The sick man babbled on.
Faint under the desolate sound another—sibilant, clearer, uncannily human. Nicholas had heard, too, for he threw down the tattered deerskin, and went to the other side of the fire. Voices in the tunnel. Nicholas held back the flap and gravely waited there, till one Pymeut after another crawled in. They were the men the Boy had seen at the Kachime, with one exception—a vicious-looking old fellow, thin, wiry, with a face like a smoked chimpanzee and eyes of unearthly brightness. He was given the best place by the fire, and held his brown claws over the red coals while the others were finding their places.
The Boy, feeling he would need an interpreter, signed to Muckluck to come and sit by him. Grave as a judge she got up, and did as she was bid.
"That the Shamán?" whispered the Boy.
She nodded. It was plain that this apparition, however hideous, had given her great satisfaction.
"Any more people coming?"
"Got no more now in Pymeut."
"Where is everybody?"
"Some sick, some dead."
The old Chief rambled on, but not so noisily.