“Besides,” whispered Yakaga, when the Pole, with his guard, had disappeared among the spruce trees, “when you have learned the medicine you can easily destroy him.” “But how can I destroy him?” Makamuk argued. “His medicine will not let me destroy him.” “There will be some part where he has not rubbed the medicine,” was Yakaga’s reply. “We will destroy him through that part. It may be his ears. Very well; we will thrust a spear in one ear and out the other. Or it may be his eyes. Surely the medicine will be much too strong to rub on his eyes.” The chief nodded. “You are wise, Yakaga. If he possesses no other devil-things, we will then destroy him.” Subienkow did not waste time in gathering the ingredients for his medicine, he selected whatsoever came to hand such as spruce needles, the inner bark of the willow, a strip of birch bark, and a quantity of moss-berries, which he made the hunters dig up for him from beneath the snow. A few frozen roots completed his supply, and he led the way back to camp. Makamuk and Yakaga crouched beside him, noting the quantities and kinds of the ingredients he dropped into the pot of boiling water. “You must be careful that the moss-berries go in first,” he explained. “And—oh, yes, one other thing—the finger of a man. Here, Yakaga, let me cut off your finger.” But Yakaga put his hands behind him and scowled. “Just a small finger,” Subienkow pleaded. “Yakaga, give him your finger,” Makamuk commanded. “There be plenty of fingers lying around,” Yakaga grunted, indicating the human wreckage in the snow of the score of persons who had been tortured to death. “It must be the finger of a live man,” the Pole objected. “Then shall you have the finger of a live man.” Yakaga strode over to the Cossack and sliced off a finger. “He is not yet dead,” he announced, flinging the bloody trophy in the snow at the Pole’s feet. “Also, it is a good finger, because it is large.” Subienkow dropped it into the fire under the pot and began to sing. It was a French love-song that with great solemnity he sang into the brew. “Without these words I utter into it, the medicine is worthless,” he explained. “The words are the chiefest strength of it. Behold, it is ready.” “Name the words slowly, that I may know them,” Makamuk commanded. “Not until after the test. When the axe flies back three times from my neck, then will I give you the secret of the words.” “But if the medicine is not good medicine?” Makamuk queried anxiously. Subienkow turned upon him wrathfully. “My medicine is always good. However, if it is not good, then do by me as you have done to the others. Cut me up a bit at a time, even as you have cut him up.” He pointed to the Cossack. “The medicine is now cool. Thus, I rub it on my neck, saying this further medicine.” With great gravity he slowly intoned a line of the “Marseillaise,” at the same time rubbing the villainous brew thoroughly into his neck.