As Charles Nordis passed out of the house into the open he met an old Indian with a look of intense fear stamped upon his face. He was trembling violently, and his staring eyes were directed toward the river. As the missionary appeared he turned and began to speak rapidly in the native tongue.
"The Hishus!" he cried, while a shiver shook his form. "They come up the river. They carry their canoes around the rapids. They are cruel men, and will kill us."
"Hush, hush, du Nord," commanded the missionary. "If all the Big Lakes are like you there will be little done to oppose the Hishus. You cower and fear like a cur."
"I am old, Master," replied the native. "How can I fight? If the Big Lakes were only here!"
Charles Nordis looked intently at the poor creature standing before him, and his face softened. He remembered how faithful the man had been to him through long years. He, too, had been brave. But now in his old age it was only natural that he should fear a scene which years before had been all too common in his life.
"Poor du Nord," said the missionary to himself. "Who am I that I should feel contempt for him?"
Then he began to pace up and down before the house. His steps were long and rapid, a sure sign of his agitated thoughts.
"And is this the end of it all?" he murmured. "After years of patient toil and prayer, has it come to this—a deadly battle between these two tribes? What fond hopes were mine ten years ago. How I trusted that these Indians would lay aside their strife forever. But now they are at it again. And Nadu—poor child—of whom we hoped so much. Little did I think she would fall so low. Have all the teaching, prayers and patient care amounted to nothing? What have I to show for all these years of work?"
The report of a rifle in the distance startled him. Then another, and still another.