The three culprits stood in front of him on a dead level of iniquity.

“You see, Father Brachet, Ol’ Chief has been very ill—­”

“I know.  Much as we needed him here, Paul insisted on hurrying back to
Pymeut”—­he interrupted himself as readily as he had interrupted the
Boy—­“but ze Ol’ Chief looks lively enough.”

“Yes; he—­a—­his spirits have been raised by—­a—­what you will think an unwarrantable and wicked means.”

Nicholas understood, at least, that objectionable word “wicked” cropping up again, and he was not prepared to stand it from the Boy.

He grunted with displeasure, and said something low to his father.

“Brother Paul found them—­found us having a seance with the Shaman.”

Father Brachet turned sharply to the natives.

“Ha! you go back to zat.”

Nicholas came a step forward, twisting his mittens and rolling his eye excitedly.

“Us no wicked.  Shaman say he gottah scare off—­” He waved his arm against an invisible army.  Then, as it were, stung into plain speaking:  “Shaman say white man bring sickness—­bring devils—­”

“Maybe the old Orang Outang’s right.”

The Boy drew a tired breath, and sat down without bidding in one of the wooden chairs.  What an idiot he’d been not to take the hot grog and the hot bath, and leave these people to fight their foolishness out among themselves!  It didn’t concern him.  And here was Nicholas talking away comfortably in his own tongue, and the Father was answering.  A native opened the door and peeped in cautiously.

Nicholas paused.

“Hein!” said Father Brachet, “what is it!”

The Indian came in with two cups of hot tea and a cracker in each saucer.  He stopped at the priest’s side.

“You get sick, too.  Please take.  Supper little late.”  He nodded to Nicholas, and gave the white stranger the second cup.  As he was going out:  “Same man here in July.  You know”—­he tapped himself on the left side—­“man with sore heart.”

“Yansey?” said the priest quickly.  “Well, what about Yansey?”

“He is here.”

“But no!  Wiz zose ozzers?”

“No, I think they took the dogs and deserted him.  He’s just been brought in by our boys; they are back with the moose-meat.  Sore heart worse.  He will die.”

“Who’s looking after him?”

“Brother Paul”; and he padded out of the room in his soft native shoes.

“Then Brother Paul has polished off Catherine,” thought the Boy, “and he won’t waste much time over a sore heart.  It behoves us to hurry up with our penitence.”  This seemed to be Nicholas’s view as well.  He was beginning again in his own tongue.

“You know we like best for you to practise your English,” said the priest gently; “I expect you speak very well after working so long on ze John J. Healy.”

“Yes,” Nicholas straightened himself.  “Me talk all same white man now.”  (He gleamed at the Boy:  “Don’t suppose I need you and your perfidious tongue.”) “No; us Pymeuts no wicked!”