Again he turned away from the priest, and challenged the Boy to repeat the slander.  Then with an insinuating air, “Shaman no say you wicked,” he reassured the Father.  “Shaman say Holy Cross all right.  Cheechalko no good; Cheechalko bring devils; Cheechalko all same him,” he wound up, flinging subterfuge to the winds, and openly indicating his faithless ambassador.

“Strikes me I’m gettin’ the worst of this argument all round.  Brother Paul’s been sailing into me on pretty much the same tack.”

“No,” said Nicholas, firmly; “Brother Paul no unnerstan’. You unnerstan’.”  He came still nearer to the Father, speaking in a friendly, confidential tone.  “You savvy!  Plague come on steamboat up from St. Michael.  One white man, he got coast sickness.  Sun shining.  Salmon run big.  Yukon full o’ boats.  Two days:  no canoe on river.  Men all sit in tent like so.”  He let his mittens fall on the floor, crouched on his heels, and rocked his head in his hands.  Springing up, he went on with slow, sorrowful emphasis:  “Men begin die—­”

“Zen we come,” said the Father, “wiz nurses and proper medicine—­”

Nicholas gave the ghost of a shrug, adding the damaging fact:  “Sickness come to Holy Cross.”

The Father nodded.

“We’ve had to turn ze schools into wards for our patients,” he explained to the stranger.  “We do little now but nurse ze sick and prepare ze dying.  Ze Muzzer Superieure has broken down after heroic labours.  Paul, I fear, is sickening too.  Yes, it’s true:  ze disease came to us from Pymeut.”

In the Father’s mind was the thought of contagion courageously faced in order to succour “the least of these my brethren.”  In Nicholas’s mind was the perplexing fact that these white men could bring sickness, but not stay it.  Even the heap good people at Holy Cross were not saved by their deaf and impotent God.

“Fathers sick, eight Sisters sick, boy die in school, three girl die.  Holy Cross people kind—­” Again he made that almost French motion of the shoulders.  “Shaman say, ‘Peeluck!’ No good be kind to devils; scare ’em—­make ’em run.”

“Nicholas,” the priest spoke wearily, “I am ashamed of you.  I sought you had learned better.  Zat old Shaman—­he is a rare old rogue.  What did you give him?”

Nicholas’ mental processes may not have been flattering, but their clearness was unmistakable.  If Father Brachet was jealous of the rival holy man’s revenue, it was time to bring out the presents.

Ol’ Chief had a fine lynx-skin over his arm.  He advanced at a word from Nicholas, and laid it down before the Father.

“No!” said Father Brachet, with startling suddenness; “take it away and try to understand.”

Nicholas approached trembling, but no doubt remembering how necessary it had been to add to the Shaman’s offering before he would consent to listen with favour to Pymeut prayers, he pulled out of their respective hiding—­places about his person a carved ivory spoon and an embroidered bird-skin pouch, advanced boldly under the fire of the Superior’s keen eyes and sharp words, and laid the further offering on the lynx-skin at his feet.