“Mr. Mar see it no good to say dere is no more any vitches vid dat Yakutat voman at our door. So he say ve shall not be crool even to a vitch. Den I tell him, ‘A man also or a voman dat haf a familiar spirit or dat is a vizard shall surely be put to death; dey shall stone dem vid stones; dere blood shall be upon dem. For all dat do dese tings are an abomination unto de Lord.’” After a silence, “What did he say to that?” Cheviot asked. “Hein—hn—hn!” Christianson shook back the square cut hanks of tow that fell from under his hat. “Not even Mr. Mar,” he said, with an air of triumph, “not even Mr. Mar talk back to Moses!” But the good man’s satisfaction seemed short-lived. He was grave enough as he went on, “Big storm in de night. Next day no vitch dere.” He waved a great bony hand toward Kamchatka. “Vitch gone off vid de vind.” Then, lowering his voice as though out there in the sea hollows listeners might be lurking, he bent forward: “If dey vas to know Mr. Mar go down in de storm, and cut de raw hide for let dat vitch go!—” Again, with grim foreboding, he shook the hanks of tow. “Ve all like your friend, but ve sorry see any yentleman tink he know better as de Bible.” CHAPTER X Cheviot found Hildegarde’s father practically a prisoner. His board and lodging had been too welcome a source of revenue to the mission for Christianson to feel called upon to smooth the way for his departure, and Mar had been some time in grasping the fact that his plan of hiring a boat and a couple of natives to go up the coast for a “look at the country,” was hopelessly knocked on the head since his interference in the matter of the Yakutat witch. Not a native in the community who felt safe with him since that episode. The lame man was in league with the powers of darkness.