One day, in winter, my friend the Father was travelling alone when he heard that the old Chippewayan was dying. Instantly he swung out of his road and raced to the Indian’s camp.
He found him lying peacefully on a bed of spruce, very weak and surrounded by several of his children.
To quote the priest’s own words, “The time had come. Surely the old Indian would not refuse to be baptized at death’s door.” Accordingly, he asked him if he could pray for him at the foot of his bed. The Indian opened his eyes for an instant, recognized the priest and nodded.
The Father started praying out loud in Chippewayan. He prayed and prayed with all his might while he watched the dying man’s face.
After a long time, the shadow of a smile hovered on the latter’s lips.
The missionary thought that he was at last making an impression on the old native and resumed his prayers with even more fervor. Finally he stopped exhausted. Surely victory was his. He got up on his feet and gently touched the man’s hand.
The old Indian opened his eyes and looked up at the priest steadily. His lips moved and the Father bent forward to listen. His hour had come at last he thought! His religion had won!
“My! but there was a lot of lynx last winter—a lot of lynx—a lot of lynx...!”
The words rang out clearly through the silence of the tepee. Then the grey-haired pagan closed his eyes. He smiled once or twice softly to himself, and then died suddenly without a quiver.
