I know it.

I can see it, feel it, and I--" His fingers tightened in the loose hide of Peter's neck.
"Peter," he whispered in the thickening darkness.

"I believe there's a God, but He's a different sort of God than most people believe in.

He lives in the trees out there, in the flowers, in the birds, the sky, in everything--and I hope that God will strike me dead if I do what isn't right with her, Peter! I do.

I hope he strikes me dead!" And that night Peter knew that Jolly Roger tossed about restlessly in his bunk, and slept but little.
But the next morning he was singing, and the warm sun flooding over the wilderness was not more cheerful than his voice as he cooked their breakfast.