formally become the wife of Olafaksoah. And according to the unwritten
law of ages she was now as much his property as his dogs. He might
abuse her, and desert--and thus divorce--her whenever he chose. She
might, at his pleasure, be loaned as a wife to another, and in this she
would have no word. Or she might be given away, and dare not protest.
Ootah felt that she was lost to him irretrievably.

For hours Ootah stood at the mouth of his mountain eyrie in dumb agony.
All that he suffered it is beyond me to tell you. For days he crouched
there, motionless, stark dumb, every fibre of him aching.


In the valleys below, as the hours of the burning days and golden
nights passed, the sunlight constantly shifted. In the palpitating
mists Ootah read of the days' doings at the camp. He saw the white men
bartering for the meagre remaining furs and ivories gathered by the
tribe. With the natives he saw them going on long fruitless hunts.
Finally one day he witnessed them harpoon a half dozen walrus on the
sea. They laboriously towed the catch ashore and rejoiced over the
unexpected wealth of oil and blubber. But the white men claimed the
entire prize, loaded their extra sledges, liberally fed their dogs, and
doled out but a penurious allotment of meat and blubber to the tribe.

But in all this Ootah had no concern. Day by day the cloud-swimming
valleys below blazed with crimson-shot conflagrations . . . Ootah knew
the dead were lighting their monstrous camp fires--but even in this he
found no interest. Daily he became fainter and fainter from lack of
food, and daily, constantly, the winds whispered:

"The mouth of Annadoah is very red--red as a wound in the throat of a