ited until he heard the beat of the pick
before he moved. Then he fastened the cabin door with a wooden bolt and
sat himself down at the table, with the lamp close to his bent head and
Tavish's confession in his hands. He cut the _babiche_ threads with his
knife, unfolded the sheets of paper and began to read, while Tavish's
mice nosed slyly out of their murky corners wondering at the new and
sudden stillness in the cabin and, it may be, stirred into restlessness
by the absence of their master.

* * * * *

The ground under the snow was discouragingly hard. To David the digging
of the grave seemed like chipping out bits of flint from a solid block,
and he soon turned over the pick to Mukoki. Alternately they worked for
an hour, and each time that the Cree took his place David wondered what
was keeping the Missioner so long in the cabin. At last Mukoki intimated
with a sweep of his hands and a hunch of his shoulders that their work
was done. The grave looked very shallow to David, and he was about to
protest against his companion's judgment when it occurred to him that
Mukoki had probably digged many holes such as this in the earth, and had
helped to fill them again, so it was possible he knew his business.
After all, why did people weigh down one's last slumber with six feet of
soil overhead when three or four would leave one nearer to the sun, and
make not quite so chill a bed? He was thinking of this as he took a last
look at Tavish. Then he heard the Indian give a sudden grunt, as if some
one had poked him unexpectedly in the pit of the stomach. He whirled
about, and stared.

Father Roland stood within ten feet of them, and at sight of him an
exclamation rose to David's lips and died there in an astonished gasp.
He seemed to be swaying, like a sick man, in the moonlight, and impelled
by the same thought Mukoki and David moved toward him. The Missioner
extended an arm, as if to hold them back. His face was ghastly, and
terrible--almost as terrible as Tavish's, and he seemed to be
struggling with something in his throat before he could speak. Then he
said, in a strange, forced voice that David had never heard come from
his lips before:

"Bury him. There will be--no prayer."

He turned away, moving slowly in the direction of the forest. And as he
went David noticed the heavy drag of his feet, and the unevenness of his
trail in the snow.

CHAPTER XIII

For two or three minut