The Bondman: A New Saga. Hall Sir Caine

long with this thought, and at length a strange and solemn idea took hold of it: little Sunlocks must die, and he must kill him.

      Stephen Orry did not wriggle with his conscience, or if he cozened it at all he made himself believe that it would not be sin but sacrifice to part with the thing he held dearest in all the world. Little Sunlocks was his life, but little Sunlocks must die! Better, better, better so!

      And having thus determined, he went cautiously, and even cunningly, to work. When the little one had disappeared, he himself would never be suspected, for all the island would say he loved it too tenderly to do it a wrong, and he would tell everybody that he had taken it to some old body in the south who had wished to adopt a child. So, with Sunlocks laughing and crowing astride his shoulder, he called at Kane Wade's house on Ballure one day, and told Bridget how he should miss the little chap, for Sunlocks was going down to the Calf very soon, and would not come home again for a long time, perhaps not for many a year, perhaps not until he was a big slip of a lad, and, maybe – who can tell? – he would never come back at all.

      Thus he laid his plans, but even when they were complete he could not bring himself to carry them through, until one day, going up from the beach to sell a basket of crabs and eels, he found Liza drinking at the "Hibernian."

      How she came by the money was at first his surprise, for Nary Crowe had long abandoned her; and having bitter knowledge of the way she had once spent his earnings, he himself gave her nothing now. But suddenly a dark thought came, and he hurried home, thrust his hand into the thatch where he had hidden his savings, and found the place empty.

      That was the day to do it, he thought; and he took little Sunlocks and washed his chubby face and combed his yellow hair, curling it over his own great undeft fingers, and put his best clothes on him – the white cotton pinafore and the red worsted cap, and the blue stockings freshly darned.

      This he did that he might comfort the child for the last time, and also that he might remember him at his best.

      And little Sunlocks, in high glee at such busy preparations, laughed much and chattered long, asking many questions.

      "Where are we going, father? Out? Eh? Where?"

      "We'll see, little Sunlocks; we'll see."

      "But where? Church? What day is this?"

      "The last, little Sunlocks; the last."

      "Oh, I know – Sunday."

      When all was ready, Stephen lifted the child to the old perch across his shoulders, and made for the shore. His boat was lying aground there; he pushed it adrift, lifted the child into it, and leapt after him. Then taking the oars, he pulled out for Maughold Head.

      Little Sunlocks had never been out in the boat before, and everything was a wonder and delight to him.

      "You said you would take me on the water some day. Didn't you, father?"

      "Yes, little Sunlocks, yes."

      It was evening, and the sun was sinking behind the land, very large and red in its setting.

      "Do the sun fall down eve'y day, father?"

      "It sets, little Sunlocks, it sets."

      "What is sets?"

      "Dies."

      "Oh."

      The waters lay asleep under the soft red glow, and over them the seafowl were sailing.

      "Why are the white birds sc'eaming?"

      "Maybe they're calling their young, little Sunlocks."

      It was late spring, and on the headland the sheep were bleating.

      "Look at the baby one – away, away up yonder. What's it doing there by itself on the 'ock, and c'ying, and c'ying, and c'ying?"

      "Maybe it's lost, little Sunlocks."

      "Then why doesn't somebody go and tell its father?"

      And the innocent face was full of trouble.

      The sun went down and the twilight deepened, the air grew chill, the waters black, and Stephen was still pulling round the head.

      "Father, where does the night go when we are asleep?"

      "To the other world, little Sunlocks."

      "Oh, I know – heaven."

      Stephen stripped off his guernsey and wrapped it about the child. His eyes shone brightly, his mouth was parched, but he did not flinch. All thoughts, save one thought, had faded from his view.

      As he came by Port Mooar the moon rose, and about the same time the light appeared on Point of Ayre. A little later he saw the twinkle of lesser lights to the south. They were the lights of Laxey, where many happy children gladdened many happy firesides. He looked around. There was not a sail in sight, and not a sound came to his ears over the low murmur of the sea's gentle swell. "Now is the time," he thought. He put in his oars and the boat began to drift.

      But no, he could not look into the child's eyes and do it. The little one would sleep soon and then it would be easier done. So he took him in his arms and wrapped him in a piece of sail-cloth.

      "Shut your eyes and sleep, little Sunlocks."

      "I'm not sleepy, I'm not."

      Yet soon the little lids fell, opened again and fell once more, and then suddenly the child started up.

      "But I haven't said my p'ayers."

      "Say them now, little Sunlocks."

      "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look upon a little child, Guard me while in sleep I lie, Take me to Thy home on – on – "

      "Would you like to go to heaven, little Sunlocks?"

      "No."

      "Why not?"

      "I want to keep with – with – my fath – "

      The little eyes were closed by this time, and the child was asleep on Stephen's knees. Now was the time – now – now. But no, it was harder now than ever.

      The little face – so silent, so peaceful – how formidable it was! The little soft hand in his own big hard palm – how strong and terrible!

      Stephen looked down at the child and his bowels yearned over it. It cost him a struggle not to kiss it; but no, that would only make the task harder.

      Suddenly a new thought smote him. What had this child done that he should take its life? Who was he that he should rob it of what he could never give it again? By what right did he dare to come between this living soul and heaven? When did the Almighty God tell him what the after life of this babe was to be? Stephen trembled at the thought. It was like a voice from the skies calling on him to stop, and a hand reaching out of them to snatch the child from his grasp.

      What he had intended to do was not to be! Heaven had set its face against it! Little Sunlocks was not to die! Little Sunlocks was to live! Thank God! Oh! Thank God!

      But late that night a group of people standing at their doors on the beach at Port Lague saw a tall man in his shirt sleeves go by in the darkness, with a sleeping child in his arms. The man was Stephen Orry, and he was sobbing like a woman whose heart is broken. The child was little Sunlocks, and he was being carried back to his mother's home.

      The people hailed Stephen and told him that a foreigner from a ship in the bay had been asking for him that evening. They had sent the man along to Port-y-Vullin.

      Stephen hurried home with fear in his heart. In five minutes he was there, and then his life's blood ran cold. He found the house empty, except for his wife, and she lay outstretched on the floor. She was cold – she was dead; and in clay on the wall above her head, these words were written in the Icelandic tongue, "So is Patricksen avenged —signed S. Patricksen."

      Avenged! Oh, powers of Heaven, that drive the petty passions of men like dust before you!

       CHAPTER VI.

      The Little World of Boy and Girl

      Three days later the bad lottery of Liza Killey's life and death was played