In the silence that followed， the dreary northland scenefaded before him， and he saw once more his native land，and France， and， once， as he glanced at the wolf-toothedgirl， he remembered another girl， a singer and a dancer，whom he had known when first as a youth he came to Paris.
“What do you want with the girl？” Makamuk asked.
“To go down the river with me.” Subienkow glancedover her critically. “She will make a good wife， and it isan honour worthy of my medicine to be married to yourblood.”
Again he remembered the singer and dancer andhummed aloud a song she had taught him. He lived theold life over， but in a detached， impersonal sort of way，looking at the memory-pictures of his own life as if theywere pictures in a book of anybody’s life. The chief’s voice，abruptly breaking the silence， startled him
“It shall be done，” said Makamuk. “The girl shall godown the river with you. But be it understood that Imyself strike the three blows with the axe on your neck.”
“But each time I shall put on the medicine，” Subienkowanswered， with a show of ill-concealed anxiety.
“You shall put the medicine on between each blow. Hereare the hunters who shall see you do not escape. Go intothe forest and gather your medicine.”
Makamuk had been convinced of the worth of themedicine by the Pole’s rapacity. Surely nothing less thanthe greatest of medicines could enable a man in theshadow of death to stand up and drive an old-woman’sbargain.
“Besides，” whispered Yakaga， when the Pole， with hisguard， had disappeared among the spruce trees， “when youhave learned the medicine you can easily destroy him.”
“But how can I destroy him？” Makamuk argued. “Hismedicine will not let me destroy him.”
“There will be some part where he has not rubbedthe medicine，” was Yakaga’s reply. “We will destroy himthrough that part. It may be his ears. Very well； we willthrust a spear in one ear and out the other. Or it may behis eyes. Surely the medicine will be much too strong torub on his eyes.”
The chief nodded. “You are wise， Yakaga. If he possessesno other devil-things， we will then destroy him.”
Subienkow did not waste time in gathering theingredients for his medicine， he selected whatsoever cameto hand such as spruce needles， the inner bark of the willow，a strip of birch bark， and a quantity of moss-berries， whichhe made the hunters dig up for him from beneath thesnow. A few frozen roots completed his supply， and he ledthe way back to camp.
Makamuk and Yakaga crouched beside him， noting thequantities and kinds of the ingredients he dropped intothe pot of boiling water.
“You must be careful that the moss-berries go in first，”
he explained.
“And—oh， yes， one other thing—the finger of a man.
Here， Yakaga， let me cut off your finger.”
But Yakaga put his hands behind him and scowled.
“Just a small finger，” Subienkow pleaded.
“Yakaga， give him your finger，” Makamuk commanded.
“There be plenty of fingers lying around，” Yakagagrunted， indicating the human wreckage in the snow ofthe score of persons who had been tortured to death.
“It must be the finger of a live man，” the Pole objected.
“Then shall you have the finger of a live man.” Yakagastrode over to the Cossack and sliced off a finger.
“He is not yet dead，” he announced， flinging the bloodytrophy in the snow at the Pole’s feet. “Also， it is a goodfinger， because it is large.”
Subienkow dropped it into the fire under the pot andbegan to sing. It was a French love-song that with greatsolemnity he sang into the brew.
“Without these words I utter into it， the medicine isworthless，” he explained. “The words are the chiefeststrength of it. Behold， it is ready.”
“Name the words slowly， that I may know them，”
Makamuk commanded.