The priest remembered that this had not been a bad Chippewa. He had lived a steady, honest life in his humble station, keeping the three women well provided with such comforts as they needed; he had fished, he had labored at wood-chopping, and in the season helped Lucy fill her birch-bark mococks with maple sugar for sale at the larger settlements. The anguish of Cain was in the man's eyes. Natural life and he had already parted company. The teeth showed between his relaxed lips.
“Moses Nazagebic,” said the priest, disregarding formula and dealing with the primitive sinner, “what have you done with Frank Chibam?”
“Father, I kill him.”
The brief English which the Indian men mastered and used in their trading at the settlements was Moses' refuge in confession. To profane his native language with his crime seemed the last enormity of all.
“It was a lie that there was a wreck in Lake Superior?”
“Yes, father.”
“It was a lie that you lost your sail-boat?”
“Yes, father.”
“Did you intend to kill Frank?”