I shrugged my shoulders. I did not like the look of the river. It was roughening every minute. But neither could I resist the quaint logic of Tawannears, and of course, no man enjoys being told he is afraid.
"Have it your own way," I said at last.
Tawannears walked up to the priest.
"We go," he said quietly. "If we die, remember that you urged us forth."
One of those rare reflections of a personality long submerged shone in the Jesuit's face. He dropped his hand upon the Seneca's bare shoulder.
"There is naught to fear," he said gently. "God watches over us on the water as on the land. If He has ordained for you to die, you will die. The good warrior thinks not upon death, but upon his mission."
His manner changed. His hand dropped by his side. His voice became harsh.
"Heathen, would you blame me for your wickedness? As well do so as charge me with your death! You and I have no power over life! Look up! Look up, I say! There is the Power that decides all. Ha, you fear—you fear what you know not!"
His face a study in masked fury, Tawannears strode to the side of the raft, drew his knife and laid the keen edge against the mooring withe.
"Tawannears waits," he said.