"There be plenty of fingers lying around," Yakaga grunted, indicating the
human wreckage in the snow of the 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." Yakaga strode over to
the Cossack and sliced off a finger.

"He is not yet dead," he announced, flinging the bloody trophy in the
snow at the Pole's feet. "Also, it is a good finger, because it is
large."

Subienkow dropped it into the fire under the pot and began to sing. It
was a French love-song that with great solemnity he sang into the brew.

"Without these words I utter into it, the medicine is worthless," he
explained. "The words are the chiefest strength of it. Behold, it is
ready."

"Name the words slowly, that I may know them," Makamuk commanded.

"Not until after the test. When the axe flies back three times from my
neck, then will I give you the secret of the words."

"But if the medicine is not good medicine?" Makamuk queried anxiously.

Subienkow turned upon him wrathfully.

"My medicine is always good. However, if it is not good, then do by me