I have been told so, and that it is a curse not without hope.
But here it is different. The curse never dies. It follows, day after
day, year after year. And this child--more unfortunate than the wild
things, was born one of them. Do you understand, m'sieur? If the winds
had whispered the secret nothing would have come near him--the Indian
women would sooner have touched the plague--he would have been an
outcast, despised as he grew older, pointed at and taunted, called
names which are worse than those called to the lowest and meanest
dogs. THAT is what it means to be born under that curse--up here."
He waited for Thornton to speak, but the other sat silent and moveless
across the table.
"The curse worked swiftly, m'sieur. It came first--in remorse--to the
man. It gnawed at his soul, ate him alive, and drove him from place to
place with the woman and the child. The purity and love of the woman
added to his suffering, and at last he came to know that the hand of
God had fallen upon his head. The woman saw his grief but did not know
the reason for it. And so the curse first came to her. They went
north--far north, above the Barren Lands, and the curse followed
there. It gnawed at his life until--he died. That was seven years
after the child was born.
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