“Take zem away,” said the priest, interrupting his brief homily and standing up.  “Don’t you understand yet zat we are your friends wizzout money and wizzout price?  We do not want zese sings.  Shaman takes ivories from ze poor, furs from ze shivering, and food from zem zat starve.  And he gives nossing in return—­nossing!  Take zese sings away; no one wants zem at Holy Cross.”

Ol’ Chief wiped his eyes pathetically.  Nicholas, the picture of despair, turned in a speechless appeal to his despised ambassador.  Before anyone could speak, the door-knob rattled rudely, and the big bullet-head of a white man was put in.

“Pardon, mon Pere; cet homme qui vient de Minook—­faudrait le coucher de suite—­mais ou, mon Dieu, ou?”

While the Superior cogitated, “How-do, Brother Etienne?” said Nicholas, and they nodded.

Brother Etienne brought the rest of his heavy body half inside the door.  He wore aged, weather-beaten breeches, and a black sweater over an old hickory shirt.

“Ses compagnons l’ont laisse, la, je crois.  Mais ca ne durera pas longtemps.”

“Faudra bien qu’il reste ici—­je ne vois pas d’autre moyen,” said the Father.  “Enfin—­on verra.  Attendez quelques instants.”

“C’est bien.”  Brother Etienne went out.

Ol’ Chief was pulling the Boy’s sleeve during the little colloquy, and saying, “You tell.”  But the Boy got up like one who means to make an end.

“You haven’t any time or strength for this—­”

“Oh yes,” said Father Brachet, smiling, and arresting the impetuous movement.  “Ziz is—­part of it.”

“Well,” said the Boy, still hesitating, “they are sorry, you know, really sorry.”

“You sink so?” The question rang a little sceptically.

“Yes, I do, and I’m in a position to know.  You’d forgive them if you’d seen, as I did, how miserable and overwhelmed they were when Brother Paul—­when—­I’m not saying it’s the highest kind of religion that they’re so almighty afraid of losing your good opinion, but it—­it gives you a hold, doesn’t it?” And then, as the Superior said nothing, only kept intent eyes on the young face, the Boy wound up a little angrily:  “Unless, of course, you’re like Brother Paul, ready to throw away the power you’ve gained—­”

“Paul serves a great and noble purpose—­but—­zese questions are—­a—­not in his province.”  Still he bored into the young face with those kind gimlets, his good little eyes, and—­

“You are—­one of us?” he asked, “of ze Church?”

“No, I—­I’m afraid I’m not of any Church.”

“Ah!”

“And I ought to take back ‘afraid.’  But I’m telling you the truth when I say there never were honester penitents than the Pymeuts.  The whole Kachime’s miserable.  Even the girl, Ol’ Chief’s daughter she cried like anything when she thought Sister—­”

“Winifred?”

“Sister Winifred would be disappointed in her.”