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Updated: May 7, 2025
I know, for I've just travelled that thirty miles with 'em over the ice from Pymeut." "You? Yes, it amuses you." The sombre eyes shone with a cold, disconcerting light. "Well, to tell you the truth, I've been better amused." The Boy looked down at his weary, wounded feet. And the others where were his fellow pilgrims?
Presently the Story-teller made some shrewd hit, that shook the Pymeut community into louder grunts of applause and a general chuckling. The Colonel turned his head slowly, and blew out a fresh cloud: "Good joke?"
"At that Jesuit mission up yonder?" "Forty mile." "Well," says Potts, "I guess you've had enough walking for one winter." Nicholas seemed not to follow this observation. The Boy interpreted: "You heap tired, eh? You no go any more long walk till ice go out, eh?" Nicholas grinned. "Me go Ikogimeut all Pymeut go." "What for?" "Big feast." "Oh, the Russian mission there gives a feast?" "No.
Nicholas approached trembling, but no doubt remembering how necessary it had been to add to the Shamán's offering before he would consent to listen with favour to Pymeut prayers, he pulled out of their respective hiding places about his person a carved ivory spoon and an embroidered bird-skin pouch, advanced boldly under the fire of the Superior's keen eyes and sharp words, and laid the further offering on the lynx-skin at his feet.
The Boy, feeling he would need an interpreter, signed to Muckluck to come and sit by him. Grave as a judge she got up, and did as she was bid. "That the Shamán?" whispered the Boy. She nodded. It was plain that this apparition, however hideous, had given her great satisfaction. "Any more people coming?" "Got no more now in Pymeut." "Where is everybody?" "Some sick, some dead."
No doubt Muckluck is on the river-bank at Pymeut; the one-eyed Prince, the story-teller Yagorsha, even Ol' Chief no one will be indoors to-day. Sitting there together, they saw the last stand made by the ice, and shared that moment when the final barrier, somewhere far below, gave way with boom and thunder.
They got him up off the ice, and Nicholas and the sturdy old Pymeut story-teller, Yagorsha, walked him, or ran him rather, the rest of the way to Pymeut, for they were not so near the village as the travellers had supposed on seeing nearly the whole male population. The Colonel was not far behind, and several of the bucks were bringing the disabled sled.
He was flung forward on the new impetus, spun over the smooth surface, swept across the verge and under the cloud, clutching wildly at the ragged edge of ice as he went down. All Pymeut had come rushing pell-mell. The Colonel was gathering himself up and looking round in a dazed kind of way as Nicholas flashed by.
Mac insinuated himself brusquely between the victim and his persecutors. He took the dirty object away from the priest with scant ceremony, in spite of the whisper, "Infection!" and gave it back to the wrathful owner. "You talk his language, don't you?" Mac demanded of Nicholas. The Pymeut pilot nodded. "Tell him, if he'll lend the thing to me to wash, he shall have it back." Nicholas explained.
If the truth were told, it had been a difficult enough matter to keep away from Pymeut since the hour Nicholas had vanished in that direction; but until winter quarters were made, and until they were proved to be warm, there was no time for the amenities of life.
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