At this information the missionary started and his eyes opened wide with surprise.
“Are you telling me the truth?” he asked. “Was it really that man who injured our little girl?”
“It was, Gikhi. I am telling you the truth. When did you know Tom to lie?”
“Is it possible that I fed and cared for the villain who hurt Zell? If I had known! If I had known!”
“What would you have done, Gikhi?”
“What would I have done?” The missionary stared at the Indian. He then placed his hand to his forehead, a sure sign of his perplexity. “I don’t know, Tom,” he at last confessed. “I am not sure what I would have done. I must go home and think.”
He walked slowly away, leaving the Indian gazing after him. Tom turned partly round as if to go back into the house. But he paused, and looked far up the valley. His eyes burned with the fire of a strong resolve, and his hands clenched hard. Years of Christian teaching could not altogether crush out the wild impulse of his nature which he had inherited from countless generations of warriors. Old though he was, he felt the surge of revenge welling strong in his heart.
“Gikhi doesn’t know what he would have done to Bill,” he mused. “He doesn’t know what he will do now. Maybe Tom knows what to do. Ah, ah, Tom knows.”
The missionary spent most of the day within his own house, busy with his writing. He was anxious to get his work done as soon as possible that he might send it outside at the first opportunity, thence to be forwarded to England for printing. He knew that it would be two years, at least, before he could receive the first copy for revision, and then further delay ere
