stillness save the crackling of the fire, and the flowing of the
river, and the occasional flight of a bird, Granger told the priest
all his story, from his first dream of El Dorado to the thoughts of
escape and of Peggy Ericsen which he had had, as drifting down-stream,
he had caught the smell of burning and come in sight of the bend. It
was a true confession; nothing to his own discredit was left out.

When he came to an end the mist had lifted, and the sun rode high in
the heavens disentangled of cloud. All the time that he had been
speaking the priest had sat motionless, with his head bent forward
listening, his knees drawn up and his arms about them. Now that the
tale was over, he slowly turned his head; and then it was for the
first time that Granger knew what the Indians meant when they said
that they had met with Pere Antoine in the wilderness, walking
radiantly, wearing the countenance of Jesus Christ. There was such a
brightness about him that he could not bear his gaze, but trembling
with a kind of fearful joy fell forward on his face, covering his eyes
with his hands. And still the priest said nothing, not trusting
himself to speak, perhaps, so great was his compassion.

But it was not long before Granger was conscious of a hand, hard and
horny and ungentle, as far as outward circumstance could make it so,
which rested on his head. At last he spoke. "I think I understand," he
said, and then, after a pause, "but you will never help yourself or
the world by merely being sad. No man ever has."

When Granger answered nothing nor lifted up his head, he spoke again.
"Does that seem a strange judgment to pass on you here in Keewatin?
Does it sound too much like the speech of a city man? Nevertheless, it
is because of your flight from sadness that you have met with all your
dangers. All your life you have spent in striving to escape from
things which are sad. Why did you dream of El Dorado when you were in
London? Because, as you yourself have told me, exquisiteness of dress
did not reassure you of another's happiness; you were always
remembering that a decent coat may sometimes cover cancer. You are one
of those who suffer more because of the sores of Lazarus than Lazarus
himself. That is well and Christlike, if you suffer gladly--which you
do not. So you left London and travelled half across the world to
Yukon, only to find a greater wretchedness; for your misery growing
vicious pursued you, and goaded you on