"It's bither cold," she said. "You'll put more wood on the fire, Tim,
for the babe must be kept warrum."
She thought she was at Malahide.
"Oh, wurra, wurra, but 'tis freezin'!" she said again. "Why d'ye kape
the door opin whin the child's perishin'?"
Macavoy sat looking at her, his trouble shaking him.
"I'll shut the door meself, thin," she added; "for 'twas I that lift it
opin, Tim." She started up, but gave a cry like a wailing wind, and fell
back.
"The door is shut," said Pierre.
"But the child--the child!" said Macavoy, tears running down his face
and beard.
THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING
Once Macavoy the giant ruled a tribe of Northern people, achieving the
dignity by the hands of Pierre, who called him King Macavoy. Then came
a time when, tiring of his kingship, he journeyed south, leaving all
behind, even his queen, Wonta, who, in her bed of cypresses and yarrow,
came forth no more into the morning. About Fort Guidon they still
gave him his title, and because of his guilelessness, sincerity, and
generosity, Pierre called him "The Simple King." His seven feet and
over shambled about, suggesting unjointed power, unshackled force.
No one hated Macavoy, many loved him, he was welcome at the fire and
the cooking-pot; yet it seemed shameful to have so much man useless--
such an engine of life, which might do great things, wasting fuel.
Nobody thought much of that at Fort Guidon, except, perhaps, Pierre,
who sometimes said, "My simple king, some day you shall have your great
chance again; but not as a king--as a giant, a man--voila!"
The day did not come immediately, but it came.
Pages:
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64