"No, not easily done, a penance like this. I know, for I've just travelled that thirty miles with 'em over the ice from Pymeut."
"You? Yes, it amuses you."
The sombre eyes shone with a cold, disconcerting light.
"Well, to tell you the truth, I've been better amused."
The Boy looked down at his weary, wounded feet. And the others—where were his fellow pilgrims? It struck him as comic that the upshot of the journey should be that he was doing penance for the Pymeuts, but he couldn't smile with that offended archangel in front of him.
"Thirty miles over the ice, in the face of a norther, hasn't been so 'easy' even for me. And I'm not old, nor sick—no, nor frightened, Brother Paul."
He flung up his head, but his heart failed him even while he made the boast. Silently, for a moment, they confronted each other.
"Where are you bound for?"
"I—a—" The Boy had a moment of wondering if he was expected to answer "Hell," and he hesitated.
"Are you on your way up the river?"