Like a funeral bell Brochet's voice broke the grim silence. "Gone? All gone? And unshriven! God rest their souls." He knelt on the rocks.
While he muttered a prayer, Maskwa strode out of the dark. He had no torch, but he held something in his hands. Startled, the others craned and peered. A dozen torches flashed over the Ojibway, and in his arms the crimson light played upon a crumpled form.
"He breathes, Strong Father!"
Dunvegan sprang to one side of the burden, Granger to his other. As they placed the mangled figure on the ground the head came by chance upon the priest's knees.
"Ferguson!" Brochet whispered, awed. For though limbs and body were crushed and torn, the face remained unmarred.
"Aye, and a job for you," murmured Dunvegan.
But Granger had leaped at the name, dragging Macleod by the arm.
"Look!" he urged. "Look! Will you swear to him?"
The red glare bathed the white face. The Factor's eyes focused on the features and grew full of terrible light and would not come away.
"It's—it's—Funster," he choked.