"Yes; he—a—his spirits have been raised by—a—what you will think an unwarrantable and wicked means."
Nicholas understood, at least, that objectionable word "wicked" cropping up again, and he was not prepared to stand it from the Boy.
He grunted with displeasure, and said something low to his father.
"Brother Paul found them—found us having a séance with the Shamán."
Father Brachet turned sharply to the natives.
"Ha! you go back to zat."
Nicholas came a step forward, twisting his mittens and rolling his eye excitedly.
"Us no wicked. Shamán say he gottah scare off—" He waved his arm against an invisible army. Then, as it were, stung into plain speaking: "Shamán say white man bring sickness—bring devils—"
"Maybe the old Orang Outang's right."
The Boy drew a tired breath, and sat down without bidding in one of the wooden chairs. What an idiot he'd been not to take the hot grog and the hot bath, and leave these people to fight their foolishness out among themselves! It didn't concern him. And here was Nicholas talking away comfortably in his own tongue, and the Father was answering. A native opened the door and peeped in cautiously.