"I love her, Curtis. God knows that it's been only my dreams of her that
have kept me alive all these years. She wants to come to me, but it's
impossible. I'm an outlaw. The law won't excuse my killing of the cobra.
We'd have to hide. All our lives we'd have to hide. And--some day--they
might get me. There's just one thing to do. Go back to her. Tell her
Peter God is dead. And--make her happy--if you can."
For the first time something rose and overwhelmed the love in Philip's
breast.
"She wants to come to you," he cried, and he leaned toward Peter God,
white-faced, clenching his hands. "She wants to come!" he repeated. "And
the law won't find you. It's been seven years--and God knows no word will
ever go from me. It won't find you. And if it should, you can fight it
together, you and Josephine."
Peter God held out his hands.
"Now I know I need have no fear in sending you back," he said huskily.
"You're a man. And you've got to go. She can't come to me, Curtis. It
would kill her--this life. Think of a winter here--madness--the yapping
of the foxes--"
He put a hand to his head, and swayed.
"You've got to go. Tell her Peter God is dead--"
Philip sprang forward as Peter God crumpled down on his bunk.
After that came the long dark hours of fever and delirium. They crawled
along into days, and day and night Philip fought to keep life in the body
of the man who had given the world to him, for as the fight continued he
began more and more to accept Josephine as his own.
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