His faded white-lashed eyes grew sterner still as he recalled the interview.
“Well, what happened?”
“It vas for me a moment of great responsibeeleetee. De more ve talk, de more I see it ees for Mr. Mar a matter of sentiment. No! of nairves! For os it ees a matter of religion. Ve live vid dose people. Ve teach dem. Ve feed dem in time of famine. Ve nurse dem ven dey are sick. But ven dey do vat the Yakutat voman haf done—”
His low, booming voice went out across the surf, leaving behind a trail of menace like the deadened roll of a distant gun.
“What then?”
Cheviot’s eyes were held by the fiery look on the rugged face. Impossible to doubt the burning sincerity that gave its ugliness that moment of almost uncanny power.
“Mr. Mar see it no good to say dere is no more any vitches vid dat Yakutat voman at our door. So he say ve shall not be crool even to a vitch. Den I tell him, ‘A man also or a voman dat haf a familiar spirit or dat is a vizard shall surely be put to death; dey shall stone dem vid stones; dere blood shall be upon dem. For all dat do dese tings are an abomination unto de Lord.’”
After a silence, “What did he say to that?” Cheviot asked.
“Hein—hn—hn!” Christianson shook back the square cut hanks of tow that fell from under his hat. “Not even Mr. Mar,” he said, with an air of triumph, “not even Mr. Mar talk back to Moses!”
But the good man’s satisfaction seemed short-lived. He was grave enough as he went on, “Big storm in de night. Next day no vitch dere.” He waved a great bony hand toward Kamchatka.