that suited it, should go to the Latin school at
Reykjavik, to study there under old Bishop Petersen, a good man whom
all Icelanders venerated, and he himself had known from his childhood
up. He could bear the expense of it, and saying so he hung his head a
little. An Irish brig, hailing from Belfast, and bound for Reykjavik,
was to put in at Ramsey on the Saturday following. By that brig he
wished his son to sail. He should be back at the little house in
Port-y-Vullin between this and then, and he desired to see his son
there, having something of consequence to say to him. That was all.
Fumbling his cap, the great creature shambled out, and was gone
before the others were aware.

Then Michael Sunlocks declared stoutly that come what might he would
not go. Why should he? Who was this man that he should command his
obedience? His father? Then what, as a father, had he done for him?
Abandoned him to the charity of others. What was he? One whom he had
thought of with shame, hoping never to set eyes on his face. And now,
this man, this father, this thing of shame, would have him sacrifice
all that was near and dear to him, and leave behind the only one who
had been, indeed, his father, and the only place that had been, in
truth, his home. But no, that base thing he should not do. And,
saying this, Michael Sunlocks tossed his head proudly, though there
was a great gulp in his throat and his shrill voice had risen to a
cry.

And to all this rush of protest old Adam, who had first stared out at
the window with a look of sheer bewilderment, and then sat before the
fire to smoke, trying to smile though his mouth would not bend, and
to say something more though there seemed nothing to say, answered
only in a thick under-breath, "He is your father, my lad, he is your
father."

Hearing this again and again repeated, even after he had fenced it
with many answers, Michael Sunlocks suddenly bethought himself of all
that had so lately occurred, and the idea came to him in the whirl of
his stunned senses that perhaps the Governor wished him to go, now
that they could part without offence or reproach on either side. At
that bad thought his face fell, and though little given to woman's
ways he had almost flung himself at old Adam's feet to pray of him
not to send him away whatever happened, when all at once he
remembered his vow of the morning. What had come over him since he
made that vow, that he was trying to draw back now? He thou