The Ojibwa had stepped out from among the trees, his weapon lowered. As the priest looked at him, the fierceness faded from the Indian’s face. Speaking humbly, like a servant to his master or a child to his teacher, he addressed the Jesuit. “Blame me not, good Father,” he said, “that I have slain that murderer with an arrow in the back as I might have killed Maheengun, the wolf, or Besheu, the lynx, when he was mad with the blood thirst. His knife was out. Before a dead leaf fell from that birch tree he would have plunged the knife in your body. He is a Windigo, in league with the evil one and hungering for human flesh. Already he has killed and eaten one man, an evil man to be sure, but a white man and his master.”
As Nangotook finished speaking, the two boys, came out from the spruces. Jean sprang forward, pulling off his toque, and knelt before the missionary for his blessing, while Ronald, Scotch Protestant though he was, showed his respect by removing his hare skin cap and standing silent.
When he had given Jean his blessing, and the latter had risen to his feet, the priest looked searchingly into the lad’s face and said gravely, “Who are you, my son, and these your companions, and how came you here? Surely you were sent of God to save the humblest of His servants from death at the hands of this poor, crazed savage.”
“It is Etienne you should thank for that, reverend Father,” Jean answered quickly, “but indeed I believe God led us here, and just in time, for——”
But the priest interrupted him, to speak to the Indian. Nangotook had squatted down by the body of the Cree, and had turned it over to make sure the man was dead. Then he had unlocked the Cree’s fingers from his knife, had felt its edge and had just made a motion with the blade towards the neck of the fallen man, when the Jesuit’s quick eye noted his action.
“My son,” he said sternly, “what is it that you would do? Would you mutilate the body of the man you have killed?”
The Ojibwa looked up into the priest’s grave face, and hastened to excuse and explain his action. “The man is a Windigo, good Father,” he said. “Windigos are in league with the evil one and are hard to kill. This one seems to have died easily enough, but unless his body is cut to pieces, he may come to life again at any moment and slay us all.”
“Nay, my child,” the Jesuit answered less sternly, for he understood that the Indian’s purpose, however mistaken, was a sincere one. He was not moved merely by a desire to avenge himself on the helpless body of a foe. “Nay, you need have no fear that the spirit of this poor, misguided child of the forest will return to animate his body. Already his soul has gone to other realms to await judgment for its sins. He was possessed of an evil spirit indeed. Though he spoke fair enough and promised to take me to the Grande Portage, I saw the madness in his eye and would not have trusted him, had he not seemed to be sent of God to deliver me from this desolate place. But even for such as he there may be forgiveness, when he has suffered his meed of punishment. I forbid you to mutilate his body. Instead, you and your companions shall kneel with me and pray for the soul of this poor savage, who has been struck down in the moment of his sin, without time for repentance.”
Nangotook submitted docilely enough, kneeling beside the priest and remaining reverently silent through the latter’s brief prayer.
There was not soil enough on the little island to dig a grave in, so Nangotook and his companions, at the missionary’s command, placed the body of the Cree in a hole between the rocks, blocked up the opening with stones and branches, and threw a little earth and leaf mold over the whole. The simple burial service over, they were about to proceed to the canoe, when Jean noticed that the priest’s face had turned very white and that he swayed a little and caught at a tree for support.