In the cabin Father Roland waited until he heard the beat of the pick
before he moved. Then he fastened the cabin door with a wooden bolt and
sat himself down at the table, with the lamp close to his bent head and
Tavish's confession in his hands. He cut the _babiche_ threads with his
knife, unfolded the sheets of paper and began to read, while Tavish's
mice nosed slyly out of their murky corners wondering at the new and
sudden stillness in the cabin and, it may be, stirred into restlessness
by the absence of their master.
* * * * *
The ground under the snow was discouragingly hard. To David the digging
of the grave seemed like chipping out bits of flint from a solid block,
and he soon turned over the pick to Mukoki. Alternately they worked for
an hour, and each time that the Cree took his place David wondered what
was keeping the Missioner so long in the cabin. At last Mukoki intimated
with a sweep of his hands and a hunch of his shoulders that their work
was done. The grave looked very shallow to David, and he was about to
protest against his companion's judgment when it occurred to him that
Mukoki had probably digged many holes such as this in the earth, and had
helped to fill them again, so it was possible he knew his business.
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