Part 42 (2/2)

McCalloway shot a keenly searching glance at his companion as he interrogatively prompted,

”You mean--?”

”I mean Saul Fulton. Yes.”

Victor McCalloway went to the hearth and kicked a smoking log into the flame. He turned then with the sternly knit brows of deep abstraction and weighed his words before giving them utterance.

”You have need to remember, my boy,” he began gravely at last, ”how deep the tap-root of heredity strikes down even when the tree top stretches far up into the sky.”

”Meaning--?”

”Meaning, my dear boy, that I can't forget the black hatred in your eyes one day in the woods when I wrestled with that vengeance fire smouldering deep in your nature. You haven't forgotten that afternoon, have you? The day when you promised that until you came of age you would put aside the conviction that Saul Fulton was your man to kill?”

”I haven't forgotten it, sir.”

As Boone answered, the older man thought that, if something in the blue pupils stood for any meaning, he might also have added that neither had he entirely conquered the bitterness of that earlier time. Then Boone went on slowly:

”I kept my word, but you wouldn't have me go so far in turning the other cheek as to let him kill me--by his own hand or that of a hireling--would you?”

The gray eyes of the tall soldier held both sternness and reminiscence, but the reminiscence was all for something that brought a painful train of thought. Those were eyes that seemed looking back on smoking ruin, and that sought out of disastrous experience, to sound a warning. Into Boone's mind flashed a couplet:

”The Emperor there in his box of state, looked grave as though he had just then seen The red flags fly from the city gates--where his eagles of bronze had been.”

At times, when McCalloway wore that cryptic expression, Boone burned with an eager curiosity to have the curtain lifted for him, and to be able to see just what life had once spelled for this extraordinary man.

Now the veteran was speaking again with a carefully intoned voice:

”I would have you defend your life, aggressively and fully, but your honour no less jealously. I am no psychologist, but I have read that almost every man has some spot on his sanity that is like a blind spot on his eye. Into your blood, distilled through generations, came a spirit that made a veritable religion of vengeance. You have sought to modify that and to become an apostle of progress. Apparently you have succeeded.”

He paused and cleared his throat, and Boone once more prompted him with an interrogative repet.i.tion:

”Apparently, sir?”

”Yes, apparently--because one hour of pa.s.sion might blacken your future into ruin; char it into destruction. In G.o.d's name make no such mistake.

If Saul Fulton seeks your life, as you suggest, he should pay for his plotting, and pay in full. But if, by the subconscious workings of that old hatred, you are placing the blame on Saul because Saul is the man that instinct seeks a pretext to kill, then let me implore you to search your soul before you act.”

Boone made no response, but over the clear intelligence of his pleasing features went the cloud of that unforgettable thing that had been with him from childhood. It was the same cloud that had settled there when he had made shrill interruption in the courtroom where Asa Gregory's life was being sworn away.

Into McCalloway's voice leaped a fiery quality.

”You have come too far to fail, Boone,” he declared. ”I need make no protestations of loyalty to you. You know what your success means to me, but I know the price a man pays who has tasted ruin. I would save you from that if my counsel can avert it.”

The young man came close and looked into the eyes that had guided him.

”If I ever make a mistake like that,” he said, ”it will not be because I have lacked warnings.”

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