when man's sap was stronger, and the good winds bore me hither."
A mystical silver light had risen over the horizon, and in the soft
glimmer Annadoah saw that the face of Ootah was haggard and drawn. His
voice was weak.
"The sun hath gone," murmured Ootah. "The long night comes. Ootah
heard thy cry and has come to care for thee, Annadoah."
His voice was a caress. His face sank dangerously near the face of the
girl. She panted into full consciousness and struggled to free
herself. Ootah helped her to her feet.
"The winter comes . . . and famine," muttered Annadoah, hopelessly.
She pointed to the gaunt, hollow-eyed shadow, empurpled-robed, against
the frozen cliffs. "My heart is cold--I am resigned to death."
"But I have come to give furs for thy couch," murmured Ootah, a
beseeching look in his eyes. "Thou wilt need shelter--I shall build
thee an igloo. Thou wilt need food--I shall share all that I have with
thee and seek more. Thou wilt need oil for heat. I shall get this for
thee."
Annadoah made a passionate gesture. A curious perverse resentment for
the youth's insistent devotion rose in her heart.
"Nay," she said, warding him away. "My shadow yearns only to the south
. . . the far, far south."
"Thy soul yearns to the south--forsooth, will I all the more cherish
thee. Thou art frail, and the teeth of _ookiah_ (winter) are sharp."
"The teeth of _ookiah_ are not so sharp as the teeth in my heart,"
sobbed Annadoah.
Ootah felt a great pity for her--a pity and tenderness greater than his
jealousy.
"But I shall teach thee to forget, Annadoah."
"I cannot forget. Even as the ravens in their winter shelter dream of
the summer sun, so my soul grows warm, in all my loneliness, in the
memory of Olafaksoah."
Ootah groaned with an access of misery. Frenziedly he caught her hands
and pressed them. Annadoah struggled. His words beat hotly in her
ears:
"But I want thee. My blood burns at the thought of thee. It is
against the custom of the tribe that thou shouldst be alone. Thou must
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