Look at the inscription. It bears your mother's and
father's names."
"And Travers--?" The Rajah lifted his hand in a stern, threatening
gesture.
"--is dead," was the grave answer. "He died an hour ago, in his wife's
arms."
For a moment a profound hush hung over the great, dimly lighted hall.
The Rajah knelt down by his mother's side and gently replaced the ring
upon the thin lifeless finger.
"She called herself a traitor," he said, half to himself. "A traitor
to whom--to what?"
"To the strong white blood that was in her veins. In her bitterness at
the real or imagined wrongs that had been done her, she turned away
from the people to whom she belonged, to whom she was bound by all the
ties of love and upbringing. She disobeyed the voice of her instinct.
And you, her son, you, too, have been bitter; you, too, must listen to
the call of the two races to whom you are linked. Whom will you obey?
You stand at the cross-ways where you must choose--where we must
either part or join hands for good and all. The road back to us is
open, is still open. That is the message of peace which we have risked
our lives to bring you. Rajah, Steven Caruthers--for so I now call
you--I plead with you--I may plead with you, for in this hour at least
I can not look upon you as an adversary, but as the son of this
unfortunate woman--above all, of my friend. I plead with you the more
because I owe you years of friendship.
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