“Who is a daughter of Belial and hearkeneth not to the true Gospel.”

“And myself.  Not only do you bring trouble upon yourself, but upon us.  I was frozen in with you last winter, as you will well recollect, and I know you for a good man and a fool.  If you think it your duty to strive with the heathen, well and good; but, do exercise some wit in the way you go about it.  This man, Red Baptiste, is no Indian.  He comes of our common stock, is as bull-necked as I ever dared be, and as wild a fanatic the one way as you are the other.  When you two come together, hell’ll be to pay, and I don’t care to be mixed up in it.  Understand?  So take my advice and go away.  If you go down-stream, you’ll fall in with the Russians.  There’s bound to be Greek priests among them, and they’ll see you safe through to Bering Sea,—­that’s where the Yukon empties,—­and from there it won’t be hard to get back to civilization.  Take my word for it and get out of here as fast as God’ll let you.”

“He who carries the Lord in his heart and the Gospel in his hand hath no fear of the machinations of man or devil,” the missionary answered stoutly.  “I will see this man and wrestle with him.  One backslider returned to the fold is a greater victory than a thousand heathen.  He who is strong for evil can be as mighty for good, witness Saul when he journeyed up to Damascus to bring Christian captives to Jerusalem.  And the voice of the Saviour came to him, crying, ’Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?’ And therewith Paul arrayed himself on the side of the Lord, and thereafter was most mighty in the saving of souls.  And even as thou, Paul of Tarsus, even so do I work in the vineyard of the Lord, bearing trials and tribulations, scoffs and sneers, stripes and punishments, for His dear sake.”

“Bring up the little bag with the tea and a kettle of water,” he called the next instant to his boatmen; “not forgetting the haunch of cariboo and the mixing-pan.”

When his men, converts by his own hand, had gained the bank, the trio fell to their knees, hands and backs burdened with camp equipage, and offered up thanks for their passage through the wilderness and their safe arrival.  Hay Stockard looked upon the function with sneering disapproval, the romance and solemnity of it lost to his matter-of-fact soul.  Baptiste the Red, still gazing across, recognized the familiar postures, and remembered the girl who had shared his star-roofed couch in the hills and forests, and the woman-child who lay somewhere by bleak Hudson’s Bay.

III

“Confound it, Baptiste, couldn’t think of it.  Not for a moment.  Grant that this man is a fool and of small use in the nature of things, but still, you know, I can’t give him up.”

Hay Stockard paused, striving to put into speech the rude ethics of his heart.

“He’s worried me, Baptiste, in the past and now, and caused me all manner of troubles; but can’t you see, he’s my own breed—­white—­and—­and—­why, I couldn’t buy my life with his, not if he was a nigger.”