They liked Mr. Mar, though—Christianson tried to catch Björk’s eye, but the dark one declined confederacy—though Mr. Mar had done something a little while ago that made a great deal of trouble.
“Hein? Veil, it vas like dis. Von of our great deeficoolty is de vitchcraftiness of de natives. Not a season go by vidout dey have to tie up some von.” He pursed his wrinkled lips and slowly shook his colorless locks.
“Oh!” said Cheviot, feeling his way. “How long do they keep them tied up?”
“Till dey confesses, or till dey dies.”
There was need then of the missionary in this savage place, where Hildegarde’s father had had to spend a year of his life.
“And if they confess, it’s all right, is it?” asked Cheviot.
“If dey confess, and if dey go and get a piece of de fur, or vhatever it is, dat dey’ve cut off de clo’es of de person dey been vitching, and if dey give it back, and promise ‘never again.’”
“And then they’re forgiven?”
“Yes. Sometimes dey’re stoned, sometimes dey’re yoost spit at and den let to vander avay—but dey’re forgiven.”