There was a vast relief in his voice.  The cabin door was unbolted and he flung it open confidently.  It was pitch dark inside, but a flood of warm air struck their faces.  The Missioner laughed.

“Tavish, are you asleep?” he called.

There was no answer.  Father Roland entered.

“He has been here recently.  There is a fire in the stove.  We will make ourselves at home.”  He fumbled in his clothes and found a match.  A moment later he struck it, and lighted a tin lamp that hung from the ceiling.  In its glow his face was of a strange colour.  He had been under strain.  The hand that held the burning match was unsteady.  “Strange, very strange,” he was saying, as if to himself.  And then:  “Preposterous!  I will go back and tell Mukoki.  He is shivering.  He is afraid.  He believes that Tavish is in league with the devil.  He says that the dogs know, and that they have warned him.  Queer.  Monstrously queer.  And interesting.  Eh?”

He went out.  David stood where he was, looking about him in the blurred light of the lamp over his head.  He almost expected Tavish to creep out from some dark corner; he half expected to see him move from under the dishevelled blankets in the bunk at the far end of the room.  It was a big room, twenty feet from end to end, and almost as wide, and after a moment or two he knew that he was the only living thing in it, except a small, gray mouse that came fearlessly quite close to his feet.  And then he saw a second mouse, and a third, and about him, and over him, he heard a creeping, scurrying noise, as of many tiny feet pattering.  A paper on the table rustled, a series of squeaks came from the bunk, he felt something that was like a gentle touch on the toe of his moccasin, and looked down.  The cabin was alive with mice!  It was filled with the restless movement of them—­little bright-eyed creatures who moved about him without fear, and, he thought, expectantly.  He had not moved an inch when Father Roland came again into the cabin.  He pointed to the floor.

“The place is alive with them!” he protested.

Father Roland appeared in great good humour as he slipped off his mittens and rubbed his hands over the stove.

“Tavish’s pets,” he chuckled.  “He says they’re company.  I’ve seen a dozen of them on his shoulders at one time.  Queer.  Queer.”

His hands made the rasping sound as he rubbed them.  Suddenly he lifted a lid from the stove and peered into the fire-box.

“He put fuel in here less than an hour ago,” he said.  “Wonder where he can be mouching at this hour.  The dogs are gone.”  He scanned the table.  “No supper.  Pans clean.  Mice hungry.  He’ll be back soon.  But we won’t wait.  I’m famished.”

He spoke swiftly, and filled the stove with wood.  Mukoki began bringing in the dunnage.  The uneasy gleam was still in his eyes.  His gaze was shifting and restless with expectation.  He came and went noiselessly, treading as though he feared his footsteps would awaken some one, and David saw that he was afraid of the mice.  One of them ran up his sleeve as they were eating supper, and he flung it from him with a strange, quick breath, his eyes blazing.