They believed that though
his body was on earth his soul was with Manitou, and that it was his soul
which came into him again, and gave the Great Spirit's healing to the
fingers. This had been the man's safety through how many years--or how
many generations--they did not know; for legends regarding the pilgrim
had grown and were fostered by the medicine men who, by giving him great
age and supernatural power, could, with more self-respect, apologise for
their own incapacity.
So the years--how many it was impossible to tell, since he did not know
or would not say--had gone on; and now, after ceaseless wandering, his
face was turned towards that civilisation out of which he had come so
long ago--or was it so long ago--one generation, or two, or ten? It
seemed to Bickersteth at times as though it were ten, so strange, so
unworldly was his companion. At first he thought that the man remembered
more than he would appear to acknowledge, but he found that after a day
or two everything that happened as they journeyed was also forgotten.
It was only visible things, or sounds, that appeared to open the doors of
memory of the most recent happenings. These happenings, if not varied,
were of critical moment, since, passing down from the land of unchanging
ice and snow, they had come into March and April storms, and the perils
of the rapids and the swollen floods of May.
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