By and by a ray of light pierced the snow, surprisingly close, and a few moments later he reached the shelter of a wall.
A door opened, somebody seized his arm, and he stumbled into a lighted room.

Throwing off his snow-clogged coat, he sat down in a rude chair and blinked stupidly as he looked about.

His head swam, the warmth made him dizzy, and the tingling of his frozen skin was horribly painful.
Then he began to recover and saw that the Indian had gone and Father Lucien sat by a bunk fixed to the wall.

The priest wore an old buckskin jacket with a tasseled fringe, and long, soft moccasins, and looked like an Indian until one studied his thin face.

His forehead was lined, as if by thought or suffering, and his skin was darkened by wind and frost, but the Indian's glance is inscrutable and his was calm and frank.