“Shipwrecked, your reverence! What nonsense! We had a fine voyage and dismissed the men at the Sault. But since then we decided to make another cruise to the head of Lake Michigan, and hired another skipper. There is Moses in the boat with you, and Frank came home with him. They knew we were not shipwrecked.” “Will you land at Cross Village?” “No, your reverence. We only tacked in to salute the cross in passing.” “But where shall I find you if I have urgent business with you?” “At Little Traverse Bay. We cannot stop here.” The schooner was drifting away broadside, and the voice of the speaker came across a widening swell of water. Then she came up into her course, cutting a breastwork of foam in front of her as she passed on southward. With pantomime salutations the priest and the two men who had hired Moses Nazagebic and Frank Chibam took leave of each other. It had been a brief conference, but Moses rowed back a convicted criminal. He did not look at his conscience-keeper in the end of the boat. His high-cheeked face seemed to have had all individuality blotted out of it. Dazed and blear-eyed, he shipped his oars and tied the boat to its stake. A great noise of drumming and shouting came from the grove above, for the dances were soon to begin. The steep road was a Calvary height to Moses. He dragged his feet as he climbed and stumbled in the deep sand; he who was so lithe of limb and nimble in any action. He had felt Catharine's eyes on his back like burning-glasses as he sat on the fence. They reflected on him now in one glare all the knowledge that the priest had gained of his crime. It was easier to follow to instant confession than to stay outside longer where Catharine could watch him. His wife's grandmother passed him, tapping along the fence and repeating again the legend of the first cross in Cross Village. Even in that day men who had slain their brothers were expected to give satisfaction to the tribe. It was either a life for a life or the labor of long hunting to solace a bereaved family. He knelt down in the place where he had often confessed such little sins as lying or convivial drunkenness. How slight and innocent these offences seemed as the hopeless weight of this burden crushed him. The stern yet compassionate face over him exacted every word. The priest remembered that this had not been a bad Chippewa. He had lived a steady, honest life in his humble station, keeping the three women well provided with such comforts as they needed; he had fished, he had labored at wood-chopping, and in the season helped Lucy fill her birch-bark mococks with maple sugar for sale at the larger settlements. The anguish of Cain was in the man's eyes. Natural life and he had already parted company. The teeth showed between his relaxed lips. “Moses Nazagebic,” said the priest, disregarding formula and dealing with the primitive sinner, “what have you done with Frank Chibam?” “Father, I kill him.”