“No, no, my boy,” said the father, clasping him in his arms.  “You are your father’s son, your mother’s son,” he cried.  “You have the heart, the spirit, but this oath I shall not lay upon you.  No, by my hand he shall die, or let him go.”  He stood for some moments silent, his head leaning forward upon his breast.  “No,” he said again, “Simon is right.  This is a new land, a new life.  Let the past die with me.  With this quarrel you have nothing to do.  It is not yours.”

“I will kill him,” said the boy stubbornly, “I have sworn the oath.  It was my mother you left in the snow.  Some day I will kill him.”

“Aha! boy,” said the father, drawing him close to his side, “my quarrel is yours.  Good!  But first he is mine.  When my hand lies still in death, you may take up the cause, but not till then.  You hear me?”

“Yes, father,” said the boy.

“And you promise?”

“I promise.”

“Now farewell, my son.  A bitter fate is ours.  A bitter heritage I leave you!” He sank down upon the bench, drew his boy toward him and said brokenly, “Nay, nay, it shall not be yours.  I shall free you from it.  In this new land, let life be new with you.  Let not the shadow of the old rest upon you.”  He gathered the boy up in his strong arms and strained him to his breast.  “Now farewell, my son.  Ah!  God in Heaven!” he cried, his tears raining down upon the boy’s face, “must I give up this too!  Ah, those eyes are her eyes, that face her face!  Is this the last?  Is this all?  How bitter is life!” He rocked back and forward on the bench, his boy’s arms tight about his neck.  “My boy, my boy! the last of life I give up here!  Keep faith.  This,” pulling out the miniature, “I would give you now, but it is all I have left.  When I die I will send it to you.  Your sister I give to your charge.  When you are a man guard her.  Now go.  Farewell.”

The guard appeared at the door.

“Come, you must go.  Time’s up,” he said roughly.

“Time is up,” cried the father, “and all time henceforth is useless to me.  Farewell, my son!” kissing him.  “You must go from me.  Don’t be ashamed of your father, though he may die a prisoner or wander an exile.”

The boy clung fast to his father’s neck, drawing deep sobbing breaths.

“Boy, boy,” said the father, mingling his sobs with those of his son, “help me to bear it!”

It was a piteous appeal, and it reached the boy’s heart.  At once he loosened one hand from its hold, put it up and stroked his father’s face as his sobs grew quiet.  At the touch upon his face, the father straightened himself up, gently removed his son’s clinging arm from his neck.

“My son,” he said quietly, “we must be men.  The men of our blood meet not death so.”

Immediately the boy slipped from his father’s arms and stood erect and quiet, looking up into the dark face above him watchful for the next word or sign.  The father waved his hand toward the door.