'There is Moyri, whose eyes are crossed by the Evil Spirit. Even
the babes are affrighted when they gaze upon her, and it is said
the bald-face gives her the trail.

'Was she chosen?' Again the cruel applause rang out.

'And there sits Pischet. She does not hearken to my words. Never
has she heard the cry of the chit-chat, the voice of her husband,
the babble of her child.

'She lives in the White Silence. Cared the Wolves aught for her?
No! Theirs is the choice of the kill; ours is the leavings.

'Brothers, it shall not be! No more shall the Wolves slink among
our campfires. The time is come.' A great streamer of fire, the
aurora borealis, purple, green, and yellow, shot across the
zenith, bridging horizon to horizon. With head thrown back and
arms extended, he swayed to his climax.

'Behold! The spirits of our fathers have arisen and great deeds
are afoot this night!' He stepped back, and another young man
somewhat diffidently came forward, pushed on by his comrades. He
towered a full head above them, his broad chest defiantly bared
to the frost. He swung tentatively from one foot to the other.

Words halted upon his tongue, and he was ill at ease. His face
was horrible to look upon, for it had at one time been half torn
away by some terrific blow. At last he struck his breast with his
clenched fist, drawing sound as from a drum, and his voice