I was glad to see him.
There was something that propped my pride and courage in his irritable,
tender greeting.
He pressed a vial into my hands. "It is confection of Jacinth. It has
great virtue. Take it with you, my son."
I knelt. "I would rather take your blessing, father."
He gave it to me, and his old hands trembled. "Come back, my son.
Come back safely. You will return this way?"
I looked off at the blue, beckoning west. "I do not know, father. I
go without ties or responsibilities. I am not sure where I shall end.
I doubt that I return this way."
"But where, my son? Where do you go?"
I pointed, and his mystic glance followed my hand. "Out there in the
blue, father,--somewhere. I don't know where. It has beckoned you
thus far; can you resist its cry to you to come farther and force its
secrets from it?"
He clutched his rosary, and I knew I had touched one of his
temptations. He loved the wilderness as I have never seen it loved.
Even his fellow priests and the few soldiers and traders crowded him.
He wanted the land alone,--alone with his Indians. He would not look
at the blue track.
"It is the path of ambition, and it is strewn with wrecks. Come back
to us here, my son.
Pages:
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370