In his lonely house in the wilderness Thomas Norman was undergoing great agony of mind and body. The presence of the first band of slashers had been hard for him to endure, and when they were joined later by the rebels from the Washademoak, his distress was intense. But he knew that he had brought this trouble upon himself. He had sown the seeds of dissension which had sprung up into wild and ungovernable thistles. How he despised the slashers as they crowded about him, drinking his rum, eating his food, and polluting the air with their reeking bodies and coarse language. This excitement increased the distress in his side until he felt that he would go crazy with the pain. Of this the rebels thought nothing. They were beyond human sympathy, so the condition of their chief affected them as little as if he had been a dog.
The critical moment arrived when the rebels had broken down the door leading into the adjoining room and the girl they were seeking was not there. For a few minutes Norman's life hung in the balance. The angry men charged him with hiding the girl and keeping her from them. It was only with the greatest difficulty that he was able to subdue their wrath. He told them that he was as much surprised as they were, and he had no idea what had become of the girl. Although the men threatened and cursed, they did not lay hands upon their chief, but contented themselves by informing him that when they came back he must have the girl there.
With a great sigh of relief Norman sank down upon his pillow as the slashers left the house for their march against the mast-cutters. It was storming hard, and this suited their purpose. They believed that the King's men would be all housed and sound asleep, with the idea of an attack on such a stormy night far from their thoughts. They would also be ahead of the rangers, and their deed would be accomplished before Davidson's men could arrive.
When the slashers were gone, Norman's mind returned to the missing girl. He was greatly concerned, feeling certain that she had fled to the forest for protection from the rebels. He expected her to return when the men had left, but as the hours moved slowly by and she did not appear, he feared the worst. He imagined that she had become bewildered by the storm, had lost her way, and perished. He groaned aloud as he thought of this, for he was very fond of the girl. He reproached himself over and over again for his past blindness and mistakes. He knew that he had brought his punishment upon his own head, and that he deserved it.
As he lay there alone, with the storm beating against the cabin, he thought of his patient, noble wife, and innocent outcast son. Them he had lost, and when the gentle and beautiful Jean Sterling had come to brighten his life, she, too, had been taken from him, and he was once more left alone. He had plenty of time now to think of all this, and he wondered if the One he had forsaken for so long was thus hounding him that He might bring him back to His feet. The story of the Prodigal Son came into his mind, and he knew that the Master's parable was being re-enacted in his own life there in the midst of the northern forest.
"I am the prodigal son," he murmured. "I have wandered far from my Father, and have been feeding upon the husks. But I will arise and go to my Father, and will say unto Him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before Thee, and am no more worthy to be called Thy son.'"
Slowly he repeated these words, but they brought little comfort and hope to his weary, agitated heart and mind. In his distress he sought refuge in prayer, and uttered the simple words he learned as a child. But even they could not bring the rest he sought, nor the peace of former years. So far had he wandered, and so long had he neglected the golden means of grace, that the sweet communion of his soul with the great soul of the Father could not be restored as if by magic in a few minutes. This he now knew, so with a moan of despair he turned his haggard face to the wall.
The return of Sam and Kitty when the storm had spent itself, brought him no hope. They were alone, and Jean was not with them. The Indians were greatly distressed at the girl's absence, and shook their heads when Norman asked if they could find her.
"Babby lost," Sam replied. "Beeg snow. Injun no find babby."
Kitty was inconsolable, and while Sam rebuilt the fire which had gone out, she sat upon the floor, her head covered with an old shawl, and rocked herself to and fro in an agony of grief. Her sorrow was intense and real, for the girl had become to her like her own child. Sam, too, was deeply affected, and made no attempt to reprove his wife. He wandered from room to room, examining every detail of the havoc wrought by the slashers. He prepared a little food, and took it to the sick man. But Norman would not touch it, pushing it aside with a faint murmur of thanks.
Slowly the weary day wore out, succeeded by a more weary night to the sufferer upon the couch. He was weakening fast, and this the Indians knew. They could do nothing but keep the fires going, place hot cloths from time to time to the sufferer's side, and offer him a little food.
Morning dawned cold and cheerless. Norman had slept but little, and the pain in his side was more severe than ever. Often he turned his eyes toward the door, as if expecting some one.
"Is Dane coming?" he would ask, and when the Indians shook their heads, the light of hope would fade. But ere long he would rouse up again. "Is Dane coming?" he would repeat. "I wonder what's keeping him. He should be here by now."
The Indians sat upon the floor before the fire, awed and attentive. They seldom spoke, and when they did, their voices were low. They knew that the white man was sinking rapidly, and that the end was not far away.
About the middle of the afternoon, while an intense silence reigned in the cabin, a sound of voices was heard outside. Then the door was thrust suddenly open, and Jean entered, her hood covered with snow, and her cheeks aglow with health and animation. Following her was Dane, who hesitated a little as he stepped inside the room. He was uncertain what kind of a reception he would receive.
With a cry of joy Kitty sprang to her feet, rushed forward, and threw her arms around the girl.
"Babby safe! Babby safe!" she murmured.
"Yes, Kitty, I am safe," Jean assured her, looking fondly upon the faithful Indian.
Then before anything more could be said, Norman partly lifted himself from the couch, and stared hard at the visitors.
"Come here, quick," he ordered in a hoarse, eager voice. "Is it true, or am I only dreaming?"
Jean and Dane at once crossed the room, and knelt by the couch. Impulsively the son caught his father's left hand in his and raised it to his lips.
"It is no dream, father," he said. "I have come back, and Jean is with me. Do you forgive me?"
Still somewhat uncertain, Norman lifted his right hand and touched his son's face. Then he turned his eyes wonderingly toward the girl.
"Yes, yes," he said, "it is no dream. You are both here. Thank God, you have come at last!"
"And you forgive me?" Dane again asked.
"Yes, yes. My heart forgave you long ago. Oh, if you had only come sooner! But it's too late now, too late!"
"No, no, it's not too late. Jean and I will look after you."
"Little can you do for me now, my son. But give me your hand, Jean, my dear."
As the girl obeyed, he took her right hand in his and placed it in Dane's. Then his fingers closed firmly upon them as he held them for a few seconds.
"Be good to each other," he said. "Love each other, and may God bless you both."
Tears were streaming down Jean's cheeks now, and Dane's eyes were misty. They wished to speak, but words would not come. Several mast-cutters entered the room who stared in wonder at the scene before them. Sam motioned them to be silent, and pointed to the door leading into the adjoining room. They understood his meaning, and slipped silently away.
In a few minutes Norman again aroused himself, and tried to raise his head from the pillow. He was too weak, however, and sank back with a moan.
"What is it, father?" Dane asked. "Can I do anything for you?"
"Yes, yes, over there in that box in the corner. You will find it at the bottom."
"What is it?"
"The flag. Bring it here, quick."
Dane did as he was bidden, and when he had lifted the cover of the box, and searched to the bottom, he found a small English flag. This he at once carried to his father's side.
"Ah, that's it," Norman exclaimed, reaching out his hand and touching it. "I haven't seen it for years. Yes, it's the same old flag which I so often cursed. May God forgive me."
Eagerly he seized it and pressed it to his lips.
"Good old flag, brave old flag!" he murmured. "It's the greatest flag on earth. Oh, why did I forsake it!"
Then with trembling hands he held it out before him, and gazed upon it for a few minutes in apparent wonder.
"How many crosses are there upon it?" he asked.
"Why, three, of course," Dane replied.
"Yes, I know there used to be three, but I see only one now, and it's very red. What has become of the others?"
Dane glanced at Jean, but her eyes full of interest and sympathy were fixed upon the dying man's face.
"Do you see only one cross?" she asked.
"Yes, only one now, and it's red. Strange, very strange, isn't it?"
Presently his face brightened, and his eyes glowed with a new light.
"It's not the cross on the flag I see," he cried; "it's the cross of Christ, and it's marked with His blood. Look, don't you see it?" he eagerly asked. "There it is; I see it plain. And what are those words? How clear they shine, 'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin.' Ah, that's it; I understand it all now. The blood of Christ! The blood of Christ!"
He closed his eyes and remained very still. Jean found it hard to control her emotion, so she crossed over to where Sam and Kitty were sitting upon the floor.
"Poor babby, poor babby," the Indian woman said, seizing the girl's hand. "Chief much seek, eh?"
"Yes, very sick," Jean replied, as she, too, seated herself upon the floor. "You were good to him, and I am so glad."
"Kitty no do much. Kitty all sam' babby."
"But you did what you could, Kitty. No one can do anything for him now."
Scarcely had she ceased when the Indian woman lifted her hand, and pointed to the couch. Jean at once arose and went to Dane's side.
"What is it?" she asked.
"He wants you to sing 'Jesus, Lover of my Soul.' I could just catch the words. It used to be a favourite hymn of his."
Jean was in no mood for singing, but she did the best she could. As her sweet voice filled the room, Norman opened his eyes, and a smile overspread his face.
"It's your mother, Dane; don't you hear her singing? And look, can't you see her? She's standing right there, just as she looked on her wedding-day."
He reached out, and his arms closed in a fond embrace, and for him his loved one was really there.
"Priscilla! Priscilla!" he whispered, and with that vision before him, his spirit left the weary body.
The next day the rangers arrived, with William Davidson in charge. Pete was with them, and his delight was unbounded at seeing Jean. That afternoon Thomas Norman's body was laid by the side of his wife at the foot of the big pine. The ranger leader read the beautiful words of the Burial Service, after which his men filled in the grave. A rough wooden cross was erected over the spot, and there Jean and Dane stood after the others had gone back to the house. Their eyes were misty, and for a few minutes neither spoke.
"That is all we can do," Dane at length remarked with a sigh. "Oh, if he had only seen his mistake years ago, what a difference it would have made. It is wonderful how death has wiped out all bitterness toward him from my heart. I only think of him now as the loving father I once knew."
"This will always be a sacred spot to us," Jean replied. "I should like to come here in the summer when the birds are singing, and lay sweet flowers upon these graves."
"We shall indeed come, darling," and Dane's arm stole tenderly about the girl as he spoke. "We shall come next summer to this place which means so much to us."
The sun of the short winter day was dipping below the tops of the great trees, and the distant hills were aglow as Jean and Dane left the grove and walked slowly back to the house. Although sorrowing for the one they had just laid to rest, yet they knew that it was well. This common grief drew them nearer than ever to each other, making their love all the more beautiful and wonderful.