He bent over her, touched her, leaned close to catch her whisper.
“She is—dead!”
Slowly Shefford rose, with a sickening shock, and then in bitter pain he strode away into the starlight.
VII. SAGO-LILIES
The Indian returned to camp that night, and early the next day, which was Sunday, Withers rode in, accompanied by a stout, gray-bearded personage wearing a long black coat.
“Bishop Kane, this is my new man, John Shefford,” said the trader.
Shefford acknowledged the introduction with the respectful courtesy evidently in order, and found himself being studied intently by clear blue eyes. The bishop appeared old, dry, and absorbed in thought; he spoke quaintly, using in every speech some Biblical word or phrase; and he had an air of authority. He asked Shefford to hear him preach at the morning service, and then he went off into the village.
“Guess he liked your looks,” remarked Withers.
“He certainly sized me up,” replied Shefford.