The Boy wheeled round.

“I don’t smoke.”

“... and to gamble.”

“Nicholas taught me to gamble.  Brother Paul, I swear—­”

“Yes, and to swear and get drunk, and so find the shortest way to hell.”

“Father Brachet!  Father Wills!” a voice called without.

The door-knob turned under the Boy’s hand, and before he could more than draw back, a whiff of winter blew into the room, and a creature stood there such as no man looks to find on his way to an Arctic gold camp.  A girl of twenty odd, with the face of a saint, dressed in the black habit of the Order of St. Anne.

“Oh, Brother Paul! you are wanted—­wanted quickly.  I think Catherine is worse; don’t wait, or she’ll die without—­” And as suddenly as she came the vision vanished, carrying Brother Paul in the wake of her streaming veil.

The Boy sat down by the stove, cogitating how he should best set about finding Nicholas to explain the failure of their mission....  What was that?  Voices from the other side.  The opposite door opened and a man appeared, with Nicholas and his father close behind, looking anything but cast down or decently penitential.

“How do you do?” The white man’s English had a strong French accent.  He shook hands with great cordiality.  “We have heard of you from Father Wills also.  These Pymeut friends of ours say you have something to tell me.”

He spoke as though this something were expected to be highly gratifying, and, indeed, the cheerfulness of Nicholas and his father would indicate as much.

As the Boy, hesitating, did not accept the chair offered, smiling, the Jesuit went on: 

“Will you talk of zis matter—­whatever it is—­first, or will you first go up and wash, and have our conference after supper?”

“No, thank you—­a—­Are you the Father Superior?”

He bowed a little ceremoniously, but still smiling.

“I am Father Brachet.”

“Oh, well, Nicholas is right.  The first thing to do is to explain why we’re here.”

Was it the heat of the stove after the long hours of cold that made him feel a little dizzy?  He put up his hand to his head.

“I have told zem to take hot water upstairs,” the Father was saying, “and I zink a glass of toddy would be a good sing for you.”  He slightly emphasised the “you,” and turned as if to supplement the original order.

“No, no!” the Boy called after him, choking a little, half with suppressed merriment, half with nervous fatigue.  “Father Brachet, if you’re kind to us, Brother Paul will never forgive you.  We’re all in disgrace.”

“Hein!  What?”

“Yes, we’re all desperately wicked.”

“No, no,” objected Nicholas, ready to go back on so tactless an advocate.

“And Brother Paul has just been saying—­”

“What is it, what is it?”

The Father Superior spoke a little sharply, and himself sat down in the wooden armchair he before had placed for his white guest.