ined
me in the slave-ship and for many hours tortured me with his own hand?
Rather, year by year, do I hate him more. I write of this at some
length, since the matter has been a trouble to me. I never could say
that I was in charity with all men living and dead, and because of this,
some years since, a worthy and learned rector of this parish took upon
himself to refuse me the rites of the church. Then I went to the bishop
and laid the story before him, and it puzzled him somewhat.

But he was a man of large mind, and in the end he rebuked the rector
and commanded him to minister to me, for he thought with me that the
Almighty could not ask of an erring man, that he should forgive one who
had wrought such evils on him and his, even though that enemy were dead
and gone to judgment in another place.

But enough of this question of conscience.

When de Garcia was gone into the pit, I turned my steps homewards, or
rather towards the ruined city which I could see beneath me, for I had
no home left. Now I must descend the ice cap, and this I found less
easy than climbing it had been, for, my vengeance being accomplished, I
became as other men are, and a sad and weary one at that, so sad indeed
that I should not have sorrowed greatly if I had made a false step upon
the ice.

But I made none, and at length I came to the snow where the travelling
was easy. My oath was fulfilled and my vengeance was accomplished, but
as I went I reckoned up the cost. I had lost my betrothed, the love of
my youth; for twenty years I had lived a savage chief among savages and
made acquaintance with every hardship, wedded to a woman who, although
she loved me dearly, and did not lack nobility of mind, as she had shown
the other day, was still at heart a savage or, at the least, a thrall
of demon gods. The tribe that I ruled was conquered, the beautiful city
where I dwelt was a ruin, I was homeless and a beggar, and my fortune
would be great if in the issue I escaped death or slavery. All this I
could have borne, for I had borne the like before, but the cruel end of
my last surviving son, the one true joy of my desolate life, I could
not bear. The love of those children had become the passion of my middle
age, and as I loved them so they had loved me. I had trained them from
babyhood till their hearts were English and not Aztec, as were their
speech and faith, and thus they were not only my dear children, but
companions of my own race, the only