"Light! make a light!" he commanded. Nicholas got up, dazed but obedient, and lit the seal-oil lamp.
The voice of the white man, the call for light, reached the Shamán. He seemed to shiver and shrink under the folds of the Kamlayka. But instead of getting up and looking his enemy in the face, he wriggled along on his belly, still under cover of the Kamlayka, till he got to the bear-skin, pushed it aside with a motion of the hooded head, and crawled out like some snaky symbol of darkness and superstition fleeing before the light.
"Brother Paul!" sobbed the girl, "don't, don't tell Sister Winifred."
He took no notice of her, bending down over the motionless bundle in the corner.
"You've killed him, I suppose?"
"Brother Paul—" began Nicholas, faltering.
"Oh, I heard the pandemonium." He lifted his thin white face to the smoke-hole. "It's all useless, useless. I might as well go and leave you to your abominations. But instead, go you, all of you—go!" He flung out his long arms, and the group broke and scuttled, huddling near the bear-skin, fighting like rats to get out faster than the narrow passage permitted.
The Boy turned from watching the instantaneous flight, the scuffle, and the disappearance, to find the burning eyes of the Jesuit fixed fascinated on his face. If Brother Paul had appeared as a spectre in the ighloo, it was plain that he looked upon the white face present at the diabolic rite as dream or devil. The Boy stood up. The lay-brother started, and crossed himself.
"In Christ's name, what—who are you?"
"I—a—I come from the white camp ten miles below."