In the valley a storm gathered, and the low whine of the winds Ootah
believed to be the breath of the descending terror. The air became
unbearably colder as the dreaded creator of death, darkness and ice
descended. The taut suspense was terrible. Finally Ootah reached the
limits of human endurance--merciful unconsciousness blotted out the
long agony.

When he recovered the storm had passed. Scores of birds, driven
against the rocks by the terrible winds, lay dead at the entrance of
the cave. Surely the Great Evil had struck, but he lived. Hunger
stirred within him and he fell upon the birds.

Later he sought game in the lower valleys. He had lances and bows and
arrows with him. He found an inland vale, where a patch of green grass
was exposed despite a recent fall of snow--there a herd of musk oxen
grazed. He drew his bow of bone and sinew. One fell after the first
quiver of his arrow. His skill was marvellous. He had struck a vital
spot. He finished his killing of the fallen animal with a lance. He
feasted upon the raw meat, and carried away with him up to his eyrie
enough to last for many days.

The sun meanwhile sank lower and lower; there were long hours of
twilight; snow storms came; the cold increased. Ootah felt the first
whip of approaching winter. Ootah's spirit melted. Disquieting
messages came in the cold winds and darkening clouds. His heart beat
quickly at what the frightened birds told him. Olafaksoah, they said,
struck Annadoah. As she lay on the ground he kicked her. In the
snow-driven wind Ootah heard the echo of her heart-broken weeping. He
revoked the curses he had uttered; he cursed his own weakness whereby