'And yet you have taught her to read?'

'I knew not what might happen. I could not expose her defenceless in a
hard world. Religion is fancy, but education is like an armor. I
cannot tell what may happen.'

'True. You may die, you know; you are an old man.'

The old man turned away his face.

They sailed on, eating once or twice; afternoon came, and then an
archipelago closed in around them; the sail was down, and the oars
out. Around and through, across and back, in and out they wound, now
rowing, now poling, and now and then the sail hoisted to scud across a
space of open water. Old Fog's face had grown gray again, and the
lines had deepened across his haggard cheek and set mouth; his
strength was failing. At last they came to a turn, broad and smooth
like a canal. 'Now I will hoist the sail again,' said Waring.

But old Fog shook his head. 'That turn leads directly back into the
marsh,' he said, 'Take your oar and push against the sedge in front.'

The young man obeyed, and lo! it moved slowly aside and disclosed a
narrow passage westward; through this they poled their way along to
open water, then set the sail, rounded a point, and came suddenly upon
the castle. 'Well, I am glad we are here,' said Waring.

Fog had fallen back. 'Promise,' he whispered with gray lips,--'promise
that you will not betray me to the child.' And his glazing eyes fixed