In the Father's mind was the thought of contagion courageously faced in order to succour "the least of these my brethren." In Nicholas's mind was the perplexing fact that these white men could bring sickness, but not stay it. Even the heap good people at Holy Cross were not saved by their deaf and impotent God.
"Fathers sick, eight Sisters sick, boy die in school, three girl die. Holy Cross people kind—" Again he made that almost French motion of the shoulders. "Shamán say, 'Peeluck!' No good be kind to devils; scare 'em—make 'em run."
"Nicholas," the priest spoke wearily, "I am ashamed of you. I sought you had learned better. Zat old Shamán—he is a rare old rogue. What did you give him?"
Nicholas' mental processes may not have been flattering, but their clearness was unmistakable. If Father Brachet was jealous of the rival holy man's revenue, it was time to bring out the presents.
Ol' Chief had a fine lynx-skin over his arm. He advanced at a word from Nicholas, and laid it down before the Father.
"No!" said Father Brachet, with startling suddenness; "take it away and try to understand."
Nicholas approached trembling, but no doubt remembering how necessary it had been to add to the Shamán's offering before he would consent to listen with favour to Pymeut prayers, he pulled out of their respective hiding—places about his person a carved ivory spoon and an embroidered bird-skin pouch, advanced boldly under the fire of the Superior's keen eyes and sharp words, and laid the further offering on the lynx-skin at his feet.
"Take zem away," said the priest, interrupting his brief homily and standing up. "Don't you understand yet zat we are your friends wizzout money and wizzout price? We do not want zese sings. Shamán takes ivories from ze poor, furs from ze shivering, and food from zem zat starve. And he gives nossing in return—nossing! Take zese sings away; no one wants zem at Holy Cross."
Ol' Chief wiped his eyes pathetically. Nicholas, the picture of despair, turned in a speechless appeal to his despised ambassador. Before anyone could speak, the door-knob rattled rudely, and the big bullet-head of a white man was put in.
"Pardon, mon Père; cet homme qui vient de Minóok—faudrait le coucher de suite—mais où, mon Dieu, où?"