“Amen!  Amen!” said the old man, looking lovingly at his little crucifix.  “I hope and pray—­His name is Love.  I know it now; who better?  But, sir, even if He have forgiven me, how can I forgive myself?  In honor, sir, I must be just, and sternly just, to myself, even if God be indulgent; as He has been to me, who has left me here in peace for forty years, instead of giving me a prey to the first puma or jaguar which howls round me every night.  He has given me time to work out my own salvation; but have I done it?  That doubt maddens me at whiles.  When I look upon that crucifix, I float on boundless hope:  but if I take my eyes from it for a moment, faith fails, and all is blank, and dark, and dreadful, till the devil whispers me to plunge into yon stream, and once and for ever wake to certainty, even though it be in hell.”

What was Jack to answer?  He himself knew not at first.  More was wanted than the mere repetition of free pardon.

“Heretic as I am, sir, you will not believe me when I tell you, as a priest, that God accepts your penitence.”

“My heart tells me so already, at moments.  But how know I that it does not lie?”

“Senor,” said Jack, “the best way to punish oneself for doing ill, seems to me to go and do good; and the best way to find out whether God means you well, is to find out whether He will help you to do well.  If you have wronged Indians in time past, see whether you cannot right them now.  If you can, you are safe.  For the Lord will not send the devil’s servants to do His work.”

The old man held down his head.

“Right the Indians?  Alas! what is done, is done!”

“Not altogether, senor,” said Amyas, “as long as an Indian remains alive in New Granada.”

“Senor, shall I confess my weakness?  A voice within me has bid me a hundred times go forth and labor, for those oppressed wretches, but I dare not obey.  I dare not look them in the face.  I should fancy that they knew my story; that the very birds upon the trees would reveal my crime, and bid them turn from me with horror.”

“Senor,” said Amyas, “these are but the sick fancies of a noble spirit, feeding on itself in solitude.  You have but to try to conquer.”

“And look now,” said Jack, “if you dare not go forth to help the Indians, see now how God has brought the Indians to your own door.  Oh, excellent sir—­”

“Call me not excellent,” said the old man, smiting his breast.

“I do, and shall, sir, while I see in you an excellent repentance, an excellent humility, and an excellent justice,” said Jack.  “But oh, sir, look upon these forty souls, whom we must leave behind, like sheep which have no shepherd.  Could you not teach them to fear God and to love each other, to live like rational men, perhaps to die like Christians?  They would obey you as a dog obeys his master.  You might be their king, their father, yea, their pope, if you would.”