like the mist before the morning sun. It must be so, and she understood now why Dane had not told her.

Rising swiftly to her feet, she approached the couch.

"Are you Dane Norwood's father?" she asked in a voice that trembled with emotion and excitement.

With a gurgling cry, the man sat bolt upright, and glared at the girl.

"Why do you ask me that?" he demanded. "How dare you mention that name in this house? What do you know about him?"

"I know him to be one of the best men I have ever met. Next to my father I love him more than any one in the world."

"You do!" It was all the man could say, so great was his astonishment.

He dropped back upon the pillow, breathing heavily, and clutching hard at his side.

"Yes, I know him," Jean continued, "and I think I understand now why he never told me about you. And he had good reason, too."

"And he never told you what kind of a being I am?" the man asked in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.

"He said nothing about you at all."