A gentler light suffused the boy’s eyes, and he started.  Catching convulsively at his companion’s sleeve, he said in an eager, boyish whisper, “There was one, a wicked, desperate man, whom they all feared—­Flynn, who brought me from the mines.  Yes, I thought that he was my cousin’s loyal friend—­more than all the rest; and I told him everything—­all, that I never told the man I thought my cousin, or anyone, or even you; and I think, I think, Father, I liked him best of all.  I thought since it was wrong,” he continued, with a trembling smile, “for I was foolishly fond even of the way the others feared him, he that I feared not, and who was so kind to me.  Yet he, too, left me without a word, and when I would have followed him—­” But the boy broke down, and buried his face in his hands.

“No, no,” said Father Sobriente, with eager persistence, “that was his foolish pride to spare you the knowledge of your kinship with one so feared, and part of the blind and mistaken penance he had laid upon himself.  For even at that moment of your boyish indignation, he never was so fond of you as then.  Yes, my poor boy, this man, to whom God led your wandering feet at Deadman’s Gulch; the man who brought you here, and by some secret hold—­I know not what—­on Don Juan’s past, persuaded him to assume to be your relation; this man Flynn, this Jackson Brant the gambler, this Hamilton Brant the outlaw—­was your father!  Ah, yes!  Weep on, my son; each tear of love and forgiveness from thee hath vicarious power to wash away his sin.”

With a single sweep of his protecting hand he drew Clarence towards his breast, until the boy slowly sank upon his knees at his feet.  Then, lifting his eyes towards the ceiling, he said softly in an older tongue, “And thou, too, unhappy and perturbed spirit, rest!”

* * * * *

It was nearly dawn when the good Padre wiped the last tears from Clarence’s clearer eyes.  “And now, my son,” he said, with a gentle smile, as he rose to his feet, “let us not forget the living.  Although your step-mother has, through her own act, no legal claim upon you, far be it from me to indicate your attitude towards her.  Enough that you are independent.”  He turned, and, opening a drawer in his secretaire, took out a bank-book, and placed it in the hands of the wondering boy.

“It was his wish, Clarence, that even after his death you should never have to prove your kinship to claim your rights.  Taking advantage of the boyish deposit you had left with Mr. Carden at the bank, with his connivance and in your name he added to it, month by month and year by year; Mr. Carden cheerfully accepting the trust and management of the fund.  The seed thus sown has produced a thousandfold, Clarence, beyond all expectations.  You are not only free, my son, but of yourself and in whatever name you choose—­your own master.”

“I shall keep my father’s name,” said the boy simply.